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                               1818

                           FRANKENSTEIN

                    OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS

                  by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley


                              PREFACE


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 develops; 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 avoiding 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 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 anything 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.


Marlow, September, 1817.

                         LETTER I

                To Mrs. Saville, England.

YOU will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the
commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil
forebodings. I arrived here yesterday; and my first task is to assure my
dear sister of my welfare, and increasing confidence in the success of
my undertaking.

I am already far north of London; and as I walk in the streets of
Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which
braces my nerves, and fills me with delight. Do you understand this
feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which
I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by
this wind of promise, my 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 disc 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 play be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and
in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its
productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the
heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What
may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover
the wondrous power which attracts the needle; and may regulate a
thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage to render
their seeming eccentricities consistent forever. I shall satiate my
ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before
visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man.
These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of
danger or death, and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with
the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday
mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But, supposing
all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable
benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation, by
discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which
at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret
of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an
undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my
letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to
heaven; for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a
steady purpose- a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.
This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have
read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been
made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the
seas which surround the pole. You may remember that a history of all the
voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good
uncle Thomas'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 seafaring life.

These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets
whose effusions entranced my soul, and lifted it to heaven. I also
became a poet, and for one year lived in a Paradise of my own creation;
I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the
names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted
with my failure, and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at
that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were
turned into the channel of their earlier bent.

Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can,
even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great
enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied
the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily
endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder
than the common sailors during the day, and devoted my nights to the
study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of
physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest
practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a
Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt
a little proud when my captain offered me the second dignity in the
vessel, and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness; so
valuable did he consider my services.

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great
purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury; but I
preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh,
that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage
and my resolution are firm; but my hopes fluctuate and my spirits are
often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage,
the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not
only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own,
when theirs are failing.

This is the most 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 wrapped in furs- a dress which I have
already adopted; for there is a great difference between walking the
deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise
prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no
ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and
Archangel.

I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my
intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying
the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think
necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not
intend to sail until the month of June and when shall I return? Ah, dear
sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months,
perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will
see me again soon, or never.

Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on
you, and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for
all your love and kindness.- Your affectionate brother,


                                                R. Walton.

                       LETTER II



HOW slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow!
yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel,
and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already
engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend, and are certainly
possessed of dauntless courage.

But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy; and the
absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil. I have
no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success,
there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by
disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I
shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium
for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who
could sympathise with me; whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem
me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I
have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as
well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or
amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor
brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too impatient of
difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am
self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a
common, and read nothing but our uncle Thomas'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 twenty-eight, and am in reality more illiterate
than many schoolboys 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: or rather, to
word my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his
profession. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and
professional prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the
noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on
board a whale vessel: finding that he was unemployed in this city, I
easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.

The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is remarkable in
the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This
circumstance, added to his well known integrity and dauntless courage,
made me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best
years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the
groundwork of my character that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to
the usual brutality exercised on board ship: have never believed it to
be necessary; and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his
kindliness of heart, and the respect and obedience paid to him by his
crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to secure his
services. I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady
who owes to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story.
Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune; and
having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl
consented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined
ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and, throwing herself at his
feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same time that she
loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father would never
consent to the union. My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on
being informed of the name of her lover, instantly abandoned his
pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had
designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on
his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase
stock, and then himself solicited the young woman's father to consent to
her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking
himself bound in honour to my friend; who, when he found the father
inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his
former mistress was married according to her inclinations. "What a noble
fellow!" you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is wholly uneducated:
he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends
him, which, while it renders his conduct the more astonishing, detracts
from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would command.

Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little, or because I can
conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know that I am
wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate; and my voyage is
only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The
winter has been dreadfully severe; but the spring promises well, and it
is considered as a remarkably early season; so that perhaps I may sail
sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly: you know me
sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the
safety of others is committed to my care.

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of
undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the
trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am
preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to "the land of
mist and snow"; but I shall kill no albatross, therefore do not be
alarmed for my safety, or if I should come back to you as worn and
woeful as the "Ancient Mariner." You will smile at my allusion but I
will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to, my
passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean, to that
production of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something
at work in my soul which I do not understand. I am practically
industrious- painstaking;- a workman to execute with perseverance and
labour:- but besides this, there is a love for the marvellous, a belief
in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out
of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited
regions I am about to explore.

But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after
having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of
Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to
look on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to
me by every opportunity; I may receive your letters on some occasions
when I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly.
Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.- Your
affectionate brother,


                                          Robert Walton.

                      LETTER III



MY DEAR Sister,- I write a few lines in haste, to say that I am safe,
and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a
merchantman now on its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate
than I, who may not see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am,
however, in good spirits: my men are bold, and apparently firm of
purpose; nor do the floating sheets of ice that continually pass us,
indicating the dangers of the region towards which we are advancing,
appear to dismay them. We have already reached a very high latitude; but
it is the height of summer, and although not so warm as in England, the
southern gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so
ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I
had not expected.

No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a
letter. One or two stiff gales, and the springing of a leak, are
accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record; and
I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.

Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake, as well as
yours, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering,
and prudent.

But success shall crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have
gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas: the very stars
themselves being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still
proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the
determined heart and resolved will of man?

My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must
finish. Heaven bless my beloved sister!


                                                    R.W.

                      LETTER IV



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 the 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 showed signs of life we wrapped him up in
blankets, and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow
degrees he recovered, and ate a little soup, which restored him
wonderfully.

Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak; and I often
feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he
had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin, and
attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more
interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of wildness,
and even madness, but there are moments when, if anyone performs an act
of kindness towards him, or does him any the most trifling service, his
whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence
and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy
and despairing; and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of
the weight of woes that oppresses him.

When my guest was a little recovered, I had great trouble to keep off
the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not
allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body
and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once,
however, the lieutenant asked, Why he had come so far upon the ice in so
strange a vehicle?

His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom; and he
replied, "To seek one who fled from me."

"And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?"

"Yes."

"Then I fancy we have seen him; for the day before we picked you up, we
saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice."

This aroused the stranger's attention; and he asked a multitude of
questions concerning the route which the daemon, as he called him, had
pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said,- "I have,
doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good people;
but you are too considerate to make inquiries."

"Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to
trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine."

"And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have
benevolently restored me to life."

Soon after this he inquired if I thought that the breaking up of the ice
had destroyed the other sledge? I replied that I could not answer with
any degree of certainty; for the ice had not broken until near midnight,
and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety before that
time; but of this I could not judge.

From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the
stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck, to watch
for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to
remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of
the atmosphere. I have promised that 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.



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 deck,
apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although
unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery but that he
interests himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently
conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him without
disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour of my
eventual success, and into every minute detail of the measures I had
taken to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he evinced to
use the language of my heart; to give utterance to the burning ardour of
my soul; and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I
would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the
furtherance of my enterprise. One man's life or death were but a small
price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought; for
the dominion I should acquire and transmit over the elemental foes of
our race. As I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my listener's
countenance. At first I perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion;
he placed his hands before his eyes; and my voice quivered and failed
me, as I beheld tears trickle fast from between his fingers- a groan
burst from his heaving breast. I paused;- at length he spoke, in broken
accents:- "Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you drank also of
the intoxicating draught? Hear me- let me reveal my tale, and you will
dash the cup from your lips!"

Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the
paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened
powers, and many hours of repose and tranquil conversation were
necessary to restore his composure.

Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise
himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of
despair, he led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He
asked me the history of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told: but
it awakened various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of
finding a friend- of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a
fellow mind than had ever fallen to my lot; and expressed my conviction
that a man could boast of little happiness, who did not enjoy this
blessing.

"I agree with you," replied the stranger; "we are unfashioned creatures,
but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves such a
friend ought to be- do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and
faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble of human creatures,
and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting friendship. You have
hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for despair. But I- I
have lost everything, and cannot begin life anew."

As he said this, his countenance became expressive of a calm settled
grief that touched me to the heart. But he was silent, and presently
retired to his cabin.

Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does
the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight
afforded by these wonderful regions, seem still to have the power of
elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may
suffer misery, and be overwhelmed by disappointments; yet, when he has
retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit that has a halo
around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.

Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine
wanderer? You would not if you saw him. You have been tutored and
refined by books and retirement from the world, and you are, therefore,
somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit to
appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I
have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses that
elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I
believe it to be an intuitive discernment; a quick but never-failing
power of judgment; a penetration into the causes of things, unequalled
for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression, and a
voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.



Yesterday the stranger said to me, "You may easily perceive, Captain
Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had
determined, at one time, that the memory of these evils should die with
me; but you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for
knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the
gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine
has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be useful
to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same course,
exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am,
I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale; one that may
direct you if you succeed in your undertaking, and console you in case
of failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed
marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature, I might fear to
encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will
appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which would provoke
the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of
nature:- nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series internal
evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed."

You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered
communication; yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by
a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the
promised narrative, partly from curiosity, and partly from a strong
desire to ameliorate his fate, if it were in my power. I expressed these
feelings in my answer.

"I thank you," he replied, "for your sympathy, but it is useless; my
fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall
repose in peace. I understand your feeling," continued he, perceiving
that I wished to interrupt him; "but you are mistaken, my friend, if
thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my destiny: listen
to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined."

He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when I
should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I
have resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my
duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has
related during the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make
notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure;
but to me, who know him, and who hear it from his own lips, with what
interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I
commence my task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous
eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin
hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are
irradiated by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story;
frightful the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course, and
wrecked it- thus!

                      CHAPTER I


I AM by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most distinguished
of that republic.

My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics; and my
father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation.
He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable
attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually
occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had
prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that
he became a husband and the father of a family.

