Frankenstein
Mary Shelley
1818

Contents

PREFACE
Volume I
Letter I
Letter II
Letter III
Letter IV
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Volume II
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Volume III
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII

THE event on which this fiction is founded has been supposed,
by Dr. Darwin, and some of the physiological writers
of Germany, as not of impossible occurrence. I shall not
be supposed as according the remotest degree of serious
faith to such an imagination; yet, in assuming it as the basis
of a work of fancy, I have not considered myself as merely
weaving a series of supernatural terrors. The event on which
the interest of the story depends is exempt from the disadvantages
of a mere tale of spectres or enchantment. It was
recommended by the novelty of the situations which it developes;
and, however impossible as a physical fact, affords a
point of view to the imagination for the delineating of human
passions more comprehensive and commanding than any
which the ordinary relations of existing events can yield.
I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the
elementary principles of human nature, while I have not
scrupled to innovate upon their combinations. The Iliad, the
tragic poetry of Greece,—Shakespeare, in the Tempest and
Midsummer Night’s Dream, — and most especially Milton,
in Paradise Lost, conform to this rule; and the most humble
novelist, who seeks to confer or receive amusement from his
labours, may, without presumption, apply to prose fiction a
licence, or rather a rule, from the adoption of which so many
exquisite combinations of human feeling have resulted in the
highest specimens of poetry.
The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested
in casual conversation. It was commenced, partly as a
source of amusement, and partly as an expedient for exercising
any untried resources of mind. Other motives were
mingled with these, as the work proceeded. I am by no
means indifferent to the manner in which whatever moral
tendencies exist in the sentiments or characters it contains
shall affect the reader; yet my chief concern in this respect
has been limited to the avoiding of the enervating effects of
the novels of the present day, and to the exhibition of the
amiableness of domestic affection, and the excellence of
universal virtue. The opinions which naturally spring from
the character and situation of the hero are by no means to
be conceived as existing always in my own conviction; nor is
any inference justly to be drawn from the following pages as
prejudicing any philosophical doctrine of whatever kind.
It is a subject also of additional interest to the author,
that this story was begun in the majestic region where the
scene is principally laid, and in society which cannot cease
to be regretted. I passed the summer of 1816 in the environs
of Geneva. The season was cold and rainy, and in
the evenings we crowded around a blazing wood fire, and
occasionally amused ourselves with some German stories
of ghosts, which happened to fall into our hands. These
tales excited in us a playful desire of imitation. Two other
friends (a tale from the pen of one of whom would be far
more acceptable to the public than any thing I can ever hope
to produce) and myself agreed to write each a story, founded
on some supernatural occurrence.
The weather, however, suddenly became serene; and my
two friends left me on a journey among the Alps, and lost, in
the magnificent scenes which they present, all memory of
their ghostly visions. The following tale is the only one which
has been completed.

Volume I

To Mrs. SAVILLE, England.
St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—.
YOU will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the
commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded
with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday; and
my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare, and
increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.
I am already far north of London; and as I walk in the
streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play
upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves, and fills me with
delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which
has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing,
gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this
wind of promise, my day dreams become more fervent and
vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of
frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination
as the region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the
sun is for ever visible; its broad disk just skirting the horizon,
and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There — for with your
leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators
—there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm

sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and
in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable
globe. Its productions and features may be without example,
as the phænomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are
in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected
in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous
power which attracts the needle; and may regulate a
thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage
to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I
shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the
world never before visited, and may tread a land never before
imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements,
and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death,
and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with
the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his
holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native
river. But, supposing all these conjectures to be false, you
cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on
all mankind to the last generation, by discovering a passage
near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present
so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret
of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected
by an undertaking such as mine.
These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I
began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm
which elevates me to heaven; for nothing contributes so
much to 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 prospect of arriving at the North
Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole.
You may remember, that a history of all the voyages mad
for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good
uncle Thomas’s library. My education was neglected, yet I
was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my
study day and night, and my familiarity with them increased
that regret which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my
father’s dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me
to embark in a sea-faring life.
These visions faded when I perused, for the first time,
those poets whose effusions entranced my soul, and lifted it
to heaven. I also became a poet, and for one year lived in
a Paradise of my own creation; I imagined that I also might
obtain a niche in the temple where the names of Homer and
Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted with
my failure, and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But
just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my
thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent.
Six years have passed since I resolved on my present
undertaking. I can, even now, remember the hour from which
I dedicated myself to this great enterprise. I commenced
by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whalefishers
on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily
endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often
worked harder than the common sailors during the day, and
devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory
of medicine, and those branches of physical science from
which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest practical
advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate
in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration.
I must own I felt a little proud, when my captain offered me
the second dignity in the vessel, and entreated me to remain
with the greatest earnestness; so valuable did he consider
my services.
And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish
some great purpose. My life might have been passed in
ease and luxury; but I preferred glory to every enticement
that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging
voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my
resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits
are often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and
difficult voyage; the emergencies of which will demand all my
fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits of others,
but sometimes to sustain my own, when their’s 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 stage-coach. The cold is not excessive, if you are
wrapt in furs, a dress which I have already adopted; for there
is a great difference between walking the deck and remaining
seated motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents the
blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no ambition
to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and
Archangel.
I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three
weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can
easily be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to
engage as many sailors as I think necessary among those
who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to
sail until the month of June: and when shall I return? Ah,
dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed,
many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and
I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.
Farewell, my dear, excellent, Margaret. Heaven shower
down blessings on you, and save me, that I may again and
again testify my gratitude for all your love and kindness.

Your affectionate brother,
R. WALTON.

To Mrs. SAVILLE, England.
Archangel, 28th March, 17—.
HOW slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by
frost and snow; yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise.
I have hired a vessel, and am occupied in collecting
my sailors; those whom I have already engaged appear to
be men on whom I can depend, and are certainly possessed
of dauntless courage.
But I have one want which I have never yet been able to
satisfy; and the absence of the object of which I now feel as
a most severe evil. I have no friend, Margaret: when I am
glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none
to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no
one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit
my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium
for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of
a man who could sympathize with me; whose eyes would
reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister,
but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near
me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well
as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to
approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair
the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution,
and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil
to me that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of
my life I ran wild on a common, and read nothing but our
uncle Thomas’s books of voyages. At that age I became
acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own country; but
it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive
its most important benefits from such a conviction, that I
perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more
languages than that of my native country. Now I am twentyeight,
and am in reality more illiterate than many school-boys
of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more, and that my
day dreams are more extended and magnificent; but they
want (as the painters call it) keeping; and I greatly need a
friend who would have sense enough not to despise me
as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to
regulate my mind.
Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find
no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel,
among merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied
to the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged
bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful
courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory. He is
an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional
prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the
noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted
with him on board a whale vessel: finding that he was unemployed
in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my
enterprise.
The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is
remarkable in the ship for his gentleness, and the mildness
of his discipline. He is, indeed, of so amiable a nature, that
he will not hunt (a favourite, and almost the only amusement
here), because he cannot endure to spill blood. He is, moreover,
heroically generous. Some years ago he loved a young
Russian lady, of moderate fortune; and having amassed a
considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented
to the match. He saw his mistress once before the
destined ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and, throwing
herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing
at the same time that she loved another, but that he was
poor, and that her father would never consent to the union.
My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on being
informed of the name of her lover instantly abandoned his
pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on
which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but
he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains
of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited
the young woman’s father to consent to her marriage
with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking
himself bound in honour to my friend; who, when he found
the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until
he heard that his former mistress was married according to
her inclinations. “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim. He
is so; but then he has passed all his life on board a vessel,
and has scarcely an idea beyond the rope and the shroud.
But do not suppose that, because I complain a little, or
because I can conceive a consolation for my toils which I
may never know, that I am wavering in my resolutions. Those
are as fixed as fate; and my voyage is only now delayed until
the weather shall permit my embarkation. The winter has
been dreadfully severe; but the spring promises well, and it is
considered as a remarkably early season; so that, perhaps,
I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly;
you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and
considerateness whenever the safety of others is committed
to my care.
I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near
prospect of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate
to you a conception of the trembling sensation, half
pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am preparing to
depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to “the land of mist
and snow;” but I shall kill no albatross, therefore do not be
alarmed for my safety.
Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense
seas, and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or
America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear
to look on the reverse of the picture. Continue to write to me
by every opportunity: I may receive your letters (though the
chance is very doubtful) on some occasions when I need
them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly.
Remember me with affection, should you never hear from
me again.
Your affectionate brother,
ROBERT WALTON.

To Mrs. SAVILLE, England.
July 7th, 17—.
MY DEAR SISTER,
I WRITE a few lines in haste, to say that I am safe, and well
advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a
merchant-man now on its homeward voyage from Archangel;
more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land,
perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits:
my men are bold, and apparently firm of purpose; nor do
the floating sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating
the dangers of the region towards which we are advancing,
appear to dismay them. We have already reached a very
high latitude; but it is the height of summer, and although not
so warm as in England, the southern gales, which blow us
speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire to
attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had
not expected.
No incidents have hitherto befallen us, that would make a
figure in a letter. One or two stiff gales, and the breaking of a
mast, 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 your’s, I will not rashly encounter danger. I
will be cool, persevering, and prudent.
Remember me to all my English friends.
Most affectionately yours,
R. W.

To Mrs. SAVILLE, England.
August 5th, 17—.
SO strange an accident has happened to us, that I cannot
forbear recording it, although it is very probable that you will
see me before these papers can come into your possession.
Last Monday (July 31st), we were nearly surrounded by
ice, which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving
her the sea room in which she floated. Our situation was
somewhat dangerous, especially as we were compassed
round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping
that some change would take place in the atmosphere and
weather.
About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld,
stretched out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of
ice, which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades
groaned, and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious
thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted our
attention, and diverted our solicitude from our own situation.
We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn
by dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a
mile: a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently
of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge, and guided the dogs.
We watched the rapid progress of the traveller with our telescopes,
until he was lost among the distant inequalities of
the ice.
This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We
were, as we believed, many hundred miles from any land;
but this apparition seemed to denote that it was not, in reality,
so distant as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by ice, it
was impossible to follow his track, which we had observed
with the greatest attention.
About two hours after this occurrence, we heard the
ground sea; and before night the ice broke, and freed our
ship. We, however, lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter
in the dark those large loose masses which float
about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time
to rest for a few hours.
In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went
upon deck, and found all the sailors busy on one side of
the vessel, apparently talking to some one in the sea. It
was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen before, which
had drifted towards us in the night, on a large fragment of
ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human
being within it, whom the sailors were persuading to enter
the vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed to
be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but
an European. When I appeared on deck, the master said,
“Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish on
the open sea.”
On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English,
although with a foreign accent. “Before I come on board your
vessel,” said he, “will you have the kindness to inform me
whither you are bound?”
You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such
a question addressed to me from a man on the brink of
destruction, and to whom I should have supposed that my
vessel would have been a resource which he would not have
exchanged for the most precious wealth the earth can afford.
I replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery
towards the northern pole.
Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied, and consented
to come on board. Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the
man who thus capitulated for his safety, your surprise would
have been boundless. His limbs were nearly frozen, and his
body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I never
saw a man in so wretched a condition. We attempted to carry
him into the cabin; but as soon as he had quitted the fresh
air, he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck,
and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy,
and forcing him to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he
shewed signs of life, we wrapped him up in blankets, and
placed him near the chimney of the kitchen-stove. By slow
degrees he recovered, and ate a little soup, which restored
him wonderfully.
Two days passed in this manner before he was able to
speak; and I often feared that his sufferings had deprived him
of understanding. When he had in some measure recovered,
I removed him to my own cabin, and attended on him as
much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more interesting
creature: his eyes have generally an expression of
wildness, and even madness; but there are moments when,
if any one performs an act of kindness towards him, or does
him any the most trifling service, his whole countenance
is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence and
sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is generally
melancholy and despairing; and sometimes he gnashes his
teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses
him.
When my guest was a little recovered, I had great trouble
to keep off the men, who wished to ask him a thousand
questions; but I would not allow him to be tormented by their
idle curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose restoration
evidently depended upon entire repose. Once, however, the
lieutenant asked, Why he had come so far upon the ice in so
strange a vehicle?
His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the
deepest gloom; and he replied, “To seek one who fled from
me.”
“And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same
fashion?”
“Yes.”
“Then I fancy we have seen him; for, the day before we
picked you up, we saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a
man in it, across the ice.”
This aroused the stranger’s attention; and he asked a
multitude of questions concerning the route which the dæmon,
as he called him, had pursued. Soon after, when he
was alone with me, he said, “I have, doubtless, excited your
curiosity, as well as that of these good people; but you are
too considerate to make inquiries.”
“Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman
in me to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine.”
“And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous
situation; you have benevolently restored me to life.”
Soon after this he inquired, if I thought that the breaking
up of the ice had destroyed the other sledge? I replied, that
I could not answer with any degree of certainty; for the ice
had not broken until near midnight, and the traveller might
have arrived at a place of safety before that time; but of this I
could not judge.
From this time the stranger seemed very eager 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.
But I have promised that some one should watch for him,
and give him instant notice if any new object should appear
in sight.
Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence
up to the present day. The stranger has gradually
improved in health, but is very silent, and appears uneasy
when any one except myself enters his cabin. Yet his manners
are so conciliating and gentle, that the sailors are all
interested in him, although they have had very little communication
with him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a
brother; and his constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy
and compassion. He must have been a noble creature in
his better days, being even now in wreck so attractive and
amiable.
I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should
find no friend on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who,
before his spirit had been broken by misery, I should have
been happy to have possessed as the brother of my heart.
I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at
intervals, should I have any fresh incidents to record.
August 13th, 17—.
My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites
at once my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree.
How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery
without feeling the most poignant grief? He is so gentle,
yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated; and when he speaks,
although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they
flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.
He is now much recovered from his illness, and is continually
on the deck, apparently watching for the sledge that
preceded his own. Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly
occupied by his own misery, but that he interests himself
deeply in the employments of others. He has asked me
many questions concerning my design; and I have related
my little history frankly to him. He appeared pleased with the
confidence, and suggested several alterations in my plan,
which I shall find exceedingly useful. There is no pedantry
in his manner; but all he does appears to spring solely from
the interest he instinctively takes in the welfare of those who
surround him. He is often overcome by gloom, and then
he sits by himself, and tries to overcome all that is sullen
or unsocial in his humour. These paroxysms pass from him
like a cloud from before the sun, though his dejection never
leaves him. I have endeavoured to win his confidence; and I
trust that I have succeeded. One day I mentioned to him the
desire I had always felt of finding a friend who might sympathize
with me, and direct me by his counsel. I said, I did not
belong to that class of men who are offended by advice. “I
am self-educated, and perhaps I hardly rely sufficiently upon
my own powers. I wish therefore that my companion should
be wiser and more experienced than myself, to confirm and
support me; nor have I believed it impossible to find a true
friend.”
“I agree with you,” replied the stranger, “in believing that
friendship is not only a desirable, but a possible acquisition.
I once had a friend, the most noble of human creatures, and
am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting friendship. You
have hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for
despair. But I —— I have lost every thing, and cannot begin
life anew.”
As he said this, his countenance became expressive of a
calm settled grief, that touched me to the heart. But he was
silent, and presently retired to his cabin.
Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more
deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky,
the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions,
seems still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth.
Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery,
and be overwhelmed by disappointments; yet when he has
retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit, that has a
halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.
Will you laugh at the enthusiasm I express concerning
this divine wanderer? If you do, you must have certainly lost
that simplicity which was once your characteristic charm. Yet,
if you will, smile at the warmth of my expressions, while I find
every day new causes for repeating them.
August 19th, 17—.
Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive,
Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled
misfortunes. I had determined, once, that the memory
of these evils should die with me; but you have won me to
alter my determination. You seek for knowledge and wisdom,
as I once did; and I ardently hope that the gratification of
your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has
been. I do not know that the relation of my misfortunes will
be useful to you, yet, if you are inclined, listen to my tale. I
believe that the strange incidents connected with it will afford
a view of nature, which may enlarge your faculties and understanding.
You will hear of powers and occurrences, such
as you have been accustomed to believe impossible: but I do
not doubt that my tale conveys in its series internal evidence
of the truth of the events of which it is composed.”
You may easily conceive that I was much gratified by
the offered communication; yet I could not endure that he
should renew his grief by a recital of his misfortunes. I felt
the greatest eagerness to hear the promised narrative, partly
from curiosity, and partly from a strong desire to ameliorate
his fate, if it were in my power. I expressed these feelings in
my answer.
“I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is
useless; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event,
and then I shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling,”
continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; “but
you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name
you; nothing can alter my destiny: listen to my history, and
you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined.”
He then told me, that he would commence his narrative
the next day when I should be at leisure. This promise drew
from me the warmest thanks. I have resolved every night,
when I am not engaged, to record, as nearly as possible in
his own words, what he has related during the day. If I should
be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will
doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure: but to me, who
know him, and who hear it from his own lips, with what
interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future day!

I AM by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most
distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for
many years counsellors and syndics; and my father had filled
several public situations with honour and reputation. He was
respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable
attention to public business. He passed his younger
days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; and
it was not until the decline of life that he thought of marrying,
and bestowing on the state sons who might carry his virtues
and his name down to posterity.
As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character,
I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most
intimate friends was a merchant, who, from a flourishing
state, fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This
man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending
disposition, and could not bear to live in poverty and
oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been
distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid
his debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated
with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he
lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort
with the truest friendship, and was deeply grieved by his
retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He grieved also
for the loss of his society, and resolved to seek him out and
endeavour to persuade him to begin the world again through
his credit and assistance.
Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself;
and it was ten months before my father discovered
his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the
house, which was situated in a mean street, near the Reuss.
But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed
him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money
from the wreck of his fortunes; but it was sufficient to provide
him with sustenance for some months, and in the mean
time he hoped to procure some respectable employment in
a merchant’s house. The interval was consequently spent
in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling,
when he had leisure for reflection; and at length it took so
fast hold of his mind, that at the end of three months he lay
on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion.
His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness;
but she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly
decreasing, and that there was no other prospect of support.
But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommon
mould; and her courage rose to support her in her adversity.
She procured plain work; she plaited straw; and by various
means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to
support life.
Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew
worse; her time was more entirely occupied in attending
him; her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth
month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan
and a beggar. This last blow overcame her; and she knelt by
Beaufort’s coffin, weeping bitterly, when my father entered
the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl,
who committed herself to his care, and after the interment
of his friend he conducted her to Geneva, and placed her
under the protection of a relation. Two years after this event
Caroline became his wife.
When my father became a husband and a parent, he
found his time so occupied by the duties of his new situation,
that he relinquished many of his public employments, and
devoted himself to the education of his children. Of these I
was the eldest, and the destined successor to all his labours
and utility. No creature could have more tender parents than
mine. My improvement and health were their constant care,
especially as I remained for several years their only child.
But before I continue my narrative, I must record an incident
which took place when I was four years of age.
My father had a sister, whom he tenderly loved, and who
had married early in life an Italian gentleman. Soon after
her marriage, she had accompanied her husband into her
native country, and for some years my father had very little
communication with her. About the time I mentioned she
died; and a few months afterwards he received a letter from
her husband, acquainting him with his intention of marrying
an Italian lady, and requesting my father to take charge of
the infant Elizabeth, the only child of his deceased sister. “It
is my wish,” he said, “that you should consider her as your
own daughter, and educate her thus. Her mother’s fortune is
secured to her, the documents of which I will commit to your
keeping. Reflect upon this proposition; and decide whether
you would prefer educating your niece yourself to her being
brought up by a stepmother.”
My father did not hestitate, and immediately went to Italy,
that he might accompany the little Elizabeth to her future
home. I have often heard my mother say, that she was at
that time the most beautiful child she had ever seen, and
shewed signs even then of a gentle and affectionate disposition.
These indications, and a desire to bind as closely as
possible the ties of domestic love, determined my mother
to consider Elizabeth as my future wife; a design which she
never found reason to repent.
From this time Elizabeth Lavenza became my playfellow,
and, as we grew older, my friend. She was docile and good
tempered, yet gay and playful as a summer insect. Although
she was lively and animated, her feelings were strong and
deep, and her disposition uncommonly affectionate. No one
could better enjoy liberty, yet no one could submit with more
grace than she did to constraint and caprice. Her imagination
was luxuriant, yet her capability of application was great. Her
person was the image of her mind; her hazel eyes, although
as lively as a bird’s, possessed an attractive softness. Her
figure was light and airy; and, though capable of enduring
great fatigue, she appeared the most fragile creature in the
world. While I admired her understanding and fancy, I loved
to tend on her, as I should on a favourite animal; and I never
saw so much grace both of person and mind united to so
little pretension.
Every one adored Elizabeth. If the servants had any
request to make, it was always through her intercession. We
were strangers to any species of disunion and dispute; for
although there was a great dissimilitude in our characters,
there was an harmony in that very dissimilitude. I was more
calm and philosophical than my companion; yet my temper
was not so yielding. My application was of longer endurance;
but it was not so severe whilst it endured. I delighted in
investigating the facts relative to the actual world; she busied
herself in following the aërial creations of the poets. The
world was to me a secret, which I desired to discover; to her it
was a vacancy, which she sought to people with imaginations
of her own.
My brothers were considerably younger than myself; but I
had a friend in one of my schoolfellows, who compensated for
this deficiency. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of
Geneva, an intimate friend of my father. He was a boy of singular
talent and fancy. I remember, when he was nine years
old, he wrote a fairy tale, which was the delight and amazement
of all his companions. His favourite study consisted in
books of chivalry and romance; and when very young, I can
remember, that we used to act plays composed by him out
of these favourite books, the principal characters of which
were Orlando, Robin Hood, Amadis, and St. George.
No youth could have passed more happily than mine. My
parents were indulgent, and my companions amiable. Our
studies were never forced; and by some means we always
had an end placed in view, which excited us to ardour in
the prosecution of them. It was by this method, and not by
emulation, that we were urged to application. Elizabeth was
not incited to apply herself to drawing, that her companions
might not outstrip her; but through the desire of pleasing her
aunt, by the representation of some favourite scene done
by her own hand. We learned Latin and English, that we
might read the writings in those languages; and so far from
study being made odious to us through punishment, we
loved application, and our amusements would have been
the labours of other children. Perhaps we did not read so
many books, or learn languages so quickly, as those who are
disciplined according to the ordinary methods; but what we
learned was impressed the more deeply on our memories.
In this description of our domestic circle I include Henry
Clerval; for he was constantly with us. He went to school
with me, and generally passed the afternoon at our house;
for being an only child, and destitute of companions at home,
his father was well pleased that he should find associates
at our house; and we were never completely happy when
Clerval was absent.
I feel pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood,
before misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed
its bright visions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and
narrow reflections upon self. But, in drawing the picture of
my early days, I must not omit to record those events which
led, by insensible steps to my after tale of misery: for when I
would account to myself for the birth of that passion, which afterwards
ruled my destiny, I find it arise, like a mountain river,
from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as
it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has
swept away all my hopes and joys.
Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my
fate; I desire therefore, in this narration, to state those facts
which led to my predilection for that science. When I was
thirteen years of age, we all went on a party of pleasure
to the baths near Thonon: the inclemency of the weather
obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house
I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa.
I opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to
demonstrate, and the wonderful facts which he relates, soon
changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to
dawn upon my mind; and, bounding with joy, I communicated
my discovery to my father. I cannot help remarking here
the many opportunities instructors possess of directing the
attention of their pupils to useful knowledge, which they
utterly neglect. My father looked carelessly at the title-page
of my book, and said, “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear
Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash.”
If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains, to
explain to me, that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely
exploded, and that a modern system of science had been
introduced, which possessed much greater powers than the
ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical,
while those of the former were real and practical; under
such circumstances, I should certainly have thrown Agrippa
aside, and, with my imagination warmed as it was, should
probably have applied myself to the more rational theory
of chemistry which has resulted from modern discoveries.
It is even possible, that the train of my ideas would never
have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the
cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no
means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents;
and I continued to read with the greatest avidity.
When I returned home, my first care was to procure the
whole works of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus
and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies
of these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures
known to few beside myself; and although I often wished
to communicate these secret stores of knowledge to my
father, yet his indefinite censure of my favourite Agrippa
always withheld me. I disclosed my discoveries to Elizabeth,
therefore, under a promise of strict secrecy; but she did not
interest herself in the subject, and I was left by her to pursue
my studies alone.
It may appear very strange, that a disciple of Albertus
Magnus should arise in the eighteenth century; but our family
was not scientifical, and I had not attended any of the
lectures given at the schools of Geneva. My dreams were
therefore undisturbed by reality; and I entered with the greatest
diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone and
the elixir of life. But the latter obtained my most undivided
attention: wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would
attend the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame,

and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!
Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts
or devils was a promise liberally accorded by my favourite
authors, the fulfilment of which I most eagerly sought; and if
my incantations were always unsuccessful, I attributed the
failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake, than to a
want of skill or fidelity in my instructors.
The natural phænomena that take place every day before
our eyes did not escape my examinations. Distillation,
and the wonderful effects of steam, processes of which my
favourite authors were utterly ignorant, excited my astonishment;
but my utmost wonder was engaged by some experiments
on an air-pump, which I saw employed by a gentleman
whom we were in the habit of visiting.
The ignorance of the early philosophers on these and
several other points served to decrease their credit with me:
but I could not entirely throw them aside, before some other
system should occupy their place in my mind.
When I was about fifteen years old, we had retired to
our house near Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent
and terrible thunder-storm. It advanced from behind the
mountains of Jura; and the thunder burst at once with frightful
loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained,
while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity
and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld
a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak, which
stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as
the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and
nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it
the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular
manner. It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely
reduced to thin ribbands of wood. I never beheld any thing
so utterly destroyed.
The catastrophe of this tree excited my extreme astonishment;
and I eagerly inquired of my father the nature and
origin of thunder and lightning. He replied, “Electricity;” describing
at the same time the various effects of that power.
He constructed a small electrical machine, and exhibited a
few experiments; he made also a kite, with a wire and string,
which drew down that fluid from the clouds.
This last stroke completed the overthrow of Cornelius
Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, who had so long
reigned the lords of my imagination. But by some fatality I did
not feel inclined to commence the study of any modern system;
and this disinclination was influenced by the following
circumstance.
My father expressed a wish that I should attend a course
of lectures upon natural philosophy, to which I cheerfully
consented. Some accident prevented my attending these
lectures until the course was nearly finished. The lecture,
being therefore one of the last, was entirely incomprehensible
to me. The professor discoursed with the greatest fluency
of potassium and boron, of sulphates and oxyds, terms to
which I could affix no idea; and I became disgusted with the
science of natural philosophy, although I still read Pliny and
Buffon with delight, authors, in my estimation, of nearly equal
interest and utility.
My occupations at this age were principally the mathematics,
and most of the branches of study appertaining to
that science. I was busily employed in learning languages;
Latin was already familiar to me, and I began to read some
of the easiest Greek authors without the help of a lexicon. I
also perfectly understood English and German. This is the
list of my accomplishments at the age of seventeen; and you
may conceive that my hours were fully employed in acquiring
and maintaining a knowledge of this various literature.
Another task also devolved upon me, when I became the
instructor of my brothers. Ernest was six years younger than
myself, and was my principal pupil. He had been afflicted
with ill health from his infancy, through which Elizabeth and
I had been his constant nurses: his disposition was gentle,
but he was incapable of any severe application. William,
the youngest of our family, was yet an infant, and the most
beautiful little fellow in the world; his lively blue eyes, dimpled
cheeks, and endearing manners, inspired the tenderest
affection.
Such was our domestic circle, from which care and pain
seemed for ever banished. My father directed our studies,
and my mother partook of our enjoyments. Neither of us
possessed the slightest pre-eminence over the other; the
voice of command was never heard amongst us; but mutual
affection engaged us all to comply with and obey the slightest
desire of each other.