As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot
refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a
merchant, who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous
mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a
proud and unbending disposition, and could not bear to live in poverty
and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been
distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts,
therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter
to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My
father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship, and was deeply grieved
by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored
the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little worthy of
the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring to seek
him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin the world again
through his credit and assistance.

Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself; and it was ten
months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this
discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean
street, near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone
welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the
wreck of his fortunes; but it was sufficient to provide him with
sustenance for some months, and in the meantime he hoped to procure some
respectable employment in a merchant's house. The interval was,
consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and
rankling when he had leisure for reflection; and at length it took so
fast hold of his mind that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of
sickness, incapable any exertion.

His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness- but she saw with
despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing, and that there
was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind
of an uncommon mould; and her courage rose to support her in her
adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw; and by various
means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life.

Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time
was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence
decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving
her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her; and she knelt
by Beaufort's coffin, weeping bitterly, when my father entered the
chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who
committed herself to his care; and after the interment of his friend, he
conducted her to Geneva, and placed her under the protection of a
relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.

There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but
this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted
affection. There was a sense of justice in my father's upright mind,
which rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love
strongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the
late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved, and so was disposed to set
a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and
worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the
doating fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her
virtues, and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing
her for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace
to his behaviour to her. Everything was made to yield to her wishes and
her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered
by the gardener, from every rougher wind, and to surround her with all
that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and benevolent
mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto constant
spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During the two
years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had
gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after
their union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of
scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders, as
a restorative for her weakened frame.

From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was
born in Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I
remained for several years their only child. Much as they were attached
to each other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection
from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother's tender
caresses, and my father's smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding
me, are my first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol,
and something better- their child, the innocent and helpless creature
bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future
lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness fulfilled their duties
towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they owed towards the
being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit of
tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during
every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of
charity, and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all
seemed but one train of enjoyment to me.

For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to
have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was
about five years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of
Italy, they passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their
benevolent disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor.
This, to my mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a passion-
remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been relieved- for
her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one
of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale attracted their
notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of
half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst
shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milain, my mother,
accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife,
hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal
to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my
mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The
four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin,
and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold, and despite the
poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of distinction on her
head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her
lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of sensibility and
sweetness, that none could behold her without looking on her as of a
distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp in
all her features.

The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wondering
admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She
was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother
was a German, and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been
placed with these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They
had not been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The
father of their charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of
the antique glory of Italy- one among the schiaviognor frementi, who
exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the
victim of weakness. Whether he had died, or still lingered in the
dungeons of Austria, was not known. His property was confiscated, his
child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her foster
parents, and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose
among dark-leaved brambles.

When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall
of our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub- a creature who seemed
to shed radiance from her looks, and whose form and motions were lighter
than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With
his permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield
their charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence
had seemed a blessing to them; but it would be unfair to her to keep her
in poverty and want, when Providence afforded her such powerful
protection. They consulted their village priest, and the result was that
Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents' house- my more than
sister- the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and my
pleasures.

Everyone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential
attachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my
pride and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my
home, my mother had said playfully- "I have a pretty present for my
Victor- tomorrow he shall have it." And when, on the morrow, she
presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish
seriousness, interpreted her words literally, and looked upon Elizabeth
as mine- mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on
her, I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other
familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body
forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me- my more than
sister, since till death she was to be mine only.

                      CHAPTER II


WE WERE brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in
our ages. I need not say that we were strangers to any species of
disunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the
diversity and contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer
together. Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition;
but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense application,
and was more deeply smitten with a thirst for knowledge. She busied
herself with following the aerial creations of the poets; and in the
majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss home- the
sublime shapes of the mountains; the changes of the seasons; tempest and
calm; the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of our Alpine
summers- she found ample scope for admiration and delight. While my
companion contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit the
magnificent appearances of things, I delighted in investigating their
causes. The world was to me a secret which I desired to divine.
Curiosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature, gladness
akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the earliest
sensations I can remember.

On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave
up entirely their wandering life, and fixed themselves in their native
country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a campagne on Belrive, the
eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league
from the city. We resided principally in the latter, and the lives of my
parents were passed in considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid
a crowd, and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent,
therefore, to my schoolfellows in general; but I united myself in the
bonds of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry Clerval was the
son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of singular talent and fancy.
He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger, for its own sake. He was
deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He composed heroic songs,
and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly adventure. He
tried to make us act plays, and to enter into masquerades, in which the
characters were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles, of the Round
Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train who shed their blood to
redeem the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidels.

No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My
parents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We
felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their
caprice, but the agents and creators of all the many delights which we
enjoyed. When I mingled with other families, I distinctly discerned how
peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and gratitude assisted the development
of filial love.

My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some
law in my temperature they were turned, not towards childish pursuits,
but to an eager desire to learn, and not to learn all things
indiscriminately. I confess that neither the structure of languages, nor
the code of governments, nor the politics of various states, possessed
attractions for me. It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I
desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of things, or
the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that occupied
me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or, in its
highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.

Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral
relations of things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and
the actions of men, were his theme; and his hope and his dream was to
become one among those whose names are recorded in story, as the gallant
and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly soul of
Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home. Her
sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance of her
celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was the
living spirit of love to soften and attract: I might have become sullen
in my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that she was
there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval-
could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit- of Clerval?- Yet he might
not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his generosity- so
full of kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for adventurous
exploit, had she not unfolded to him the real loveliness of beneficence,
and made the doing good the end and aim of his soaring ambition.

I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood,
before misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed its bright visions of
extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self.
Besides, drawing the picture of early days, I also record those events
which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery: for when I
would account to myself for the birth of that passion, which afterwards
ruled my destiny, I find it arise like a mountain river, from ignoble
and almost forgotten sources but, swelling as it as it proceeded, it
became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and
joys.

Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire,
therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my
predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age, we all
went on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon: the inclemency of
the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this
house I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I
opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate, and
the wonderful facts which he relates, soon changed this feeling into
enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind; and, bounding with
joy, I communicated my discovery to my father. My father looked
carelessly at the title page of my book, and said, "Ah! Cornelius
Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad
trash."

If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to
me that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded, and that a
modern system of science had been introduced, which possessed much
greater powers than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were
chimerical, while those of the former were real and practical; under
such circumstances, I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside, and
have contented my imagination, warmed as it was, by returning with
greater ardour to my former studies. It is even possible that the train
of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my
ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no
means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents; and I
continued to read with the greatest avidity.

When I returned home, my first care was to procure the whole works of
this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read
and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they
appeared to me treasures known to few beside myself I have described
myself as always having been embued with a fervent longing to penetrate
the secrets of nature. In spice of the intense labour and wonderful
discoveries of modern philosophers, I always came from my studies
discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed
that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great and
unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors in each branch of
natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted appeared, even to my boys
apprehensions, as tyros engaged in the same pursuit.

The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him, and was acquainted
with their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little
more. He had partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal
lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect,
anatomise, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes in
their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him. I had
gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed to keep human
beings from entering the citadel of nature, and rashly and ignorantly I
had repined.

But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and
knew more. I took their word for all that they averred, and I became
their disciple. It may appear strange that such should arise in the
eighteenth century; but while I followed the routine of education in the
schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self taught with regard to
my favourite studies. My father was not scientific, and I was left to
struggle with a child's blindness, added to a student's thirst for
knowledge. Under the guidance of my new preceptors, I entered with the
greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher's stone and the
elixir of life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention.
Wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend the
discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame, and render
man invulnerable to any but a violent death!

Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a
promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfillment of
which I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always
unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather to my own inexperience and
mistake than to a want of skill or fidelity in my instructors. And thus
for a time I was occupied by exploded systems, mingling, like an
unadept, a thousand contradictory theories, and floundering desperately
in a very slough of multifarious knowledge, guided by an ardent
imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident again changed the
current of my ideas.

When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near
Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It
advanced from behind the mountains of Jura; and the thunder burst at
once with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I
remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity
and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of
fire issue from an old and beautiful oak which stood about twenty yards
from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished the oak had
disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited
it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner.
It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribands
of wood. I never beheld anything so utterly destroyed.

Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of
electricity. On this occasion a man of great research in natural
philosophy was with us, and, excited by this catastrophe, he entered on
the explanation of a theory which he had formed on the subject of
electricity and galvanism, which was at once new and astonishing to me.
All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius Agrippa,
Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by
some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my
accustomed studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be
known. All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew
despicable. By one of those caprices of the mind, which we are perhaps
most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former occupations;
set down natural history and all its progeny as a deformed and abortive
creation; and entertained the greatest disdain for a would-be science,
which could never even step within the threshold of real knowledge. In
this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics, and the branches
of study appertaining to that science, as being built upon secure
foundations, and so worthy of my consideration.

Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as
if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the
immediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my life- the last effort
made by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that was even then
hanging in the stars, and ready to envelope me. Her victory was
announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul, which
followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting
studies. It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with
their prosecution, happiness with their disregard.

It was a strong effort of the spirit of good; but it was ineffectual.
Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and
terrible destruction.

                    CHAPTER III


WHEN I had attained the age of seventeen, my parents resolved that I
should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto
attended the schools of Geneva; but my father thought it necessary, for
the completion of my education, that I should be made acquainted with
other customs than those of my native country. My departure was
therefore fixed at an early date; but before the day resolved upon could
arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred- an omen, as it were,
of my future misery.

Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she
was in the greatest danger. During her illness, many arguments had been
urged to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had,
at first, yielded to our entreaties; but when she heard that the life of
her favourite was menaced, she could no longer control her anxiety. She
attended her sick bed- her watchful attentions triumphed over the
malignity of the distemper- Elizabeth was saved, but the consequences of
this imprudence were fatal to her preserver. On the third day my mother
sickened; her fever was accompanied by the most alarming symptoms, and
the looks of her medical attendants prognosticated the worst event. On
her death-bed the fortitude and benignity of this best of women did not
desert her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself:- "My
children," she said, "my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed
on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the
consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place
to my younger children. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and,
happy and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But
these are not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself
cheerfully to death, and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another
world."

She died calmly; and her countenance expressed affection even in death.
I need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by
that most irreparable evil; the void that presents itself to the soul;
and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long
before the mind can persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day, and
whose very existence appeared a part of our own, can have departed for
ever- that the brightness of beloved eye can have been extinguished, and
the sound of a voice so familiar, and dear to the ear, can be hushed,
never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days; but
when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the actual
bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand rent
away some dear connection? and why should I describe a sorrow which all
have felt, and must feel? The time at length arrives, when grief is
rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that plays upon the
lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother
was dead, but we had still duties which we ought to perform; we must
continue our course with the rest, and learn to think ourselves
fortunate, whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not seized.

My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events,
was now again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of
some weeks. It appeared to me sacrilege so soon to leave the repose,
akin to death, of the house of mourning, and to rush into the thick of
life. I was new to sorrow, but it did not the less alarm me. I was
unwilling to quit the sight of those that remained to me; and, above
all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth in some degree consoled.

She indeed veiled her grief, and strove to act the comforter to us all.
She looked steadily on life, and assumed its duties with courage and
zeal. She devoted herself to those whom she had been taught to call her
uncle and cousins. Never was she so enchanting as at this time when she
recalled the sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us. She forgot
even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget.

The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last
evening with us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit him
to accompany me, and to become my fellow student; but in vain. His
father was a narrow-minded trader, and saw idleness and ruin in the
aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply felt the misfortune of
being debarred from a liberal education. He said little; but when he
spoke, I read in his kindling eye and in his animated glance a
restrained but firm resolve not to be chained to the miserable details
of commerce.

We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other, nor
persuade ourselves to say the word "Farewell!" It was said; and we
retired under the pretence of seeking repose, each fancying that the
other was deceived: but when at morning's dawn I descended to the
carriage which was to convey me away, they were all there- my father
again to bless me, Clerval to press my hand once more, my Elizabeth to
renew her entreaties that I would write often, and to bestow the last
feminine attentions on her playmate and friend.

I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away, and indulged
in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by
amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual
pleasure, I was now alone. In the university, whither I was going, I
must form my own friends, and be my own protector. My life had hitherto
been remarkably secluded and domestic; and this had given me invincible
repugnance to new countenances. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and
Clerval; these were "old familiar faces"; but I believed myself totally
unfitted for the company of strangers. Such were my reflections as I
commenced my journey; but as I proceeded my spirits and hopes rose. I
ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had often, when at
home, thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up in one place,
and had longed to enter the world, and take my station among other human
beings. Now my desires were complied with, and it would, indeed, have
been folly to repent.

I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my
journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At length the high
white steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted, and was conducted to
my solitary apartment, to spend the evening as I pleased.

The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction and paid a visit
to some of the principal professors. Chance- or rather the evil
influence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway over
me from the moment I turned my reluctant steps from my father's door-
led me first to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He was an
uncouth man, but deeply embued in the secrets of his science. He asked
me several questions concerning my progress in the different branches of
science appertaining to natural philosophy. I replied carelessly; and,
partly in contempt, mentioned the names of my alchymists as the
principal authors I had studied. The professor stared; "Have you," he
said, "really spent your time in studying such nonsense?"

I replied in the affirmative. "Every minute," continued M. Krempe with
warmth, "every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly
and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems
and useless names. Good God! in what desert land have you lived, where
no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies, which you have
so greedily imbibed, are a thousand years old, and as musty as they are
ancient? I little expected, in this enlightened and scientific age, to
find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must
begin your studies entirely anew."

So saying, he stepped aside, and wrote down a list of several books
treating of natural philosophy, which he desired me to procure; and
dismissed me, after mentioning that in the beginning of the following
week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon natural
philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman,
fellow-professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that
he omitted.

I returned home, not disappointed, for I have said that I had long
considered those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I
returned, not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any
shape. M. Krempe was a little squat man, with a gruff voice and a
repulsive countenance the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in
favour of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and connected a
strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had come
to concerning them in my early years. As a child, I had not been content
with the results promised by the modern professors of natural science.
With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth,
and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of
knowledge along the paths of time, and exchanged the discoveries of
recent inquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchymists. Besides, I had
a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very
different when the masters of the science sought immortality and power;
such views, although futile, were grand: but now the scene was changed.
The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation
of those visions on which my interest in science was chiefly founded. I
was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of
little worth.

Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my
residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming acquainted
with the localities, and the principal residents in my new abode. But as
the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the information which M. Krempe
had given me concerning the lectures. And although I could not consent
to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a
pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M. Waldman, whom I had never
seen, as he had hitherto been out of town.

Partly from curiosity, and partly from idleness, I went into the
lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor
was very unlike his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but
with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs
covered his temples, but those at the back of his head were nearly
black. His person was short, but remarkably erect; and his voice the
sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of
the history of chemistry, and the various improvements made by different
men of learning, pronouncing with fervour the names of the most
distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory view of the present
state of the science, and explained many of its elementary terms. After
having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric
upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget:-

"The ancient teachers of this science," said he, "promised
impossibilities, and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very
little they know that metals cannot be transmuted, and that the elixir
of life is a chimera. But these philosophers, whose hands seem only made
to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or
crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the
recesses of nature, and show how she works in her hiding places. They
ascend into the heavens: they have discovered how the blood circulates,
and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost
unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the
earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows."

Such were the professor's words- rather let me say such the words of
fate, enounced to destroy me. As he went on, I felt as if my soul were
grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one the various keys were
touched which formed the mechanism of my being: chord after chord was
sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought, one conception,
one purpose. So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein-
more, far more, will I achieve: treading in the steps already marked, I
will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world
the deepest mysteries of creation.

I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was in a state of
insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence arise, but I
had no power to produce it. By degrees after the morning's dawn, sleep
came. I awoke, and my yesternight's thoughts were as a dream. There only
remained a resolution to return to my ancient studies, and to devote
myself to a science for which I believed myself to possess a natural
talent. On the same day, I paid M. Waldman a visit. His manners in
private were even more mild and attractive than in public; for there was
a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture, which in his own house
was replaced by the greatest affability and kindness. I gave him pretty
nearly the same account of my former pursuits as I had given to his
fellow-professor. He heard with attention the little narration
concerning my studies, and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa and
Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited. He
said, that "these were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern
philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their
knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names,
and arrange in connected classifications, the facts which they in a
great degree had been the instruments of bringing to light. The labours
of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in
ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind." I listened to his
statement, which was delivered without any presumption or affectation;
and then added, that his lecture had removed my prejudices against
modern chemists; I expressed myself in measured terms, with the modesty
and deference due from a youth to his instructor, without letting escape
(inexperience in life would have made me ashamed) any of the enthusiasm
which stimulated my intended labours. I requested his advice concerning
the books I ought to procure.

"I am happy," said M. Waldman, "to have gained a disciple; and if your
application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success.
Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest
improvements have been and may be made: it is on that account that I
have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time I have not
neglected the other branches of science. A man would make but a very
sorry chemist if he attended to that department of human knowledge
alone. If your wish is to become really a man of science, and not merely
a petty experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch of
natural philosophy, including mathematics."

He then took me into his laboratory, and explained to me the uses of his
various machines; instructing me as to what I ought to procure, and
promising me the use of his own when I should have advanced far enough
in the science not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list
of books which I had requested; and I took my leave.

Thus ended a day memorable to me: it decided my future destiny.

                    CHAPTER IV


FROM this memorable day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry,
in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole
occupation. I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and
discrimination, which modern inquirers have written on these subjects. I
attended the lectures, and cultivated the acquaintance, of the men of
science of the university; and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of
sound sense and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive
physiognomy and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In
M. Waldman I found a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by
dogmatism and his instructions were given with an air of frankness and
good nature that banished every idea of pedantry. In a thousand ways he
smoothed for me the path of knowledge, and made the most abstruse
inquiries clear and facile to my apprehension. My application was at
first fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded, and
soon became so ardent and eager that the stars often disappeared in the
light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory.

As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that my progress was
rapid. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students, and my
proficiency that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with a
sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on? whilst M. Waldman expressed
the most heartfelt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this
manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart
and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries, which I hoped to make.
None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements
of science. In other studies you go as far as others have gone before
you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit
there is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate
capacity, which closely pursues one study, must infallibly arrive at
great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the
attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely wrapped up in this,
improved so rapidly that, at the end of two years, I made some
discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments which
procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had
arrived at this point, and had become as well acquainted with the theory
and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of
the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer
conducive to my improvement, I thought of returning to my friends and my
native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay.

One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the
structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life.
Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was
a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery;
yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted,
if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved
these circumstances in my mind, and determined thenceforth to apply
myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which
relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost
supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been
irksome, and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must
first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of,
anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural
decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had
taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no
supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale
of superstition, or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness
had no effect upon my fancy; and a churchyard was to me merely the
receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of
beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to
examine the cause and progress of this decay, and forced to spend days
and nights in vaults and charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon
every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human
feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I
beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I
saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused,
examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in
the change from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst
of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me- a light so brilliant
and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the
immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised, that
among so many men of genius who had directed their inquiries towards the
same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing
a secret.

Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not
more certainly shine in the heavens, than that which I now affirm is
true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the
discovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of
incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of
generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing
animation upon lifeless matter.