WHEN I had attained the age of seventeen, my parents resolved
that I should become a student at the university of
Ingolstadt. I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva;
but my father thought it necessary, for the completion of my
education, that I should be made acquainted with other customs
than those of my native country. My departure was
therefore fixed at an early date; but, before the day resolved
upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred —
an omen, as it were, of my future misery.
Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; but her illness
was not severe, and she quickly recovered. During her confinement,
many arguments had been urged to persuade
my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had, at
first, yielded to our entreaties; but when she heard that her
favourite was recovering, she could no longer debar herself
from her society, and entered her chamber long before the
danger of infection was past. The consequences of this imprudence
were fatal. On the third day my mother sickened;
her fever was very malignant, and the looks of her attendants
prognosticated the worst event. On her death-bed the fortitude
and benignity of this admirable woman did not desert
her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself: “My
children,” she said, “my firmest hopes of future happiness
were placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation
will now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love,
you must supply my place to your younger cousins. Alas!
I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved
as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are
not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself
cheerfully to death, and will indulge a hope of meeting you
in another world.”
She died calmly; and her countenance expressed affection
even in death. I need not describe the feelings of those
whose dearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil, the
void that presents itself to the soul, and the despair that is
exhibited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind
can persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day, and
whose very existence appeared a part of our own, can have
departed for ever — that the brightness of a beloved eye can
have been extinguished, and the sound of a voice so familiar,
and dear to the ear, can be hushed, never more to be
heard. These are the reflections of the first days; but when
the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the actual
bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that
rude hand rent away some dear connexion; and why should
I describe a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The
time at length arrives, when grief is rather an indulgence than
a necessity; and the smile that plays upon the lips, although
it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother
was dead, but we had still duties which we ought to perform;
we must continue our course with the rest, and learn to think
ourselves fortunate, whilst one remains whom the spoiler
has not seized.
My journey to Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by
these events, was now again determined upon. I obtained
from my father a respite of some weeks. This period was
spent sadly; my mother’s death, and my speedy departure,
depressed our spirits; but Elizabeth endeavoured to renew
the spirit of cheerfulness in our little society. Since the death
of her aunt, her mind had acquired new firmness and vigour.
She determined to fulfil her duties with the greatest exactness;
and she felt that that most imperious duty, of rendering
her uncle and cousins happy, had devolved upon her. She
consoled me, amused her uncle, instructed my brothers; and
I never beheld her so enchanting as at this time, when she
was continually endeavouring to contribute to the happiness
of others, entirely forgetful of herself.
The day of my departure at length arrived. I had taken
leave of all my friends, excepting Clerval, who spent the last
evening with us. He bitterly lamented that he was unable
to accompany me: but his father could not be persuaded to
part with him, intending that he should become a partner
with him in business, in compliance with his favourite theory,
that learning was superfluous in the commerce of ordinary
life. Henry had a refined mind; he had no desire to be idle,
and was well pleased to become his father’s partner, but he
believed that a man might be a very good trader, and yet
possess a cultivated understanding.
We sat late, listening to his complaints, and making many
little arrangements for the future. The next morning early
I departed. Tears gushed from the eyes of Elizabeth; they
proceeded partly from sorrow at my departure, and partly
because she reflected that the same journey was to have
taken place three months before, when a mother’s blessing
would have accompanied me.
I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away,
and indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had
ever been surrounded by amiable companions, continually
engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure, I was
now alone. In the university, whither I was going, I must form
my own friends, and be my own protector. My life had hitherto
been remarkably secluded and domestic; and this had given
me invincible repugnance to new countenances. I loved my
brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were “old familiar
faces;” but I believed myself totally unfitted for the company
of strangers. Such were my reflections as I commenced my
journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose. I
ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had often,
when at home, thought it hard to remain during my youth
cooped up in one place, and had longed to enter the world,
and take my station among other human beings. Now my
desires were complied with, and it would, indeed, have been
folly to repent.
I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections
during my journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and
fatiguing. At length the high white steeple of the town met my
eyes. I alighted, and was conducted to my solitary apartment,
to spend the evening as I pleased.
The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction,
and paid a visit to some of the principal professors, and
among others to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy.
He received me with politeness, and asked me several
questions concerning my progress in the different branches
of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I mentioned, it
is true, with fear and trembling, the only authors I had ever
read upon those subjects. The professor stared: “Have you,”
he said, “really spent your time in studying such nonsense?”
I replied in the affirmative. “Every minute,” continued
M. Krempe with warmth, “every instant that you have wasted
on those books is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened
your memory with exploded systems, and useless names.
Good God! in what desert land have you lived, where no
one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies, which
you have so greedily imbibed, are a thousand years old,
and as musty as they are ancient? I little expected in this
enlightened and scientific age to find a disciple of Albertus
Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear Sir, you must begin your
studies entirely anew.”
So saying, he stept aside, and wrote down a list of several
books treating of natural philosophy, which he desired me
to procure, and dismissed me, after mentioning that in the
beginning of the following week he intended to commence
a course of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general
relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow-professor, would
lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he missed.
I returned home, not disappointed, for I had long considered
those authors useless whom the professor had
so strongly reprobated; but I did not feel much inclined to
study the books which I procured at his recommendation.
M. Krempe was a little squat man, with a gruff voice and repulsive
countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess
me in favour of his doctrine. Besides, I had a contempt for
the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different,
when the masters of the science sought immortality and
power; such views, although futile, were grand: but now the
scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seemed
to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my
interest in science was chiefly founded. I was required to
exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of
little worth.
Such were my reflections during the first two or three
days spent almost in solitude. But as the ensuing week
commenced, I thought of the information which M. Krempe
had given me concerning the lectures. And although I could
not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver
sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of
M. Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto
been out of town.
Partly from curiosity, and partly from idleness, I went into
the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after.
This professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared
about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of
the greatest benevolence; a few gray hairs covered his temples,
but those at the back of his head were nearly black.
His person was short, but remarkably erect; and his voice
the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a
recapitulation of the history of chemistry and the various improvements
made by different men of learning, pronouncing
with fervour the names of the most distinguished discoverers.
He then took a cursory view of the present state of the
science, and explained many of its elementary terms. After
having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded
with a panegyric upon modern chemistry, the terms of which
I shall never forget:—
“The ancient teachers of this science,” said he, “promised
impossibilities, and performed nothing. The modern
masters promise very little; they know that metals cannot be
transmuted, and that the elixir of life is a chimera. But these
philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in
dirt, and their eyes to pour over the microscope or crucible,
have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the
recesses of nature, and shew how she works in her hiding
places. They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered
how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe.
They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they
can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake,
and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows.”
I departed highly pleased with the professor and his lecture,
and paid him a visit the same evening. His manners
in private were even more mild and attractive than in public;
for there was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture,
which in his own house was replaced by the greatest
affability and kindness. He heard with attention my little narration
concerning my studies, and smiled at the names of
Cornelius Agrippa, and Paracelsus, but without the contempt
that M. Krempe had exhibited. He said, that “these were
men to whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers were
indebted for most of the foundations of their knowledge. They
had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names, and
arrange in connected classifications, the facts which they
in a great degree had been the instruments of bringing to
light. The labours of men of genius, however erroneously
directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage
of mankind.” I listened to his statement, which was
delivered without any presumption or affectation; and then
added, that his lecture had removed my prejudices against
modern chemists; and I, at the same time, requested his
advice concerning the books I ought to procure.
“I am happy,” said M. Waldman, “to have gained a disciple;
and if your application equals your ability, I have no
doubt of your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural
philosophy in which the greatest improvements have been
and may be made; it is on that account that I have made it
my peculiar study; but at the same time I have not neglected
the other branches of science. A man would make but a very
sorry chemist, if he attended to that department of human
knowledge alone. If your wish is to become really a man
of science, and not merely a petty experimentalist, I should
advise you to apply to every branch of natural philosophy,
including mathematics.”
He then took me into his laboratory, and explained to me
the uses of his various machines; instructing me as to what
I ought to procure, and promising me the use of his own,
when I should have advanced far enough in the science not
to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of
books which I had requested; and I took my leave.
Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future
destiny.

FROM this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry,
in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly
my sole occupation. I read with ardour those works, so full of
genius and discrimination, which modern inquirers have written
on these subjects. I attended the lectures, and cultivated
the acquaintance, of the men of science of the university;
and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense
and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive
physiognomy and manners, but not on that account the less
valuable. In M.Waldman I found a true friend. His gentleness
was never tinged by dogmatism; and his instructions were
given with an air of frankness and good nature, that banished
every idea of pedantry. It was, perhaps, the amiable
character of this man that inclined me more to that branch of
natural philosophy which he professed, than an intrinsic love
for the science itself. But this state of mind had place only in
the first steps towards knowledge: the more fully I entered
into the science, the more exclusively I pursued it for its own
sake. That application, which at first had been a matter of
duty and resolution, now 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 I
improved rapidly. My ardour was indeed the astonishment
of the students; and my proficiency, that of the masters.
Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how
Cornelius Agrippa went on? whilst M. Waldman expressed
the most heart-felt exultation in my progress. Two years
passed in this manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva,
but was engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of some
discoveries, which I hoped to make. None but those who
have experienced them can conceive of the enticements
of science. In other studies you go as far as others have
gone before you, and there is nothing more to know; but in
a scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery and
wonder. A mind of moderate capacity, which closely pursues
one study, must infallibly arrive at great proficiency in that
study; and I, who continually sought the attainment of one
object of pursuit, and was solely wrapt up in this, improved so
rapidly, that, at the end of two years, I made some discoveries
in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which
procured me great esteem and admiration at the university.
When I had arrived at this point, and had become as well
acquainted with the theory and practice of natural philosophy
as depended on the lessons of any of the professors at
Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer conducive to
my improvements, I thought of returning to my friends and
my native town, when an incident happened that protracted
my stay.
One of the phænonema which had peculiarly attracted
my attention was the structure of the human frame, and,
indeed, any animal endued with life. Whence, I often asked
myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold question,
and one which has ever been considered as a mystery;
yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming
acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain
our inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind,
and determined thenceforth to apply myself more particularly
to those branches of natural philosophy which relate
to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost
supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would
have been irksome, and almost intolerable. To examine the
causes of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became
acquainted with the science of anatomy: but this was not
sufficient; I must also observe the natural decay and corruption
of the human body. In my education my father had taken
the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed
with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to
have trembled at a tale of superstition, or to have feared the
apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy;
and a church-yard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies
deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty and
strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to
examine the cause and progress of this decay, and forced
to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel houses. My
attention was fixed upon every object the most insupportable
to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine form
of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of
death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the
worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused,
examining and analysing all the minutiæ of causation, as
exemplified in the change from life to death, and death to life,
until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke in
upon me — a light so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple,
that while I became dizzy with the immensity of the prospect
which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so many
men of genius, who had directed their inquiries towards the
same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover
so astonishing a secret.
Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman.
The sun does not more certainly shine in the heavens, than
that which I now affirm is true. Some miracle might have
produced it, yet the stages of the discovery were distinct
and probable. After days and nights of incredible labour and
fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation
and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing
animation upon lifeless matter.
The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this
discovery soon gave place to delight and rapture. After so
much time spent in painful labour, to arrive at once at the
summit of my desires, was the most gratifying consummation
of my toils. But this discovery was so great and overwhelming,
that all the steps by which I had been progressively led
to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had
been the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation
of the world, was now within my grasp. Not that, like a
magic scene, it all opened upon me at once: the information I
had obtained was of a nature rather to direct my endeavours
so soon as I should point them towards the object of my
search, than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I
was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead, and
found a passage to life aided only by one glimmering, and
seemingly ineffectual light.
I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which
your eyes express, my friend, that you expect to be informed
of the secret with which I am acquainted; that cannot be:
listen patiently until the end of my story, and you will easily
perceive why I am reserved upon that subject. I will not
lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your
destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by
my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the
acquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man
is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who
aspires to become greater than his nature will allow.
When I found so astonishing a power placed within my
hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in
which I should employ it. Although I possessed the capacity
of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame for the reception
of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins,
still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour.
I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of
a being like myself or one of simpler organization; but my
imagination was too much exalted by my first success to
permit me to doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as
complex and wonderful as man. The materials at present
within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous
an undertaking; but I doubted not that I should ultimately
succeed. I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my
operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work
be imperfect: yet, when I considered the improvement which
every day takes place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged
to hope my present attempts would at least lay
the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider the
magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argument of its
impracticability. It was with these feelings that I began the
creation of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts
formed a great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary
to my first intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature;
that is to say, about eight feet in height, and proportionably
large. After having formed this determination, and having
spent some months in successfully collecting and arranging
my materials, I began.
No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore
me onwards, like a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of suc
cess. Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I
should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our
dark world. A new species would bless me as its creator and
source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their
being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child
so completely as I should deserve their’s. Pursuing these
reflections, I thought, that if I could bestow animation upon
lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now
found it impossible) renew life where death had apparently
devoted the body to corruption.
These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my
undertaking with unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown
pale with study, and my person had become emaciated with
confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, I
failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or the
next hour might realize. One secret which I alone possessed
was the hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon
gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and
breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding places.
Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil, as I dabbled
among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured the
living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now
tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then
a resistless, and almost frantic impulse, urged me forward;
I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one
pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance, that only made
me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural
stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits.
I collected bones from charnel houses; and disturbed, with
profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame.
In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house,
and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and
staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs
were starting from their sockets in attending to the details
of my employment. The dissecting room and the slaughterhouse
furnished many of my materials; and often did my
human nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst,
still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased,
I brought my work near to a conclusion.
The summer months passed while I was thus engaged,
heart and soul, in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season;
never did the fields bestow a more plentiful harvest, or
the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage: but my eyes were
insensible to the charms of nature. And the same feelings
which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me
also to forget those friends who were so many miles absent,
and whom I had not seen for so long a time. I knew my
silence disquieted them; and I well remembered the words
of my father: “I know that while you are pleased with yourself,
you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear regularly
from you. You must pardon me, if I regard any interruption in
your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are
equally neglected.”
I knew well therefore what would be my father’s feelings;
but I could not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome
in itself, but which had taken an irresistible hold of my
imagination. I wished, as it were, to procrastinate all that
related to my feelings of affection until the great object, which
swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be completed.
I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed
my neglect to vice, or faultiness on my part; but I
am now convinced that he was justified in conceiving that I
should not be altogether free from blame. A human being
in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful
mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire
to disturb his tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of
knowledge is an exception to this rule. If the study to which
you apply yourself has a tendency to weaken your affections,
and to destroy your taste for those simple pleasures in which
no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful,
that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If this
rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit
whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic affections,
Greece had not been enslaved; Cæsar would have
spared his country; America would have been discovered
more gradually; and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not
been destroyed.
But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting
part of my tale; and your looks remind me to proceed.
My father made no reproach in his letters; and only took
notice of my silence by inquiring into my occupations more
particularly than before. Winter, spring, and summer, passed
away during my labours; but I did not watch the blossom or
the expanding leaves — sights which before always yielded
me supreme delight, so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation.
The leaves of that year had withered before my
work drew near to a close; and now every day shewed me
more plainly how well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm
was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared rather like
one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other
unwholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his favourite
employment. Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever,
and I became nervous to a most painful degree; a disease
that I regretted the more because I had hitherto enjoyed most
excellent health, and had always boasted of the firmness
of my nerves. But I believed that exercise and amusement
would soon drive away such symptoms; 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
amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around
me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless
thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning;
the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my
candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the
half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature
open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated
its limbs.
How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or
how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and
care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion,
and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful!
— Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work
of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous
black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these
luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery
eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun
white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion,
and straight black lips.
The different accidents of life are not so changeable
as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for
nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into
an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest
and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded
moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the
dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled
my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had
created, I rushed out of the room, and continued a long time
traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind
to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had
before endured; and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes,
endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But
it was in vain: I slept indeed, but I was disturbed by the
wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of
health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and
surprised, I embraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss
on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her
features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the
corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped
her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds
of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror; a cold
dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every
limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of
the moon, as it forced its way through the window-shutters,
I beheld the wretch — the miserable monster whom I had
created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes,
if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws
opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a
grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not
hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me,
but I escaped, and rushed down stairs. I took refuge in the
court-yard belonging to the house which I inhabited; where I
remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down
in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and
fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of
the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life.
Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that countenance.
A mummy again endued with animation could not
be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while
unfinished; he was ugly then; but when those muscles and
joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing
such as even Dante could not have conceived.
I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse
beat so quickly and hardly, that I felt the palpitation of every
artery; at others, I nearly sank to the ground through languor
and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the
bitterness of disappointment: dreams that had been my food
and pleasant rest for so long a space, were now become a
hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so
complete!
Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered
to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt,
its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth
hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had
that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing
them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch
whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my
view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited,
but felt impelled to hurry on, although wetted by the rain,
which poured from a black and comfortless sky.
I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring,
by bodily exercise, to ease the load that weighed
upon my mind. I traversed the streets, without any clear
conception of where I was, or what I was doing. My heart
palpitated in the sickness of fear; and I hurried on with irregular
steps, not daring to look about me:
Like one who, on a lonely road,
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And, having once turn’d round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at
which the various diligences and carriages usually stopped.
Here I paused, I knew not why; but I remained some minutes
with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me
from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer, I observed
that it was the Swiss diligence: it stopped just where I was
standing; and, on the door being opened, I perceived Henry
Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. “My dear
Frankenstein,” exclaimed he, “how glad I am to see you! how
fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my
alighting!”
Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his
presence brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth,
and all those scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I
grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror and
misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many
months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore,
in the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my
college. Clerval continued talking for some time about our
mutual friends, and his own good fortune in being permitted
to come to Ingolstadt. “You may easily believe,” said he, “how
great was the difficulty to persuade my father that it was
not absolutely necessary for a merchant not to understand
any thing except book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left
him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my
unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch
schoolmaster in the Vicar of Wakefield: ‘I have ten thousand
florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.’ But
his affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning,
and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery
to the land of knowledge.”
“It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me
how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth.”
“Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they
hear from you so seldom. By the bye, I mean to lecture you
a little upon their account myself. — But, my dear Frankenstein,”
continued he, stopping short, and gazing full in my
face, “I did not before remark how very ill you appear; so thin
and pale; you look as if you had been watching for several
nights.”
“You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply
engaged in one occupation, that I have not allowed myself
sufficient rest, as you see: but I hope, I sincerely hope, that
all these employments are now at an end, and that I am at
length free.”
I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and
far less to allude to the occurrences of the preceding night. I
walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college.
I then reflected, and the thought made me shiver, that the
creature whom I had left in my apartment might still be there,
alive, and walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster;
but I feared still more that Henry should see him. Entreating
him therefore to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the
stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was
already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself.
I then paused; and a cold shivering came over me. I threw
the door forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do
when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on
the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in:
the apartment was empty; and my bedroom was also freed
from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great
a good-fortune could have befallen me; but when I became
assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands
for joy, and ran down to Clerval.
We ascended into my room, and the servant presently
brought breakfast; but I was unable to contain myself. It
was not joy only that possessed me; I felt my flesh tingle
with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I
was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place;
I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed
aloud. Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on
his arrival; but when he observed me more attentively, he
saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account;
and my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter, frightened
and astonished him.
“My dear Victor,” cried he, “what, for God’s sake, is the
matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What
is the cause of all this?”
“Do not ask me,” cried I, putting my hands before my
eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the
room; “he can tell. — Oh, save me! save me!” I imagined
that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously, and fell
down in a fit.
Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A
meeting, which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely
turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his grief;
for I was lifeless, and did not recover my senses for a long,
long time.
This was the commencement of a nervous fever, which
confined me for several months. During all that time Henry
was my only nurse. I afterwards learned that, knowing my
father’s advanced age, and unfitness for so long a journey,
and how wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he
spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my disorder.
He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse
than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he
did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the
kindest action that he could towards them.
But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the
unbounded and unremitting attentions of my friend could
have restored me to life. The form of the monster on whom I
had bestowed existence was for ever before my eyes, and I
raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words surprised
Henry: he at first believed them to be the wanderings
of my disturbed imagination; but the pertinacity with which I
continually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that
my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and
terrible event.
By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses, that
alarmed and grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the
first time I became capable of observing outward objects with
any kind of pleasure, I perceived that the fallen leaves had
disappeared, and that the young buds were shooting forth
from the trees that shaded my window. It was a divine spring;
and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I
felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom;
my gloom disappeared, and in a short time I became as
cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion.
“Dearest Clerval,” exclaimed I, “how kind, how very good
you are to me. This whole winter, instead of being spent in
study, as you promised yourself, has been consumed in my
sick room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest
remorse for the disappointment of which I have been the
occasion; but you will forgive me.”
“You will repay me entirely, if you do not discompose
yourself, but get well as fast as you can; and since you
appear in such good spirits, I may speak to you on one
subject, may I not?”
I trembled. One subject! what could it be? Could he
allude to an object on whom I dared not even think?
“Compose yourself,” said Clerval, who observed my change
of colour, “I will not mention it, if it agitates you; but
your father and cousin would be very happy if they received
a letter from you in your own hand-writing. They hardly know
how ill you have been, and are uneasy at your long silence.”
“Is that all? my dear Henry. How could you suppose
that my first thought would not fly towards those dear, dear
friends whom I love, and who are so deserving of my love.”
“If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps
be glad to see a letter that has been lying here some days
for you: it is from your cousin, I believe.”

CLERVAL then put the following letter into my hands.
“To V. FRANKENSTEIN.
“MY DEAR COUSIN,
“I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all
felt concerning your health. We cannot help imagining that
your friend Clerval conceals the extent of your disorder: for
it is now several months since we have seen your handwriting;
and all this time you have been obliged to dictate
your letters to Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have been
exceedingly ill; and this makes us all very wretched, as much
so nearly as after the death of your dear mother. My uncle
was almost persuaded that you were indeed dangerously ill,
and could hardly be restrained from undertaking a journey to
Ingolstadt. Clerval always writes that you are getting better;
I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon in
your own hand-writing; for indeed, indeed, Victor, we are all
very miserable on this account. Relieve us from this fear, and
we shall be the happiest creatures in the world. Your father’s
health is now so vigorous, that he appears ten years younger
since last winter. Ernest also is so much improved, that you
would hardly know him: he is now nearly sixteen, and has
lost that sickly appearance which he had some years ago;
he is grown quite robust and active.
“My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about
what profession Ernest should follow. His constant illness
when young has deprived him of the habits of application;
and now that he enjoys good health, he is continually in
the open air, climbing the hills, or rowing on the lake. I
therefore proposed that he should be a farmer; which you
know, Cousin, is a favourite scheme of mine. A farmer’s is
a very healthy happy life; and the least hurtful, or rather the
most beneficial profession of any. My uncle had an idea of
his being educated as an advocate, that through his interest
he might become a judge. But, besides that he is not at all
fitted for such an occupation, it is certainly more creditable to
cultivate the earth for the sustenance of man, than to be the
confidant, and sometimes the accomplice, of his vices; which
is the profession of a lawyer. I said, that the employments
of a prosperous farmer, if they were not a more honourable,
they were at least a happier species of occupation than that
of a judge, whose misfortune it was always to meddle with
the dark side of human nature. My uncle smiled, and said,
that I ought to be an advocate myself, which put an end to
the conversation on that subject.
“And now I must tell you a little story that will please, and
perhaps amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz?
Probably you do not; I will relate her history, therefore, in
a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a widow
with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl
had always been the favourite of her father; but, through a
strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and,
after the death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt
observed this; and, when Justine was twelve years of age,
prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at her house. The
republican institutions of our country have produced simpler
and happier manners than those which prevail in the great
monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction
between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower
orders being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners
are more refined and moral. A servant in Geneva does not
mean the same thing as a servant in France and England.
Justine, thus received in our family, learned the duties of a
servant; a condition which, in our fortunate country, does not
include the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity
of a human being.
“After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the
heroine of my little tale: for Justine was a great favourite of
your’s; and I recollect you once remarked, that if you were
in an ill humour, one glance from Justine could dissipate
it, for the same reason that Ariosto gives concerning the
beauty of Angelica—she looked so frank-hearted and happy.
My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which
she was induced to give her an education superior to that
which she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid;
Justine was the most grateful little creature in the world: I
do not mean that she made any professions, I never heard
one pass her lips; but you could see by her eyes that she
almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition was
gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the
greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought
her the model of all excellence, and endeavoured to imitate
her phraseology and manners, so that even now she often
reminds me of her.
“When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much
occupied in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who had
attended her during her illness with the most anxious affection.
Poor Justine was very ill; but other trials were reserved
for her.
“One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother,
with the exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless.
The conscience of the woman was troubled; she began
to think that the deaths of her favourites was a judgment from
heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic;
and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea which she
had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure
for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant
mother. Poor girl! she wept when she quitted our house: she
was much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given
softness and a winning mildness to her manners, which had
before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her residence
at her mother’s house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The
poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She
sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness, but
much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of
her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw
Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased her
irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the
first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this last
winter. Justine has returned to us; and I assure you I love
her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and extremely
pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien and her expressions
continually remind me of my dear aunt.
“I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of
little darling William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall
of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eye-lashes,
and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear
on each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has already
had one or two little wives, but Louisa Biron is his favourite,
a pretty little girl of five years of age.
“Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in
a little gossip concerning the good people of Geneva. The
pretty Miss Mansfield has already received the congratulatory
visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman,
John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married
M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite
schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes
since the departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has
already recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the
point of marrying a very lively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame
Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older than Manoir; but
she is very much admired, and a favourite with every body.
“I have written myself into good spirits, dear cousin; yet I
cannot conclude without again anxiously inquiring concerning
your health. Dear Victor, if you are not very ill, write
yourself, and make your father and all of us happy; or ——
I cannot bear to think of the other side of the question; my
tears already flow. Adieu, my dearest cousin.”
“ELIZABETH LAVENZA.
“Geneva, March 18th, 17— .”
“Dear, dear Elizabeth!” I exclaimed when I had read
her letter, “I will write instantly, and relieve them from the
anxiety they must feel.” I wrote, and this exertion greatly
fatigued me; but my convalescence had commenced, and
proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to leave
my chamber.
One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce
Clerval to the several professors of the university. In doing
this, I underwent a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the
wounds that my mind had sustained. Ever since the fatal
night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of my misfortunes,
I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the
name of natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite
restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would
renew all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw
this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view. He
had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had
acquired a dislike for the room which had previously been my
laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of no avail
when I visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture
when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing
progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that
I disliked the subject; but, not guessing the real cause, he
attributed my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject
from my improvement to the science itself, with a desire, as
I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What could I do? He
meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had
placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments
which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow
and cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not
exhibit the pain I felt. Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were
always quick in discerning the sensations of others, declined
the subject, alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance; and the
conversation took a more general turn. I thanked my friend
from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he
was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret
from me; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection
and reverence that knew no bounds, yet I could never
persuade myself to confide to him that event which was so
often present to my recollection, but which I feared the detail
to another would only impress more deeply.
M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition
at that time, of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh
blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the benevolent
approbation of M. Waldman. “D—n the fellow!” cried
he; “why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us all. Aye,
stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster
who, but a few years ago, believed Cornelius Agrippa as
firmly as the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the
university; and if he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be
out of countenance. — Aye, aye,” continued he, observing
my face expressive of suffering, “M. Frankenstein is modest;
an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be
diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval; I was myself
when young: but that wears out in a very short time.”
M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself,
which happily turned the conversation from a subject that
was so annoying to me.
Clerval was no natural philosopher. His imagination was
too vivid for the minutiæ of science. Languages were his
principal study; and he sought, by acquiring their elements,
to open a field for self-instruction on his return to Geneva.
Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew, gained his attention, after he
had made himself perfectly master of Greek and Latin. For
my own part, 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. 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 garden of
roses, — in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the
fire that consumes your own heart. How different from the
manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome.
Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return
to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of autumn; but
being delayed by several accidents, winter and snow arrived,
the roads were deemed impassable, and my journey was
retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay very bitterly;
for I longed to see my native town, and my beloved friends.
My return had only been delayed so long from an unwillingness
to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had
become acquainted with any of its inhabitants. The winter,
however, was spent cheerfully; and although the spring was
uncommonly late, when it came, its beauty compensated for
its dilatoriness.
The month of May had already commenced, and I expected
the letter daily which was to fix the date of my departure,
when Henry proposed a pedestrian tour in the environs
of Ingolstadt that I might bid a personal farewell to the country
I had so long inhabited. I acceded with pleasure to this
proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had always
been my favourite companion in the rambles of this nature
that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.
We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health
and spirits had long been restored, and they gained additional
strength from the salubrious air I breathed, the natural
incidents of our progress, and the conversation of my
friend. Study had before secluded me from the intercourse of
my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but Clerval
called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught
me to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of
children. Excellent friend! how sincerely did you love me,
and endeavour to elevate my mind, until it was on a level with
your own. A selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed me,
until your gentleness and affection warmed and opened my
senses; I became the same happy creature who, a few years
ago, loving and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When
happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me
the most delightful sensations. A serene sky and verdant
fields filled me with ecstacy. 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 sympathized
in my feelings: he exerted himself to amuse me, while he
expressed the sensations that filled his soul. The resources
of his mind on this occasion were truly astonishing: his conversation
was full of imagination; and very often, in imitation
of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful
fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my
favourite poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he
supported with great ingenuity.
We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the
peasants were dancing, and every one we met appeared
gay and happy. My own spirits were high, and I bounded
along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.