The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon
gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful
labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires was the most
gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so great and
overwhelming that all the steps by which I had been progressively led to
it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been the
study and desire of the wisest men since the creation of the world was
now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened upon me
at once: the information I had obtained was of a nature rather to direct
my endeavours so soon as I should point them towards the object of my
search, than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I was like the
Arabian who had been buried with the dead, and found a passage to life,
aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly ineffectual, light.

I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which your eyes
express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with
which I am acquainted; that cannot be: listen patiently until the end of
my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that
subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to
your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my
precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of
knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town
to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature
will allow.

When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated
a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although
I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame
for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles,
and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour.
I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like
myself, or one of simpler organisation; but my imagination was too much
exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give
life to an animal as complex and wonderful as man. The materials at
present within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an
undertaking; but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I
prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be
incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect: yet, when I
considered the improvement which every day takes place in science and
mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least
lay the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider the
magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argument of its
impracticability. It was with these feelings that I began the creation
of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a great
hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to
make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, about eight feet
in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this
determination, and having spent some months in successfully collecting
and arranging my materials, I began.

No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like
a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared
to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a
torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as
its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their
being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so
completely as I should deserve theirs. Pursuing these reflections, I
thought, that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might
in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where
death had apparently devoted the body to corruption.

These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with
unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person
had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of
certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or
the next hour might realise. One secret which I alone possessed was the
hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight
labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued
nature to her hiding-places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret
toil, as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured
the living animal, to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble
and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless, and almost
frantic, impulse urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or
sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance
that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural
stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I
collected bones from charnel-houses; and disturbed, with profane
fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary
chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all
the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of
filthy creation: my eye-balls were starting from their sockets in
attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the
slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my human
nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by
an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a
conclusion.

The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in
one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow
a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage:
but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same
feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to
forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not
seen for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them; and I well
remembered the words of my father: "I know that while you are pleased
with yourself, you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear
regularly from you. You must pardon me if I regard any interruption in
your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are equally
neglected."

I knew well, therefore, what would be my father's feelings; but I could
not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which
had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it were,
to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection until the
great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be
completed.

I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect
to vice, or faultiness on my part; but I am now convinced that he was
justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from blame.
A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful
mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his
tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an
exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself has a
tendency to weaken your affections, and to destroy your taste for those
simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is
certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If
this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever
to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic affections, Greece
had not been enslaved, Caesar would have spared his country; America
would have been discovered more gradually; and the empires of Mexico and
Peru had not been destroyed.

But I forget that I am moralising in the most interesting part of my
tale; and your looks remind me to proceed.

My father made no reproach in his letters, and only took notice of my
silence by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before.
Winter, spring, and summer passed away during my labours; but I did not
watch the blossom or the expanding leaves- sights which before always
yielded me supreme delight- so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation.
The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near to a
close; and now every day showed me more plainly how well I had
succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared
rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other
unwholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his favourite employment.
Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a
most painful degree; the fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my
fellow-creatures as if I had been guilty of a crime. Sometimes I grew
alarmed at the wreck I perceived that I had become- the energy of my
purpose alone sustained me: my labours would soon end, and I believed
that exercise and amusement would then drive away incipient disease; and
I promised myself both of these when my creation should be complete.

                     CHAPTER V


IT WAS on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of
my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, 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, 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 courtyard belonging to the house which
I inhabited; where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up
and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and
fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the
demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life.

Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy
again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I
had gazed on him while unfinished he was ugly then; but when those
muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing
such as even Dante could not have conceived.

I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and
hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly
sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with
this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had
been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a
hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!

Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered to my
sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, white steeple and
clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of
the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the
streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the
wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my
view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt
impelled to hurry on, although drenched by the rain which poured from a
black and comfortless sky.

I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring, by
bodily exercise, to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed
the streets, without any clear conception of where I was, or what I was
doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear; and I hurried on
with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:-

         "Like one who, on a lonely road,
           Doth walk in fear and dread,
         And, having once turned round, walks on,
           And turns no more his head;
         Because he knows a frightful fiend
           Doth close behind him tread."*

* Coleridge's Ancient Mariner

Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the
various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew
not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that
was coming towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew
nearer, I observed that it was the Swiss diligence: it stopped just
where I was standing, and, on the door being opened, I perceived Henry
Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. "My dear
Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you! how fortunate
that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!"

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought
back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home
so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot
my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during
many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in
the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval
continued talking for some time about our mutual friends, and his own
good fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. "You may easily
believe," said he, "how great was the difficulty to persuade my father
that all necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of
bookkeeping; 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 school-master in the Vicar of Wakefield:- 'I have ten
thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.'
But his affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and
he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of
knowledge."

"It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left
my father, brothers, and Elizabeth."

"Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you
so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account
myself.- But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he, stopping short, and
gazing full in my face, "I did not before remark how very ill you
appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for
several nights."

"You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one
occupation that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see:
but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an
end, and that I am at length free."

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to
allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick
pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the
thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my
apartment might still be there, alive, and walking about. I dreaded to
behold this monster; but I feared still more that Henry should see him.
Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the
stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock
of the door before I recollected myself I then paused; and a cold
shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are
accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them
on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the
apartment was empty; and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous
guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good fortune could have
befallen me; but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I
clapped my hands for joy, and ran down to Clerval.

We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast;
but I was unable to contain myself It was not joy only that possessed
me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse
beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same
place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud.
Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival;
but when he observed me more attentively he saw a wildness in my eyes
for which he could not account; and my loud, unrestrained, heartless
laughter frightened and astonished him.

"My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not
laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?"

"Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my eyes for I thought
I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; "he can tell.- Oh, save
me! save me!" I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled
furiously, and fell down in a fit.

Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he
anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was
not the witness of his grief, for I was lifeless, and did not recover my
senses for a long, long time.

This was the commencement of a nervous fever, which confined me for
several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I
afterwards learned that, knowing my father's advanced age, and unfitness
for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make
Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my
disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse
than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not
doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that
he could towards them.

But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the unbounded and
unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The
form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was forever before
my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words
surprised Henry: he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my
disturbed imagination; but the pertinacity with which I continually
recurred to the same subject, persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed
its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.

By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses that alarmed and
grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became
capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I
perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared, and that the young
buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a
divine spring; and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I
felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my gloom
disappeared, and in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was
attacked by the fatal passion.

"Dearest Clerval," exclaimed I, "how kind, how very good you are to me.
This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised
yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you?
I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have been
the occasion; but you will forgive me."

"You will repay me entirely if you do not discompose yourself, but get
well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I
may speak to you on one subject, may I not?"

I trembled. One subject! what could it be? Could he allude to an object
on whom I dared not even think?

"Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, "I
will not mention it, if it agitates you; but your father and cousin
would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your own
handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been, and are uneasy at
your long silence."

"Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first
thoughts would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love, and
who are so deserving of my love."

"If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to
see a letter that has been lying here some days for you; it is from your
cousin, I believe."

                     CHAPTER VI


 CLERVAL then put the following letter into hands. It was from my own
Elizabeth:-


 My dearest Cousin,- You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant
letters of dear kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your
account. You are forbidden to write- to hold a pen; yet one word from
you, dear Victor, is necessary to calm our apprehensions. For a long
time I have thought that each post would bring this line, and my
persuasions have restrained my uncle from undertaking a journey to
Ingolstadt. I have prevented his encountering the inconveniences and
perhaps dangers of so long a journey; yet how often have I regretted not
being able to perform it myself! I figure to myself that the task of
attending on your sick bed has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who
could never guess your wishes, nor minister to them with the care and
affection of your poor cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes that
indeed you are getting better. I eagerly hope that you will confirm this
intelligence soon in your own handwriting.

Get well- and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home, and
friends who love you dearly. Your father's health is vigorous, and he
asks but to see you- but to be assured that you are well; not a care
will ever cloud his benevolent countenance. How pleased you would be to
remark the improvement of our Ernest! He is now sixteen, and full of
activity and spirit. He is desirous to be a true Swiss, and to enter
into foreign service; but we cannot part with him, at least until his
elder brother return to us. My uncle is not pleased with the idea of a
military career in a distant country; but Ernest never had your powers
of application. He looks upon study as an odious fetter;- his time is
spent in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear
that he will become an idler, unless we yield the point, and permit him
to enter on the profession which he has selected.

Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children, has taken
place since you left us. The blue lake, and snow-clad mountains, they
never change;- and I think our placid home and our contented hearts are
regulated by the same immutable laws. My trifling occupations take up my
time and amuse me, and I am rewarded for any exertions by seeing none
but happy, kind faces around me. Since you left us, but one change has
taken place in our little household. Do you remember on what occasion
Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably you do not; I will relate
her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a
widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl had
always been the favourite of her father; but through a strange
perversity, her mother could not endure her, and after the death of M.
Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this- and, when Justine
was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at
our house. The republican institutions of our country have produced
simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in the great
monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between the
several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders, being neither
so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined and moral. A
servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in France
and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the duties of
a servant, a condition which, in our fortunate country, does not include
the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being.

Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours; and I
recollect you once remarked, that if you were in an ill-humour, one
glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto
gives concerning the beauty of Angelica- she looked so frank-hearted and
happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which she was
induced to give her an education superior to that which she had at first
intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was the most grateful
little creature in the world: I do not mean that she made any
professions; I never heard one pass her lips; but you could see by her
eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition
was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest
attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all
excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so
that even now she often reminds me of her.

When my dearest aunt died, everyone was too much occupied in their own
grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness
with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other
trials were reserved for her.

One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, 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 forever. 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 for his age, with
sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he
smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with
health. He has already had one or two little wives, but Louisa Biron is
his favourite, a pretty little girl 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
everybody.

I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety
returns upon me as I conclude. Write, dearest Victor- one line- one word
will be a blessing to us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his kindness,
his affection, and his many letters: we are sincerely grateful. Adieu!
my cousin; take care of yourself; and, I entreat you, write!

                                          Elizabeth Lavenza.


"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, add 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. he has outstript us
all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster
who, but a few years ago, believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in
the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he
is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.- Ay, ay,"
continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, "M.
Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men
should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval: I was myself
when young; but that wears out in a very short time."

M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned
the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.

Clerval had never sympathised in my tastes for natural science; and his
literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me. He
came to the university with the design of making himself complete master
of the oriental languages, as thus he should open a field for the plan
of life he had marked out for himself Resolved to pursue no inglorious
career, he turned his eyes toward the East, as affording scope for his
spirit of enterprise. The Persian, Arabic, and Sanscrit languages
engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on the same
studies. Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished to
fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in
being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction
but consolation in the works of the orientalists. I did not, like him,
attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for I did not
contemplate making any other use of them than temporary amusement. I
read merely to understand their meaning, and they well repaid my
labours. Their melancholy is soothing, and their elevating, to a degree
I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country. When
you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and a
garden of roses- in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire
that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical
poetry of Greece and Rome!

Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was
fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several
accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable,
and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay
very bitterly for I longed to see my native town and my beloved friends.
My return had only been delayed so long from an unwillingness to leave
Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted with any of
its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully; and although
the spring was uncommonly late, when it came its beauty compensated for
its dilatoriness.

The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily
which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a
pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid a
personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded with
pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had
always been my favourite companion in the 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, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy,
inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful
sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstasy. The
present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the
hedges, while those of summer were already in bud. I was undisturbed by
thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me,
notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible
burden.

Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathised in my feelings:
he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that
filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly
astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often,
in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of
wonderful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite
poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he supported with great
ingenuity.

We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were
dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits
were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and
hilarity.

                   CHAPTER VII


ON MY return, I found the following letter from my father,-


My dear Victor,- You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to
fix the date of your return to us; and I was at first tempted to write
only a few lines, merely mentioning the day on which I should expect
you. But that would be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it. What
would be your surprise, my son, when you expected a happy and glad
welcome, to behold, on the contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how,
Victor, can I relate our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you
callous to our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on my long
absent son? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news, but I know it is
impossible; even now your eye skims over the page, to seek the words
which are to convey to you the horrible tidings.

William is dead!- that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed my
heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered!

I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the
circumstances of the transaction.

Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to
walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged
our walk farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of
returning; and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone
on before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until
they should return. Presently Ernest came, and inquired if we had seen
his brother: he said, that he had been playing with him, that William
had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and
afterwards waited for 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
child!"

She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again
lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me that that same evening
William had teased her to let him wear a very valuable miniature that
she possessed of your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless
the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We have no trace of
him at present, although our exertions to discover him are unremitted;
but they will not restore my beloved Wilham!

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.


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 say a few words of consolation;
he could only express his heartfelt sympathy. "Poor William!" said he,
"dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who that had
seen him bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his
untimely loss! To die so miserably; to feel the murderer's grasp! How
much more a murderer, that could destroy such radiant innocence! Poor
little fellow! one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep,
but he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end for
ever. A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no
longer be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable
survivors."

Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words
impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered them afterwards in
solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a
cabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend.

My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I
longed to console and sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends;
but when I drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could
hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I
passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for
nearly six years. How altered everything might be during that time! One
sudden and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand little
circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations, which,
although they were done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive.
Fear overcame me; I dared 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 Blanc. I wept like a child. "Dear
mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your wanderer? Your
summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to
prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?"

I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on
these preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative
happiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved
country! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again beholding
thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake!

Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also
closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt
still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil,
and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched
of human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single
circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not
conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.

It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the
gates of the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night
at Secheron, a village at the distance of half a league from the city.
The sky was serene; and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit
the spot where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass
through the town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at
Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the lightnings playing on
the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm
appeared to approach rapidly; and, on landing, I ascended a low hill,
that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens were
clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its
violence quickly increased.

I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm
increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash over
my head. It was echoed from Saleve, the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy;
vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake,
making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant
everything seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself
from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in
Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most
violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over that part of the lake
which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copet.
Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened
and sometimes disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of the
lake.

While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on
with a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I
clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud, "William, dear angel! this is thy
funeral, this thy dirge!" As I said these words, I perceived in the
gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood
fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning
illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its
gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than
belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the
filthy daemon, to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be
(I shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner
did that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its
truth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for
support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom.
Nothing in human shape could have destroyed 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. Saleve, a
hill that bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit,
and disappeared.

I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still continued,
and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I revolved in
my mind the events which I had until now sought to forget: the whole
train of my progress towards the creation; the appearance of the work of
my own hands alive at my bedside; its departure. Two years had now
nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and was
this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a depraved
wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not murdered my
brother?

No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the
night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not feel
the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in scenes of
evil and despair. I considered the being whom I had cast among mankind,
and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes of horror, such
as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light of my own
vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to destroy
all that was dear to me.

Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were
open, and I hastened to my father's house. My first thought was to
discover what I knew of the murderer and cause instant pursuit to be
made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A
being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at
midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered
also the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at the time
that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of delirium to a
tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that if any other had
communicated such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it as the
ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal would
elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my
relatives to commence it. And then of what use would be pursuit? Who
could arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont
Saleve? 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 venerable parent! He still
remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over
the mantel-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father's
desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair,
kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her
cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly
permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of
William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus
engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome
me. 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! You come to us now to
share a misery which nothing can alleviate; yet your presence will, I
hope, revive our father, who seems sinking under his misfortune; and
your persuasions will induce poor Elizabeth to cease her vain and
tormenting self-accusations.- Poor William! he was our darling and our
pride!"

Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of mortal
agony crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the' wretchedness
of my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and a not less
terrible, disaster. I tried to calm Ernest; I inquired more minutely
concerning my father and her I named my cousin.

"She most of all," said Ernest, "requires consolation; she accused
herself of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her very
wretched. But since the murderer has been discovered-"

"The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt
to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the
winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw. I saw him too; he was
free last night!"

"I do not know what you mean," replied my brother, in accents of wonder,
"but to us the discovery we have made completes our misery. No one would
believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced,
notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit that Justine
Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family, could suddenly
become capable of so frightful, so appalling a crime?"

"Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is
wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?"

"No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have
almost forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour has been so
confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear,
leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried to-day, and you will
then hear all."

He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor Wilham had been
discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed for
several days. During this interval, one of the servants, happening to
examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, had
discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which had been judged
to be the temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly showed it to
one of the others, who, without saying a word to any of the family, went
to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On
being charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a
great measure by her extreme confusion of manner.

This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied
earnestly, "You are all mistaken; I know the murderer Justine, poor,
good Justine, is innocent."

At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on
his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, after
we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some other
topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, "Good God,
papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of poor William."

"We do also, unfortunately," replied my father; "for indeed I had rather
have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and
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. My tale was not one to
announce publicly; its astounding horror would be looked upon as madness
by the vulgar. Did any one indeed exist, except I, the creator, who
would believe, unless his senses convinced him, in the existence of the
living monument of presumption and rash ignorance which I had let loose
upon the world?

We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her since I last
beheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing the beauty of
her childish years. There was the same candour, the same vivacity, but
it was allied to an expression more full of sensibility and intellect.
She welcomed me with the greatest affection. "Your arrival, my dear
cousin," said she, "fills me with hope. You perhaps will find some means
to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be
convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do upon my
own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only lost that
lovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be
torn away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never shall know
joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not; and then I shall be
happy again, even after the sad death of my little William."

"She is innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and that shall be proved; fear
nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of her
acquittal."

"How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt,
and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible: and to see
everyone else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me hopeless and
despairing." She wept.

"Dearest niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is, as you
believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and the activity
with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality."

                    CHAPTER VIII


WE PASSED a few sad hours, until eleven o'clock, when the trial was to
commence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend
as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of this
wretched mockery of justice I suffered living torture. It was to be
decided, whether the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would
cause the death of two of my fellow-beings: one a smiling babe, full of
innocence and joy; the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every
aggravation of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror.
Justine also was a girl of merit, and possessed qualities which promised
to render her life happy: now all was to be obliterated in an
ignominious grave; and I the cause! A thousand times rather would I have
confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine; but I was
absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have been
considered as the ravings of a madman, and would not have exculpated her
who suffered through me.

The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning; and her
countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her
feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in
innocence, and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated by
thousands; for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have
excited, was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the
imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed. She was
tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as her
confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she worked up
her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered the court, she
threw her eyes round it, and quickly discovered where we were seated. A
tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us; but she quickly recovered
herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest her utter
guiltlessness.

The trial began; and, after the advocate against her had stated the
charge, several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined
against her, which might have staggered anyone who had not such proof of
her innocence as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on which
the murder had been committed, and towards morning had been perceived by
a market-woman not far from the spot where the body of the murdered
child had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she did there;
but she looked very strangely, and only returned a confused and
unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight o'clock;
and, when one inquired where she had passed the night, she replied that
she had been looking for the child, and demanded earnestly if anything
had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, she fell into
violent hysterics, and kept her bed for several days. The picture was
then produced, which the servant had found in her pocket; and when
Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same which, an
hour before the child had been missed, she had placed round his neck, a
murmur of horror and indignation filled the court.

Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded, her
countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly
expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears; but, when she was
desired to plead, she collected her powers, and spoke, in an audible,
although variable voice.

"God knows," she said, "how entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend
that my protestations should acquit me: I rest my innocence on a plain
and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced against me;
and I hope the character I have always borne will incline my judges to a
favourable interpretation, where any circumstance appears doubtful or
suspicious."