ON my return, I found the following letter from my father:
“To V. FRANKENSTEIN.
“MY DEAR VICTOR,
“You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix
the date of your return to us; and I was at first tempted to
write only a few lines, merely mentioning the day on which I
should expect you. But that would be a cruel kindness, and I
dare not do it. What would be your surprise, my son, when
you expected a happy and gay welcome, to behold, on the
contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I
relate our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you
callous to our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on
an absent child? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news,
but I know it is impossible; even now your eye skims over
the page, to seek the words which are to convey to you the
horrible tidings.
“William is dead! — that sweet child, whose smiles delighted
and warmed my heart, who was so gentle, yet so
gay! Victor, he is murdered!
“I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate
the circumstances of the transaction.
“Last Thursday (May 7th) I, my niece, and your two brothers,
went to walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and
serene, and we prolonged our walk farther than usual. It was
already dusk before we thought of returning; and then we
discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone on before,
were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until
they should return. Presently Ernest came, and inquired if
we had seen his brother: he said, that they had been playing
together, that William had run away to hide himself, and that
he vainly sought for him, and afterwards waited for him a
long time, but that he did not return.
“This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to
search for him until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured
that he might have returned to the house. He was not there.
We returned again, with torches; for I could not rest, when I
thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, and was exposed
to all the damps and dews of night: Elizabeth also suffered
extreme anguish. About five in the morning I discovered my
lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and
active in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless:
the print of the murderer’s finger was on his neck.
“He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible
in my countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She
was very earnest to see the corpse. At first I attempted to
prevent her; but she persisted, and entering the room where
it lay, hastily examined the neck of the victim, and clasping
her hands exclaimed, ‘O God! I have murdered my darling
infant!’
“She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty.
When she again lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She
told me, that that same evening William had teazed her to
let him wear a very valuable miniature that she possessed
of your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless
the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We
have no trace of him at present, although our exertions to
discover him are unremitted; but they will not restore my
beloved William.
“Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth.
She weeps continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the
cause of his death; her words pierce my heart. We are all
unhappy; but will not that be an additional motive for you, my
son, to return and be our comforter? Your dear mother! Alas,
Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live to witness the
cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!
“Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against
the assassin, but with feelings of peace and gentleness,
that will heal, instead of festering the wounds of our minds.
Enter the house of mourning, my friend, but with kindness
and affection for those who love you, and not with hatred for
your enemies.
“Your affectionate and afflicted father,
“ALPHONSE FRANKENSTEIN.
“Geneva, May 12th, 17—.”
Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this
letter, was surprised to observe the despair that succeeded
to the joy I at first expressed on receiving news from my
friends. I threw the letter on the table, and covered my face
with my hands.
“My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed Henry, when he perceived
me weep with bitterness, “are you always to be unhappy?
My dear friend, what has happened?”
I motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up
and down the room in the extremest agitation. Tears also
gushed from the eyes of Clerval, as he read the account of
my misfortune.
“I can offer you no consolation, my friend,” said he; “your
disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do?”
“To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order
the horses.”
During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to raise my spirits.
He did not do this by common topics of consolation, but by
exhibiting the truest sympathy. “Poor William!” said he, “that
dear child; he now sleeps with his angel mother. His friends
mourn and weep, but he is at rest: he does not now feel
the murderer’s grasp; a sod covers his gentle form, and he
knows no pain. He can no longer be a fit subject for pity; the
survivors are the greatest sufferers, and for them time is the
only consolation. Those maxims of the Stoics, that death
was no evil, and that the mind of man ought to be superior
to despair on the eternal absence of a beloved object, ought
not to be urged. Even Cato wept over the dead body of his
brother.”
Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the
words impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered
them afterwards in solitude. But now, as soon as the horses
arrived, I hurried into a cabriole, and bade farewell to my
friend.
My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry
on, for I longed to console and sympathize with my loved
and sorrowing friends; but when I drew near my native town,
I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the multitude
of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through
scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for
nearly six years. How altered every thing might be during
that time? One sudden and desolating change had taken
place; but a thousand little circumstances might have by
degrees worked other alterations which, although they were
done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear
overcame me; I dared not advance, dreading a thousand
nameless evils that made me tremble, although I was unable
to define them.
I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of
mind. I contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all
around was calm, and the snowy mountains, “the palaces
of nature,” were not changed. By degrees the calm and
heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my journey
towards Geneva.
The road ran by the side of the lake, which became
narrower as I approached my native town. I discovered more
distinctly the black sides of Jura, and the bright summit of
Mont Blânc; I wept like a child: “Dear mountains! my own
beautiful lake! how do you welcome your wanderer? Your
summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is
this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?”
I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by
dwelling on these preliminary circumstances; but they were
days of comparative happiness, and I think of them with
pleasure. My country, my beloved country! who but a native
can tell the delight I took in again beholding thy streams, thy
mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake.
Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame
me. Night also closed around; and when I could hardly
see the dark mountains, I felt still more gloomily. The picture
appeared a vast and dim scene of evil, and I foresaw
obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched
of human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only
in one single circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined
and dreaded, I did not conceive the hundredth part of the
anguish I was destined to endure.
It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs
of Geneva; the gates of the town were already shut; and
I was obliged to pass the night at Secheron, a village half
a league to the east of the city. The sky was serene; and,
as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot where
my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass
through the town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat
to arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the
lightnings playing on the summit of Mont Blânc in the most
beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly;
and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe
its progress. It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I
soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its violence
quickly increased.
I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness
and storm increased every minute, and the thunder burst
with a terrific crash over my head. It was echoed from Salêve,
the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning
dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake, making it appear like
a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant every thing seemed
of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself from the
preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in Switzerland,
appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The
most violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over that
part of the lake which lies between the promontory of Belrive
and the village of Copêt. Another storm enlightened Jura
with faint flashes; and another darkened and sometimes
disclosed the Môle, a peaked mountain to the east of the
lake.
While I watched the storm, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered
on with a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated
my spirits; I clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud,
“William, dear angel! this is thy funeral, this thy dirge!” As
I said these words, I perceived in the gloom a figure which
stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood fixed,
gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning
illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to
me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more
hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that
it was the wretch, the filthy dæmon to whom I had given
life. What did he there? Could he be (I shuddered at the
conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that
idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its
truth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a
tree for support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in
the gloom. Nothing in human shape could have destroyed
that fair child. He was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The
mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the
fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have been in
vain, for another flash discovered him to me hanging among
the rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Salêve,
a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached
the summit, and disappeared.
I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain
still continued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable
darkness. I revolved in my mind the events which I had
until now sought to forget: the whole train of my progress
towards the creation; the appearance of the work of my own
hands alive at my bed side; its departure. Two years had
now nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received
life; and was this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into
the world a depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage
and misery; had he not murdered my brother?
No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the
remainder of the night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the
open air. But I did not feel the inconvenience of the weather;
my imagination was busy in scenes of evil and despair. I
considered the being whom I had cast among mankind, and
endowed with the will and power to effect purposes of horror,
such as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light
of my own vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave,
and forced to destroy all that was dear to me.
Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town.
The gates were open; and I hastened to my father’s house.
My first thought was to discover what I knew of the murderer,
and cause instant pursuit to be made. But I paused when
I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A being whom I
myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at
midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain.
I remembered also the nervous fever with which I had been
seized just at the time that I dated my creation, and which
would give an air of delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly
improbable. I well knew that if any other had communicated
such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it as the
ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal
would elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to
persuade my relatives to commence it. Besides, of what
use would be pursuit? Who could arrest a creature capable
of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont Salêve? These
reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain silent.
It was about five in the morning when I entered my father’s
house. I told the servants not to disturb the family, and went
into the library to attend their usual hour of rising.
Six years had elapsed, passed as 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 respectable parent! He still remained to me.
I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the
mantle-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my
father’s desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an
agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead father.
Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale; but there was an
air of dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the sentiment
of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of William; and my
tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged,
Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to
welcome me. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me:
“Welcome, my dearest Victor,” said he. “Ah! I wish you had
come three months ago, and then you would have found us
all joyous and delighted. But we are now unhappy; and, I
am afraid, tears instead of smiles will be your welcome. Our
father looks so sorrowful: this dreadful event seems to have
revived in his mind his grief on the death of Mamma. Poor
Elizabeth also is quite inconsolable.” Ernest began to weep
as he said these words.
“Do not,” said I, “welcome me thus; try to be more calm,
that I may not be absolutely miserable the moment I enter
my father’s house after so long an absence. But, tell me,
how does my father support his misfortunes? and how is my
poor Elizabeth?”
“She indeed requires consolation; she accused herself
of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her
very wretched. But since the murderer has been discovered
—— ”
“The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that
be? who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible;
one might as well try to overtake the winds, or confine a
mountain-stream with a straw.”
“I do not know what you mean; but we were all very
unhappy when she was discovered. No one would believe
it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced,
notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit
that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the
family, could all at once become so extremely wicked?”
“Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But
it is wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it,
surely, Ernest?”
“No one did at first; but several circumstances came out,
that have almost forced conviction upon us: and her own
behaviour has been so confused, as to add to the evidence
of facts a weight that, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But
she will be tried to-day, and you will then hear all.”
He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor
William had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill,
and confined to her bed; and, after several days, one of the
servants, happening to examine the apparel she had worn
on the night of the murder, had discovered in her pocket
the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the
temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly shewed it
to one of the others, who, without saying a word to any of
the family, went to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition,
Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact,
the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by
her extreme confusion of manner.
This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and
I replied earnestly, “You are all mistaken; I know the murderer.
Justine, poor, good Justine, is innocent.”
At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness
deeply impressed on his countenance, but he endeavoured
to welcome me cheerfully; and, after we had exchanged our
mournful greeting, would have introduced some other topic
than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, “Good
God, Papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer
of poor William.”
“We do also, unfortunately,” replied my father; “for indeed
I had rather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered
so much depravity and ingratitude in one I valued so highly.”
“My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent.”
“If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She
is to be tried to-day, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she
will be acquitted.”
This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my
own mind that Justine, and indeed every human being, was
guiltless of this murder. I had no fear, therefore, that any
circumstantial evidence could be brought forward strong
enough to convict her; and, in this assurance, I calmed
myself, expecting the trial with eagerness, but without prognosticating
an evil result.
We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had made great
alterations in her form since I had last beheld her. Six years
before she had been a pretty, good-humoured girl, whom
every one loved and caressed. She was now a woman
in stature and expression of countenance, which was uncommonly
lovely. An open and capacious forehead gave
indications of a good understanding, joined to great frankness
of disposition. Her eyes were hazel, and expressive
of mildness, now through recent affliction allied to sadness.
Her hair was of a rich, dark auburn, her complexion fair, and
her figure slight and graceful. She welcomed me with the
greatest affection. “Your arrival, my dear cousin,” said she,
“fills me with hope. You perhaps will find some means to
justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be
convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly as
I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we
have not only lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl,
whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away by even a worse
fate. If she is condemned, I never shall know joy more. But
she will not, I am sure she will not; and then I shall be happy
again, even after the sad death of my little William.”
“She is innocent, my Elizabeth,” said I, “and that shall be
proved; fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the
assurance of her acquittal.”
“How kind you are! every one else believes in her guilt,
and that made me wretched; for I knew that it was impossible:
and to see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner,
rendered me hopeless and despairing.” She wept.
“Sweet niece,” said my father, “dry your tears. If she is, as
you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our judges, and
the activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of
partiality.”

WE passed a few sad hours, until eleven o’clock, when the
trial was to commence. My father and the rest of the family
being obliged to attend as witnesses, I accompanied them
to the court. During the whole of this wretched mockery
of justice, I suffered living torture. It was to be decided,
whether the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would
cause the death of two of my fellow-beings: one a smiling
babe, full of innocence and joy; the other far more dreadfully
murdered, with every aggravation of infamy that could make
the murder memorable in horror. Justine also was a girl of
merit, and possessed qualities which promised to render her
life happy: now all was to be obliterated in an ignominious
grave; and I the cause! A thousand times rather would I have
confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine; but
I was absent when it was committed, and such a declaration
would have been considered as the ravings of a madman,
and would not have exculpated her who suffered through
me.
The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed
in mourning; and her countenance, always engaging, was
rendered, by the solemnity of her feelings, exquisitely beautiful.
Yet she appeared confident in innocence, and did not
tremble, although gazed on and execrated by thousands;
for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have
excited, was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by
the imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have
committed. She was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently
constrained; and as her confusion had before been
adduced as a proof of her guilt, she worked up her mind to
an appearance of courage. When she entered the court, she
threw her eyes round it, and quickly discovered where we
were seated. A tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw
us; but she quickly recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful
affection seemed to attest her utter guiltlessness.
The trial began; and after the advocate against her had
stated the charge, several witnesses were called. Several
strange facts combined against her, which might have staggered
any one who had not such proof of her innocence as I
had. She had been out the whole of the night on which the
murder had been committed, and towards morning had been
perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where
the body of the murdered child had been afterwards found.
The woman asked her what she did there; but she looked
very strangely, and only returned a confused and unintelligible
answer. She returned to the house about eight o’clock;
and when one inquired where she had passed the night,
she replied, that she had been looking for the child, and
demanded earnestly, if any thing had been heard concerning
him. When shewn the body, she fell into violent hysterics,
and kept her bed for several days. The picture was then produced,
which the servant had found in her pocket; and when
Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same
which, an hour before the child had been missed, she had
placed round his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation
filled the court.
Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had
proceeded, her countenance had altered. Surprise, horror,
and misery, were strongly expressed. Sometimes she
struggled with her tears; but when she was desired to plead,
she collected her powers, and spoke in an audible although
variable voice:—
“God knows,” she said, “how entirely I am innocent. But
I do not pretend that my protestations should acquit me: I
rest my innocence on a plain and simple explanation of the
facts which have been adduced against me; and I hope the
character I have always borne will incline my judges to a
favourable interpretation, where any circumstance appears
doubtful or suspicious.”
She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she
had passed the evening of the night on which the murder had
been committed, at the house of an aunt at Chêne, a village
situated at about a league from Geneva. On her return, at
about nine o’clock, she met a man, who asked her if she had
seen any thing of the child who was lost. She was alarmed
by this account, and passed several hours in looking for him,
when the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced
to remain several hours of the night in a barn belonging to a
cottage, being unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom
she was well known. Unable to rest or sleep, she quitted
her asylum early, that she might again endeavour to find my
brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it
was without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered
when questioned by the market-woman, was not surprising,
since she had passed a sleepless night, and the fate of poor
William was yet uncertain. Concerning the picture she could
give no account.
“I know,” continued the unhappy victim, “how heavily and
fatally this one circumstance weighs against me, but I have
no power of explaining it; and when I have expressed my
utter ignorance, I am only left to conjecture concerning the
probabilities by which it might have been placed in my pocket.
But here also I am checked. I believe that I have no enemy
on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as
to destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I
know of no opportunity afforded him for so doing; or if I had,
why should he have stolen the jewel, to part with it again so
soon?
“I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see
no room for hope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses
examined concerning my character; and if their testimony
shall not overweigh my supposed guilt, I must be condemned,
although I would pledge my salvation on my innocence.”
Several witnesses were called, who had known her for
many years, and they spoke well of her; but fear, and hatred
of the crime of which they supposed her guilty, rendered
them timorous, and unwilling to come forward. Elizabeth
saw even this last resource, her excellent dispositions and
irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused, when, although
violently agitated, she desired permission to address
the court.
“I am,” said she, “the cousin of the unhappy child who was
murdered, or rather his sister, for I was educated by and have
lived with his parents ever since and even long before his
birth. It may therefore be judged indecent in me to come forward
on this occasion; but when I see a fellow-creature about
to perish through the cowardice of her pretended friends, I
wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I know of
her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have
lived in the same house with her, at one time for five, and
at another for nearly two years. During all that period she
appeared to me the most amiable and benevolent of human
creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my aunt, in
her last illness with the greatest affection and care; and afterwards
attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a
manner that excited the admiration of all who knew her. After
which she again lived in my uncle’s house, where she was
beloved by all the family. She was warmly attached to the
child who is now dead, and acted towards him like a most
affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to
say, that, notwithstanding all the evidence produced against
her, I believe and rely on her perfect innocence. She had
no temptation for such an action: as to the bauble on which
the chief proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it, I should
have willingly given it to her; so much do I esteem and value
her.”
Excellent Elizabeth! A murmur of approbation was heard;
but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in
favour of poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was
turned with renewed violence, charging her with the blackest
ingratitude. She herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she
did not answer. My own agitation and anguish was extreme
during the whole trial. I believed in her innocence; I knew
it. Could the dæmon, who had (I did not for a minute doubt)
murdered my brother, also in his hellish sport have betrayed
the innocent to death and ignominy. I could not sustain the
horror of my situation; and when I perceived that the popular
voice, and the countenances of the judges, had already
condemned my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court in
agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal mine; she
was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore
my bosom, and would not forego their hold.
I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the
morning I went to the court; my lips and throat were parched.
I dared not ask the fatal question; but I was known, and the
officer guessed the cause of my visit. The ballots had been
thrown; they were all black, and Justine was condemned.
I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before
experienced sensations of horror; and I have endeavoured to
bestow upon them adequate expressions, but words cannot
convey an idea of the heart-sickening despair that I then endured.
The person to whom I addressed myself added, that
Justine had already confessed her guilt. “That evidence,” he
observed, “was hardly required in so glaring a case, but I am
glad of it; and, indeed, none of our judges like to condemn a
criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so decisive.”
When I returned home, Elizabeth eagerly demanded the
result.
“My cousin,” replied I, “it is decided as you may have
expected; all judges had rather that ten innocent should
suffer, than that one guilty should escape. But she has
confessed.”
This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied
with firmness upon Justine’s innocence. “Alas!” said she,
“how shall I ever again believe in human benevolence? Justine,
whom I loved and esteemed as my sister, how could
she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray; her mild
eyes seemed incapable of any severity or ill-humour, and yet
she has committed a murder.”
Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed
a wish to see my cousin. My father wished her not to go;
but said, that he left it to her own judgment and feelings to
decide. “Yes,” said Elizabeth, “I will go, although she is guilty;
and you, Victor, shall accompany me: I cannot go alone.”
The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not refuse.
We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and beheld Justine
sitting on some straw at the further end; her hands were
manacled, and her head rested on her knees. She rose on
seeing us enter; and when we were left alone with her, she
threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My
cousin wept also.
“Oh, Justine!” said she, “why did you rob me of my last
consolation. I relied on your innocence; and although I was
then very wretched, I was not so miserable as I am now.”
“And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked?
Do you also join with my enemies to crush me?” Her voice
was suffocated with sobs.
“Rise, my poor girl,” said Elizabeth, “why do you kneel, if
you are innocent? I am not one of your enemies; I believed
you guiltless, notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard
that you had yourself declared your guilt. That report, you
say, is false; and be assured, dear Justine, that nothing can
shake my confidence in you for a moment, but your own
confession.”
“I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I
might obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier
at my heart than all my other sins. The God of heaven
forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my confessor
has besieged me; he threatened and menaced, until I almost
began to think that I was the monster that he said I
was. He threatened excommunication and hell fire in my
last moments, if I continued obdurate. Dear lady, I had none
to support me; all looked on me as a wretch doomed to
ignominy and perdition. What could I do? In an evil hour I
subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly miserable.”
She paused, weeping, and then continued — “I thought
with horror, my sweet lady, that you should believe your
Justine, whom your blessed aunt had so highly honoured,
and whom you loved, was a creature capable of a crime
which none but the devil himself could have perpetrated.
Dear William! dearest blessed child! I soon shall see you
again in heaven, where we shall all be happy; and that
consoles me, going as I am to suffer ignominy and death.”
“Oh, Justine! forgive me for having for one moment distrusted
you. Why did you confess? But do not mourn, my
dear girl; I will every where proclaim your innocence, and
force belief. Yet you must die; you, my playfellow, my companion,
my more than sister. I never can survive so horrible
a misfortune.”
“Dear, sweet Elizabeth, do not weep. You ought to raise
me with thoughts of a better life, and elevate me from the
petty cares of this world of injustice and strife. Do not you,
excellent friend, drive me to despair.”
“I will try to comfort you; but this, I fear, is an evil too deep
and poignant to admit of consolation, for there is no hope.
Yet heaven bless thee, my dearest Justine, with resignation,
and a confidence elevated beyond this world. Oh! how I hate
its shews and mockeries! when one creature is murdered,
another is immediately deprived of life in a slow torturing
manner; then the executioners, their hands yet reeking with
the blood of innocence, believe that they have done a great
deed. They call this retribution. Hateful name! When that
word is pronounced, I know greater and more horrid punishments
are going to be inflicted than the gloomiest tyrant has
ever invented to satiate his utmost revenge. Yet this is not
consolation for you, my Justine, unless indeed that you may
glory in escaping from so miserable a den. Alas! I would I
were in peace with my aunt and my lovely William, escaped
from a world which is hateful to me, and the visages of men
which I abhor.”
Justine smiled languidly. “This, dear lady, is despair, and
not resignation. I must not learn the lesson that you would
teach me. Talk of something else, something that will bring
peace, and not increase of misery.”
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 dreary boundary
between life and death, felt not as I did, such deep and
bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth, and ground them together,
uttering a groan that came from my inmost soul. Justine
started. When she saw who it was, she approached me, and
said, “Dear Sir, you are very kind to visit me; you, I hope, do
not believe that I am guilty.”
I could not answer. “No, Justine,” said Elizabeth; “he is
more convinced of your innocence than I was; for even when
he heard that you had confessed, he did not credit it.”
“I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest
gratitude towards those who think of me with kindness.
How sweet is the affection of others to such a wretch as I am!
It removes more than half my misfortune; and I feel as if I
could die in peace, now that my innocence is acknowledged
by you, dear lady, and your cousin.”
Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself.
She indeed gained the resignation she desired. But I, the
true murderer, felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom,
which allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth also
wept, and was unhappy; but her’s 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 staid
several hours with Justine; and it was with great difficulty that
Elizabeth could tear herself away. “I wish,” cried she, “that I
were to die with you; I cannot live in this world of misery.”
Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with
difficulty repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth,
and said, in a voice of half-suppressed emotion, “Farewell,
sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend;
may heaven in its bounty bless and preserve you; may this
be the last misfortune that you will ever suffer. Live, and be
happy, and make others so.”
As we returned, Elizabeth said, “You know not, my dear
Victor, how much I am relieved, now that I trust in the innocence
of this unfortunate girl. I never could again have
known peace, if I had been deceived in my reliance on her.
For the moment that I did believe her guilty, I felt an anguish
that I could not have long sustained. Now my heart is lightened.
The innocent suffers; but she whom I thought amiable
and good has not betrayed the trust I reposed in her, and I
am consoled.”
Amiable cousin! such were your thoughts, mild and gentle
as your own dear eyes and voice. But I — I was a wretch,
and none ever conceived of the misery that I then endured.

Volume II

NOTHING is more painful to the human mind, than, after
the feelings have been worked up by a quick succession of
events, the dead calmness of inaction and certainty which
follows, and deprives the soul both of hope and fear. Justine
died; she rested; and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in
my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on
my heart, which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my
eyes; I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds
of mischief beyond description horrible, and more, much
more, (I persuaded myself) was yet behind. Yet my heart
overflowed with kindness, and the love of virtue. I had begun
life with benevolent intentions, and thirsted for the moment
when I should put them in practice, and make myself useful
to my fellow-beings. Now all was blasted: instead of that
serenity of conscience, which allowed me to look back upon
the past with self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather
promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the
sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense
tortures, such as no language can describe.
This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had
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, death-like solitude.
My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in
my disposition and habits, and endeavoured to reason with
me on the folly of giving way to immoderate grief. “Do you
think, Victor,” said he, “that I do not suffer also? No one could
love a child more than I loved your brother;” (tears came into
his eyes as he spoke); “but is it not a duty to the survivors,
that we should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by
an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed
to yourself; for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or
enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without
which no man is fit for society.”
This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to
my case; I should have been the first to hide my grief, and
console my friends, if remorse had not mingled its bitterness
with my other sensations. Now I could only answer my father
with a look of despair, and endeavour to hide myself from his
view.
About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This
change was particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of
the gates regularly at ten o’clock, and the impossibility of
remaining on the lake after that hour, had rendered our
residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I
was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired
for the night, I took the boat, and passed many hours upon
the water. Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by
the wind; and sometimes, after rowing into the middle of
the lake, I left the boat to pursue its own course, and gave
way to my own miserable reflections. I was often tempted,
when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet
thing that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and
heavenly, if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and
interrupted croaking was heard only when I approached the
shore — often, I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent
lake, that the waters might close over me and my calamities
for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic
and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose
existence was bound up in mine. I thought also of my father,
and surviving brother: should I by my base desertion leave
them exposed and unprotected to the malice of the fiend
whom I had let loose among them?
At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that peace
would revisit my mind only that I might afford them consolation
and happiness. But that could not be. Remorse
extinguished every hope. I had been the author of unalterable
evils; and I lived in daily fear, lest the monster whom
I had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I
had an obscure feeling that all was not over, and that he
would still commit some signal crime, which by its enormity
should almost efface the recollection of the past. There was
always scope for fear, so long as any thing I loved remained
behind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be conceived.
When I thought of him, I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became
inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which
I had so thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his
crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge burst all bounds
of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to the highest
peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have precipitated
him to their base. I wished to see him again, that I might
wreak the utmost extent of anger on his head, and avenge
the deaths of William and Justine.
Our house was the house of mourning. My father’s health
was deeply shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth
was sad and desponding; she no longer took delight in
her ordinary occupations; all pleasure seemed to her sacri
lege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears she then thought
was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so blasted
and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature, who
in earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake,
and talked with ecstacy of our future prospects. She had
become grave, and often conversed of the inconstancy of
fortune, and the instability of human life.
“When I reflect, my dear cousin,” said she, “on the miserable
death of Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and
its works as they before appeared to me. Before, I looked
upon the accounts of vice and injustice, that I read in books
or heard from others, as tales of ancient days, or imaginary
evils; at least they were remote, and more familiar to reason
than to the imagination; but now misery has come home,
and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other’s
blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Every body believed that
poor girl to be guilty; and if she could have committed the
crime for which she suffered, assuredly she would have been
the most depraved of human creatures. For the sake of a
few jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and
friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared
to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent
to the death of any human being; but certainly I should have
thought such a creature unfit to remain in the society of men.
Yet she was innocent. I know, I feel she was innocent; you
are of the same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas! Victor,
when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure
themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were walking
on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are
crowding, and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss.
William and Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes;
he walks about the world free, and perhaps respected.
But even if I were condemned to suffer on the scaffold for the
same crimes, I would not change places with such a wretch.”
I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not
in deed, but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read
my anguish in my countenance, and kindly taking my hand
said, “My dearest cousin, 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. Be calm, my dear Victor; I would
sacrifice my life to your peace. We surely shall be happy:
quiet in our native country, and not mingling in the world,
what can disturb our tranquillity?”
She shed tears as she said this, distrusting the very solace
that she gave; but at the same time she smiled, that she
might chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart. My father,
who saw in the unhappiness that was painted in my face
only an exaggeration of that sorrow which I might naturally
feel, thought that an amusement suited to my taste would
be the best means of restoring to me my wonted serenity.
It was from this cause that he had removed to the country;
and, induced by the same motive, he now proposed that we
should all make an excursion to the valley of Chamounix. I
had been there before, but Elizabeth and Ernest never had;
and both had often expressed an earnest desire to see the
scenery of this place, which had been described to them as
so wonderful and sublime. Accordingly we departed from
Geneva on this tour about the middle of the month of August,
nearly two months after the death of Justine.
The weather was uncommonly fine; and if mine had been
a sorrow to be chased away by any fleeting circumstance,
this excursion would certainly have had the effect intended by
my father. As it was, I was somewhat interested in the scene;
it sometimes lulled, although it could not extinguish my grief.
During the first day we travelled in a carriage. In the morning
we had seen the mountains at a distance, towards which we
gradually advanced. We perceived that the valley through
which we wound, and which was formed by the river Arve,
whose course we followed, closed in upon us by degrees;
and when the sun had set, we beheld immense mountains
and precipices overhanging us on every side, and heard the
sound of the river raging among rocks, and the dashing of
water-falls around.
The next day we pursued our journey upon mules; and
as we ascended still higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent
and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging
on the precipices of piny mountains; the impetuous Arve,
and cottages every here and there peeping forth from among
the trees, formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was
augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose
white and shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as
belonging to another earth, the habitations of another race
of beings.
We passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine,
which the river forms, opened before us, and we began
to ascend the mountain that overhangs it. Soon after we
entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley is more wonderful
and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as
that of Servox, through which we had just passed. The high
and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries; but
we saw no more ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense
glaciers approached the road; we heard the rumbling thunder
of the falling avalanche, and marked the smoke of its
passage. Mont Blânc, the supreme and magnificent Mont
Blânc, raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and its
tremendous dome overlooked the valley.
During this journey, I sometimes joined Elizabeth, and
exerted myself to point out to her the various beauties of
the scene. I often suffered my mule to lag behind, and
indulged in the misery of reflection. At other times I spurred
on the animal before my companions, that I might forget
them, the world, and, more than all, myself. When at a
distance, I alighted, and threw myself on the grass, weighed
down by horror and despair. At eight in the evening I arrived
at Chamounix. My father and Elizabeth were very much
fatigued; Ernest, who accompanied us, was delighted, and
in high spirits: the only circumstance that detracted from
his pleasure was the south wind, and the rain it seemed to
promise for the next day.
We retired early to our apartments, but not to sleep;
at least I did not. I remained many hours at the window,
watching the pallid lightning that played above Mont Blânc,
and listening to the rushing of the Arve, which ran below my
window.

THE next day, contrary to the prognostications of our guides,
was fine, although clouded. We visited the source of the
Arveiron, and rode about the valley until evening. These
sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest
consolation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated
me from all littleness of feeling; and although they did not
remove my grief, they subdued and tranquillized it. In some
degree, also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over
which it had brooded for the last month. I returned in the
evening, fatigued, but less unhappy, and conversed with my
family with more cheerfulness than had been my custom for
some time. My father was pleased, and Elizabeth overjoyed.
“My dear cousin,” said she, “you see what happiness you
diffuse when you are happy; do not relapse again!”
The following morning the rain poured down in torrents,
and thick mists hid the summits of the mountains. I rose
early, but felt unusually melancholy. The rain depressed me;
my old feelings recurred, and I was miserable. I knew how
disappointed my father would be at this sudden change, and
I wished to avoid him until I had recovered myself so far as to
be enabled to conceal those feelings that overpowered me.
I knew that they would remain that day at the inn; and as I
had ever inured myself to rain, moisture, and cold, I resolved
to go alone to the summit of Montanvert. I remembered
the effect that the view of the tremendous and ever-moving
glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It
had then filled me with a sublime ecstacy that gave wings
to the soul, and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to
light and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in nature
had indeed always the effect of solemnizing my mind, and
causing me to forget the passing cares of life. I determined
to go alone, for I was well acquainted with the path, and the
presence of another would destroy the solitary grandeur of
the scene.
The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual
and short windings, which enable you to surmount the
perpendicularity of the mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate.
In a thousand spots the traces of the winter avalanche
may be perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on
the ground; some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning
upon the jutting rocks of the mountain, or transversely upon
other trees. The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected
by ravines of snow, down which stones continually roll from
above; one of them is particularly dangerous, as the slightest
sound, such as even speaking in a loud voice, produces
a concussion of air sufficient to draw destruction upon the
head of the speaker. The pines are not tall or luxuriant, but
they are sombre, and add an air of severity to the scene. I
looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from
the rivers which ran through it, and curling in thick wreaths
around the opposite mountains, whose summits were hid in
the uniform clouds, while rain poured from the dark sky, and
added to the melancholy impression I received from the objects
around me. Alas! why does man boast of sensibilities
superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders them
more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to
hunger, thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now
we are moved by every wind that blows, and a chance word
or scene that that word may convey to us.
We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.
We rise; one wand’ring thought pollutes the day.
We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh, or weep,
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free.
Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but mutability!
It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent.
For some time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of
ice. A mist covered both that and the surrounding mountains.
Presently a breeze dissipated the cloud, and I descended
upon the glacier. The surface is very uneven, rising like the
waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and interspersed by
rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is almost a league in width,
but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The opposite
mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side where
I now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance
of a league; and above it rose Mont Blânc, 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 aërial
summits hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering
peaks shone in the sunlight over the clouds. My heart, which
was before sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I
exclaimed — “Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do
not rest in your narrow beds, allow me this faint happiness,
or take me, as your companion, away from the joys of life.”
As I said this, I suddenly beheld the figure of a man,
at some distance, advancing towards me with superhuman
speed. He bounded over the crevices in the ice, among
which I had walked with caution; his stature also, as he approached,
seemed to exceed that of man. I was troubled: a
mist came over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me; but
I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the mountains. I
perceived, as the shape came nearer, (sight tremendous and
abhorred!) that it was the wretch whom I had created. I trembled
with rage and horror, resolving to wait his approach, and
then close with him in mortal combat. He approached; his
countenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with disdain
and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost
too horrible for human eyes. But I scarcely observed this;
anger and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance, and I
recovered only to overwhelm him with words expressive of
furious detestation and contempt.
“Devil!” I exclaimed, “do you dare approach me? and
do not you fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on
your miserable head? Begone, vile insect! or rather stay,
that I may trample you to dust! and, oh, that I could, with the
extinction of your miserable existence, restore those victims
whom you have so diabolically murdered!”
“I expected this reception,” said the dæmon. “All men
hate the wretched; how then must I be hated, who am miserable
beyond all living things! Yet you, my creator, detest
and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties
only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. You purpose
to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty
towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of
mankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave
them and you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw
of death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining
friends.”
“Abhorred monster! fiend that thou art! the tortures of
hell are too mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil!
you reproach me with your creation; come on then, that I
may extinguish the spark which I so negligently bestowed.”
My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled
by all the feelings which can arm one being against the
existence of another.
He easily eluded me, and said,
“Be calm! I entreat you to hear me, before you give vent
to your hatred on my devoted head. Have I not suffered
enough, that you seek to increase my misery? Life, although
it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me,
and I will defend it. Remember, thou hast made me more
powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine; my
joints more supple. But I will not be tempted to set myself
in opposition to thee. I am thy creature, and I will be even
mild and docile to my natural lord and king, if thou wilt also
perform thy part, the which thou owest me. Oh, Frankenstein,
be not equitable to every other, and trample upon me alone,
to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection, is
most due. Remember, that I am thy creature: I ought to be
thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest
from joy for no misdeed. Every where I see bliss, from which
I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good;
misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again
be virtuous.”
“Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community
between you and me; we are enemies. Begone, or let us try
our strength in a fight, in which one must fall.”
“How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to
turn a favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy
goodness and compassion? Believe me, Frankenstein: I
was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity: but
am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor me;
what hope can I gather from your fellow-creatures, who owe
me nothing? they spurn and hate me. The desert mountains
and dreary glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here
many days; the caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are
a dwelling to me, and the only one which man does not
grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for they are kinder to me
than your fellow-beings. If the multitude of mankind knew of
my existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves
for my destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor
me? I will keep no terms with my enemies. I am miserable,
and they shall share my wretchedness. Yet it is in your power
to recompense me, and deliver them from an evil which it
only remains for you to make so great, that not only you
and your family, but thousands of others, shall be swallowed
up in the whirlwinds of its rage. Let your compassion be
moved, and do not disdain me. Listen to my tale: when
you have heard that, abandon or commiserate me, as you
shall judge that I deserve. But hear me. The guilty are
allowed, by human laws, bloody as they may be, to speak in
their own defence before they are condemned. Listen to me,
Frankenstein. You accuse me of murder; and yet you would,
with a satisfied conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh,
praise the eternal justice of man! Yet I ask you not to spare
me: listen to me; and then, if you can, and if you will, destroy
the work of your hands.”
“Why do you call to my remembrance circumstances of
which I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable
origin and author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in
which you first saw light! Cursed (although I curse myself)
be the hands that formed you! You have made me wretched
beyond expression. You have left me no power to consider
whether I am just to you, or not. Begone! relieve me from
the sight of your detested form.”
“Thus I relieve thee, my creator,” he said, and placed
his hated hands before my eyes, which I flung from me with
violence; “thus I take from thee a sight which you abhor. Still
thou canst listen to me, and grant me thy compassion. By
the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this from you.
Hear my tale; it is long and strange, and the temperature of
this place is not fitting to your fine sensations; come to the
hut upon the mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens;
before it descends to hide itself behind yon snowy precipices,
and illuminate another world, you will have heard my story,
and can decide. On you it rests, whether I quit for ever the
neighbourhood of man, and lead a harmless life, or become
the scourge of your fellow-creatures, and the author of your
own speedy ruin.”
As he said this, he led the way across the ice: I followed.
My heart was full, and I did not answer him; but, as I proceeded,
I weighed the various arguments that he had used,
and determined at least to listen to his tale. I was partly
urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my resolution.
I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of my brother,
and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this opinion.
For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator
towards his creature were, and that I ought to render him
happy before I complained of his wickedness. These motives
urged me to comply with his demand. We crossed the ice,
therefore, and ascended the opposite rock. The air was cold,
and the rain again began to descend: we entered the hut,
the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy heart, and
depressed spirits. But I consented to listen; and, seating
myself by the fire which my odious companion had lighted,
he thus began his tale.