She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed
the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the
house of an aunt at Chene, a village situated at about a league from
Geneva. On her return, at about nine o'clock, she met a man, who asked
her if she had seen anything of the child who was lost. She was alarmed
by this account, and passed several hours in looking for him, when the
gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced to remain several hours of
the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being unwilling to call up
the inhabitants, to whom she was well known. Most of the night she spent
here watching; towards morning she believed that she slept for a few
minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she awoke. It was dawn, and she
quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavour to find my brother.
If she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it was without her
knowledge. That she had been bewildered when questioned by the
market-woman was not surprising, since she had passed a sleepless night,
and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain. Concerning the picture
she could give no account.

"I know," continued the unhappy victim, "how heavily and fatally this
one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of explaining
it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left to
conjecture concerning the probabilities by which it might have been
placed in my pocket. But here also I am checked. I believe that I have
no enemy on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to
destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I know of no
opportunity afforded him for so doing; or, if I had, why should he have
stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon?

"I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for
hope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my
character; and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed guilt,
I must be condemned, although I Would pledge my salvation on my
innocence."

Several witnesses were called, who had known her for many years, and
they spoke well of her; but fear and hatred of the crime of which they
supposed her guilty rendered them timorous, and unwilling to come
forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource, her excellent
dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused,
when, although violently agitated, she desired permission to address the
court.

"I am," said she, "the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered, or
rather his sister, for I was educated by, and have lived with his
parents ever since and even long before, his birth. It may, therefore,
be judged indecent in me to come forward on this occasion; but when I
see a fellow-creature about to perish through the cowardice of her
pretended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I
know of her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have
lived in the same house with her, at one time for five and at another
for nearly two years. During all that period she appeared to me the most
amiable and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame
Frankenstein, my aunt, in her last illness, with the greatest affection
and care; and afterwards attended her own mother during a tedious
illness, in a manner that excited the admiration of all who knew her;
after which she again lived in my uncle's house, where she was beloved
by all the family. She was warmly attached to the child who is now dead,
and acted towards him like a most affectionate mother. For my own part,
I do not hesitate to say, that, notwithstanding all the evidence
produced against her, I believe and rely on her perfect innocence. She
had no temptation for such an action: as to the bauble on which the
chief proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it, I should have
willingly given it to her; so much do I esteem and value her."

A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth's simple and powerful appeal
but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in turned with
renewed violence, 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 daemon, 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."

This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean? Had my
eyes deceived me? and was I really as mad as the whole world would
believe me to be, if I disclosed the object of my suspicions? I hastened
to return home, and Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.

"My cousin," replied I, "it is decided as you may have expected; all
judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer, than that one guilty
should escape. But she has confessed."

This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness
upon Justine's innocence. "Alas!" said she, "how shall I ever again
believe in human goodness? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as my
sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray?
her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or guile, and yet she has
committed a murder."

Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire to see
my cousin. My father wished her not to go; but said, that he left it to
her own judgment and feelings to decide. "Yes," said Elizabeth, "I will
go, although she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany me: I
cannot go alone." The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could
not refuse.

We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and beheld Justine sitting on some
straw at the farther end; her hands were manacled, and her head rested
on her knees. She rose on seeing us enter; and when we were left alone
with her, she threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly.
My cousin wept also.

"Oh, Justine!" said she, "why did you rob me of my last consolation? I
relied on your innocence; and although I was then very wretched, I was
not so miserable as I am now."

"And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also
join with my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?" Her
voice was suffocated with sobs.

"Rise, my poor girl," said Elizabeth, "why do you kneel, if you are
innocent? I am not one of your enemies; I believed you guiltless,
notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard that you had yourself
declared your guilt. That report, you say, is false; and be assured,
dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a moment,
but your own confession."

"I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might obtain
absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my
other sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my
confessor has besieged me; he threatened and menaced, until I almost
began to think that I was the monster that he said I was. He threatened
excommunication and hell fire in my last moments, if I continued
obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to support me; all looked on me as a
wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition. What could I do? In an evil
hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly miserable."

She paused, weeping, and then continued- "I thought with horror, my
sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed aunt
had so highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable of a
crime which none but the devil himself could go have perpetrated. Dear
William! dearest blessed child! I soon shall see you again in heaven,
where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me, going as I am to
suffer ignominy and death."

"Oh, Justine! forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you. Why
did you confess? But do not mourn, dear girl. Do not fear. I will
proclaim, I will prove your innocence. I will melt the stony hearts of
your enemies by my tears and prayers. You shall not die! No! no! I never
could survive so horrible a misfortune."

Justine shook her head mournfully. "I do not fear to die," she said;
"that pang is past. I leave a sad and bitter world; and if you remember
me, and think of me as of one unjustly condemned, I am resigned to the
fate awaiting me. Learn from me, dear lady, to submit in patience to the
will of Heaven!"

During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison-room,
where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. 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 kind to visit me; you, I hope, do not
believe that I am guilty?"

I could not answer. "No, Justine," said Elizabeth; "he is more convinced
of your innocence than I was; for even when he heard that you had
confessed, he did not credit it."

"I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest gratitude
towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the affection
of others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than half my
misfortune; and I feel as if I could die in peace, now that my innocence
is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin."

Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed
gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the
never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or
consolation. Elizabeth also wept, and was unhappy; but hers also was the
misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair moon,
for a while hides but cannot tarnish its brightness.

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 this be the last misfortune that you will
ever suffer! Live, and be happy, and make others so."

And on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth's heartrending eloquence
failed to move the judges from their settled conviction in the
criminality of the saintly sufferer. My passionate and indignant appeals
were lost upon them. And when I received their cold answers, and heard
the harsh unfeeling reasoning of these men, my purposed avowal died away
on my lips. Thus I might proclaim myself a madman, but not revoke the
sentence passed upon my wretched victim. She perished on the scaffold as
a murderess!

From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and
voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing! And my father's
woe, and the desolation of that late so smiling home- all was the work
of my thrice- accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones; but these are not
your last tears! Again shall you raise the funeral wall, and the sound
of your lamentations shall again and again be heard! Frankenstein, your
son, your kinsman, your early, much-loved friend- he bids you weep- to
shed countless tears; happy beyond his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be
satisfied, and if the destruction pause before the peace of the grave
have succeeded to your sad torments!

Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair,
I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and
Justine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts!

                      CHAPTER IX


NOTHING is more painful to the human mind, than, after the feelings have
been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of
inaction and certainty which follows, and deprives the soul both of hope
and fear. Justine died; she rested; and I was alive. The blood flowed
freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my
heart, which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered
like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond
description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself), was yet
behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and the love of virtue. I
had begun life with benevolent intentions, and thirsted for the moment
when I should put them in practice, and make myself useful to my
fellow-beings. Now all was blasted: instead of that serenity of
conscience, which allowed me to look back upon the past with
self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was
seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a
hell of intense tortures, such as no language can describe.

This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never
entirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the
face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude
was my only consolation- deep, dark, deathlike solitude.

My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my
disposition and habits, and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the
feelings of his serene conscience and guiltless life, to inspire me with
fortitude, and awaken in me the courage to dispel the dark cloud which
brooded over me. "Do you think, Victor," said he, "that I do not suffer
also? No one could love a child more than I loved your brother" (tears
came into his eyes as he spoke); "but is it not a duty to the survivors,
that we should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by an
appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed to yourself; for
excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the
discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society."

This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I
should have been the first to hide my grief, and console my friends, if
remorse had not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm with my
other sensations. Now I could only answer my father with a look of
despair, and endeavour to hide myself from his view.

About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was
particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten
o'clock, and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that hour,
had rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome to
me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired for
the night, I took the boat, and passed many hours upon the water.
Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes,
after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to pursue its
own course, and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I was often
tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing
that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly- if I except
some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard
only when I approached the shore- often, I say, I was tempted to plunge
into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me and my
calamities for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic
and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was
bound up in mine. I thought also of my father and surviving brother:
should I by my base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the
malice of the fiend whom I had let loose among them?

At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that peace would revisit my
mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that
could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of
unalterable evils; and I lived in daily fear, lest the monster whom I
had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure
feeling that all was not over, and that he would still commit some
signal crime, which by its enormity should almost efface the
recollection of the past. There was always scope for fear, so long as
anything I loved remained behind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be
conceived. When I thought of him, I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became
inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I had so
thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my
hatred and revenge burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a
pilgrimage to the highest peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have
precipitated him to their base. I wished to see him again, that I might
wreak the utmost extent of abhorrence on his head, and avenge the deaths
of William and Justine.

Our house was the house of mourning. My father's health was deeply
shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and
desponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all
pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears
she then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so
blasted and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature, who in
earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake, and talked with
ecstasy of our future prospects. The first of those sorrows which are
sent to wean us from the earth, had visited her, and its dimming
influence quenched her dearest smiles.

"When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death of
Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before
appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and
injustice, that I read in books or heard from others, as tales of
ancient days, or imaginary evils; at least they were remote, and more
familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come
home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood.
Yet I am certainly unjust. Everybody believed that poor girl to be
guilty; and if she could have committed the crime for which she
suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human
creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her
benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and
appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent to the
death of any human being; but certainly I should have thought such a
creature unfit to remain in the society of men. But she was innocent. I
know, I feel she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that
confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth,
who can assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel if I were walking
on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are crowding, and
endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss. William and Justine were
assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free,
and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the
scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a
wretch."

I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed,
but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my
countenance, and kindly taking my hand, said, "My dearest friend, you
must calm yourself These events have affected me, God knows how deeply;
but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair,
and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance, that makes me tremble.
Dear Victor, banish these dark passions. Remember the friends around
you, who centre all their hopes in you. Have we lost the power of
rendering you happy? Ah! while we love- while we are true to each other,
here in this land of peace and beauty, your native country, we may reap
every tranquil blessing- what can disturb our peace?"