“IT is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original
æra of my being: all the events of that period appear
confused and indistinct. A strange multiplicity of sensations
seized me, and I saw, felt, heard, and smelt, at the same time;
and it was, indeed, a long time before I learned to distinguish
between the operations of my various senses. By degrees, I
remember, a stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so that
I was obliged to shut my eyes. Darkness then came over me,
and troubled me; but hardly had I felt this, when, by opening
my eyes, as I now suppose, the light poured in upon me
again. I walked, and, I believe, descended; but I presently
found a great alteration in my sensations. Before, dark and
opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to my touch
or sight; but I now found that I could wander on at liberty,
with no obstacles which I could not either surmount or avoid.
The light became more and more oppressive to me; and,
the heat wearying me as I walked, I sought a place where
I could receive shade. This was the forest near Ingolstadt;
and here I lay by the side of a brook resting from my fatigue,
until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst. This roused me
from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries which
I found hanging on the trees, or lying on the ground. I slaked
my thirst at the brook; and then lying down, was overcome
by sleep.
“It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and halffrightened
as it were instinctively, finding myself so desolate.
Before I had quitted your apartment, on a sensation of cold,
I had covered myself with some clothes; but these were
insufficient to secure me from the dews of night. I was a poor,
helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could distinguish,
nothing; but, feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat down
and wept.
“Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens, and gave me
a sensation of pleasure. I started up, and beheld a radiant
form rise from among the trees. I gazed with a kind of wonder.
It moved slowly, but it enlightened my path; and I again went
out in search of berries. I was still cold, when under one of
the trees I found a huge cloak, with which I covered myself,
and sat down upon the ground. No distinct ideas occupied
my mind; all was confused. I felt light, and hunger, and thirst,
and darkness; innumerable sounds rung in my ears, and on
all sides various scents saluted me: the only object that I
could distinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes
on that with pleasure.
“Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb
of night had greatly lessened when I began to distinguish
my sensations from each other. I gradually saw plainly the
clear stream that supplied me with drink, and the trees that
shaded me with their foliage. I was delighted when I first discovered
that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my ears,
proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals who
had often intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also to
observe, with greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded
me, and to perceive the boundaries of the radiant roof of light
which canopied me. Sometimes I tried to imitate the pleasant
songs of the birds, but was unable. Sometimes I wished to
express my sensations in my own mode, but the uncouth
and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened me
into silence again.
“The moon had disappeared from the night, and again,
with a lessened form, shewed itself, while I still remained in
the forest. My sensations had, by this time, become distinct,
and my mind received every day additional ideas. My eyes
became accustomed to the light, and to perceive objects in
their right forms; I distinguished the insect from the herb, and,
by degrees, one herb from another. I found that the sparrow
uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those of the blackbird
and thrush were sweet and enticing.
“One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire
which had been left by some wandering beggars, and was
overcome with delight at the warmth I experienced from it.
In my joy I thrust my hand into the live embers, but quickly
drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought,
that the same cause should produce such opposite effects! I
examined the materials of the fire, and to my joy found it to
be composed of wood. I quickly collected some branches;
but they were wet, and would not burn. I was pained at
this, and sat still watching the operation of the fire. The
wet wood which I had placed near the heat dried, and itself
became inflamed. I reflected on this; and, by touching the
various branches, I discovered the cause, and busied myself
in collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it,
and have a plentiful supply of fire. When night came on,
and brought sleep with it, I was in the greatest fear lest my
fire should be extinguished. I covered it carefully with dry
wood and leaves, and placed wet branches upon it; and then,
spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground, and sunk into sleep.
“It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was
to visit the fire. I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly
fanned it into a flame. I observed this also, and contrived a
fan of branches, which roused the embers when they were
nearly extinguished. When night came again, I found, with
pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as heat; and that the
discovery of this element was useful to me in my food; for I
found some of the offals that the travellers had left had been
roasted, and tasted much more savoury than the berries I
gathered from the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress my food
in the same manner, placing it on the live embers. I found
that the berries were spoiled by this operation, and the nuts
and roots much improved.
“Food, however, became scarce; and I often spent the
whole day searching in vain for a few acorns to assuage the
pangs of hunger. When I found this, I resolved to quit the
place that I had hitherto inhabited, to seek for one where
the few wants I experienced would be more easily satisfied.
In this emigration, I exceedingly lamented the loss of the
fire which I had obtained through accident, and knew not
how to re-produce it. I gave several hours to the serious
consideration of this difficulty; but I was obliged to relinquish
all attempt to supply it; and, wrapping myself up in my cloak,
I struck across the wood towards the setting sun. I passed
three days in these rambles, and at length discovered the
open country. A great fall of snow had taken place the
night before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the
appearance was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by
the cold damp substance that covered the ground.
“It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain
food and shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising
ground, which had doubtless been built for the convenience
of some shepherd. This was a new sight to me; and I examined
the structure with great curiosity. Finding the door open,
I entered. An old man sat in it, near a fire, over which he
was preparing his breakfast. He turned on hearing a noise;
and, perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and, quitting the hut,
ran across the fields with a speed of which his debilitated
form hardly appeared capable. His appearance, different
from any I had ever before seen, and his flight, somewhat
surprised me. But I was enchanted by the appearance of the
hut: here the snow and rain could not penetrate; the ground
was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite and divine
a retreat as Pandæmonium appeared to the dæmons of hell
after their sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured
the remnants of the shepherd’s breakfast, which consisted
of bread, cheese, milk, and wine; the latter, however, I did
not like. Then overcome by fatigue, I lay down among some
straw, and fell asleep.
“It was noon when I awoke; and, allured by the warmth
of the sun, which shone brightly on the white ground, I determined
to recommence my travels; and, depositing the
remains of the peasant’s breakfast in a wallet I found, I proceeded
across the fields for several hours, until at sunset
I arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear! the
huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses, engaged my
admiration by turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk
and cheese that I saw placed at the windows of some of
the cottages, allured my appetite. One of the best of these
I entered; but I had hardly placed my foot within the door,
before the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted.
The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me,
until, grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of
missile weapons, I escaped to the open country, and fearfully
took refuge in a low hovel, quite bare, and making a
wretched appearance after the palaces I had beheld in the
village. This hovel, however, joined a cottage of a neat and
pleasant appearance; but, after my late dearly-bought experience,
I dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed
of wood, but so low, that I could with difficulty sit upright in it.
No wood, however, was placed on the earth, which formed
the floor, but it was dry; and although the wind entered it by
innumerable chinks, I found it an agreeable asylum from the
snow and rain.
“Here then I retreated, and lay down, happy to have
found a shelter, however miserable, from the inclemency of
the season, and still more from the barbarity of man.
“As soon as morning dawned, I crept from my kennel,
that I might view the adjacent cottage, and discover if I could
remain in the habitation I had found. It was situated against
the back of the cottage, and surrounded on the sides which
were exposed by a pig-stye and a clear pool of water. One
part was open, and by that I had crept in; but now I covered
every crevice by which I might be perceived with stones
and wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them on
occasion to pass out: all the light I enjoyed came through
the stye, and that was sufficient for me.
“Having thus arranged my dwelling, and carpeted it with
clean straw, I retired; for I saw the figure of a man at a
distance, and I remembered too well my treatment the night
before, to trust myself in his power. I had first, however,
provided for my sustenance for that day, by a loaf of coarse
bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink,
more conveniently than from my hand, of the pure water
which flowed by my retreat. The floor was a little raised, so
that it was kept perfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the chimney
of the cottage it was tolerably warm.
“Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel,
until something should occur which might alter my determination.
It was indeed a paradise, compared to the bleak forest,
my former residence, the rain-dropping branches, and dank
earth. I ate my breakfast with pleasure, and was about to
remove a plank to procure myself a little water, when I heard
a step, and, looking through a small chink, I beheld a young
creature, with a pail on her head, passing before my hovel.
The girl was young and of gentle demeanour, unlike what I
have since found cottagers and farm-house servants to be.
Yet she was meanly dressed, a coarse blue petticoat and a
linen jacket being her only garb; her fair hair was plaited, but
not adorned; she looked patient, yet sad. I lost sight of her;
and in about a quarter of an hour she returned, bearing the
pail, which was now partly filled with milk. As she walked
along, seemingly incommoded by the burden, a young man
met her, whose countenance expressed a deeper despondence.
Uttering a few sounds with an air of melancholy, he
took the pail from her head, and bore it to the cottage himself.
She followed, and they disappeared. Presently I saw the
young man again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field
behind the cottage; and the girl was also busied, sometimes
in the house, and sometimes in the yard.
“On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the windows
of the cottage had formerly occupied a part of it, but the
panes had been filled up with wood. In one of these was a
small and almost imperceptible chink, through which the eye
could just penetrate. Through this crevice, a small room was
visible, white-washed and clean, but very bare of furniture.
In one corner, near a small fire, sat an old man, leaning his
head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude. The young
girl was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently she
took something out of a drawer, which employed her hands,
and she sat down beside the old man, who, taking up an
instrument, began to play, and to produce sounds, sweeter
than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale. It was a lovely
sight, even to me, poor wretch! who had never beheld aught
beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent countenance
of the aged cottager, won my reverence; while the gentle
manners of the girl enticed my love. He played a sweet
mournful air, which I perceived drew tears from the eyes of
his amiable companion, of which the old man took no notice,
until she sobbed audibly; he then pronounced a few sounds,
and the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt at his feet. He
raised her, and smiled with such kindness and affection, that
I felt sensations of a peculiar and over-powering nature: they
were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never
before experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or
food; and I withdrew from the window, unable to bear these
emotions.
“Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his
shoulders a load of wood. The girl met him at the door,
helped to relieve him of his burden, and, taking some of the
fuel into the cottage, placed it on the fire; then she and the
youth went apart into a nook of the cottage, and he shewed
her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased;
and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which
she placed in water, and then upon the fire. She afterwards
continued her work, whilst the young man went into the
garden, and appeared busily employed in digging and pulling
up roots. After he had been employed thus about an hour,
the young woman joined him, and they entered the cottage
together.
“The old man had, in the mean time, been pensive; but,
on the appearance of his companions, he assumed a more
cheerful air, and they sat down to eat. The meal was quickly
dispatched. The young woman was again occupied in arranging
the cottage; the old man walked before the cottage
in the sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the
youth. Nothing could exceed in beauty the contrast between
these two excellent creatures. One was old, with silver hairs
and a countenance beaming with benevolence and love: the
younger was slight and graceful in his figure, and his features
were moulded with the finest symmetry; yet his eyes and attitude
expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The
old man returned to the cottage; and the youth, with tools
different from those he had used in the morning, directed his
steps across the fields.
“Night quickly shut in; but, to my extreme wonder, I found
that the cottagers had a means of prolonging light, by the
use of tapers, and was delighted to find, that the setting of
the sun did not put an end to the pleasure I experienced in
watching my human neighbours. In the evening, the young
girl and her companion were employed in various occupations
which I did not understand; and the old man again
took up the instrument, which produced the divine sounds
that had enchanted me in the morning. So soon as he had
finished, the youth began, not to play, but to utter sounds
that were monotonous, and neither resembling the harmony
of the old man’s instrument or the songs of the birds; I since
found that he read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of
the science of words or letters.
“The family, after having been thus occupied for a short
time, extinguished their lights, and retired, as I conjectured,
to rest.”

“I LAY on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the
occurrences of the day. What chiefly struck me was the
gentle manners of these people; and I longed to join them,
but dared not. I remembered too well the treatment I had
suffered the night before from the barbarous villagers, and
resolved, whatever course of conduct I might hereafter think
it right to pursue, that for the present I would remain quietly
in my hovel, watching, and endeavouring to discover the
motives which influenced their actions.
“The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun.
The young woman arranged the cottage, and prepared the
food; and the youth departed after the first meal.
“This day was passed in the same routine as that which
preceded it. The young man was constantly employed out
of doors, and the girl in various laborious occupations within.
The old man, whom I soon perceived to be blind, employed
his leisure hours on his instrument, or in contemplation. Nothing
could exceed the love and respect which the younger
cottagers exhibited towards their venerable companion. They
performed towards him every little office of affection and duty
with gentleness; and he rewarded them by his benevolent
smiles.
“They were not entirely happy. The young man and his
companion often went apart, and appeared to weep. I saw
no cause for their unhappiness; but I was deeply affected
by it. If such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less
strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being, should be
wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy? They
possessed a delightful house (for such it was in my eyes),
and every luxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill,
and delicious viands when hungry; they were dressed in
excellent clothes; and, still more, they enjoyed one another’s
company and speech, interchanging each day looks of affection
and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they
really express pain? I was at first unable to solve these
questions; but perpetual attention, and time, explained to me
many appearances which were at first enigmatic.
“A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one
of the causes of the uneasiness of this amiable family; it was
poverty: and they suffered that evil in a very distressing degree.
Their nourishment consisted entirely of the vegetables
of their garden, and the milk of one cow, who gave very little
during the winter, when its masters could scarcely procure
food to support it. They often, I believe, suffered the pangs of
hunger very poignantly, especially the two younger cottagers;
for several times they placed food before the old man, when
they reserved none for themselves.
“This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been
accustomed, during the night, to steal a part of their store
for my own consumption; but when I found that in doing this
I inflicted pain on the cottagers, I abstained, and satisfied
myself with berries, nuts, and roots, which I gathered from a
neighbouring wood.
“I discovered also another means through which I was
enabled to assist their labours. I found that the youth spent
a great part of each day in collecting wood for the family fire;
and, during the night, I often took his tools, the use of which
I quickly discovered, and brought home firing sufficient for
the consumption of several days.
“I remember, the first time that I did this, the young
woman, when she opened the door in the morning, appeared
greatly astonished on seeing a great pile of wood on the outside.
She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth
joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with
pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but spent it
in repairing the cottage, and cultivating the garden.
“By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I
found that these people possessed a method of communicating
their experience and feelings to one another by articulate
sounds. I perceived that the words they spoke sometimes
produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in the minds
and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike
science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with
it. But I was baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose.
Their pronunciation was quick; and the words they uttered,
not having any apparent connexion with visible objects, I was
unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the mystery
of their reference. By great application, however, and
after having remained during the space of several revolutions
of the moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that were
given to some of the most familiar objects of discourse: I
learned and applied the words fire, milk, bread, and wood.
I learned also the names of the cottagers themselves. The
youth and his companion had each of them several names,
but the old man had only one, which was father. The girl
was called sister, or Agatha; and the youth Felix, brother, or
son. I cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the
ideas appropriated to each of these sounds, and was able to
pronounce them. I distinguished several other words, without
being able as yet to understand or apply them; such as good,
dearest, unhappy.
“I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners
and beauty of the cottagers greatly endeared them to me:
when they were unhappy, I felt depressed; when they rejoiced,
I sympathized in their joys. I saw few human beings
beside them; and if any other happened to enter the cottage,
their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the
superior accomplishments of my friends. The old man, I
could perceive, often endeavoured to encourage his children,
as sometimes I found that he called them, to cast off their
melancholy. He would talk in a cheerful accent, with an expression
of goodness that bestowed pleasure even upon me.
Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled with
tears, which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived;
but I generally found that her countenance and tone were
more cheerful after having listened to the exhortations of her
father. It was not thus with Felix. He was always the saddest
of the groupe; and, even to my unpractised senses, he appeared
to have suffered more deeply than his friends. But
if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more
cheerful than that of his sister, especially when he addressed
the old man.
“I could mention innumerable instances, which, although
slight, marked the dispositions of these amiable cottagers.
In the midst of poverty and want, Felix carried with pleasure
to his sister the first little white flower that peeped out from
beneath the snowy ground. Early in the morning before
she had risen, he cleared away the snow that obstructed
her path to the milk-house, drew water from the well, and
brought the wood from the out-house, where, to his perpetual
astonishment, he found his store always replenished by an
invisible hand. In the day, I believe, he worked sometimes for
a neighbouring farmer, because he often went forth, and did
not return until dinner, yet brought no wood with him. At other
times he worked in the garden; but, as there was little to do
in the frosty season, he read to the old man and Agatha.
“This reading had puzzled me extremely at first; but, by
degrees, I discovered that he uttered many of the same
sounds when he read as when he talked. I conjectured,
therefore, that he found on the paper signs for speech which
he understood, and I ardently longed to comprehend these
also; but how was that possible, when I did not even understand
the sounds for which they stood as signs? I improved,
however, sensibly in this science, but not sufficiently to follow
up any kind of conversation, although I applied my whole
mind to the endeavour: for I easily perceived that, although I
eagerly longed to discover myself to the cottagers, I ought
not to make the attempt until I had first become master of
their language; which knowledge might enable me to make
them overlook the deformity of my figure; for with this also
the contrast perpetually presented to my eyes had made me
acquainted.
“I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers — their
grace, beauty, and delicate complexions: but how was I
terrified, when I viewed myself in a transparent pool! At first I
started back, unable to believe that it was indeed I who was
reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully convinced
that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with the
bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification. Alas!
I did not yet entirely know the fatal effects of this miserable
deformity.
“As the sun became warmer, and the light of day longer,
the snow vanished, and I beheld the bare trees and the black
earth. From this time Felix was more employed; and the
heart-moving indications of impending famine disappeared.
Their food, as I afterwards found, was coarse, but it was
wholesome; and they procured a sufficiency of it. Several
new kinds of plants sprung up in the garden, which they
dressed; and these signs of comfort increased daily as the
season advanced.
“The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at
noon, when it did not rain, as I found it was called when the
heavens poured forth its waters. This frequently took place;
but a high wind quickly dried the earth, and the season
became far more pleasant than it had been.
“My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the
morning I attended the motions of the cottagers; and when
they were dispersed in various occupations, I slept: the
remainder of the day was spent in observing my friends.
When they had retired to rest, if there was any moon, or
the night was star-light, I went into the woods, and collected
my own food and fuel for the cottage. When I returned,
as often as it was necessary, I cleared their path from the
snow, and performed those offices that I had seen done by
Felix. I afterwards found that these labours, performed by an
invisible hand, greatly astonished them; and once or twice I
heard them, on these occasions, utter the words good spirit,
wonderful; but I did not then understand the signification of
these terms.
“My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to
discover the motives and feelings of these lovely creatures;
I was inquisitive to know why Felix appeared so miserable,
and Agatha so sad. I thought (foolish wretch!) that it might be
in my power to restore happiness to these deserving people.
When I slept, or was absent, the forms of the venerable
blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the excellent Felix, flitted
before me. I looked upon them as superior beings, who
would be the arbiters of my future destiny. I formed in my
imagination a thousand pictures of presenting myself to them,
and their reception of me. I imagined that they would be
disgusted, until, by my gentle demeanour and conciliating
words, I should first win their favour, and afterwards their
love.
“These thoughts exhilarated me, and led me to apply with
fresh ardour to the acquiring the art of language. My organs
were indeed harsh, but supple; and although my voice was
very unlike the soft music of their tones, yet I pronounced
such words as I understood with tolerable ease. It was as
the ass and the lap-dog; yet surely the gentle ass, whose
intentions were affectionate, although his manners were rude,
deserved better treatment than blows and execration.
“The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly
altered the aspect of the earth. Men, who before this
change seemed to have been hid in caves, dispersed themselves,
and were employed in various arts of cultivation. The
birds sang in more cheerful notes, and the leaves began to
bud forth on the trees. Happy, happy earth! fit habitation for
gods, which, so short a time before, was bleak, damp, and
unwholesome. My spirits were elevated by the enchanting
appearance of nature; the past was blotted from my memory,
the present was tranquil, and the future gilded by bright rays
of hope, and anticipations of joy.”

“I NOW hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall
relate events that impressed me with feelings which, from
what I was, have made me what I am.
“Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine, and
the skies cloudless. It surprised me, that what before was
desert and gloomy should now bloom with the most beautiful
flowers and verdure. My senses were gratified and refreshed
by a thousand scents of delight, and a thousand sights of
beauty.
“It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically
rested from labour — the old man played on his
guitar, and the children listened to him — I observed that the
countenance of Felix was melancholy beyond expression: he
sighed frequently; and once his father paused in his music,
and I conjectured by his manner that he inquired the cause
of his son’s sorrow. Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and
the old man was recommencing his music, when some one
tapped at the door.
“It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a countryman
as a guide. The lady was dressed in a dark suit, and
covered with a thick black veil. Agatha asked a question; to
which the stranger only replied by pronouncing, in a sweet
accent, the name of Felix. Her voice was musical, but unlike
that of either of my friends. On hearing this word, Felix came
up hastily to the lady; who, when she saw him, threw up
her veil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and
expression. Her hair of a shining raven black, and curiously
braided; her eyes were dark, but gentle, although animated;
her features of a regular proportion, and her complexion
wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with a lovely pink.
“Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her,
every trait of sorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly
expressed a degree of ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly
have believed it capable; his eyes sparkled, as his cheek
flushed with pleasure; and at that moment I thought him as
beautiful as the stranger. She appeared affected by different
feelings; wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she held
out her hand to Felix, who kissed it rapturously, and called
her, as well as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian. She
did not appear to understand him, but smiled. He assisted
her to dismount, and, dismissing her guide, conducted her
into the cottage. Some conversation took place between him
and his father; and the young stranger knelt at the old man’s
feet, and would have kissed his hand, but he raised her, and
embraced her affectionately.
“I soon perceived, that although the stranger uttered articulate
sounds, and appeared to have a language of her own,
she was neither understood by, or herself understood, the cottagers.
They made many signs which I did not comprehend;
but I saw that her presence diffused gladness through the cottage,
dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the morning
mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy, and with smiles
of delight welcomed his Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle
Agatha, kissed the hands of the lovely stranger; and, pointing
to her brother, made signs which appeared to me to mean
that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some hours
passed thus, while they, by their countenances, expressed
joy, the cause of which I did not comprehend. Presently I
found, by the frequent recurrence of one sound which the
stranger repeated after them, that she was endeavouring to
learn their language; and the idea instantly occurred to me,
that I should make use of the same instructions to the same
end. The stranger learned about twenty words at the first
lesson, most of them indeed were those which I had before
understood, but I profited by the others.
“As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early.
When they separated, Felix kissed the hand of the stranger,
and said, ‘Good night, sweet Safie.’ He sat up much longer,
conversing with his father; and, by the frequent repetition
of her name, I conjectured that their lovely guest was the
subject of their conversation. I ardently desired to understand
them, and bent every faculty towards that purpose, but found
it utterly impossible.
“The next morning Felix went out to his work; and, after
the usual occupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian
sat at the feet of the old man, and, taking his guitar, played
some airs so entrancingly beautiful, that they at once drew
tears of sorrow and delight from my eyes. She sang, and her
voice flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or dying away, like a
nightingale of the woods.
“When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha,
who at first declined it. She played a simple air, and her voice
accompanied it in sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous
strain of the stranger. The old man appeared enraptured,
and said some words, which Agatha endeavoured to explain
to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to express that
she bestowed on him the greatest delight by her music.
“The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the
sole alteration, that joy had taken place of sadness in the
countenances of my friends. Safie was always gay and
happy; she and I improved rapidly in the knowledge of language,
so that in two months I began to comprehend most
of the words uttered by my protectors.
“In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with
herbage, and the green banks interspersed with innumerable
flowers, sweet to the scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance
among the moonlight woods; the sun became warmer,
the nights clear and balmy; and my nocturnal rambles were
an extreme pleasure to me, although they were considerably
shortened by the late setting and early rising of the sun; for
I never ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting
with the same treatment as I had formerly endured in the first
village which I entered.
“My days were spent in close attention, that I might
more speedily master the language; and I may boast that
I improved more rapidly than the Arabian, who understood
very little, and conversed in broken accents, whilst I comprehended
and could imitate almost every word that was
spoken.
“While I improved in speech, I also learned the science
of letters, as it was taught to the stranger; and this opened
before me a wide field for wonder and delight.
“The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney’s
Ruins of Empires. I should not have understood the purport
of this book, had not Felix, in reading it, given very minute
explanations. He had chosen this work, he said, because
the declamatory style was framed in imitation of the eastern
authors. Through this work I obtained a cursory knowledge
of history, and a view of the several empires at present
existing in the world; it gave me an insight into the manners,
governments, and religions of the different nations of the
earth. I heard of the slothful Asiatics; of the stupendous
genius and mental activity of the Grecians; of the wars and
wonderful virtue of the early Romans — of their subsequent
degeneration — of the decline of that mighty empire; of
chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery
of the American hemisphere, and wept with Safie over the
hapless fate of its original inhabitants.
“These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange
feelings. Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous,
and magnificent, yet so vicious and base? He appeared at
one time a mere scion of the evil principle, and at another
as all that can be conceived of noble and godlike. To be a
great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour that
can befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many
on record have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a
condition more abject than that of the blind mole or harmless
worm. For a long time I could not conceive how one man
could go forth to murder his fellow, or even why there were
laws and governments; but when I heard details of vice
and bloodshed, my wonder ceased, and I turned away with
disgust and loathing.
“Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new
wonders to me. While I listened to the instructions which
Felix bestowed upon the Arabian, the strange system of
human society was explained to me. I heard of the division
of property, of immense wealth and squalid poverty; of rank,
descent, and noble blood.
“The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned
that the possessions most esteemed by your fellow-creatures
were, high and unsullied descent united with riches. A man
might be respected with only one of these acquisitions; but
without either he was considered, except in very rare instances,
as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his
powers for the profit of the chosen few. And what was I?
Of my creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant; but
I knew that I possessed no money, no friends, no kind of
property. I was, besides, endowed with a figure hideously
deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same nature
as man. I was more agile than they, and could subsist upon
coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less
injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded their’s. When I
looked around, I saw and heard of none like me. Was I then
a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled,
and whom all men disowned?
“I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections
inflicted upon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only
increased with knowledge. Oh, that I had for ever remained
in my native wood, nor known or felt beyond the sensations
of hunger, thirst, and heat!
“Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the
mind, when it has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock.
I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling; but I
learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation
of pain, and that was death — a state which I feared
yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good feelings,
and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my
cottagers; but I was shut out from intercourse with them,
except through means which I obtained by stealth, when I
was unseen and unknown, and which rather increased than
satisfied the desire I had of becoming one among my fellows.
The gentle words of Agatha, and the animated smiles of the
charming Arabian, were not for me. The mild exhortations
of the old man, and the lively conversation of the loved Felix,
were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!
“Other lessons were impressed upon me even more
deeply. I heard of the difference of sexes; of the birth and
growth of children; how the father doated on the smiles of
the infant, and the lively sallies of the older child; how all
the life and cares of the mother were wrapt up in the precious
charge; how the mind of youth expanded and gained
knowledge; of brother, sister, and all the various relationships
which bind one human being to another in mutual bonds.
“But where were my friends and relations? No father had
watched my infant days, no mother had blessed me with
smiles and caresses; or if they had, all my past life was now
a blot, a blind vacancy in which I distinguished nothing. From
my earliest remembrance I had been as I then was in height
and proportion. I had never yet seen a being resembling me,
or who claimed any intercourse with me. What was I? The
question again recurred, to be answered only with groans.
“I will soon explain to what these feelings tended; but
allow me now to return to the cottagers, whose story excited
in me such various feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder,
but which all terminated in additional love and reverence
for my protectors (for so I loved, in an innocent, half painful
self-deceit, to call them).”