And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every
other gift of fortune, suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my
heart? Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror; lest at
that very moment the destroyer had been near to rob me of her.

Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of
heaven, could redeem my soul from woe: the very accents of love were
ineffectual. I was encompassed by a cloud which no beneficial influence
could penetrate. The wounded deer dragging its fainting limbs to some
untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had pierced it, and
to die- was but a type of me.

Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me: but
sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by bodily
exercise and by change of place, some relief from my intolerable
sensations. It was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left my
home, and bending my steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought in
the magnificence, the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and my
ephemeral, because human, sorrows. My wanderings were directed towards
the valley of Chamounix. I had visited it frequently during my boyhood.
Six years had passed since then: I was a wreck- but nought had changed
in those savage and enduring scenes.

I performed the first part of my journey on horseback. I afterwards
hired a mule, as the more sure-footed, and least liable to receive
injury on these rugged roads. The weather was fine: it was about the
middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of
Justine; that miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe. The weight
upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in the
ravine of Arve. The immense mountains and precipices that overhung me on
every side- the sound of the river raging among the rocks, and the
dashing of the waterfalls around, spoke of a power mighty as
Omnipotence- and I ceased to fear, or to bend before any being less
almighty than that which had created and ruled the elements, here
displayed in their most terrific guise. Still, as I ascended higher, the
valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined
castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains; the impetuous Arve,
and cottages every here and there peeping forth from among the trees,
formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented and rendered
sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining pyramids and domes
towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the habitations of
another race of beings.

I passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river
forms, opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that
overhangs it. Soon after I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley
is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque, as
that of Servox, through which I had just passed. The high and snowy
mountains were its immediate boundaries; but I saw no more ruined
castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road; I
heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche, and marked the
smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont
Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and its tremendous
dome overlooked the valley.

A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this
journey. Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and
recognised, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the
light-hearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing
accents, and maternal nature bade me weep no more. Then again the kindly
influence ceased to act- I found myself fettered again to grief, and
indulging in all the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal,
striving so to forget the world, my fears, and, more than all, myself-
or, in a more desperate fashion, I alighted, and threw myself on the
grass, weighed down by horror and despair.

At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded to
the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured. For a
short space of time I remained at the window, watching the pallid
lightnings that played above Mont Blanc, and listening to the rushing of
the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath. The same lulling sounds
acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations: when I placed my head upon
my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came, and blest the
giver of oblivion.

                      CHAPTER X


I SPENT the following day roaming through the valley. I stood beside the
sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacier, that with
slow pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills, to barricade
the valley. The abrupt sides of vast mountains were before me; the icy
wall of the glacier overhung me; a few shattered pines were scattered
around; and the solemn silence of this glorious presence-chamber of
imperial Nature was broken only by the brawling waves, or the fall of
some vast fragment, the thunder sound of the avalanche, or the cracking
reverberated along the mountains of the accumulated ice, which, by the
silent working of immutable laws, was ever and anon rent and tom, if it
had been but a plaything in their hands. These sublime and magnificent
scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that I was capable of
receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling; and although
they did not remove my grief, they subdued and tranquillised it. In some
degree, also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had
brooded for the last month. I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as
it were, waited on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes
which I had contemplated during the day. They congregated round me; the
unstained snowy mountaintop, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods,
and ragged bare ravine; the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds- they all
gathered round me, and bade me be at peace.

Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke? All of
soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every
thought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the
summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of those
mighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil, and seek them
in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me? My mule was
brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of
Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous and
ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It
had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the soul,
and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy. The
sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the effect
of solemnising my mind, and causing me to forget the passing cares of
life. I determined to go without a guide, for I was well acquainted with
the path, and the presence of another would destroy the solitary
grandeur of the scene.

The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short
windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the
mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots the
traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie broken
and strewed on the ground; some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning
upon the jutting rocks of the mountain, or transversely upon other
trees. The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected by ravines of
snow, down which stones continually roll from above; one of them is
particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, such as even speaking in
a loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient to draw
destruction upon the head of the speaker. The pines are not tall or
luxuriant, but they are sombre, and add an air of severity to the scene.
I looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the rivers
which ran through it, and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite
mountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain
poured from the dark sky, and added to the melancholy impression I
received from the objects around me. Alas! why does man boast of
sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders
them more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger,
thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by
every wind that blows, and a chance word or scene that that word may
convey to us.

    "We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.
      We rise; one wandering thought pollutes the day.
    We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep,
      Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
    It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,
      The path of its departure still is free.
    Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
      Nought may endure but mutability!"

It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent. For some
time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered
both that and the surrounding mountains. Presently a breeze dissipated
the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier. The surface is very uneven,
rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and
interspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is almost a
league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The
opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side where I
now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league;
and above it rose Mont Blanc, in awful majesty. I remained in a recess
of the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea, or
rather the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains, whose
aerial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering peaks
shone in the sunlight over the clouds. My heart, which was before
sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I exclaimed- "Wandering
spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest in your narrow beds, allow
me this faint happiness, or take me, as your companion, away from the
joys of life."

As I said this, I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance,
advancing towards me with superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices
in the ice, among which I had walked with caution; his stature, also, as
he approached, seemed to exceed that of man. I was troubled: a mist came
over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me; but I was quickly
restored by the cold gale of the mountains. I perceived, as the shape
came nearer (sight tremendous and abhorred!) that it was the wretch whom
I had created. I trembled with rage and horror, resolving to wait his
approach, and then close with him in mortal combat. He approached; his
countenance bespoke bitter, anguish, combined with disdain and
malignity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too horrible
for human eyes. But I scarcely observed this; rage and hatred had at
first deprived me of utterance, and I recovered only to overwhelm him
with words expressive of furious detestation and contempt.

"Devil," I exclaimed, "do you dare approach me? and do not you fear the
fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head? Begone, vile
insect! or rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust! and, oh! that I
could, with the extinction of your miserable existence, restore those
victims whom you have so diabolically murdered!"

"I expected this reception," said the daemon. "All men hate the
wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living
things! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom
thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us.
You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty
towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If
you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you at peace;
but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated
with the blood of your remaining friends."

"Abhorred monster! fiend that thou art! the tortures of hell are too
mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil! you reproach me with
your creation; come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I so
negligently bestowed."

My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the
feelings which can arm one being against the existence of another.

He easily eluded me, and said-

"Be calm! I entreat you to hear me, before you give vent to your hatred
on my devoted head. Have I not suffered enough that you seek to increase
my misery? Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is
dear to me, and I will defend it. Remember, thou hast made me more
powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine; my joints more
supple. But I will not be tempted to set myself in opposition to thee. I
am thy creature, and I will be even mild and docile to my natural lord
and king, if thou wilt also perform thy part, the which thou owest me.
Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every other, and trample upon me
alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection, is most
due. Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam; but I am
rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed.
Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I
was benevolent and good- misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I
shall again be virtuous."

"Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community between you and
me; we are enemies. Begone, or let us try our strength in a fight, in
which one must fall."

"How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a favourable
eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and compassion? Believe
me, Frankenstein: I was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and
humanity: but am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor
me; what hope can I gather from your fellow-creatures, who owe me
nothing? they spurn and hate me. The desert mountains and dreary
glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here many days; the caves of
ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the only one
which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I had, for they are kinder
to me than your fellow-beings. If the multitude of mankind knew of my
existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves for my
destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will keep no
terms with my enemies. I am miserable, and they shall share my
wretchedness. Yet it is in your power to recompense me, and deliver them
from an evil which it only remains for you to make so great that not
only you and your family, but thousands of others, shall be swallowed up
in the whirlwinds of its rage. Let your compassion be moved, and do not
disdain me. Listen to my tale: when you have heard that, abandon or
commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve. But hear me. The
guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they are, to speak in their
own defence before they are condemned. Listen to me, Frankenstein. You
accuse me of murder; and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience,
destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man! Yet I
ask you not to spare me: listen to me; and then, if you can, and if you
will, destroy the work of your; hands."

"Why do you call to my remembrance," I rejoined, "circumstances, of
which I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable origin and
author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw light!
Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that formed you! You have
made me wretched beyond expression. You have left me no power to
consider whether I am just to you or not. Begone! relieve me from the
sight of your detested form."

"Thus I relieve thee, my creator," he said, and placed his hated hands
before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; "thus I take from
thee a sight which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me, and grant
me thy compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this
from you. Hear my tale; it is long and strange, and the temperature of
this place is not fitting to your fine sensations; come to the hut upon
the mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens; before it descends to
hide itself behind yon snowy precipices, and illuminate another world,
you will have heard my story, and can decide. On you it rests whether I
quit forever the neighbourhood of man, and lead a harmless life, or
become the scourge of your fellow-creatures, and the author of your own
speedy ruin."

As he said this, he led the way across the ice: I followed. My heart was
full, I did not answer him; but, as I proceeded, I weighed the various
arguments that he had used, and determined at least to listen to his
tale. I was partly urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my
resolution. I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of my
brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this opinion.
For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towards
his creature were, and that I ought to render him happy before I
complained of his wickedness. These motives urged me to comply with his
demand. We crossed the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite rock.
The air was cold, and the rain again began to descend: we entered the
hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy heart and
depressed spirits. But I consented to listen; and, seating myself by the
fire which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began his tale.