“SOME time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends.
It was one which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my
mind, unfolding as it did a number of circumstances each
interesting and wonderful to one so utterly inexperienced as
I was.
“The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descended
from a good family in France, where he had lived
for many years in affluence, respected by his superiors, and
beloved by his equals. His son was bred in the service of his
country; and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the highest
distinction. A few months before my arrival, they had lived in
a large and luxurious city, called Paris, surrounded by friends,
and possessed of every enjoyment which virtue, refinement
of intellect, or taste, accompanied by a moderate fortune,
could afford.
“The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin.
He was a Turkish merchant, and had inhabited Paris for
many years, when, for some reason which I could not learn,
he became obnoxious to the government. He was seized
and cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from
Constantinople to join him. He was tried, and condemned
to death. The injustice of his sentence was very flagrant; all
Paris was indignant; and it was judged that his religion and
wealth, rather than the crime alleged against him, had been
the cause of his condemnation.
“Felix had been present at the trial; his horror and indignation
were uncontrollable, when he heard the decision of
the court. He made, at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver
him, and then looked around for the means. After many fruitless
attempts to gain admittance to the prison, he found a
strongly grated window in an unguarded part of the building,
which lighted the dungeon of the unfortunate Mahometan;
who, loaded with chains, waited in despair the execution
of the barbarous sentence. Felix visited the grate at night,
and made known to the prisoner his intentions in his favour.
The Turk, amazed and delighted, endeavoured to kindle the
zeal of his deliverer by promises of reward and wealth. Felix
rejected his offers with contempt; yet when he saw the lovely
Safie, who was allowed to visit her father, and who, by her
gestures, expressed her lively gratitude, the youth could not
help owning to his own mind, that the captive possessed a
treasure which would fully reward his toil and hazard.
“The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter
had made on the heart of Felix, and endeavoured to secure
him more entirely in his interests by the promise of her
hand in marriage, so soon as he should be conveyed to a
place of safety. Felix was too delicate to accept this offer; yet
he looked forward to the probability of that event as to the
consummation of his happiness.
“During the ensuing days, while the preparations were
going forward for the escape of the merchant, the zeal of
Felix was warmed by several letters that he received from
this lovely girl, who found means to express her thoughts in
the language of her lover by the aid of an old man, a servant
of her father’s, who understood French. She thanked him in
the most ardent terms for his intended services towards her
father; and at the same time she gently deplored her own
fate.
“I have copies of these letters; for I found means, during
my residence in the hovel, to procure the implements of
writing; and the letters were often in the hands of Felix or
Agatha. Before I depart, I will give them to you, they will prove
the truth of my tale; but at present, as the sun is already far
declined, I shall only have time to repeat the substance of
them to you.
“Safie related, that her mother was a Christian Arab,
seized and made a slave by the Turks; recommended by her
beauty, she had won the heart of the father of Safie, who
married her. The young girl spoke in high and enthusiastic
terms of her mother, who, born in freedom spurned the
bondage to which she was now reduced. She instructed her
daughter in the tenets of her religion, and taught her to aspire
to higher powers of intellect, and an independence of spirit,
forbidden to the female followers of Mahomet. 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
the being immured within the walls of a haram, allowed only
to occupy herself with puerile amusements, ill suited to the
temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas and
a noble emulation for virtue. The prospect of marrying a
Christian, and remaining in a country where women were
allowed to take a rank in society, was enchanting to her.
“The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed; but, on
the night previous to it, he had quitted prison, and before
morning was distant many leagues from Paris. Felix had
procured passports in the name of his father, sister, and
himself. He had previously communicated his plan to the
former, who aided the deceit by quitting his house, under
the pretence of a journey, and concealed himself, with his
daughter, in an obscure part of Paris.
“Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons,
and across Mont Cenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had
decided to wait a favourable opportunity of passing into some
part of the Turkish dominions.
“Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment
of his departure, before which time the Turk renewed his
promise that she should be united to his deliverer; and Felix
remained with them in expectation of that event; and in
the mean time he enjoyed the society of the Arabian, who
exhibited towards him the simplest and tenderest affection.
They conversed with one another through the means of an
interpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation of looks;
and Safie sang to him the divine airs of her native country.
“The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place, and encouraged
the hopes of the youthful lovers, while in his heart
he had formed far other plans. He loathed the idea that
his daughter should be united to a Christian; but he feared
the resentment of Felix if he should appear lukewarm; for
he knew that he was still in the power of his deliverer, if he
should choose to betray him to the Italian state which they
inhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which he should
be enabled to prolong the deceit until it might be no longer
necessary, and secretly to take his daughter with him when
he departed. His plans were greatly facilitated by the news
which arrived from Paris.
“The government of France were greatly enraged at the
escape of their victim, and spared no pains to detect and
punish his deliverer. The plot of Felix was quickly discovered,
and De Lacey and Agatha were thrown into prison. The news
reached Felix, and roused him from his dream of pleasure.
His blind and aged father, and his gentle sister, lay in a
noisome dungeon, while he enjoyed the free air, and the
society of her whom he loved. This idea was torture to him.
He quickly arranged with the Turk, that if the latter should find
a favourable opportunity for escape before Felix could return
to Italy, Safie should remain as a boarder at a convent at
Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian, he hastened
to Paris, and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the
law, hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.
“He did not succeed. They remained confined for five
months before the trial took place; the result of which deprived
them of their fortune, and condemned them to a perpetual
exile from their native country.
“They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany,
where I discovered them. Felix soon learned that the
treacherous Turk, for whom he and his family endured such
unheard-of oppression, on discovering that his deliverer was
thus reduced to poverty and impotence, became a traitor
to good feeling and honour, and had quitted Italy with his
daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money to aid
him, as he said, in some plan of future maintenance.
“Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix,
and rendered him, when I first saw him, the most miserable
of his family. He could have endured poverty, and when this
distress had been the meed of his virtue, he would have
gloried in it: but the ingratitude of the Turk, and the loss of his
beloved Safie, were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable.
The arrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his soul.
“When the news reached Leghorn, that Felix was deprived
of his wealth and rank, the merchant commanded
his daughter to think no more of her lover, but to prepare to
return with him to her native country. The generous nature
of Safie was outraged by this command; she attempted to
expostulate with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating
his tyrannical mandate.
“A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter’s apartment,
and told her hastily, that he had reason to believe that
his residence at Leghorn had been divulged, and that he
should speedily be delivered up to the French government;
he had, consequently, hired a vessel to convey him to Constantinople,
for which city he should sail in a few hours. He
intended to leave his daughter under the care of a confidential
servant, to follow at her leisure with the greater part of
his property, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn.
“When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan
of conduct that it would become her to pursue in this emergency.
A residence in Turkey was abhorrent to her; her
religion and feelings were alike adverse to it. By some papers
of her father’s, which fell into her hands, she heard of
the exile of her lover, and learnt the name of the spot where
he then resided. She hesitated some time, but at length she
formed her determination. Taking with her some jewels that
belonged to her, and a small sum of money, she quitted Italy,
with an attendant, a native of Leghorn, but who understood
the common language of Turkey, and departed for Germany.
“She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from
the cottage of De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously
ill. Safie nursed her with the most devoted affection; but the
poor girl died, and the Arabian was left alone, unacquainted
with the language of the country, and utterly ignorant of the
customs of the world. She fell, however, into good hands.
The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for which
they were bound; and, after her death, the woman of the
house in which they had lived took care that Safie should
arrive in safety at the cottage of her lover.”

“SUCH was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed
me deeply. I learned, from the views of social life which it
developed, to admire their virtues, and to deprecate the vices
of mankind.
“As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil; benevolence
and generosity were ever present before me, inciting
within me a desire to become an actor in the busy scene
where so many admirable qualities were called forth and
displayed. But, in giving an account of the progress of my
intellect, I must not omit a circumstance which occurred in
the beginning of the month of August of the same year.
“One night, during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring
wood, where I collected my own food, and brought home
firing for my protectors, I found on the ground a leathern
portmanteau, containing several articles of dress and some
books. I eagerly seized the prize, and returned with it to my
hovel. Fortunately the books were written in the language
the elements of which I had acquired at the cottage; they
consisted of Paradise Lost, a volume of Plutarch’s Lives, and
the Sorrows of Werter. The possession of these treasures
gave me extreme delight; I now continually studied and exercised
my mind upon these histories, whilst my friends were
employed in their ordinary occupations.
“I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books.
They produced in me an infinity of new images and feelings,
that sometimes raised me to ecstacy, but more frequently
sunk me into the lowest dejection. In the Sorrows of Werter,
besides the interest of its simple and affecting story, so many
opinions are canvassed, and so many lights thrown upon
what had hitherto been to me obscure subjects, that I found
in it a never-ending source of speculation and astonishment.
The gentle and domestic manners it described, combined
with lofty sentiments and feelings, which had for their object
something out of self, accorded well with my experience
among my protectors, and with the wants which were for
ever alive in my own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a
more divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his
character contained no pretension, but it sunk 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 the beings concerning whom I read,
and to whose conversation I was a listener. I sympathized
with, and partly understood them, but I was unformed in
mind; I was dependent on none, and related to none. ‘The
path of my departure was free;’ and there was none to lament
my annihilation. My person was hideous, and my stature
gigantic: what did this mean? Who was I? What was I?
Whence did I come? What was my destination? These
questions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve
them.
“The volume of Plutarch’s Lives which I possessed, contained
the histories of the first founders of the ancient re
publics. This book had a far different effect upon me from the
Sorrows of Werter. I learned from Werter’s imaginations despondency
and gloom: but Plutarch taught me high thoughts;
he elevated me above the wretched sphere of my own reflections,
to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many
things I read surpassed my understanding and experience. I
had a very confused knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents
of country, mighty rivers, and boundless seas. But I was
perfectly unacquainted with towns, and large assemblages
of men. The cottage of my protectors had been the only
school in which I had studied human nature; but this book
developed new and mightier scenes of action. I read of men
concerned in public affairs governing or massacring their
species. I felt the greatest ardour for virtue rise within me,
and abhorrence for vice, as far as I understood the signification
of those terms, relative as they were, as I applied
them, to pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these feelings,
I was of course led to admire peaceable law-givers, Numa,
Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus and Theseus.
The patriarchal lives of my protectors caused these impressions
to take a firm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my first
introduction to humanity had been made by a young soldier,
burning for glory and slaughter, I should have been imbued
with different sensations.
“But Paradise Lost excited different and far deeper emotions.
I read it, as I had read the other volumes which had
fallen into my hands, as a true history. It moved every feeling
of wonder and awe, that the picture of an omnipotent God
warring with his creatures was capable of exciting. I often
referred the several situations, as their similarity struck me,
to my own. Like Adam, I was created apparently united by
no link to any other being in existence; but his state was far
different from mine in every other respect. He had come
forth from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and
prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his Creator; he
was allowed to converse with, and acquire knowledge from
beings of a superior nature: but I was wretched, helpless,
and alone. Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem
of my condition; for often, like him, when I viewed the
bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me.
“Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these
feelings. Soon after my arrival in the hovel, I discovered
some papers in the pocket of the dress which I had taken
from your laboratory. At first I had neglected them; but now
that I was able to decypher the characters in which they
were written, I began to study them with diligence. It was
your journal of the four months that preceded my creation.
You minutely described in these papers every step you took
in the progress of your work; this history was mingled with
accounts of domestic occurrences. You, doubtless, recollect
these papers. Here they are. Every thing 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 ineffaceable. I sickened
as I read. ‘Hateful day when I received life!’ I exclaimed
in agony. ‘Cursed creator! Why did you form a monster so
hideous that even you turned from me in disgust? God in
pity made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image;
but my form is a filthy type of your’s, more horrid from its very
resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow-devils, to
admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and detested.’
“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 per
suaded myself that when they should become acquainted
with my admiration of their virtues, they would compassionate
me, and overlook my personal deformity. Could they
turn from their door one, however monstrous, who solicited
their compassion and friendship? I resolved, at least, not to
despair, but in every way to fit myself for an interview with
them which would decide my fate. I postponed this attempt
for some months longer; for the importance attached to its
success inspired me with a dread lest I should fail. Besides,
I found that my understanding improved so much with every
day’s experience, that I was unwilling to commence this undertaking
until a few more months should have added to my
wisdom.
“Several changes, in the mean time, took place in the
cottage. The presence of Safie diffused happiness among
its inhabitants; and I also found that a greater degree of
plenty reigned there. Felix and Agatha spent more time in
amusement and conversation, and were assisted in their
labours by servants. They did not appear rich, but they
were contented and happy; their feelings were serene and
peaceful, while mine became every day more tumultuous.
Increase of knowledge only discovered to me more clearly
what a wretched outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is true;
but it vanished, when I beheld my person reflected in water,
or my shadow in the moon-shine, even as that frail image
and that inconstant shade.
“I endeavoured to crush these fears, and to fortify myself
for the trial which in a few months I resolved to undergo;
and sometimes I allowed my thoughts, unchecked by reason,
to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and dared to fancy
amiable and lovely creatures sympathizing with my feelings
and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed
smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream: no Eve soothed
my sorrows, or shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered
Adam’s supplication to his Creator; but where was
mine? he had abandoned me, and, in the bitterness of my
heart, I cursed him.
“Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the
leaves decay and fall, and nature again assume the barren
and bleak appearance it had worn when I first beheld the
woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness
of the weather; I was better fitted by my conformation for
the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief delights were
the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay apparel
of summer; when those deserted me, I turned with more
attention towards the cottagers. Their happiness was not
decreased by the absence of summer. They loved, and
sympathized with one another; and their joys, depending on
each other, were not interrupted by the casualties that took
place around them. The more I saw of them, the greater
became my desire to claim their protection and kindness;
my heart yearned to be known and loved by these amiable
creatures: to see their sweet looks turned towards me with
affection, was the utmost limit of my ambition. I dared not
think that they would turn them from me with disdain and
horror. The poor that stopped at their door were never driven
away. I asked, it is true, for greater treasures than a little
food or rest; I required kindness and sympathy; but I did not
believe myself utterly unworthy of it.
“The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the
seasons had taken place since I awoke into life. My attention,
at this time, was solely directed towards my plan of introducing
myself into the cottage of my protectors. I revolved
many projects; but that on which I finally fixed was, to enter
the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had
sagacity enough to discover, that the unnatural hideousness
of my person was the chief object of horror with those who
had formerly beheld me. My voice, although harsh, had nothing
terrible in it; I thought, therefore, that if, in the absence
of his children, I could gain the good-will and mediation of
the old De Lacy, I might, by his means, be tolerated by my
younger protectors.
“One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that
strewed the ground, and diffused cheerfulness, although it
denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix, departed on a long
country walk, and the old man, at his own desire, was left
alone in the cottage. When his children had departed, he
took up his guitar, and played several mournful, but sweet
airs, more sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him
play before. At first his countenance was illuminated with
pleasure, but, as he continued, thoughtfulness and sadness
succeeded; at length, laying aside the instrument, he sat
absorbed in reflection.
“My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of
trial, which would decide my hopes, or realize my fears. The
servants were gone to a neighbouring fair. All was silent
in and around the cottage: it was an excellent opportunity;
yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my limbs failed
me, and I sunk to the ground. Again I rose; and, exerting
all the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks
which I had placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat.
The fresh air revived me, and, with renewed determination, I
approached the door of their cottage.
“I knocked. ‘Who is there?’ said the old man — ‘Come
in.’
“I entered; ‘Pardon this intrusion,’ said I, ‘I am a traveller
in want of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me, if you
would allow me to remain a few minutes before the fire.’
“ ‘Enter,’ said De Lacy; ‘and I will try in what manner I can
relieve your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are from
home, and, as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult to
procure food for you.’
“ ‘Do not trouble yourself, my kind host, I have food; it is
warmth and rest only that I need.’
“I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every
minute was precious to me, yet I remained irresolute in what
manner to commence the interview; when the old man addressed
me —
“ ‘By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman;
— are you French?’
“ ‘No; but I was educated by a French family, and understand
that language only. I am now going to claim the
protection of some friends, whom I sincerely love, and of
whose favour I have some hopes.’
“ ‘Are these Germans?’
“ ‘No, they are French. But let us change the subject.
I am an unfortunate and deserted creature; I look around,
and I have no relation or friend upon earth. These amiable
people to whom I go have never seen me, and know little of
me. I am full of fears; for if I fail there, I am an outcast in the
world for ever.’
“ ‘Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate;
but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any
obvious self-interest, are full of brotherly love and charity.
Rely, therefore, on your hopes; and if these friends are good
and amiable, do not despair.’
“ ‘They are kind—they are the most excellent creatures in
the world; but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me.
I have good dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless,
and, in some degree, beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds
their eyes, and where they ought to see a feeling and kind
friend, they behold only a detestable monster.’
“ ‘That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless,
cannot you undeceive them?’
“ ‘I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that
account that I feel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly
love these friends; I have, unknown to them, been for many
months in the habits of daily kindness towards them; but
they believe that I wish to injure them, and it is that prejudice
which I wish to overcome.’
“ ‘Where do these friends reside?’
“ ‘Near this spot.’
“The old man paused, and then continued, ‘If you will
unreservedly confide to me the particulars of your tale, I
perhaps may be of use in undeceiving them. I am blind, and
cannot judge of your countenance, but there is something in
your words which persuades me that you are sincere. I am
poor, and an exile; but it will afford me true pleasure to be in
any way serviceable to a human creature.’
“ ‘Excellent man! I thank you, and accept your generous
offer. You raise me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust
that, by your aid, I shall not be driven from the society and
sympathy of your fellow-creatures.’
“ ‘Heaven forbid! even if you were really criminal; for that
can only drive you to desperation, and not instigate you to
virtue. I also am unfortunate; I and my family have been
condemned, although innocent: judge, therefore, if I do not
feel for your misfortunes.’
“ ‘How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor?
from your lips first have I heard the voice of kindness directed
towards me; I shall be for ever grateful; and your present
humanity assures me of success with those friends whom I
am on the point of meeting.’
“ ‘May I know the names and residence of those friends?’
“I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision,
which was to rob me of, or bestow happiness on me for ever.
I struggled vainly for firmness sufficient to answer him, but
the effort destroyed all my remaining strength; I sank on the
chair, and sobbed aloud. At that moment I heard the steps
of my younger protectors. I had not a moment to lose; but,
seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, ‘Now is the time!
— save and protect me! You and your family are the friends
whom I seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!’
“ ‘Great God!’ exclaimed the old man, ‘who are you?’
“At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix,
Safie, and Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror
and consternation on beholding me? Agatha fainted; and
Safie, unable to attend to her friend, rushed out of the cottage.
Felix darted forward, and with supernatural force tore me
from his father, to whose knees I clung: in a transport of fury,
he dashed me to the ground, and struck me violently with a
stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends
the antelope. But my heart sunk within me as with bitter
sickness, and I refrained. I saw him on the point of repeating
his blow, when, overcome by pain and anguish, I quitted the
cottage, and in the general tumult escaped unperceived to
my hovel.”

“CURSED, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant,
did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you had
so wantonly bestowed? I know not; despair had not yet
taken possession of me; my feelings were those of rage and
revenge. I could with pleasure have destroyed the cottage
and its inhabitants, and have glutted myself with their shrieks
and misery.
“When night came, I quitted my retreat, and wandered
in the wood; and now, no longer restrained by the fear of
discovery, I gave vent to my anguish in fearful howlings. I
was like a wild beast that had broken the toils; destroying the
objects that obstructed me, and ranging through the wood
with a stag-like swiftness. Oh! what a miserable night I
passed! the cold stars shone in mockery, and the bare trees
waved their branches above me: now and then the sweet
voice of a bird burst forth amidst the universal stillness. All,
save I, were at rest or in enjoyment: I, like the arch fiend, bore
a hell within me; and, finding myself unsympathized with,
wished to tear up the trees, spread havoc and destruction
around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin.
“But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure;
I became fatigued with excess of bodily exertion, and sank
on the damp grass in the sick impotence of despair. There
was none among the myriads of men that existed who would
pity or assist me; and should I feel kindness towards my
enemies? No: from that moment I declared everlasting war
against the species, and, more than all, against him who had
formed me, and sent me forth to this insupportable misery.
“The sun rose; I heard the voices of men, and knew that
it was impossible to return to my retreat during that day. Accordingly
I hid myself in some thick underwood, determining
to devote the ensuing hours to reflection on my situation.
“The pleasant sunshine, and the pure air of day, restored
me to some degree of tranquillity; and when I considered
what had passed at the cottage, I could not help believing
that I had been too hasty in my conclusions. I had certainly
acted imprudently. It was apparent that my conversation had
interested the father in my behalf, and I was a fool in having
exposed my person to the horror of his children. I ought to
have familiarized the old De Lacy to me, and by degrees have
discovered myself to the rest of his family, when they should
have been prepared for my approach. But I did not believe
my errors to be irretrievable; and, after much consideration, I
resolved to return to the cottage, seek the old man, and by
my representations win him to my party.
“These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I sank
into a profound sleep; but the fever of my blood did not allow
me to be visited by peaceful dreams. The horrible scene of
the preceding day was for ever acting before my eyes; the
females were flying, and the enraged Felix tearing me from
his father’s feet. I awoke exhausted; and, finding that it was
already night, I crept forth from my hiding-place, and went in
search of food.
“When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps
towards the well-known path that conducted to the cottage.
Chapter VIII 151
All there was at peace. I crept into my hovel, and remained
in silent expectation of the accustomed hour when the family
arose. That hour past, the sun mounted high in the heavens,
but the cottagers did not appear. I trembled violently,
apprehending some dreadful misfortune. The inside of the
cottage was dark, and I heard no motion; I cannot describe
the agony of this suspence.
“Presently two countrymen passed by; but, pausing near
the cottage, they entered into conversation, using violent
gesticulations; but I did not understand what they said, as
they spoke the language of the country, which differed from
that of my protectors. Soon after, however, Felix approached
with another man: I was surprised, as I knew that he had
not quitted the cottage that morning, and waited anxiously to
discover, from his discourse, the meaning of these unusual
appearances.
“ ‘Do you consider,’ said his companion to him, ‘that you
will be obliged to pay three months’ rent, and to lose the
produce of your garden? I do not wish to take any unfair
advantage, and I beg therefore that you will take some days
to consider of your determination.’
“ ‘It is utterly useless,’ replied Felix, ‘we can never again
inhabit your cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest
danger, owing to the dreadful circumstance that I have
related. My wife and my sister will never recover their horror.
I entreat you not to reason with me any more. Take
possession of your tenement, and let me fly from this place.’
“Felix trembled violently as he said this. He and his
companion entered the cottage, in which they remained for
a few minutes, and then departed. I never saw any of the
family of De Lacy 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 controul them; but,
allowing myself to be borne away by the stream, I bent my
mind towards injury and death. When I thought of my friends,
of the mild voice of De Lacy, 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 any thing
human, I turned my fury towards inanimate objects. As
night advanced, I placed a variety of combustibles around
the cottage; and, after having destroyed every vestige of
cultivation in the garden, I waited with forced impatience until
the moon had sunk to commence my operations.
“As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the
woods, and quickly dispersed the clouds that had loitered in
the heavens: the blast tore along like a mighty avalanche,
and produced a kind of insanity in my spirits, that burst all
bounds of reason and reflection. I lighted the dry branch of
a tree, and danced with fury around the devoted cottage, my
eyes still fixed on the western horizon, the edge of which the
moon nearly touched. A part of its orb was at length hid, and
I waved my brand; it sunk, and, with a loud scream, I fired
the straw, and heath, and bushes, which I had collected. The
wind fanned the fire, and the cottage was quickly enveloped
by the flames, which clung to it, and licked it with their forked
and destroying tongues.
“As soon as I was convinced that no assistance could
save any part of the habitation, I quitted the scene, and
sought for refuge in the woods.
“And now, with the world before me, whither should I
bend my steps? I resolved to fly far from the scene of my
misfortunes; but to me, hated and despised, every country
must be equally horrible. At length the thought of you crossed
my mind. I learned from your papers that you were my father,
my creator; and to whom could I apply with more fitness than
to him who had given me life? Among the lessons that Felix
had bestowed upon Safie geography had not been omitted: I
had learned from these the relative situations of the different
countries of the earth. You had mentioned Geneva as the
name of your native town; and towards this place I resolved
to proceed.
“But how was I to direct myself? I knew that I must travel
in a south-westerly direction to reach my destination; but the
sun was my only guide. I did not know the names of the
towns that I was to pass through, nor could I ask information
from a single human being; but I did not despair. From you
only could I hope for succour, although towards you I felt no
sentiment but that of hatred. Unfeeling, heartless creator!
you had endowed me with perceptions and passions, and
then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of
mankind. But on you only had I any claim for pity and redress,
and from you I determined to seek that justice which I vainly
attempted to gain from any other being that wore the human
form.
“My travels were long, and the sufferings I endured intense.
It was late in autumn when I quitted the district where
I had so long resided. I travelled only at night, fearful of
encountering the visage of a human being. Nature decayed
around me, and the sun became heatless; rain and snow
poured around me; mighty rivers were frozen; the surface
of the earth was hard, and chill, and bare, and I found no
shelter. Oh, earth! how often did I imprecate curses on the
cause of my being! The mildness of my nature had fled, and
all within me was turned to gall and bitterness. The nearer
I approached to your habitation, the more deeply did I feel
the spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart. Snow fell, and
the waters were hardened, but I rested not. A few incidents
now and then directed me, and I possessed a map of the
country; but I often wandered wide from my path. The agony
of my feelings allowed me no respite: no incident occurred
from which my rage and misery could not extract its food;
but a circumstance that happened when I arrived on the confines
of Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth,
and the earth again began to look green, confirmed in an
especial manner the bitterness and horror of my feelings.
“I generally rested during the day, and travelled only when
I was secured by night from the view of man. One morning,
however, finding that my path lay through a deep wood, I
ventured to continue my journey after the sun had risen;
the day, which was one of the first of spring, cheered even
me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of
the air. I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had
long appeared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the
novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne
away by them; and, forgetting my solitude and deformity,
dared to be happy. Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks,
and I even raised my humid eyes with thankfulness towards
the blessed sun which bestowed such joy upon me.
“I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I
came to its boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid
river, into which many of the trees bent their branches, now
budding with the fresh spring. Here I paused, not exactly
knowing what path to pursue, when I heard the sound of
voices, that induced me to conceal myself under the shade
of a cypress. I was scarcely hid, when a young girl came
running towards the spot where I was concealed, laughing as
if she ran from some one in sport. She continued her course
along the precipitous sides of the river, when suddenly her
foot slipt, and she fell into the rapid stream. I rushed from
my hiding place, and, with extreme labour from the force
of the current, saved her, and dragged her to shore. She
was senseless; and I endeavoured, by every means in my
power, to restore animation, when I was suddenly interrupted
by the approach of a rustic, who was probably the person
from whom she had playfully fled. On seeing me, he darted
towards me, and, tearing the girl from my arms, hastened
towards the deeper parts of the wood. I followed speedily,
I hardly knew why; but when the man saw me draw near,
he aimed a gun, which he carried, at my body, and fired. I
sunk to the ground, and my injurer, with increased swiftness,
escaped into the wood.
“This was then the reward of my benevolence! I had
saved a human being from destruction, and, as a recompence,
I now writhed under the miserable pain of a wound,
which shattered the flesh and bone. The feelings of kindness
and gentleness, which I had entertained but a few moments
before, gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth.
Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to
all mankind. But the agony of my wound overcame me; my
pulses paused, and I fainted.
“For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods,
endeavouring to cure the wound which I had received. The
ball had entered my shoulder, and I knew not whether it
had remained there or passed through; at any rate I had no
means of extracting it. My sufferings were augmented also
by the oppressive sense of the injustice and ingratitude of
their infliction. My daily vows rose for revenge — a deep and
deadly revenge, such as would alone compensate for the
outrages and anguish I had endured.
“After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued
my journey. The labours I endured were no longer to be
alleviated by the bright sun or gentle breezes of spring; all
joy was but a mockery, which insulted my desolate state,
and made me feel more painfully that I was not made for the
enjoyment of pleasure.
“But my toils now drew near a close; and, two months
from this time, I reached the environs of Geneva.
“It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hidingplace
among the fields that surround it, to meditate in what
manner I should apply to you. I was oppressed by fatigue
and hunger, and far too unhappy to enjoy the gentle breezes
of evening, or the prospect of the sun setting behind the
stupendous mountains of Jura.
“At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of
reflection, which was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful
child, who came running into the recess I had chosen with
all the sportiveness of infancy. Suddenly, as I gazed on him,
an idea seized me, that this little creature was unprejudiced,
and had lived too short a time to have imbibed a horror of
deformity. If, therefore, I could seize him, and educate him
as my companion and friend, I should not be so desolate in
this peopled earth.
“Urged by this impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed,
and drew him towards me. As soon as he beheld my form, he
placed his hands before his eyes, and uttered a shrill scream:
I drew his hand forcibly from his face, and said, ‘Child, what
is the meaning of this? I do not intend to hurt you; listen to
me.’
“He struggled violently; ‘Let me go,’ he cried; ‘monster!
ugly wretch! you wish to eat me, and tear me to pieces —
You are an ogre — Let me go, or I will tell my papa.’
“ ‘Boy, you will never see your father again; you must
come with me.’
“ ‘Hideous monster! let me go; My papa is a Syndic —
he is M. Frankenstein — he would punish you. You dare not
keep me.’
“ ‘Frankenstein! you belong then to my enemy — to him
towards whom I have sworn eternal revenge; you shall be
my first victim.’
“The child still struggled, and loaded me with epithets
which carried despair to my heart: I grasped his throat to
silence him, and in a moment he lay dead at my feet.
“I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation
and hellish triumph: clapping my hands, I exclaimed,
‘I, too, can create desolation; my enemy is not impregnable;
this death will carry despair to him, and a thousand other
miseries shall torment and destroy him.’
“As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering
on his breast. I took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely
woman. In spite of my malignity, it softened and attracted me.
For a few moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes,
fringed by deep lashes, and her lovely lips; but presently my
rage returned: I remembered that I was for ever deprived
of the delights that such beautiful creatures could bestow;
and that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, in
regarding me, have changed that air of divine benignity to
one expressive of disgust and affright.
“Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with
rage? I only wonder that at that moment, instead of venting
my sensations in exclamations and agony, I did not rush
among mankind, and perish in the attempt to destroy them.
“While I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot
where I had committed the murder, and was seeking a more
secluded hiding-place, when I perceived a woman passing
near me. She was young, not indeed so beautiful as her
whose portrait I held, but of an agreeable aspect, and bloom
ing in the loveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought,
is one of those whose smiles are bestowed on all but me;
she shall not escape: thanks to the lessons of Felix, and the
sanguinary laws of man, I have learned how to work mischief.
I approached her unperceived, and placed the portrait
securely in one of the folds of her dress.
“For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes
had taken place; sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes
resolved to quit the world and its miseries for ever.
At length I wandered towards these mountains, and have
ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a
burning passion which you alone can gratify. We may not
part until you have promised to comply with my requisition.
I am alone, and miserable; man will not associate with me;
but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny
herself to me. My companion must be of the same species,
and have the same defects. This being you must create.”

THE being finished speaking, and fixed his looks upon me in
expectation of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and
unable to arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full
extent of his proposition. He continued —
“You must create a female for me, with whom I can live in
the interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being.
This you alone can do; and I demand it of you as a right
which you must not refuse.”
The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the
anger that had died away while he narrated his peaceful life
among the cottagers, and, as he said this, I could no longer
suppress the rage that burned within me.
“I do refuse it,” I replied; “and no torture shall ever extort
a consent from me. You may render me the most miserable
of men, but you shall never make me base in my own eyes.
Shall I create another like yourself, whose joint wickedness
might desolate the world. Begone! I have answered you; you
may torture me, but I will never consent.”
“You are in the wrong,” replied the fiend; “and, instead of
threatening, I am content to reason with you. I am malicious
because I am miserable; am I not shunned and hated by
all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces,
and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity
man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder,
if you could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and
destroy my frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I
respect man, when he contemns me? Let him live with
me in the interchange of kindness, and, instead of injury, I
would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude
at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses
are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet mine shall
not be the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my
injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear; and chiefly
towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear
inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your
destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you
curse the hour of your birth.”
A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face
was wrinkled into contortions too horrible for human eyes to
behold; but presently he calmed himself, and proceeded —
“I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me;
for you do not reflect that you are the cause of its excess. If
any being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should
return them an hundred and an hundred fold; for that one
creature’s sake, I would make peace with the whole kind!
But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realized.
What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand
a creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself: the
gratification is small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall
content me. It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all
the world; but on that account we shall be more attached
to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will
be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel. Oh! my
creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you
for one benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of
some existing thing; do not deny me my request!”
I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible
consequences of my consent; but I felt that there was some
justice in his argument. His tale, and the feelings he now expressed,
proved him to be a creature of fine sensations; and
did I not, as his maker, owe him all the portion of happiness
that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of
feeling, and continued —
“If you consent, neither you nor any other human being
shall ever see us again: I will go to the vast wilds of South
America. My food is not that of man; I do not destroy the lamb
and the kid, to glut my appetite; acorns and berries afford me
sufficient nourishment. My companion will be of the same
nature as myself, and will be content with the same fare. We
shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us
as on man, and will ripen our food. The picture I present to
you is peaceful and human, and you must feel that you could
deny it only in the wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless
as you have been towards me, I now see compassion in your
eyes: let me seize the favourable moment, and persuade
you to promise what I so ardently desire.”
“You propose,” replied I, “to fly from the habitations of
man, to dwell in those wilds where the beasts of the field
will be your only companions. How can you, who long for
the love and sympathy of man, persevere in this exile? You
will return, and again seek their kindness, and you will meet
with their detestation; your evil passions will be renewed,
and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of
destruction. This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I
cannot consent.”
“How inconstant are your feelings! but a moment ago you
were moved by my representations, and why do you again
harden yourself to my complaints? I swear to you, by the
earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me, that, with
the companion you bestow, I will quit the neighbourhood of
man, and dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of
places. My evil passions will have fled, for I shall meet with
sympathy; my life will flow quietly away, and, in my dying
moments, I shall not curse my maker.”
His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated
him, and sometimes felt a wish to console him; but
when I looked upon him, when I saw the filthy mass that
moved and talked, my heart sickened, and my feelings were
altered to those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle these
sensations; I thought, that as I could not sympathize with
him, I had no right to withhold from him the small portion of
happiness which was yet in my power to bestow.
“You swear,” I said, “to be harmless; but have you not
already shewn 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 thought I had moved your compassion,
and yet you still refuse to bestow on me the only benefit that
can soften my heart, and render me harmless. 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 every one will
be ignorant. My vices are the children of a forced solitude
that I abhor; and my virtues will necessarily arise when I live
in communion with an equal. I shall feel the affections of a
sensitive being, and become linked to the chain of existence
and events, from which I am now excluded.”
I paused some time to reflect on all he had related, and
the various arguments which he had employed. I thought
of the promise of virtues which he had displayed on the
opening of his existence, and the subsequent blight of all
kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors
had manifested towards him. His power and threats were
not omitted in my calculations: a creature who could exist in
the ice caves of the glaciers, and hide himself from pursuit
among the ridges of inaccessible precipices, was a being
possessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a
long pause of reflection, I concluded, that the justice due
both to him and my fellow-creatures demanded of me that I
should comply with his request. Turning to him, therefore, I
said —
“I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit
Europe for ever, and every other place in the neighbourhood
of man, as soon as I shall deliver into your hands a female
who will accompany you in your exile.”
“I swear,” he cried, “by the sun, and by the blue sky of
heaven, that if you grant my prayer, while they exist you
shall never behold me again. Depart to your home, and
commence your labours: I shall watch their progress with
unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready
I shall appear.”
Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps,
of any change in my sentiments. I saw him descend the
mountain with greater speed than the flight of an eagle, and
quickly lost him among the undulations of the sea of ice.
His tale had occupied the whole day; and the sun was
upon the verge of the horizon when he departed. I knew
that I ought to hasten my descent towards the valley, as I
should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my heart was
heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the
little paths of the mountains, and fixing my feet firmly as I
advanced, perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions
which the occurrences of the day had produced. Night was
far advanced, when I came to the half-way resting-place,
and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at
intervals, as the clouds passed from over them; the dark
pines rose before me, and every here and there a broken
tree lay on the ground: it was a scene of wonderful solemnity,
and stirred strange thoughts within me. I wept bitterly; and,
clasping my hands in agony, I exclaimed, “Oh! stars, and
clouds, and winds, ye are all about to mock me: if ye really
pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as
nought; but if not, depart, depart and leave me in darkness.”
These were wild and miserable thoughts; but I cannot
describe to you how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed
upon me, and how I listened to every blast of wind, as if it
were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me.
Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix;
but my presence, so haggard and strange, hardly
calmed the fears of my family, who had waited the whole
night in anxious expectation of my return.
The following day we returned to Geneva. The intention
of my father in coming had been to divert my mind, and
to restore me to my lost tranquillity; but the medicine had
been fatal. And, unable to account for the excess of misery
I appeared to suffer, he hastened to return home, hoping
the quiet and monotony of a domestic life would by degrees
alleviate my sufferings from whatsoever cause they might
spring.
For myself, I was passive in all their arrangements; and
the gentle affection of my beloved Elizabeth was inadequate
to draw me from the depth of my despair. The promise I had
made to the dæmon weighed upon my mind, like Dante’s
iron cowl on the heads of the hellish hypocrites. All pleasures
of earth and sky passed before me like a dream, and that
thought only had to me the reality of life. Can you wonder,
that sometimes a kind of insanity possessed me, or that I saw
continually about me a multitude of filthy animals inflicting on
me incessant torture, that often extorted screams and bitter
groans?
By degrees, however, these feelings became calmed. I
entered again into the every-day scene of life, if not with
interest, at least with some degree of tranquillity.

Volume III

DAY after day, week after week, passed away on my return
to Geneva; and I could not collect the courage to recommence
my work. I feared the vengeance of the disappointed
fiend, yet I was unable to overcome my repugnance to the
task which was enjoined me. I found that I could not compose
a female without again devoting several months to
profound study and laborious disquisition. I had heard of
some discoveries having been made by an English philosopher,
the knowledge of which was material to my success,
and I sometimes thought of obtaining my father’s consent to
visit England for this purpose; but I clung to every pretence of
delay, and could not resolve to interrupt my returning tranquillity.
My health, which had hitherto declined, was now much
restored; and my spirits, when unchecked by the memory of
my unhappy promise, rose proportionably. My father saw this
change with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts towards
the best method of eradicating the remains of my melancholy,
which every now and then would return by fits, and with a
devouring blackness overcast the approaching sunshine. At
these moments I took refuge in the most perfect solitude. I
passed whole days on the lake alone in a little boat, watching
the clouds, and listening to the rippling of the waves, silent
and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun seldom failed to
restore me to some degree of composure; and, on my return,
I met the salutations of my friends with a readier smile and a
more cheerful heart.
It was after my return from one of these rambles that my
father, calling me aside, thus addressed me:—
“I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have resumed
your former pleasures, and seem to be returning to
yourself. And yet you are still unhappy, and still avoid our
society. For some time I was lost in conjecture as to the
cause of this; but yesterday an idea struck me, and if it is
well founded, I conjure you to avow it. Reserve on such a
point would be not only useless, but draw down treble misery
on us all.”
I trembled violently at this exordium, and my father continued
—
“I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to
your marriage with your cousin as the tie of our domestic
comfort, and the stay of my declining years. You were attached
to each other from your earliest infancy; you studied
together, and appeared, in dispositions and tastes, entirely
suited to one another. But so blind is the experience of man,
that what I conceived to be the best assistants to my plan
may have entirely destroyed it. You, perhaps, regard her as
your sister, without any wish that she might become your wife.
Nay, you may have met with another whom you may love;
and, considering yourself as bound in honour to your cousin,
this struggle may occasion the poignant misery which you
appear to feel.”
“My dear father, re-assure yourself. I love my cousin
tenderly and sincerely. I never saw any woman who excited,
as Elizabeth does, my warmest admiration and affection.
My future hopes and prospects are entirely bound up in the
expectation of our union.”
“The expression of your sentiments on this subject, my
dear Victor, gives me more pleasure than I have for some
time experienced. If you feel thus, we shall assuredly be
happy, however present events may cast a gloom over us.
But it is this gloom, which appears to have taken so strong a
hold of your mind, that I wish to dissipate. Tell me, therefore,
whether you object to an immediate solemnization of the
marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events
have drawn us from that every-day tranquillity befitting my
years and infirmities. You are younger; yet I do not suppose,
possessed as you are of a competent fortune, that an early
marriage would at all interfere with any future plans of honour
and utility that you may have formed. Do not suppose,
however, that I wish to dictate happiness to you, or that a
delay on your part would cause me any serious uneasiness.
Interpret my words with candour, and answer me, I conjure
you, with confidence and sincerity.”
I listened to my father in silence, and remained for some
time incapable of offering any reply. I revolved rapidly in my
mind a multitude of thoughts, and endeavoured to arrive at
some conclusion. Alas! to me the idea of an immediate
union with my cousin was one of horror and dismay. I was
bound by a solemn promise, which I had not yet fulfilled,
and dared not break; or, if I did, what manifold miseries
might not impend over me and my devoted family! Could I
enter into a festival with this deadly weight yet hanging round
my neck, and bowing me to the ground. I must perform
my engagement, and let the monster depart with his mate,
before I allowed myself to enjoy the delight of an union from
which I expected peace.
I remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of
either journeying to England, or entering into a long corre
spondence 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,
any variation was agreeable to me, and I was delighted with
the idea of spending a year or two in change of scene and
variety of occupation, in absence from my family; during
which period some event might happen which would restore
me to them in peace and happiness: my promise might be
fulfilled, and the monster have departed; or some accident
might occur to destroy him, and put an end to my slavery for
ever.
These feelings dictated my answer to my father. I expressed
a wish to visit England; but, concealing the true
reasons of this request, I clothed my desires under the guise
of wishing to travel and see the world before I sat down for
life within the walls of my native town.
I urged my entreaty with earnestness, and my father
was easily induced to comply; for a more indulgent and less
dictatorial parent did not exist upon earth. Our plan was
soon arranged. I should travel to Strasburgh, where Clerval
would join me. Some short time would be spent in the towns
of Holland, and our principal stay would be in England. We
should return by France; and it was agreed that the tour
should occupy the space of two years.
My father pleased himself with the reflection, that my
union with Elizabeth should take place immediately on my
return to Geneva. “These two years,” said be, “will pass
swiftly, and it will be the last delay that will oppose itself to
your happiness. And, indeed, I earnestly desire that period
to arrive, when we shall all be united, and neither hopes or
fears arise to disturb our domestic calm.”
“I am content,” I replied, “with your arrangement. By that
time we shall both have become wiser, and I hope happier,
than we at present are.” I sighed; but my father kindly forbore
to question me further concerning the cause of my dejection.
He hoped that new scenes, and the amusement of travelling,
would restore my tranquillity.
I now made arrangements for my journey; but one feeling
haunted me, which filled me with fear and agitation. During
my absence I should leave my friends unconscious of the
existence of their enemy, and unprotected from his attacks,
exasperated as he might be by my departure. But he had
promised to follow me wherever I might go; and would he not
accompany me to England? This imagination was dreadful in
itself, but soothing, inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my
friends. I was agonized with the idea of the possibility that the
reverse of this might happen. But through the whole period
during which I was the slave of my creature, I allowed myself
to be governed by the impulses of the moment; and my
present sensations strongly intimated that the fiend would
follow me, and exempt my family from the danger of his
machinations.
It was in the latter end of August that I departed, to pass
two years of exile. Elizabeth approved of the reasons of my
departure, and only regretted that she had not the same
opportunities of enlarging her experience, and cultivating her
understanding. She wept, however, as she bade me farewell,
and entreated me to return happy and tranquil. “We all,” said
she, “depend upon you; and if you are miserable, what must
be our feelings?”
I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me
away, hardly knowing whither I was going, and careless
of what was passing around. I remembered only, and it
was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on it, to order that
my chemical instruments should be packed to go with me:
for I resolved to fulfil my promise while abroad, and return,
if possible, a free man. Filled with dreary imaginations, I
passed through many beautiful and majestic scenes; but my
eyes were fixed and unobserving. I could only think of the
bourne of my travels, and the work which was to occupy me
whilst they endured.
After some days spent in listless indolence, during which
I traversed many leagues, I arrived at Strasburgh, where I
waited two days for Clerval. He came. Alas, how great was
the contrast between us! He was alive to every new scene;
joyful when he saw the beauties of the setting sun, and more
happy when he beheld it rise, and recommence a new day.
He pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape,
and the appearances of the sky. “This is what it is to live;” he
cried, “now I enjoy existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein,
wherefore are you desponding and sorrowful?” In truth, I was
occupied by gloomy thoughts, and neither saw the descent
of the evening star, nor the golden sun-rise reflected in the
Rhine. — And you, my friend, would be far more amused
with the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery with
an eye of feeling and delight, than to listen to my reflections.
I, a miserable wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every
avenue to enjoyment.
We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from
Strasburgh to Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping
for London. During this voyage, we passed by many willowy
islands, and saw several beautiful towns. We staid a
day at Manheim, and, on the fifth from our departure from
Strasburgh, arrived at Mayence. The course of the Rhine
below Mayence becomes much more picturesque. The river
descends rapidly, and winds between hills, not high, but
steep, and of beautiful forms. We saw many ruined castles
standing on the edges of precipices, surrounded by black
woods, high and inaccessible. This part of the Rhine, indeed,
presents a singularly variegated landscape. In one spot you
view rugged hills, ruined castles overlooking tremendous
precipices, with the dark Rhine rushing beneath; and, on
the sudden turn of a promontory, flourishing vineyards, with
green sloping banks, and a meandering river, and populous
towns, occupy the scene.
We travelled at the time of the vintage, and heard the
song of the labourers, as we glided down the stream. Even
I, depressed in mind, and my spirits continually agitated by
gloomy feelings, even I was pleased. I lay at the bottom
of the boat, and, as I gazed on the cloudless blue sky, I
seemed to drink in a tranquillity to which I had long been a
stranger. And if these were my sensations, who can describe
those of Henry? He felt as if he had been transported to
Fairy-land, and enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by man.
“I have seen,” he said, “the most beautiful scenes of my own
country; I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where
the snowy mountains descend almost perpendicularly to the
water, casting black and impenetrable shades, which would
cause a gloomy and mournful appearance, were it not for
the most verdant islands that relieve the eye by their gay
appearance; I have seen this lake agitated by a tempest,
when the wind tore up whirlwinds of water, and gave you an
idea of what the water-spout must be on the great ocean, and
the waves dash with fury the base of the mountain, where the
priest and his mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche,
and where their dying voices are still said to be heard amid
the pauses of the nightly wind; I have seen the mountains
of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud: but this country, Victor,
pleases me more than all those wonders. The mountains of
Switzerland are more majestic and strange; but there is a
charm in the banks of this divine river, that I never before saw
equalled. Look at that castle which overhangs yon precipice;
and that also on the island, almost concealed amongst the
foliage of those lovely trees; and now that group of labourers
coming from among their vines; and that village half-hid in
the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely, the spirit that inhabits
and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man,
than those who pile the glacier, or retire to the inaccessible
peaks of the mountains of our own country.”
Clerval! beloved friend! even now it delights me to record
your words, and to dwell on the praise of which you are so
eminently deserving. He was a being formed in the “very
poetry of nature.” His wild and enthusiastic imagination was
chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed
with ardent affections, and his friendship was of that devoted
and wondrous nature that the worldly-minded teach us to
look for only in the imagination. But even human sympathies
were not sufficient to satisfy his eager mind. The scenery of
external nature, which others regard only with admiration, he
loved with ardour:
—— —— “The sounding cataract
Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to him
An appetite; a feeling, and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.”
And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely
being lost for ever? Has this mind so replete with ideas,
imaginations fanciful and magnificent, which formed a world,
whose existence depended on the life of its creator; has this
mind perished? Does it now only exist in my memory? No, it
is not thus; your form so divinely wrought, and beaming with
beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and consoles
your unhappy friend.
Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are
but a slight tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but
they soothe my heart, overflowing with the anguish which his
remembrance creates. I will proceed with my tale.
Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland;
and we resolved to post the remainder of our way; for the
wind was contrary, and the stream of the river was too gentle
to aid us.
Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful
scenery; but we arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence
we proceeded by sea to England. It was on a clear morning,
in the latter days of December, that I first saw the white cliffs
of Britain. The banks of the Thames presented a new scene;
they were flat, but fertile, and almost every town was marked
by the remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort, and
remembered the Spanish armada; Gravesend, Woolwich,
and Greenwich, places which I had heard of even in my
country.
At length we saw the numerous steeples of London,
St. Paul’s towering above all, and the Tower famed in English
history.

LONDON was our present point of rest; we determined to
remain several months in this wonderful and celebrated city.
Clerval desired the intercourse of the men of genius and
talent who flourished at this time; but this was with me a
secondary object; I was principally occupied with the means
of obtaining the information necessary for the completion
of my promise, and quickly availed myself of the letters of
introduction that I had brought with me, addressed to the
most distinguished natural philosophers.
If this journey had taken place during my days of study
and happiness, it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure.
But a blight had come over my existence, and I only
visited these people for the sake of the information they
might give me on the subject in which my interest was so
terribly profound. Company was irksome to me; when alone,
I could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the
voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself
into a transitory peace. But busy uninteresting joyous faces
brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable
barrier placed between me and my fellow-men; this barrier
was sealed with the blood of William and Justine; and to
reflect on the events connected with those names filled my
soul with anguish.
But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was
inquisitive, and anxious to gain experience and instruction.
The difference of manners which he observed was to him
an inexhaustible source of instruction and amusement. He
was for ever busy; and the only check to his enjoyments
was my sorrowful and dejected mien. I tried to conceal this
as much as possible, that I might not debar him from the
pleasures natural to one who was entering on a new scene
of life, undisturbed by any care or bitter recollection. I often
refused to accompany him, alleging another engagement,
that I might remain alone. I now also began to collect the
materials necessary for my new creation, and this was to
me like the torture of single drops of water continually falling
on the head. Every thought that was devoted to it was an
extreme anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to
it caused my lips to quiver, and my heart to palpitate.
After passing some months in London, we received a
letter from a person in Scotland, who had formerly been our
visitor at Geneva. He mentioned the beauties of his native
country, and asked us if those were not sufficient allurements
to induce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perth,
where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this
invitation; and I, although I abhorred society, wished to view
again mountains and streams, and all the wondrous works
with which Nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places.
We had arrived in England at the beginning of October,
and it was now February. We accordingly determined to
commence our journey towards the north at the expiration of
another month. In this expedition we did not intend to follow
the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford,
Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at
the completion of this tour about the end of July. I packed
my chemical instruments, and the materials I had collected,
resolving to finish my labours in some obscure nook in the
northern highlands of Scotland.
We quitted London on the 27th of March, and remained
a few days at Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest. This
was a new scene to us mountaineers; the majestic oaks,
the quantity of game, and the herds of stately deer, were all
novelties to us.
From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered
this city, our minds were filled with the remembrance of the
events that had been transacted there more than a century
and a half before. It was here that Charles I. had collected
his forces. This city had remained faithful to him, after the
whole nation had forsaken his cause to join the standard
of parliament and liberty. The memory of that unfortunate
king, and his companions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent
Gower, his queen, and son, gave a peculiar interest to every
part of the city, which they might be supposed to have
inhabited. The spirit of elder days found a dwelling here, and
we delighted to trace its footsteps. If these feelings had not
found an imaginary gratification, the appearance of the city
had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration.
The colleges are ancient and picturesque; the streets are
almost magnificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it
through meadows of exquisite verdure, is spread forth into a
placid expanse of waters, which reflects its majestic assemblage
of towers, and spires, and domes, embosomed among
aged trees.
I enjoyed this scene; and yet my enjoyment was embittered
both by the memory of the past, and the anticipation
of the future. I was formed for peaceful happiness. During
my youthful days discontent never visited my mind; and if I
was ever overcome by ennui, the sight of what is beautiful
in nature, or the study of what is excellent and sublime in
the productions of man, could always interest my heart, and
communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree;
the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should
survive to exhibit, what I shall soon cease to be — a miserable
spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others, and
abhorrent to myself.
We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling
among its environs, and endeavouring to identify every spot
which might relate to the most animating epoch of English
history. Our little voyages of discovery were often prolonged
by the successive objects that presented themselves. We
visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden, and the field on
which that patriot fell. For a moment my soul was elevated
from its debasing and miserable fears to contemplate the
divine ideas of liberty and self-sacrifice, of which these sights
were the monuments and the remembrancers. For an instant
I dared to shake off my chains, and look around me with a
free and lofty spirit; but the iron had eaten into my flesh, and
I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self.
We left Oxford with regret, and proceeded to Matlock,
which was our next place of rest. The country in the neighbourhood
of this village resembled, to a greater degree, the
scenery of Switzerland; but every thing is on a lower scale,
and the green hills want the crown of distant white Alps,
which always attend on the piny mountains of my native
country. We visited the wondrous cave, and the little cabinets
of natural history, where the curiosities are disposed
in the same manner as in the collections at Servox and
Chamounix. The latter name made me tremble, when pronounced
by Henry; and I hastened to quit Matlock, with which
that terrible scene was thus associated.
From Derby still journeying northward, we passed two
months in Cumberland and Westmoreland. I could now al
most fancy myself among the Swiss mountains. The little
patches of snow which yet lingered on the northern sides
of the mountains, the lakes, and the dashing of the rocky
streams, were all familiar and dear sights to me. Here also
we made some acquaintances, who almost contrived to
cheat me into happiness. The delight of Clerval was proportionably
greater than mine; his mind expanded in the
company of men of talent, and he found in his own nature
greater capacities and resources than he could have imagined
himself to have possessed while he associated with his
inferiors. “I could pass my life here,” said he to me; “and
among these mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland
and the Rhine.”
But he found that a traveller’s life is one that includes
much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are for ever on
the stretch; and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds
himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure
for something new, which again engages his attention, and
which also he forsakes for other novelties.
We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland
and Westmoreland, and conceived an affection for some of
the inhabitants, when the period of our appointment with
our Scotch friend approached, and we left them to travel
on. For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected
my promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the
dæmon’s disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland,
and wreak his vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued
me, and tormented me at every moment from which I might
otherwise have snatched repose and peace. I waited for
my letters with feverish impatience: if they were delayed,
I was miserable, and overcome by a thousand fears; and
when they arrived, and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth
or my father, I hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate.
Sometimes I thought that the fiend followed me, and might
expedite my remissness by murdering my companion. When
these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a
moment, but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from
the fancied rage of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed
some great crime, the consciousness of which haunted me.
I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse
upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.
I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet
that city might have interested the most unfortunate being.
Clerval did not like it so well as Oxford; for the antiquity of the
latter city was more pleasing to him. But the beauty and regularity
of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic castle, and
its environs, the most delightful in the world, Arthur’s Seat,
St. Bernard’s Well, and the Pentland Hills, compensated him
for the change, and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration.
But I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my
journey.
We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar,
St. Andrews, and along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where
our friend expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and
talk with strangers, or enter into their feelings or plans with
the good humour expected from a guest; and accordingly
I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland
alone. “Do you,” said I, “enjoy yourself, and let this be our
rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but do not
interfere with my motions, I entreat you: leave me to peace
and solitude for a short time; and when I return, I hope it will
be with a lighter heart, more congenial to your own temper.”
Henry wished to dissuade me; but, seeing me bent on
this plan, ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to write
often. “I had rather be with you,” he said, “in your solitary
rambles, than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know:
hasten then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again
feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your
absence.”
Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some
remote spot of Scotland, and finish my work in solitude. I
did not doubt but that the monster followed me, and would
discover himself to me when I should have finished, that he
might receive his companion.
With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands,
and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the
scene labours. It was a place fitted for such a work, being
hardly more than a rock, whose high sides were continually
beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely
affording pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal
for its inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose
gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare.
Vegetables and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries,
and even fresh water, was to be procured from the main land,
which was about five miles distant.
On the whole island there were but three miserable huts,
and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It
contained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness
of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in,
the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges.
I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took
possession; an incident which would, doubtless, have occasioned
some surprise, had not all the senses of the cottagers
been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I
lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the
pittance of food and clothes which I gave; so much does
suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men.
In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the
evening, when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony
beach of the sea, to listen to the waves as they roared, and
dashed at my feet. It was a monotonous, yet ever-changing
scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was far different from this
desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are covered with
vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the plains. Its
fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky; and, when troubled
by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively infant,
when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.
In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first
arrived; but, as I proceeded in my labour, it became every
day more horrible and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not
prevail on myself to enter my laboratory for several days; and
at other times I toiled day and night in order to complete my
work. It was indeed a filthy process in which I was engaged.
During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had
blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was
intently fixed on the sequel of my labour, and my eyes were
shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in
cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my
hands.
Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation,
immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an
instant call my attention from the actual scene in which I
was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I grew restless
and nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my persecutor.
Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to
raise them lest they should encounter the object which I so
much dreaded to behold. I feared to wander from the sight
of my fellow-creatures, lest when alone he should come to
claim his companion.
In the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already
considerably advanced. I looked towards its completion with
a tremulous and eager hope, which I dared not trust myself to
question, but which was intermixed with obscure forebodings
of evil, that made my heart sicken in my bosom.

I SAT one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and
the moon was just rising from the sea; I had not sufficient
light for my employment, and I remained idle, in a pause of
consideration of whether I should leave my labour for the
night, or hasten its conclusion by an unremitting attention to
it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me, which led
me to consider the effects of what I was now doing. Three
years before I was engaged in the same manner, and had
created a fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated
my heart, and filled it for ever with the bitterest remorse. I
was now about to form another being, of whose dispositions
I was alike ignorant; she might become ten thousand times
more malignant than her mate, and delight, for its own sake,
in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the
neighbourhood of man, and hide himself in deserts; but she
had not; and she, who in all probability was to become a
thinking and reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with
a compact made before her creation. They might even hate
each other; the creature who already lived loathed his own
deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorence for
it when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also
might turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of
man; she might quit him, and he be again alone, exasperated
by the fresh provocation of being deserted by one of his own
species.
Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit the deserts
of the new world, yet one of the first results of those sympathies
for which the dæmon thirsted would be children, and
a race of devils would be propagated upon the earth, who
might make the very existence of the species of man a condition
precarious and full of terror. Had I a right, for my own
benefit, to inflict this curse upon everlasting generations? I
had before been moved by the sophisms of the being I had
created; I had been struck senseless by his fiendish threats:
but now, for the first time, the wickedness of my promise
burst upon me; I shuddered to think that future ages might
curse me as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated
to buy its own peace at the price perhaps of the existence of
the whole human race.
I trembled, and my heart failed within me; when, on
looking up, I saw, by the light of the moon, the dæmon at
the casement. A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed
on me, where I sat fulfilling the task which he had allotted to
me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he had loitered
in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and
desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress, and
claim the fulfilment of my promise.
As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost
extent of malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation
of madness on my promise of creating another like to
him, and, trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on
which I was engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature
on whose future existence he depended for happiness,
and, with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew.
I left the room, and, locking the door, made a solemn vow
in my own heart never to resume my labours; and then, with
trembling steps, I sought my own apartment. I was alone;
none were near me to dissipate the gloom, and relieve me
from the sickening oppression of the most terrible reveries.
Several hours past, and I remained near my window gazing
on the sea; it was almost motionless, for the winds were
hushed, and all nature reposed under the eye of the quiet
moon. A few fishing vessels alone specked the water, and
now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound of voices,
as the fishermen called to one another. I felt the silence,
although I was hardly conscious of its extreme profundity
until my ear was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars
near the shore, and a person landed close to my house.
In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door,
as if some one endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled
from head to foot; I felt a presentiment of who it was, and
wished to rouse one of the peasants who dwelt in a cottage
not far from mine; but I was overcome by the sensation of
helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in
vain endeavour to fly from an impending danger, and was
rooted to the spot.
Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage;
the door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded
appeared. Shutting the door, he approached me, and said,
in a smothered voice —
“You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it
that you intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have
endured toil and misery: I left Switzerland with you; I crept
along the shores of the Rhine, among its willow islands, and
over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many months in
the heaths of England, and among the deserts of Scotland. I
have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do
you dare destroy my hopes?”
“Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create
another like yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness.”
“Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved
yourself unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I
have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make
you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you.
You are my creator, but I am your master; — obey!”
“The hour of my weakness 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 resolution of not
creating you a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set
loose upon the earth a dæmon, whose delight is in death
and wretchedness. Begone! I am firm, and your words will
only exasperate my rage.”
The monster saw my determination in my face, and
gnashed his teeth in the impotence of anger. “Shall each
man,” cried he, “find a wife for his bosom, and each beast
have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection,
and they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man, you
may hate; but beware! Your hours will pass in dread and
misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from
you your happiness for ever. Are you to be happy, while I
grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? You can blast my
other passions; but revenge remains — revenge, henceforth
dearer than light or food! I may die; but first you, my tyrant
and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery.
Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful. I will watch
with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom.
Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict.”
“Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds
of malice. I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no
coward to bend beneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable.”
“It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your
wedding-night.”
I started forward, and exclaimed, “Villain! before you sign
my death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe.”
I would have seized him; but he eluded me, and quitted
the house with precipitation: in a few moments I saw him
in his boat, which shot across the waters with an arrowy
swiftness, and was soon lost amidst the waves.
All was again silent; but his words rung in my ears. I
burned with rage to pursue the murderer of my peace, and
precipitate him into the ocean. I walked up and down my
room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination conjured
up a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I
not followed him, and closed with him in mortal strife? But I
had suffered him to depart, and he had directed his course
towards the main land. I shuddered to think who might
be the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge. And
then I thought again of his words — “I will be with you on
your wedding-night.” That then was the period fixed for the
fulfilment of my destiny. In that hour I should die, and at once
satisfy and extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move
me to fear; yet when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth, —
of her tears and endless sorrow, when she should find her
lover so barbarously snatched from her, — tears, the first I
had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I
resolved not to fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle.
The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean;
my feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness,
when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair.
I left the house, the horrid scene of the last night’s contention,
and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost
regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my
fellow-creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact
stole across me. I desired that I might pass my life on that
barren rock, wearily it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden
shock of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed,
or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a
dæmon whom I had myself created.
I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated
from all it loved, and miserable in the separation. When it
became noon, and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the
grass, and was overpowered by a deep sleep. I had been
awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves were
agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The
sleep into which I now sunk refreshed me; and when I awoke,
I again felt as if I belonged to a race of human beings like
myself, and I began to reflect upon what had passed with
greater composure; yet still the words of the fiend rung in
my ears like a death-knell, they appeared like a dream, yet
distinct and oppressive as a reality.
The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore,
satisfying my appetite, which had become ravenous, with an
oaten cake, when I saw a fishing-boat land close to me, and
one of the men brought me a packet; it contained letters from
Geneva, and one from Clerval, entreating me to join him. He
said that nearly a year had elapsed since we had quitted
Switzerland, and France was yet unvisited. He entreated me,
therefore, to leave my solitary isle, and meet him at Perth, in
a week from that time, when we might arrange the plan of
our future proceedings. This letter in a degree recalled me
to life, and I determined to quit my island at the expiration of
two days.
Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on
which I shuddered to reflect: I must pack 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 day-break, I summoned sufficient courage,
and unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains of the
half-finished creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered
on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled the living
flesh of a human being. I paused to collect myself, and then
entered the chamber. With trembling hand I conveyed the
instruments out of the room; but I reflected that I ought not to
leave the relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion
of the peasants, and I accordingly put them into a basket,
with a great quantity of stones, and laying them up, determined
to throw them into the sea that very night; and in the
mean time I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning and
arranging my chemical apparatus.
Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that
had taken place in my feelings since the night of the appearance
of the dæmon. I had before regarded my promise with a
gloomy despair, as a thing that, with whatever consequences,
must be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film had been taken
from before my eyes, and that I, for the first time, saw clearly.
The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur
to me; the threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but
I did not reflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it. I
had resolved in my own mind, that to create another like the
fiend I had first made would be an act of the basest and most
atrocious selfishness; and I banished from my mind every
thought that could lead to a different conclusion.
Between two and three in the morning the moon rose;
and I then, putting my basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out
about four miles from the shore. The scene was perfectly
solitary: a few boats were returning towards land, but I sailed
away from them. I felt as if I was about the commission of
a dreadful crime, and avoided with shuddering anxiety any
encounter with my fellow-creatures. At one time the moon,
which had before been clear, was suddenly overspread by a
thick cloud, and I took advantage of the moment of darkness,
and cast my basket into the sea; I listened to the gurgling
sound as it sunk, and then sailed away from the spot. The sky
became clouded; but the air was pure, although chilled by the
north-east breeze that was then rising. But it refreshed me,
and filled me with such agreeable sensations, that I resolved
to prolong my stay on the water, and fixing the rudder in a
direct position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat.
Clouds hid the moon, every thing was obscure, and I heard
only the sound of the boat, as its keel cut through the waves;
the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly.
I do not know how long I remained in this situation, but
when I awoke I found that the sun had already mounted
considerably. The wind was high, and the waves continually
threatened the safety of my little skiff. I found that the wind
was north-east, and must have driven me far from the coast
from which I had embarked. I endeavoured to change my
course, but quickly found that if I again made the attempt the
boat would be instantly filled with water. Thus situated, my
only resource was to drive before the wind. I confess that
I felt a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me,
and was so little acquainted with the geography of this part
of the world that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might
be driven into the wide Atlantic, and feel all the tortures of
starvation, or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters
that roared and buffeted around me. I had already been
out many hours, and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a
prelude to my other sufferings. I looked on the heavens,
which were covered by clouds that flew before the wind only
to be replaced by others: I looked upon the sea, it was to be
my grave. “Fiend,” I exclaimed, “your task is already fulfilled!”
I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval; and sunk
into a reverie, so despairing and frightful, that even now,
when the scene is on the point of closing before me for ever,
I shudder to reflect on it.
Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun
declined towards the horizon, the wind died away into a
gentle breeze, and the sea became free from breakers. But
these gave place to a heavy swell; I felt sick, and hardly able
to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high land
towards the south.
Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dreadful suspense
I endured for several hours, this sudden certainty of
life rushed like a flood of warm joy to my heart, and tears
gushed from my eyes.
How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that
clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery! I
constructed another sail with a part of my dress, and eagerly
steered my course towards the land. It had a wild and rocky
appearance; but as I approached nearer, I easily perceived
the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore, and
found myself suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood
of civilized man. I eagerly traced the windings of the
land, and hailed a steeple which I at length saw issuing from
behind a small promontory. As I was in a state of extreme
debility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town as a place
where I could most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately I
had money with me. As I turned the promontory, I perceived
a small neat town and a good harbour, which I entered, my
heart bounding with joy at my unexpected escape.
As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the
sails, several people crowded towards the spot. They seemed
very much surprised at my appearance; but, instead of
offering me any assistance, whispered together with gestures
that at any other time might have produced in me a
slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that
they spoke English; and I therefore addressed them in that
language: “My good friends,” said I, “will you be so kind as to
tell me the name of this town, and inform me where I am?”
“You will know that soon enough,” replied a man with a
gruff voice. “May be you are come to a place that will not
prove much to your taste; but you will not be consulted as to
your quarters, I promise you.”
I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer
from a stranger; and I was also disconcerted on perceiving
the frowning and angry countenances of his companions.
“Why do you answer me so roughly?” I replied: “surely it
is not the custom of Englishmen to receive strangers so
inhospitably.”
“I do not know,” said the man, “what the custom of the
English may be; but it is the custom of the Irish to hate
villains.”
While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the
crowd rapidly increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of
curiosity and anger, which annoyed, and in some degree
alarmed me. I inquired the way to the inn; but no one replied.
I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose from
the crowd as they followed and surrounded me; when an
ill-looking man approaching, tapped me on the shoulder, and
said, “Come, Sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kirwin’s, to give
an account of yourself.”
“Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of
myself? Is not this a free country?”
“Aye, Sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a
magistrate; and you are to give an account of the death of a
gentleman who was found murdered here last night.”
This answer startled me; but I presently recovered myself.
I was innocent; that could easily be proved: accordingly I
followed my conductor in silence, and was led to one of the
best houses in the town. I was ready to sink from fatigue
and hunger; but, being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it
politic to rouse all my strength, that no physical debility might
be construed into apprehension or conscious guilt. Little
did I then expect the calamity that was in a few moments to
overwhelm me, and extinguish in horror and despair all fear
of ignominy or death.
I must pause here; for it requires all my fortitude to recall
the memory of the frightful events which I am about to relate,
in proper detail, to my recollection.

I WAS soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate,
an old benevolent man, with calm and mild manners. He
looked upon me, however, with some degree of severity;
and then, turning towards my conductors, he asked who
appeared as witnesses on this occasion.
About half a dozen men came forward; and one being
selected by the magistrate, he deposed, that he had been
out fishing the night before with his son and brother-in-law,
Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o’clock, they observed a
strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put in for
port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet
risen; they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been
accustomed, at a creek about two miles below. He walked on
first, carrying a part of the fishing tackle, and his companions
followed him at some distance. As he was proceeding along
the sands, he struck his foot against something, and fell all
his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist
him; and, by the light of their lantern, they found that he had
fallen on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead.
Their first supposition was, that it was the corpse of some
person who had been drowned, and was thrown on shore
by the waves; but, upon examination, they found that the
clothes were not wet, and even that the body was not then
cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman
near the spot, and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to
life. He appeared to be a handsome young man, about five
and twenty years of age. He had apparently been strangled;
for there was no sign of any violence, except the black mark
of fingers on his neck.
The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest
me; but when the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I
remembered the murder of my brother, and felt myself extremely
agitated; my limbs trembled, and a mist came over
my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support.
The magistrate observed me with a keen eye, and of course
drew an unfavourable augury from my manner.
The son confirmed his father’s account: but when Daniel
Nugent was called, he swore positively that, just before the
fall of his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it,
at a short distance from the shore; and, as far as he could
judge by the light of a few stars, it was the same boat in
which I had just landed.
A woman deposed, that she lived near the beach, and
was standing at the door of her cottage, waiting for the return
of the fishermen, about an hour before she heard of the
discovery of the body, when she saw a boat, with only one
man in it, push off from that part of the shore where the
corpse was afterwards found.
Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen
having brought the body into her house; it was not cold. They
put it into a bed, and rubbed it; and Daniel went to the town
for an apothecary, but life was quite gone.
Several other men were examined concerning my landing;
and they agreed, that, with the strong north wind that
had arisen during the night, it was very probable that I had
beaten about for many hours, and had been obliged to return
nearly to the same spot from which I had departed. Besides,
they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body
from another place, and it was likely, that as I did not appear
to know the shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant
of the distance of the town of —— from the place where I
had deposited the corpse.
Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should
be taken into the room where the body lay for interment
that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would
produce upon me. This idea was probably suggested by
the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the
murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted,
by the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I
could not help being struck by the strange coincidences that
had taken place during this eventful night; but, knowing that I
had been conversing with several persons in the island I had
inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was
perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of the affair.
I entered the room where the corpse lay, and was led
up to the coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding
it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect
on that terrible moment without shuddering and agony, that
faintly reminds me of the anguish of the recognition. The
trial, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed
like a dream from my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of
Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath; and,
throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, “Have my murderous
machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of
life? Two I have already destroyed; other victims await their
destiny: but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor” ——
The human frame could no longer support the agonizing
suffering that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in
strong convulsions.
A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the
point of death: my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful;
I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of
Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me
in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and,
at others, I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my
neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately,
as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood
me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright
the other witnesses.
Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was
before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death
snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of
their doating parents: how many brides and youthful lovers
have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the
next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what
materials was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks,
which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the
torture.
But I was doomed to live; and, in two months, found
myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a
wretched bed, surrounded by gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and
all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning,
I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding: I had
forgotten the particulars of what had happened, and only
felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed
me; but when I looked around, and saw the barred windows,
and the squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed
across my memory, and I groaned bitterly.
This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping
in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of
one of the turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all
those bad qualities which often characterize that class. The
lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of persons
accustomed to see without sympathizing in sights of misery.
Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed
me in English, and the voice struck me as one that I had
heard during my sufferings:
“Are you better now, Sir?” said she.
I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, “I
believe I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I
am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror.”
“For that matter,” replied the old woman, “if you mean
about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were
better for you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with
you; but you will be hung when the next sessions come on.
However, that’s none of my business, I am sent to nurse you,
and get you well; I do my duty with a safe conscience, it were
well if every body did the same.”
I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so
unfeeling a speech to a person just saved, on the very edge
of death; but I felt languid, and unable to reflect on all that
had passed. The whole series of my life appeared to me as
a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true, for it
never presented itself to my mind with the force of reality.
As the images that floated before me became more distinct,
I grew feverish; a darkness pressed around me; no
one was near me who soothed me with the gentle voice of
love; no dear hand supported me. The physician came and
prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared them for
me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the expression
of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the
second. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer,
but the hangman who would gain his fee?
These were my first reflections; but I soon learned that
Mr. Kirwin had shewn me extreme kindness. He had caused
the best room in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched
indeed was the best); and it was he who had provided a
physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see
me; for, although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings
of every human creature, he did not wish to be present at
the agonies and miserable ravings of a murderer. He came,
therefore, sometimes to see that I was not neglected; but his
visits were short, and at long intervals.
One day, when I was gradually recovering, I was seated
in a chair, my eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those
in death, I was overcome by gloom and misery, and often
reflected I had better seek death than remain miserably pent
up only to be let loose in a world replete with wretchedness.
At one time I considered whether I should not declare myself
guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than
poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts, when the
door of my apartment was opened, and Mr. Kirwin entered.
His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion; he
drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me in French —
“I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do
any thing to make you more comfortable?”
“I thank you; but all that you mention is nothing to me: on
the whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of
receiving.”
“I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of
little relief to one borne down as you are by so strange a
misfortune. But you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy
abode; for, doubtless, evidence can easily be brought to free
you from the criminal charge.”
“That is my least concern: I am, by a course of strange
events, become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted
and tortured as I am and have been, can death be any evil
to me?”
“Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing
than the strange chances that have lately occurred. You
were thrown, by some surprising accident, on this shore,
renowned for its hospitality: seized immediately, and charged
with murder. The first sight that was presented to your eyes
was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable
a manner, and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your
path.”
As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I
endured on this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable
surprise at the knowledge he seemed to possess
concerning me. I suppose some astonishment was exhibited
in my countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say —
“It was not until a day or two after your illness that I
thought of examining your dress, that I might discover some
trace by which I could send to your relations an account
of your misfortune and illness. I found several letters, and,
among others, one which I discovered from its commencement
to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva:
nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my
letter. — But you are ill; even now you tremble: you are unfit
for agitation of any kind.”
“This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most
horrible event: tell me what new scene of death has been
acted, and whose murder I am now to lament.”
“Your family is perfectly well,” said Mr. Kirwin, with gentleness;
“and some one, a friend, is come to visit you.”
I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented
itself, but it instantly darted into my mind that the murderer
had come to mock at my misery, and taunt me with the death
of Clerval, as a new incitement for me to comply with his
hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and cried out
in agony —
“Oh! take him away! I cannot see him; for God’s sake, do
not let him enter!”
Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He
could not help regarding my exclamation as a presumption
of my guilt, and said, in rather a severe tone —
“I should have thought, young man, that the presence of
your father would have been welcome, instead of inspiring
such violent repugnance.”
“My father!” cried I, while every feature and every muscle
was relaxed from anguish to pleasure. “Is my father, indeed,
come? How kind, how very kind. But where is he, why does
he not hasten to me?”
My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate;
perhaps he thought that my former exclamation was a
momentary return of delirium, and now he instantly resumed
his former benevolence. He rose, and quitted the room with
my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it.
Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater
pleasure than the arrival of my father. I stretched out my
hand to him, and cried —
“Are you then safe — and Elizabeth — and Ernest?”
My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare,
and endeavoured, by dwelling on these subjects so interesting
to my heart, to raise my desponding spirits; but he soon
felt that a prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness. “What
a place is this that you inhabit, my son!” said he, looking
mournfully at the barred windows, and wretched appearance
of the room. “You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality
seems to pursue you. And poor Clerval — ”
The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was
an agitation too great to be endured in my weak state; I shed
tears.
“Alas! yes, my father,” replied I; “some destiny of the
most horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it,
or surely I should have died on the coffin of Henry.”
We were not allowed to converse for any length of time,
for the precarious state of my health rendered every precaution
necessary that could insure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came
in, and insisted that my strength should not be exhausted by
too much exertion. But the appearance of my father was to
me like that of my good angel, and I gradually recovered my
health.
As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy
and black melancholy, that nothing could dissipate. The image
of Clerval was for ever before me, ghastly and murdered.
More than once the agitation into which these reflections
threw me made my friends dread a dangerous relapse. Alas!
why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life? It
was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing
to a close. Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these
throbbings, and relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish
that bears me to the dust; and, in executing the award of
justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then the appearance of
death was distant, although the wish was ever present to my
thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless,
wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me
and my destroyer in its ruins.
The season of the assizes approached. I had already
been three months in prison; and although I was still weak,
and in continual danger of a relapse, I was obliged to travel
nearly a hundred miles to the county-town, where the court
was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every care of collecting
witnesses, and arranging my defence. I was spared
the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case
was not brought before the court that decides on life and
death. The grand jury rejected the bill, on its being proved
that I was on the Orkney Islands at the hour the body of
my friend was found, and a fortnight after my removal I was
liberated from prison.
My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the
vexations of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to
breathe the fresh atmosphere, and allowed to return to my
native country. I did not participate in these feelings; for to me
the walls of a dungeon or a palace were alike hateful. The
cup of life was poisoned for ever; and although the sun shone
upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw around
me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated
by no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon
me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry,
languishing in death, the dark orbs nearly covered by the
lids, and the long black lashes that fringed them; sometimes
it was the watery clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw
them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.
My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection.
He talked of Geneva, which I should soon visit—of Elizabeth,
and Ernest; but these words only drew deep groans from
me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish for happiness; and
thought, with melancholy delight, of my beloved cousin; or
longed, with a devouring maladie du pays, to see once more
the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to
me in early childhood: but my general state of feeling was
a torpor, in which a prison was as welcome a residence as
the divinest scene in nature; and these fits were seldom
interrupted, but by paroxysms of anguish and despair. At
these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the
existence I loathed; and it required unceasing attendance
and vigilance to restrain me from committing some dreadful
act of violence.
I remember, as I quitted the prison, I heard one of the
men say, “He may be innocent of the murder, but he has
certainly a bad conscience.” These words struck me. A bad
conscience! yes, surely I had one. William, Justine, and
Clerval, had died through my infernal machinations; “And
whose death,” cried I, “is to finish the tragedy? Ah! my father,
do not remain in this wretched country; take me where I may
forget myself, my existence, and all the world.”
My father easily acceded to my desire; and, after having
taken leave of Mr. Kirwin, we hastened to Dublin. I felt as if
I was relieved from a heavy weight, when the packet sailed
with a fair wind from Ireland, and I had quitted for ever the
country which had been to me the scene of so much misery.
It was midnight. My father slept in the cabin; and I lay on
the deck, looking at the stars, and listening to the dashing of
the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my
sight, and my pulse beat with a feverish joy, when I reflected
that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in
the light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in which I was,
the wind that blew me from the detested shore of Ireland,
and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly that
I was deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend
and dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the
monster of my creation. I repassed, in my memory, my
whole life; my quiet happiness while residing with my family
in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for
Ingolstadt. I remembered shuddering at the mad enthusiasm
that hurried me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and
I called to mind the night during which he first lived. I was
unable to pursue the train of thought; a thousand feelings
pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.
Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the
custom of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum; for
it was by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain
the rest necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed
by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now took
a double dose, and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did
not afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams
presented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards
morning I was possessed by a kind of night-mare; I felt the
fiend’s grasp in my neck, and could not free myself from
it; groans and cries rung in my ears. My father, who was
watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me,
and pointed to the port of Holyhead, which we were now
entering.

WE had resolved not to go to London, but to cross the country
to Portsmouth, and thence to embark for Havre. I preferred
this plan principally because I dreaded to see again those
places in which I had enjoyed a few moments of tranquillity
with my beloved Clerval. I thought with horror of seeing
again those persons whom we had been accustomed to visit
together, and who might make inquiries concerning an event,
the very remembrance of which made me again feel the
pang I endured when I gazed on his lifeless form in the inn
at ——.
As for my father, his desires and exertions were bounded
to the again seeing me restored to health and peace of mind.
His tenderness and attentions were unremitting; my grief and
gloom was obstinate, but he would not despair. Sometimes
he thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged
to answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove
to me the futility of pride.
“Alas! my father,” said I, “how little do you know me.
Human beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed
be degraded, if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor
unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the
same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause of this — I
murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry — they all died
by my hands.”
My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me
make the same assertion; when I thus accused myself, he
sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others
he appeared to consider it as caused by delirium, and that,
during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself
to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in
my convalescence. I avoided explanation, and maintained
a continual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I
had a feeling that I should be supposed mad, and this for
ever chained my tongue, when I would have given the whole
world to have confided the fatal secret.
Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression
of unbounded wonder, “What do you mean, Victor? are you
mad? My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an
assertion again.”
“I am not mad,” I cried energetically; “the sun and the
heavens, who have viewed my operations, can bear witness
of my truth. I am the assassin of those most innocent victims;
they died by my machinations. A thousand times would I
have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have saved their
lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not sacrifice
the whole human race.”
The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that
my ideas were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject
of our conversation, and endeavoured to alter the course
of my thoughts. He wished as much as possible to obliterate
the memory of the scenes that had taken place in Ireland,
and never alluded to them, or suffered me to speak of my
misfortunes.
As time passed away I became more calm: misery had
her dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same
incoherent manner of my own crimes; sufficient for me was
the consciousness of them. By the utmost self-violence, I
curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness, which sometimes
desired to declare itself to the whole world; and my
manners were calmer and more composed than they had
ever been since my journey to the sea of ice.
We arrived at Havre on the 8th of May, and instantly
proceeded to Paris, where my father had some business
which detained us a few weeks. In this city, I received the
following letter from Elizabeth:—
“To VICTOR FRANKENSTEIN.
“MY DEAREST FRIEND,
“It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from
my uncle dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable
distance, and I may hope to see you in less than a fortnight.
My poor cousin, how much you must have suffered! I expect
to see you looking even more ill than when you quitted
Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured
as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see
peace in your countenance, and to find that your heart is not
totally devoid of comfort and tranquillity.
“Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you
so miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time.
I would not disturb you at this period, when so many misfortunes
weigh upon you; but a conversation that I had with my
uncle previous to his departure renders some explanation
necessary before we meet.
“Explanation! you may possibly say; what can Elizabeth
have to explain? If you really say this, my questions are
answered, and I have no more to do than to sign myself your
affectionate cousin. But you are distant from me, and it is
possible that you may dread, and yet be pleased with this
explanation; and, in a probability of this being the case, I dare
not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I
have often wished to express to you, but have never had the
courage to begin.
“You well know, Victor, that our union had been the
favourite plan of your parents ever since our infancy. We
were told this when young, and taught to look forward to it
as an event that would certainly take place. We were affectionate
playfellows during childhood, and, I believe, dear
and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But as
brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards
each other, without desiring a more intimate union, may not
such also be our case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me,
I conjure you, by our mutual happiness, with simple truth —
Do you not love another?
“You have travelled; you have spent several years of your
life at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when
I saw you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude, from
the society of every creature, I could not help supposing
that you might regret our connexion, and believe yourself
bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents, although
they opposed themselves to your inclinations. But this is
false reasoning. I confess to you, my cousin, that I love you,
and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my
constant friend and companion. But it is your happiness I
desire as well as my own, when I declare to you, that our
marriage would render me eternally miserable, unless it were
the dictate of your own free choice. Even now I weep to think,
that, borne down as you are by the cruelest misfortunes,
you may stifle, by the word honour, all hope of that love
and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself. I,
who have so interested an affection for you, may increase
your miseries ten-fold, by being an obstacle to your wishes.
Ah, Victor, be assured that your cousin and playmate has
too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this
supposition. Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me in this
one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have
the power to interrupt my tranquillity.
“Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer it tomorrow,
or the next day, or even until you come, if it will give
you pain. My uncle will send me news of your health; and if I
see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned
by this or any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other
happiness.
“ELIZABETH LAVENZA.
“Geneva, May 18th, 17— .”
This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten,
the threat of the fiend — “I will be with you on your
wedding-night!” Such was my sentence, and on that night
would the dæmon employ every art to destroy me, and tear
me from the glimpse of happiness which promised partly to
console my sufferings. On that night he had determined to
consummate his crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a deadly
struggle would then assuredly take place, in which if he was
victorious, I should be at peace, and his power over me be
at an end. If he were vanquished, I should be a free man.
Alas! what freedom? such as the peasant enjoys when his
family have been massacred before his eyes, his cottage
burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless,
pennyless, and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty,
except that in my Elizabeth I possessed a treasure; alas!
balanced by those horrors of remorse and guilt, which would
pursue me until death.
Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and re-read her
letter, and some softened feelings stole into my heart, and
dared to whisper paradisaical dreams of love and joy; but
the apple was already eaten, and the angel’s arm bared to
drive me from all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy.
If the monster executed his threat, death was inevitable;
yet, again, I considered whether my marriage would hasten
my fate. My destruction might indeed arrive a few months
sooner; but if my torturer should suspect that I postponed it,
influenced by his menaces, he would surely find other, and
perhaps more dreadful means of revenge. He had vowed
to be with me on my wedding-night, yet he did not consider
that threat as binding him to peace in the mean time; for,
as if to shew me that he was not yet satiated with blood, he
had murdered Clerval immediately after the enunciation of
his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my immediate union
with my cousin would conduce either to her’s or my father’s
happiness, my adversary’s designs against my life should
not retard it a single hour.
In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was
calm and affectionate. “I fear, my beloved girl,” I said, “little
happiness remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day
enjoy is concentered in you. Chase away your idle fears; to
you alone do I consecrate my life, and my endeavours for
contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one;
when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with horror, and
then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only
wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this
tale of misery and terror to you the day after our marriage
shall take place; for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect
confidence between us. But until then, I conjure you, do not
mention or allude to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I
know you will comply.”
In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth’s letter, we
returned to Geneva. My cousin welcomed me with warm
affection; yet tears were in her eyes, as she beheld my
emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her
also. She was thinner, and had lost much of that heavenly
vivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness, and
soft looks of compassion, made her a more fit companion for
one blasted and miserable as I was.
The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory
brought madness with it; and when I thought on what
had passed, a real insanity possessed me; sometimes I was
furious, and burnt with rage, sometimes low and despondent.
I neither spoke or looked, but sat motionless, bewildered by
the multitude of miseries that overcame me.
Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these
fits; her gentle voice would soothe me when transported
by passion, and inspire me with human feelings when sunk
in torpor. She wept with me, and for me. When reason
returned, she would remonstrate, and endeavour to inspire
me with resignation. Ah! it is well for the unfortunate to be
resigned, but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies
of remorse poison the luxury there is otherwise sometimes
found in indulging the excess of grief.
Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate
marriage with my cousin. I remained silent.
“Have you, then, some other attachment?”
“None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look forward to our
union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I
will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness of
my cousin.”
“My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes
have befallen us; but let us only cling closer to what remains,
and transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those
who yet live. Our circle will be small, but bound close by
the ties of affection and mutual misfortune. And when time
shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of
care will be born to replace those of whom we have been so
cruelly deprived.”
Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance
of the threat returned: nor can you wonder,
that, omnipotent as the fiend had yet been in his deeds of
blood, I should almost regard him as invincible; and that
when he had pronounced the words, “I shall be with you on
your wedding-night,” I should regard the threatened fate as
unavoidable. But death was no evil to me, if the loss of Elizabeth
were balanced with it; and I therefore, with a contented
and even cheerful countenance, agreed with my father, that
if my cousin would consent, the ceremony should take place
in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate.
Great God! if for one instant I had thought what might
be the hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would
rather have banished myself for ever from my native country,
and wandered a friendless outcast over the earth, than have
consented to this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed
of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real
intentions; and when I thought that I prepared only my own
death, I hastened that of a far dearer victim.
As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether
from cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink
within me. But I concealed my feelings by an appearance
of hilarity, that brought smiles and joy to the countenance of
my father, but hardly deceived the ever-watchful and nicer
eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid
contentment, not unmingled with a little fear, which past
misfortunes had impressed, that what now appeared certain
and tangible happiness, might soon dissipate into an airy
dream, and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret.
Preparations were made for the event; congratulatory
visits were received; and all wore a smiling appearance. I
shut up, as well as I could, in my own heart the anxiety that
preyed there, and entered with seeming earnestness into
the plans of my father, although they might only serve as the
decorations of my tragedy. A house was purchased for us
near Cologny, by which we should enjoy the pleasures of the
country, and yet be so near Geneva as to see my father every
day; who would still reside within the walls, for the benefit of
Ernest, that he might follow his studies at the schools.
In the mean time I took every precaution to defend my
person, in case the fiend should openly attack me. I carried
pistols and a dagger constantly about me, and was ever on
the watch to prevent artifice; and by these means gained
a greater degree of tranquillity. Indeed, as the period approached,
the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be
regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while the happiness
I hoped for in my marriage wore a greater appearance of
certainty, as the day fixed for its solemnization drew nearer,
and I heard it continually spoken of as an occurrence which
no accident could possibly prevent.
Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed
greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was
to fulfil my wishes and my destiny, she was melancholy, and
a presentiment of evil pervaded her; and perhaps also she
thought of the dreadful secret, which I had promised to reveal
to her the following day. My father was in the mean time
overjoyed, and, in the bustle of preparation, only observed in
the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride.
After the ceremony was performed, a large party assem
bled at my father’s; but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I
should pass the afternoon and night at Evian, and return to
Cologny the next morning. As the day was fair, and the wind
favourable, we resolved to go by water.
Those were the last moments of my life during which I
enjoyed the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along:
the sun was hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a
kind of canopy, while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene,
sometimes on one side of the lake, where we saw Mont
Salêve, the pleasant banks of Montalêgre, and at a distance,
surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blânc, and the assemblage
of snowy mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate
her; sometimes coasting the opposite banks, we saw the
mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the ambition that would
quit its native country, and an almost insurmountable barrier
to the invader who should wish to enslave it.
I took the hand of Elizabeth: “You are sorrowful, my love.
Ah! if you knew what I have suffered, and what I may yet
endure, you would endeavour to let me taste the quiet, and
freedom from despair, that this one day at least permits me
to enjoy.”
“Be happy, my dear Victor,” replied Elizabeth; “there is,
I hope, nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a
lively joy is not painted in my face, my heart is contented.
Something whispers to me not to depend too much on the
prospect that is opened before us; but I will not listen to such
a sinister voice. Observe how fast we move along, and how
the clouds which sometimes obscure, and sometimes rise
above the dome of Mont Blânc, render this scene of beauty
still more interesting. Look also at the innumerable fish that
are swimming in the clear waters, where we can distinguish
every pebble that lies at the bottom. What a divine day! how
happy and serene all nature appears!”
Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and
mine from all reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her
temper was fluctuating; joy for a few instants shone in her
eyes, but it continually gave place to distraction and reverie.
The sun sunk lower in the heavens; we passed the river
Drance, and observed its path through the chasms of the
higher, and the glens of the lower hills. The Alps here come
closer to the lake, and we approached the amphitheatre of
mountains which forms its eastern boundary. The spire of
Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it, and the
range of mountain above mountain by which it was overhung.
The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing
rapidity, sunk at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just
ruffled the water, and caused a pleasant motion among the
trees as we approached the shore, from which it wafted the
most delightful scent of flowers and hay. The sun sunk beneath
the horizon as we landed; and as I touched the shore,
I felt those cares and fears revive, which soon were to clasp
me, and cling to me for ever.

IT was eight o’clock when we landed; we walked for a short
time on the shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then
retired to the inn, and contemplated the lovely scene of
waters, woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet
still displaying their black outlines.
The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with
great violence in the west. The moon had reached her
summit in the heavens, and was beginning to descend; the
clouds swept across it swifter than the flight of the vulture,
and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the scene of
the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves
that were beginning to rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain
descended.
I had been calm during the day; but so soon as night
obscured the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in
my mind. I was anxious and watchful, while my right hand
grasped a pistol which was hidden in my bosom; every sound
terrified me; but I resolved that I would sell my life dearly, and
not relax the impending conflict until my own life, or that of
my adversary, were extinguished.
Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid
and fearful silence; at length she said, “What is it that agitates
you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear?”
“Oh! peace, peace, my love,” replied I, “this night, and all
will be safe: but this night is dreadful, very dreadful.”
I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly
I reflected how dreadful the combat which I momentarily
expected would be to my wife, and I earnestly entreated her
to retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some
knowledge as to the situation of my enemy.
She left me, and I continued some time walking up and
down the passages of the house, and inspecting every corner
that might afford a retreat to my adversary. But I discovered
no trace of him, and was beginning to conjecture that some
fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the execution of
his menaces; when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful
scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth had
retired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind,
my arms dropped, the motion of every muscle and fibre was
suspended; I could feel the blood trickling in my veins, and
tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This state lasted but
for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed into
the room.
Great God! why did I not then expire! Why am I here
to relate the destruction of the best hope, and the purest
creature of earth. She was there, lifeless and inanimate,
thrown across the bed, her head hanging down, and her
pale and distorted features half covered by her hair. Every
where I turn I see the same figure — her bloodless arms and
relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could
I behold this, and live? Alas! life is obstinate, and clings
closest where it is most hated. For a moment only did I lose
recollection; I fainted.
When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the
people of the inn; their countenances expressed a breathless
terror: but the horror of others appeared only as a mockery,
a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from
them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love,
my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been
moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her; and
now, as she lay, her head upon her arm, and a handkerchief
thrown across her face and neck, I might have supposed
her asleep. I rushed towards her, and embraced her with
ardour; but the deathly languor and coldness of the limbs told
me, that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be the
Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous
mark of the fiend’s grasp was on her neck, and the breath
had ceased to issue from her lips.
While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened
to look up. The windows of the room had before been
darkened; and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow
light of the moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had
been thrown back; and, with a sensation of horror not to
be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most
hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster;
he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed
towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the window,
and drawing a pistol from my bosom, shot; but he eluded me,
leaped from his station, and, running with the swiftness of
lightning, plunged into the lake.
The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room.
I pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we
followed the track with boats; nets were cast, but in vain.
After passing several hours, we returned hopeless, most of
my companions believing it to have been a form conjured
by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search
the country, parties going in different directions among the
woods and vines.
I did not accompany them; I was exhausted: a film cov
ered my eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of
fever. In this state I lay on a bed, hardly conscious of what
had happened; my eyes wandered round the room, as if to
seek something that I had lost.
At length I remembered that my father would anxiously
expect the return of Elizabeth and myself, and that I must
return alone. This reflection brought tears into my eyes, and
I wept for a long time; but my thoughts rambled to various
subjects, reflecting on my misfortunes, and their cause. I
was bewildered in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death
of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval,
and lastly of my wife; even at that moment I knew not that
my only remaining friends were safe from the malignity of
the fiend; my father even now might be writhing under his
grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This idea made
me shudder, and recalled me to action. I started up, and
resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed.
There were no horses to be procured, and I must return
by the lake; but the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in
torrents. However, it was hardly morning, and I might reasonably
hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row, and took an
oar myself, for I had always experienced relief from mental
torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now
felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured, rendered me
incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar; and, leaning
my head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that
arose. If I looked up, I saw the scenes which were familiar
to me in my happier time, and which I had contemplated but
the day before in the company of her who was now but a
shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes.
The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play
in the waters as they had done a few hours before; they had
then been observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the
human mind as a great and sudden change. The sun might
shine, or the clouds might lour; but nothing could appear to
me as it had done the day before. A fiend had snatched from
me every hope of future happiness: no creature had ever
been so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in
the history of man.
But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed
this last overwhelming event. Mine has been a tale of horrors;
I have reached their acme, and what I must now relate can
but be tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends
were snatched away; I was left desolate. My own strength is
exhausted; and I must tell, in a few words, what remains of
my hideous narration.
I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived; but
the former sunk under the tidings that I bore. I see him
now, excellent and venerable old man! his eyes wandered
in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their delight —
his niece, his more than daughter, whom he doated on with
all that affection which a man feels, who, in the decline of
life, having few affections, clings more earnestly to those that
remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on
his grey hairs, and doomed him to waste in wretchedness!
He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated
around him; an apoplectic fit was brought on, and in a few
days he died in my arms.
What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation,
and chains and darkness were the only objects that pressed
upon me. Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in
flowery meadows and pleasant vales with the friends of my
youth; but awoke, and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy
followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception
of my miseries and situation, and was then released from
my prison. For they had called me mad; and during many
months, as I understood, a solitary cell had been my habitation.
But liberty had been a useless gift to me had I not, as I
awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge.
As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I
began to reflect on their cause — the monster whom I had
created, the miserable dæmon whom I had sent abroad
into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a
maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and
ardently prayed that I might have him within my grasp to
wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head.
Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes;
I began to reflect on the best means of securing him; and
for this purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired
to a criminal judge in the town, and told him that I had an
accusation to make; that I knew the destroyer of my family;
and that I required him to exert his whole authority for the
apprehension of the murderer.
The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness:
“Be assured, sir,” said he, “no pains or exertions on my
part shall be spared to discover the villain.”
“I thank you,” replied I; “listen, therefore, to the deposition
that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange, that I
should fear you would not credit it, were there not something
in truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The
story is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have
no motive for falsehood.” My manner, as I thus addressed
him, was impressive, but calm; I had formed in my own
heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death; and this
purpose quieted my agony, and provisionally reconciled me
to life. I now related my history briefly, but with firmness
and precision, marking the dates with accuracy, and never
deviating into invective or exclamation.
The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous,
but as I continued he became more attentive and interested;
I saw him sometimes shudder with horror, at others a lively
surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his countenance.
When I had concluded my narration, I said. “This is the
being whom I accuse, and for whose detection and punishment
I call upon you to exert your whole power. It is your duty
as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that your feelings as
a man will not revolt from the execution of those functions on
this occasion.”
This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy
of my auditor. He had heard my story with that half
kind of belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural
events; but when he was called upon to act officially
in consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity returned.
He, however, answered mildly, “I would willingly afford you
every aid in your pursuit; but the creature of whom you speak
appears to have powers which would put all my exertions to
defiance. Who can follow an animal which can traverse the
sea of ice, and inhabit caves and dens, where no man would
venture to intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed
since the commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture
to what place he has wandered, or what region he may
now inhabit.”
“I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I
inhabit; and if he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he
may be hunted like the chamois, and destroyed as a beast
of prey. But I perceive your thoughts: you do not credit my
narrative, and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the
punishment which is his desert.”
As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was
intimidated; “You are mistaken,” said he, “I will exert myself;
and if it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured
that he shall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes.
But I fear, from what you have yourself described to be his
properties, that this will prove impracticable, and that, while
every proper measure is pursued, you should endeavour to
make up your mind to disappointment.”
“That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail.
My revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to
be a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only passion
of my soul. My rage is unspeakable, when I reflect that the
murderer, whom I have turned loose upon society, still exists.
You refuse my just demand: I have but one resource; and I
devote myself, either in my life or death, to his destruction.”
I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there
was a phrenzy in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of
that haughty fierceness, which the martyrs of old are said to
have possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind
was occupied by far other ideas than those of devotion and
heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of
madness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a
child, and reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium.
“Man,” I cried, “how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom!
Cease; you know not what it is you say.”
I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and retired
to meditate on some other mode of action.

MY present situation was one in which all voluntary thought
was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury;
revenge alone endowed me with strength and composure;
it modelled my feelings, and allowed me to be calculating
and calm, at periods when otherwise delirium or death would
have been my portion.
My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country,
which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me,
now, in my adversity, became hateful. I provided myself
with a sum of money, together with a few jewels which had
belonged to my mother, and departed.
And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but
with life. I have traversed a vast portion of the earth, and
have endured all the hardships which travellers, in deserts
and barbarous countries, are wont to meet. How I have lived
I hardly know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs
upon the sandy plain, and prayed for death. But revenge
kept me alive; I dared not die, and leave my adversary in
being.
When I quitted Geneva, my first labour was to gain some
clue by which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy.
But my plan was unsettled; and I wandered many
hours around the confines of the town, uncertain what path
I should pursue. As night approached, I found myself at
the entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and
my father, reposed. I entered it, and approached the tomb
which marked their graves. Every thing was silent, except
the leaves of the trees, which were gently agitated by the
wind; the night was nearly dark; and the scene would have
been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested observer.
The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around, and to cast
a shadow, which was felt but seen not, around the head of
the mourner.
The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly
gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived;
their murderer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag
out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass, and kissed
the earth, and with quivering lips exclaimed, “By the sacred
earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me,
by the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee,
O Night, and by the spirits that preside over thee, I swear
to pursue the dæmon, who caused this misery, until he or I
shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will preserve
my life: to execute this dear revenge, will I again behold the
sun, and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise
should vanish from my eyes for ever. And I call on you, spirits
of the dead; and on you, wandering ministers of vengeance,
to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and hellish
monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that
now torments me.”
I had begun my adjuration with solemnity, and an awe
which almost assured me that the shades of my murdered
friends heard and approved my devotion; but the furies possessed
me as I concluded, and rage choaked my utterance.
I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud
and fiendish laugh. It rung on my ears long and heavily; the
mountains re-echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me
with mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I should
have been possessed by phrenzy, and have destroyed my
miserable existence, but that my vow was heard, and that I
was reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away: when
a well-known and abhorred voice, apparently close to my
ear, addressed me in an audible whisper — “I am satisfied:
miserable wretch! you have determined to live, and I am
satisfied.”
I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded;
but the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad
disk of the moon arose, and shone full upon his ghastly and
distorted shape, as he fled with more than mortal speed.
I pursued him; and for many months this has been my
task. Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings of the
Rhone, but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared; and,
by a strange chance, I saw the fiend enter by night, and
hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my
passage in the same ship; but he escaped, I know not how.
Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still
evaded me, I have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the
peasants, scared by this horrid apparition, informed me of
his path; sometimes he himself, who feared that if I lost all
trace I should despair and die, often left some mark to guide
me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw the print
of his huge step on the white plain. To you first entering on
life, to whom care is new, and agony unknown, how can you
understand what I have felt, and still feel? Cold, want, and
fatigue, were the least pains which I was destined to endure;
I was cursed by some devil, and carried about with me my
eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good followed and directed my
steps, and, when I most murmured, would suddenly extricate
me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes,
when nature, overcome by hunger, sunk under the exhaustion,
a repast was prepared for me in the desert, that restored
and inspirited me. The fare was indeed coarse, such as the
peasants of the country ate; but I may not doubt that it was
set there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me. Often,
when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I was parched
by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few
drops that revived me, and vanish.
I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but
the dæmon generally avoided these, as it was here that the
population of the country chiefly collected. In other places
human beings were seldom seen; and I generally subsisted
on the wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with
me, and gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing
it, or bringing with me some food that I had killed, which,
after taking a small part, I always presented to those who
had provided me with fire and utensils for cooking.
My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and
it was during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed
sleep! often, when most miserable, I sank to repose, and my
dreams lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that guarded
me had provided these moments, or rather hours, of happiness,
that I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage.
Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships.
During the day I was sustained and inspirited by the
hope of night: for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my
beloved country; again I saw the benevolent countenance
of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth’s voice,
and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when
wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was
dreaming until night should come, and that I should then enjoy
reality in the arms of my dearest friends. What agonizing
fondness did I feel for them! how did I cling to their dear
forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking hours,
and persuade myself that they still lived! At such moments
vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart, and
I pursued my path towards the destruction of the dæmon,
more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the mechanical impulse
of some power of which I was unconscious, than as
the ardent desire of my soul.
What his feelings were whom I pursued, I cannot know.
Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of
the trees, or cut in stone, that guided me, and instigated my
fury. “My reign is not yet over,” (these words were legible
in one of these inscriptions); “you live, and my power is
complete. Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices of the north,
where you will feel the misery of cold and frost, to which I
am impassive. You will find near this place, if you follow not
too tardily, a dead hare; eat, and be refreshed. Come on, my
enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives; but many hard
and miserable hours must you endure, until that period shall
arrive.”
Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I
devote thee, miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never
will I omit my search, until he or I perish; and then with what
ecstacy shall I join my Elizabeth, and those who even now
prepare for me the reward of my tedious toil and horrible
pilgrimage.
As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows
thickened, and the cold increased in a degree almost too
severe to support. The peasants were shut up in their hovels,
and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to seize the
animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places
to seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no
fish could be procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief
article of maintenance.
The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of
my labours. One inscription that he left was in these words:
“Prepare! your toils only begin: wrap yourself in furs, and
provide food, for we shall soon enter upon a journey where
your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred.”
My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these
scoffing words; I resolved not to fail in my purpose; and,
calling on heaven to support me, I continued with unabated
fervour to traverse immense deserts, until the ocean appeared
at a distance, and formed the utmost boundary of the
horizon. Oh! how unlike it was to the blue seas of the south!
Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land
by its superior wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept
for joy when they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of
Asia, and hailed with rapture the boundary of their toils. I did
not weep; but I knelt down, and, with a full heart, thanked my
guiding spirit for conducting me in safety to the place where
I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary’s gibe, to meet and
grapple with him.
Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge
and dogs, and thus traversed the snows with inconceivable
speed. I know not whether the fiend possessed the same
advantages; but I found that, as before I had daily lost ground
in the pursuit, I now gained on him; so much so, that when I
first saw the ocean, he was but one day’s journey in advance,
and I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the
beach. With new courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in
two days arrived at a wretched hamlet on the seashore. I
inquired of the inhabitants concerning the fiend, and gained
accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said, had
arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols;
putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage, through
fear of his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store
of winter food, and, placing it in a sledge, to draw which he
had seized on a numerous drove of trained dogs, he had
harnessed them, and the same night, to the joy of the horrorstruck
villagers, had pursued his journey across the sea in
a direction that led to no land; and they conjectured that he
must speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the ice, or
frozen by the eternal frosts.
On hearing this information, I suffered a temporary access
of despair. He had escaped me; and I must commence
a destructive and almost endless journey across the mountainous
ices of the ocean, — amidst cold that few of the
inhabitants could long endure, and which I, the native of a
genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at
the idea that the fiend should live and be triumphant, my
rage and vengeance returned, and, like a mighty tide, overwhelmed
every other feeling. After a slight repose, during
which the spirits of the dead hovered round, and instigated
me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey.
I exchanged my land sledge for one fashioned for the
inequalities of the frozen ocean; and, purchasing a plentiful
stock of provisions, I departed from land.
I cannot guess how many days have passed since then;
but I have endured misery, which nothing but the eternal sentiment
of a just retribution burning within my heart could have
enabled me to support. Immense and rugged mountains
of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard the
thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruction.
But again the frost came, and made the paths of the sea
secure.
By the quantity of provision which I had consumed I
should guess that I had passed three weeks in this journey;
and the continual protraction of hope, returning back upon
the heart, often wrung bitter drops of despondency and grief
from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her prey,
and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery; when once,
after the poor animals that carried me had with incredible toil
gained the summit of a sloping ice mountain, and one sinking
under his fatigue died, I viewed the expanse before me with
anguish, when suddenly my eye caught a dark speck upon
the dusky plain. I strained my sight to discover what it could
be, and uttered a wild cry of ecstacy when I distinguished a
sledge, and the distorted proportions of a well-known form
within. Oh! with what a burning gush did hope revisit my
heart! warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away,
that they might not intercept the view I had of the dæmon;
but still my sight was dimmed by the burning drops, until,
giving way to the emotions that oppressed me, I wept aloud.
But this was not the time for delay; I disencumbered the
dogs of their dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion
of food; and, after an hour’s rest, which was absolutely necessary,
and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continued
my route. The sledge was still visible; nor did I again lose
sight of it, except at the moments when for a short time some
ice rock concealed it with its intervening crags. I indeed
perceptibly gained on it; and when, after nearly two days’
journey, I beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant,
my heart bounded within me.
But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my
enemy, my hopes were suddenly extinguished, and I lost
all trace of him more utterly than I had ever done before.
A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its progress, as
the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every
moment more ominous and terrific. I pressed on, but in
vain. The wind arose; the sea roared; and, as with the
mighty shock of an earthquake, it split, and cracked with a
tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon
finished: in a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between
me and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered piece
of ice, that was continually lessening, and thus preparing for
me a hideous death.
In this manner many appalling hours passed; several
of my dogs died; and I myself was about to sink under the
accumulation of distress, when I saw your vessel riding at
anchor, and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life. I
had no conception that vessels ever came so far north, and
was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my
sledge to construct oars; and by these means was enabled,
with infinite fatigue, to move my ice-raft in the direction of
your ship. I had determined, if you were going southward,
still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas, rather than
abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me
a boat with which I could still pursue my enemy. But your
direction was northward. You took me on board when my
vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under
my multiplied hardships into a death, which I still dread, —
for my task is unfulfilled.
Oh! when will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the
dæmon, allow me the rest I so much desire; or must I die,
and he yet live? If I do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not
escape; that you will seek him, and satisfy my vengeance in
his death. Yet, do I dare ask you to undertake my pilgrimage,
to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No; I am
not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear;
if the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you,
swear that he shall not live — swear that he shall not triumph
over my accumulated woes, and live to make another such a
wretch as I am. He is eloquent and persuasive; and once his
words had even power over my heart: but trust him not. His
soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and fiend-like
malice. Hear him not; call on the manes of William, Justine,
Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and
thrust your sword into his heart. I will hover near, and direct
the steel aright. WALTON, in continuation.
August 26th, 17— .
YOU have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and
do you not feel your blood congealed with horror, like that
which even now curdles mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden
agony, he could not continue his tale; at others, his
voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with difficulty the words
so replete with agony. His fine and lovely eyes were now
lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow,
and quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded
his countenance and tones, and related the most
horrible incidents with a tranquil voice, suppressing every
mark of agitation; then, like a volcano bursting forth, his face
would suddenly change to an expression of the wildest rage,
as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor.
His tale is connected, and told with an appearance of the
simplest truth; yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and
Safie, which he shewed me, and the apparition of the monster,
seen from our ship, brought to me a greater conviction
of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations, however
earnest and connected. Such a monster has then really
existence; I cannot doubt it; yet I am lost in surprise and
admiration. Sometimes I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein
the particulars of his creature’s formation; but on this
point he was impenetrable.
“Are you mad, my friend?” said he, “or whither does your
senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for
yourself and the world a demoniacal enemy? Or to what do
your questions tend? Peace, peace! learn my miseries, and
do not seek to increase your own.”
Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning
his history: he asked to see them, and then himself corrected
and augmented them in many places; but principally in giving
the life and spirit to the conversations he held with his enemy.
“Since you have preserved my narration,” said he, “I would
not that a mutilated one should go down to posterity.”
Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to
the strangest tale that ever imagination formed. My thoughts,
and every feeling of my soul, have been drunk up by the
interest for my guest, which this tale, and his own elevated
and gentle manners have created. I wish to soothe him;
yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of
every hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no! the only joy that
he can now know will be when he composes his shattered
feelings to peace and death. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the
offspring of solitude and delirium: he believes, that, when in
dreams he holds converse with his friends, and derives from
that communion consolation for his miseries, or excitements
to his vengeance, that they are not the creations of his fancy,
but the real beings who visit him from the regions of a remote
world. This faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that render
them to me almost as imposing and interesting as truth.
Our conversations are not always confined to his own
history and misfortunes. On every point of general literature
he displays unbounded knowledge, and a quick and piercing
apprehension. His eloquence is forcible and touching; nor
can I hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident, or endeavours
to move the passions of pity or love, without tears.
What a glorious creature must he have been in the days of
his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin. He
seems to feel his own worth, and the greatness of his fall.
“When younger,” said he, “I felt as if I were destined for
some great enterprise. My feelings are profound; but I possessed
a coolness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious
achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my nature
supported me, when others would have been oppressed;
for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those
talents that might be useful to my fellow-creatures. When I
reflected on the work I had completed, no less a one than
the creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not
rank myself with the herd of common projectors. But this
feeling, which supported me in the commencement of my
career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All
my speculations and hopes are as nothing; and, like the
archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an
eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of
analysis and application were intense; by the union of these
qualities I conceived the idea, and executed the creation of
a man. Even now I cannot recollect, without passion, my
reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in
my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with
the idea of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with
high hopes and a lofty ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh!
my friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would
not recognize me in this state of degradation. Despondency
rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me
on, until I fell, never, never again to rise.”
Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for
a friend; I have sought one who would sympathize with and
love me. Behold, on these desert seas I have found such
a one; but, I fear, I have gained him only to know his value,
and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses
the idea.
“I thank you, Walton,” he said, “for your kind intentions towards
so miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties,
and fresh affections, think you that any can replace those
who are gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval was; or any
woman another Elizabeth? Even where the affections are not
strongly moved by any superior excellence, the companions
of our childhood always possess a certain power over our
minds, which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know
our infantine dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards
modified, are never eradicated; and they can judge of
our actions with more certain conclusions as to the integrity
of our motives. A sister or a brother can never, unless indeed
such symptoms have been shewn early, suspect the other of
fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however strongly
he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be invaded with
suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit
and association, but from their own merits; and, wherever I
am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth, and the conversation
of Clerval, will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead;
and but one feeling in such a solitude can persuade me to
preserve my life. If I were engaged in any high undertaking
or design, fraught with extensive utility to my fellow-creatures,
then could I live to fulfil it. But such is not my destiny; I must
pursue and destroy the being to whom I gave existence; then
my lot on earth will be fulfilled, and I may die.”
September 2d.
MY BELOVED SISTER,
I write to you, encompassed by peril, and ignorant whether
I am ever doomed to see again dear England, and the
dearer friends that inhabit it. I am surrounded by mountains
of ice, which admit of no escape, and threaten every moment
to crush my vessel. The brave fellows, whom I have persuaded
to be my companions, look towards me for aid; but I
have none to bestow. There is something terribly appalling
in our situation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert me.
We may survive; and if we do not, I will repeat the lessons of
my Seneca, and die with a good heart.
Yet what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You
will not hear of my destruction, and you will anxiously await
my return. Years will pass, and you will have visitings of
despair, and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! my beloved sister,
the sickening failings of your heart-felt expectations are, in
prospect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you
have a husband, and lovely children; you may be happy:
heaven bless you, and make you so!
My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion.
He endeavours to fill me with hope; and talks as if
life were a possession which he valued. He reminds me how
often the same accidents have happened to other navigators,
who have attempted this sea, and, in spite of myself, he fills
me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the power
of his eloquence: when he speaks, they no longer despair;
he rouses their energies, and, while they hear his voice, they
believe these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills, which will
vanish before the resolutions of man. These feelings are
transitory; each day’s expectation delayed fills them with fear,
and I almost dread a mutiny caused by this despair.
September 5th.
A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest, that
although it is highly probable that these papers may never
reach you, yet I cannot forbear recording it.
We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent
danger of being crushed in their conflict. The cold is ex
cessive, and many of my unfortunate comrades have already
found a grave amidst this scene of desolation. Frankenstein
has daily declined in health: a feverish fire still glimmers in his
eyes; but he is exhausted, and, when suddenly roused to any
exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent lifelessness.
I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of
a mutiny. This morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance
of my friend — his eyes half closed, and his limbs
hanging listlessly, — I was roused by half a dozen of the
sailors, who desired admission into the cabin. They entered;
and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his
companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in
deputation to me, to make me a demand, which, in justice, I
could not refuse. We were immured in ice, and should probably
never escape; but they feared that if, as was possible, the
ice should dissipate, and a free passage be opened, I should
be rash enough to continue my voyage, and lead them into
fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this.
They desired, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn
promise, that if the vessel should be freed, I would instantly
direct my coarse southward.
This speech troubled me. I had not despaired; nor had I
yet conceived the idea of returning, if set free. Yet could I, in
justice, or even in possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated
before I answered; when Frankenstein, who had at first been
silent, and, indeed, appeared hardly to have force enough
to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled, and his
cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the
men, he said —
“What do you mean? What do you demand of your
captain? Are you then so easily turned from your design?
Did you not call this a glorious expedition? and wherefore
was it glorious? Not because the way was smooth and placid
as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and
terror; because, at every new incident, your fortitude was to
be called forth, and your courage exhibited; because danger
and death surrounded, and these dangers 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 name adored, as
belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour
and the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first
imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and
terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away, and are content
to be handed down as men who had not strength enough to
endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls, they were chilly,
and returned to their warm fire-sides. Why, that requires
not this preparation; ye need not have come thus far, and
dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat, merely to
prove yourselves cowards. Oh! be men, or be more than
men. Be steady to your purposes, and firm as a rock. This
ice is not made of such stuff as your hearts might be; it is
mutable, cannot withstand you, if you say that it shall not.
Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace
marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought
and conquered, and who know not what it is to turn their
backs on the foe.”
He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different
feelings expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty
design and heroism, that can you wonder that these men
were moved. They looked at one another, and were unable
to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire, and consider of what
had been said: that I would not lead them further north, if
they strenuously desired the contrary; but that I hoped that,
with reflection, their courage would return.
They retired, and I turned towards my friend; but he was
sunk in languor, and almost deprived of life.
How all this will terminate, I know not; but I had rather
die, than return shamefully, — my purpose unfulfilled. Yet
I fear such will be my fate; the men, unsupported by ideas
of glory and honour, can never willingly continue to endure
their present hardships.
September 7th.
The die is cast; I have consented to return, if we are not
destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision;
I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires
more philosophy than I possess, to bear this injustice with
patience.
September 12th.
It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my
hopes of utility and glory; — I have lost my friend. But I will
endeavour to detail these bitter circumstances to you, my
dear sister; and, while I am wafted towards England, and
towards you, I will not despond.
September 19th, the ice began to move, and roarings like
thunder were heard at a distance, as the islands split and
cracked in every direction. We were in the most imminent
peril; but, as we could only remain passive, my chief attention
was occupied by my unfortunate guest, whose illness
increased in such a degree, that he was entirely confined
to his bed. The ice cracked behind us, and was driven with
force towards the north; a breeze sprung from the west, and
on the 11th the passage towards the south became perfectly
free. When the sailors saw this, and that their return
to their native country was apparently assured, a shout of
250 Chapter VII
tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and long-continued.
Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke, and asked the cause
of the tumult. “They shout,” I said, “because they will soon
return to England.”
“Do you then really return?”
“Alas! yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot
lead them unwillingly to danger, and I must return.”
“Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose;
but mine is assigned to me by heaven, and I dare not.
I am weak; but surely the spirits who assist my vengeance
will endow me with sufficient strength.” Saying this, he endeavoured
to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too
great for him; he fell back, and fainted.
It was long before he was restored; and I often thought
that life was entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes,
but he breathed with difficulty, and was unable to speak. The
surgeon gave him a composing draught, and ordered us to
leave him undisturbed. In the mean time he told me, that my
friend had certainly not many hours to live.
His sentence was pronounced; and I could only grieve,
and be patient. I sat by his bed watching him; his eyes
were closed, and I thought he slept; but presently he called
to me in a feeble voice, and, bidding me come near, said
— “Alas! the strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I shall
soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be
in being. Think not, Walton, that in the last moments of
my existence I feel that burning hatred, and ardent desire
of revenge, I once expressed, but I feel myself justified in
desiring the death of my adversary. During these last days I
have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor do I
find it blameable. 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 my fellow-creatures had greater claims to
my attention, because they included a greater proportion of
happiness or misery. Urged by this view, I refused, and I did
right in refusing, to create a companion for the first creature.
He shewed unparalleled malignity and selfishness, in evil: he
destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction beings who
possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor
do I know where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable
himself, that he may render no other wretched, he ought to
die. The task of his destruction was mine, but I have failed.
When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I asked you
to undertake my unfinished work; and I renew this request
now, when I am only induced by reason and virtue.
“Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and
friends, to fulfil this task; and now, that you are returning
to England, you will have little chance of meeting with him.
But the consideration of these points, and the well-balancing
of what you may esteem your duties, I leave to you; my judgment
and ideas are already disturbed by the near approach
of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I may
still be misled by passion.
“That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs
me; in other respects this hour, when I momentarily
expect my release, is the only happy one which I have enjoyed
for several years. The forms of the beloved dead flit
before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell, Walton!
Seek happiness in tranquillity, and avoid ambition, even if it
be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself
in science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I
have myself been blasted in these hopes, yet another may
succeed.”
His voice became fainter as he spoke; and at length,
exhausted by his effort, he sunk into silence. About half
an hour afterwards he attempted again to speak, but was
unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes closed for
ever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away from
his lips.
Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction
of this glorious spirit? What can I say, that will enable
you to understand the depth of my sorrow? All that I should
express would be inadequate and feeble. My tears flow; my
mind is overshadowed by a cloud of disappointment. But I
journey towards England, and I may there find consolation.
I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is
midnight; the breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck
scarcely stir. Again; there is a sound as of a human voice,
but hoarser; it comes from the cabin where the remains of
Frankenstein still lie. I must arise, and examine. Good night,
my sister.
Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet
dizzy with the remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I
shall have the power to detail it; yet the tale which I have
recorded would be incomplete without this final and wonderful
catastrophe.
I entered the cabin, where lay the remains of my ill-fated
and admirable friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot
find words to describe; gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and
distorted in its proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his
face was concealed by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast
hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture like that
of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my approach, he
ceased to utter exclamations of grief and horror, and sprung
towards the window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible
as his face, of such loathsome, yet appalling hideousness.
I shut my eyes involuntarily, and endeavoured to recollect
what were my duties with regard to this destroyer. I called on
him to stay.
He paused, looking on me with wonder; and, again turning
towards the lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to
forget my presence, and every feature and gesture seemed
instigated by the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion.
“That is also my victim!” he exclaimed; “in his murder
my crimes are consummated; the miserable series of my
being is wound to its close! Oh, Frankenstein! generous and
self-devoted being! what does it avail that I now ask thee to
pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by destroying
all thou lovedst. Alas! he is cold; he may not answer me.”
His voice seemed suffocated; and my first impulses,
which had suggested to me the duty of obeying the dying
request of my friend, in destroying his enemy, were now
suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion. I approached
this tremendous being; I dared not again raise my
looks upon his face, there was something so scaring and
unearthly in his ugliness. I attempted to speak, but the words
died away on my lips. The monster continued to utter wild
and incoherent self-reproaches. At length I gathered resolution
to address him, in a pause of the tempest of his passion:
“Your repentance,” I said, “is now superfluous. If you had
listened to the voice of conscience, and heeded the stings of
remorse, before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to
this extremity, Frankenstein would yet have lived.”
“And do you dream?” said the dæmon; “do you think
that I was then dead to agony and remorse? — He,” he
continued, pointing to the corpse, “he suffered not more in
the consummation of the deed; —oh! not the ten-thousandth
portion of the anguish that was mine during the lingering
detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me on,
while my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think ye that
the groans of Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was
fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy; and, when
wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the
violence of the change without torture such as you cannot
even imagine.
“After the murder of Clerval, I returned to Switzerland,
heart-broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity
amounted to horror: I abhorred myself. But when I discovered
that he, the author at once of my existence and of its
unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness; that
while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me,
he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from
the indulgence of which I was for ever barred, then impotent
envy and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst
for vengeance. I recollected my threat, and resolved that
it should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for
myself a deadly torture; but I was the slave, not the master
of an impulse, which I detested, yet could not disobey. Yet
when she died! — nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast
off all feeling, subdued all anguish to riot in the excess of my
despair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I
had no choice but to adapt my nature to an element which
I had willingly chosen. The completion of my demoniacal
design became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended;
there is my last victim!”
I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery;
yet when I called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his
powers of eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast
my eyes on the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was
re-kindled within me. “Wretch!” I said, “it is well that you
come here to whine over the desolation that you have made.
You throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they
are consumed you sit among the ruins, and lament the fall.
Hypocritical fiend! if he whom you mourn still lived, still would
he be the object, again would he become the prey of your
accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you feel; you lament
only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn from
your power.”
“Oh, it is not thus — not thus,” interrupted the being;
“yet such must be the impression conveyed to you by what
appears to be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a
fellow-feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find.
When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the feelings
of happiness and affection with which my whole being overflowed,
that I wished to be participated. But now, that virtue
has become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection
are turned into bitter and loathing despair, in what should
I seek for sympathy? I am content to suffer alone, while my
sufferings shall endure: when I die, I am well satisfied that
abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once
my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of
enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings, who,
pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent
qualities which I was capable of bringing forth. I was
nourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But
now vice has degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No
crime, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found
comparable to mine. When I call over the frightful catalogue
of my deeds, I cannot believe that I am he whose thoughts
were once filled with sublime and transcendant visions of
the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so;
the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that
enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his
desolation; I am quite alone.
“You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have
a knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes. But, in the
detail which he gave you of them, he could not sum up the
hours and months of misery which I endured, wasting in
impotent passions. For whilst I destroyed his hopes, I did
not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and
craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still
spurned. Was there no injustice in this? Am I to be thought
the only criminal, when all human kind sinned against me?
Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend from his
door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic
who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these
are virtuous and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the
abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked,
and trampled on. Even now my blood boils at the recollection
of this injustice.
“But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the
lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they
slept, and grasped to death his throat who never injured me
or any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select
specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among
men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable
ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me;
but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard
myself. I look on the hands which executed the deed; I think
on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived,
and long for the moment when they will meet my eyes, when
it will haunt my thoughts, no more.
“Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief.
My work is nearly complete. Neither your’s nor any man’s
death is needed to consummate the series of my being, and
accomplish that which must be done; but it requires my own.
Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice.
I shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft which brought me
hither, and shall seek the most northern extremity of the
globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes
this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to
any curious and unhallowed wretch, who would create such
another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the
agonies which now consume me, or be the prey of feelings
unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me into
being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance
of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun
or stars, or feel the winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling,
and sense, will pass away; and in this condition must I find
my happiness. Some years ago, when the images which this
world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering
warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of the leaves and
the chirping 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 human kind
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 hast not yet ceased to
think and feel, thou desirest not my life for my own misery.
Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine;
for the bitter sting of remorse may not cease to rankle in my
wounds until death shall close them for ever.
“But soon,” he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I
shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these
burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile
triumphantly, and exult in the agony of the torturing flames.
The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will
be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in
peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell.”
He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon
the ice-raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne
away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance.
THE END.

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