                      CHAPTER XI


"IT IS with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of
being: all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct. A
strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard,
and smelt, at the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time before I
learned to distinguish between the operations of my various senses. By
degrees, I remember, a stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so that I
was obliged to shut my eyes. Darkness then came over me, and troubled
me; but hardly had I felt this, when, by opening my eyes, as I now
suppose, the light poured in upon me again. I walked, and, I believe,
descended; but I presently found a great alteration in my sensations.
Before, dark and opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to my touch
or sight; but I now found that I could wander on at liberty, with no
obstacles which I could not either surmount or avoid. The light became
more and more oppressive to me; and, the heat wearying me as I walked, I
sought a place where I could receive shade. This was the forest near
Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook resting from my
fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst. This roused me
from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries which I found
hanging on the trees, or lying on the ground. I slaked my thirst at the
brook; and then lying down, was overcome by sleep.

"It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half-frightened, as it
were instinctively, finding myself so desolate. Before I had quitted
your apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had covered myself with some
clothes; but these were insufficient to secure me from the dews of
night. I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could
distinguish, nothing; but feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat
down and wept.

"Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens, and gave me a sensation of
pleasure. I started up, and beheld a radiant form rise from among the
trees.* 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.


* The moon.


"Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night had
greatly lessened, when I began to distinguish my sensations from each
other. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream that supplied me with
drink, and the trees that shaded me with their foliage. I was delighted
when I first discovered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my
ears, proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals who had
often intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also to observe, with
greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me, and to perceive the
boundaries of the radiant roof of light which canopied me. Sometimes I
tried to imitate the pleasant songs of the birds, but was unable.
Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in my own mode, but the
uncouth and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened me into
silence again.

"The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a lessened
form, showed itself, while I still remained in the forest. My sensations
had, by this time, become distinct, and my mind received every day
additional ideas. My eyes became accustomed to the light, and to
perceive objects in their right forms; I distinguished the insect from
the herb, and, by degrees, one herb from another. I found that the
sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those of the blackbird and
thrush were sweet and enticing.

"One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been
left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the
warmth I experienced from it. In my joy I thrust my hand into the live
embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I
thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects! I
examined the materials of the fire, and to my joy found it to be
composed of wood. I quickly collected some branches; but they were wet,
and would not burn. I was pained at this, and sat still watching the
operation of the fire. The wet wood which I had placed near the heat
dried, and itself became inflamed. I reflected on this; and by touching
the various branches, I discovered the cause, and busied myself in
collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it, and have a
plentiful supply of fire. When night came on, and brought sleep with it,
I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I
covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves, and placed wet branches
upon it; and then, spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground, and 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
reproduce it. I gave several hours to the serious consideration of this
difficulty; but I was obliged to relinquish all attempt to supply it;
and, wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across the wood towards
the setting sun. I passed three days in these rambles, and at length
discovered the open country. A great fall of snow had taken place the
night before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the appearance
was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold damp substance
that covered the ground.

"It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and
shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which
had doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd. This was
a new sight to me; and I examined the structure with great curiosity.
Finding the door open, I entered. An old man sat in it, near a fire,
over which he was preparing his breakfast. He turned on hearing a noise;
and, perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and, quitting the hut, ran across
the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form hardly appeared
capable. His appearance, different from any I had ever before seen, and
his flight, somewhat surprised me. But I was enchanted by the appearance
of the hut: here the snow and rain could not penetrate; the ground was
dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite and divine a retreat as
Pandaemonium appeared to the daemons of hell after their sufferings in
the lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants of the shepherd's
breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine; the latter,
however, I did not like. Then, overcome by fatigue, I lay down among
some straw, and fell asleep.

"It was noon when I awoke; and, allured by the warmth of the sun, which
shone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my
travels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant's breakfast in a
wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours, until
at sunset I arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear! the
huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses, engaged my admiration by
turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw
placed at the windows of some of the cottages, allured my appetite. One
of the best of these I entered; but I had hardly placed my foot within
the door, before the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted.
The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me, until,
grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I
escaped to the open country, and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel,
quite bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had
beheld in the village. This hovel, however, joined a cottage of a neat
and pleasant appearance; but, after my late dearly bought experience, I
dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so
low that I could with difficulty sit upright in it. No wood, however,
was placed on the earth, which formed the floor, but it was dry; and
although the wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found it an
agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.

"Here then I retreated, and lay down happy to have found a shelter,
however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more
from the barbarity of man.

"As soon as morning dawned, I crept from my kennel, that I might view
the adjacent cottage, and discover if I could remain in the habitation I
had found. It was situated against the back of the cottage, and
surrounded on the sides which were exposed by a pig-sty and a clear pool
of water. One part was open, and by that I had crept in; but now I
covered every crevice by which I might be perceived with stones and
wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them on occasion to pass
out: all the light I enjoyed came through the sty, and that was
sufficient for me.

"Having thus arranged my dwelling, and carpeted it with clean straw, I
retired; for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered
too well my treatment the night before to trust myself in his power. I
had first, however, provided for my sustenance for that day, by a loaf
of course 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, whitewashed and clean, but very
bare of furniture. In one corner, near a small fire, sat an old man,
leaning his head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude. The young girl
was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently she took something
out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat down beside the
old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play, and to produce
sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale. It was a
lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch! who had never beheld aught
beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent countenance of the aged
cottager won my reverence, while the gentle manners of the girl enticed
my love. He played a sweet mournful air, which I perceived drew tears
from the eyes of his amiable companion, of which the old man took no
notice, until she sobbed audibly; he then pronounced a few sounds, and
the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt at his feet. He raised her,
and smiled with such kindness and affection that I felt sensations of a
peculiar and 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 showed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased,
and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which she placed in
water, and then upon the fire. She afterwards continued her work, whilst
the young man went into the garden, and appeared busily employed in
digging and pulling up roots. After he had been employed thus about an
hour, the young woman joined him, and they entered the cottage together.

"The old man had, in the meantime, been pensive; but, on the appearance
of his companions, he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to
eat. The meal was quickly despatched. The young woman was again occupied
in arranging the cottage; the old man walked before the cottage in the
sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth. Nothing could
exceed in beauty the contrast between these two excellent creatures. One
was old, with silver hairs and a countenance beaming with benevolence
and love: the younger was slight and graceful in his figure, and his
features were moulded with the finest symmetry; yet his eyes and
attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The old man
returned to the cottage; and the youth, with tools different from those
he had used in the morning, directed his steps across the fields.

"Night quickly shut in, but to my extreme wonder, I found that the
cottagers had a means of prolonging light by the use of tapers, and was
delighted to find that the setting of the sun did not put an end to the
pleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbours. In the evening,
the young girl and her companion were employed in various occupations
which I did not understand; and the old man again took up the instrument
which produced the divine sounds that had enchanted me in the morning.
So soon as he had finished, the youth began, not to play, but to utter
sounds that were monotonous, and neither resembling the harmony of the
old man's instrument nor the songs of the birds: I since found that he
read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of the science of words or
letters.

"The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time,
extinguished their lights, and retired, as I conjectured, to rest.

                     CHAPTER XII


"I LAY on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the occurrences
of the day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle manners of these
people; and I longed to join them, but dared not. I remembered too well
the treatment I had suffered the night before from the barbarous
villagers, and resolved, whatever course of conduct I might hereafter
think it right to pursue, that for the present I would remain quietly in
my hovel, watching, and endeavouring to discover the motives which
influenced their actions.

"The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun. The young woman
arranged the cottage, and prepared the food; and the youth departed
after the first meal.

"This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded it. The
young man was constantly employed out of doors, and the girl in various
laborious occupations within. The old man, whom I soon perceived to be
blind, employed his leisure hours on his instrument or in contemplation.
Nothing could exceed the love and respect which the younger cottagers
exhibited towards their venerable companion. They performed towards him
every little office of affection and duty with gentleness; and he
rewarded them by his benevolent smiles.

"They were not entirely happy. The young man and his companion often
went apart, and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappiness;
but I was deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were
miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being,
should be wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy? They
possessed a delightful house (for such it was in my eyes) and every
luxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill, and delicious viands
when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more,
they enjoyed one another's company and speech, interchanging each day
looks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they
really express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions; but
perpetual attention and time explained to me many appearances which were
at first enigmatic.

"A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of
the uneasiness of this amiable family: it was poverty; and they suffered
that evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment consisted
entirely of the vegetables of their garden, and the milk of one cow,
which gave very little during the winter, when its masters could
scarcely procure food to support it. They often, I believe, suffered the
pangs of hunger very poignantly, especially the two younger cottagers;
for several times they placed food before the old man when they reserved
none for themselves.

"This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed, during
the night to steal a part of their store for my own consumption; but
when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on the cottagers, I
abstained, and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and roots, which I
gathered from a neighbouring wood.

"I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist
their labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day in
collecting wood for the family fire; and, during the night, I often took
his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home
firing sufficient for the consumption of several days.

"I remember the first time that I did this the young woman, when she
opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a
great pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud
voice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed surprise. I
observed, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but
spent it in repairing the cottage and cultivating the garden.

"By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that
these people possessed a method of communicating their experience and
feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words
they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in
the minds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike
science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was
baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation
was quick; and the words they uttered, not having any apparent
connection with visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue by
which I could unravel the mystery of their reference. By great
application, however, and after having remained during the space of
several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that
were given to some of the most familiar objects of discourse; I learned
and applied the words, fire, milk, bread, and wood. I learned also the
names of the cottagers themselves. The youth and his companion had each
of them several names, but the old man had only one, which was father.
The girl was called sister, or Agatha; and the youth Felix, brother, or
son. I cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas
appropriated to each of these sounds, and was able to pronounce them. I
distinguished several other words, without being able as yet to
understand or apply them; such as good, dearest, unhappy.

"I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and beauty of the
cottagers greatly endeared them to me: when they were unhappy, I felt
depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathised in their joys. I saw few
human beings 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 group; and, even to my
unpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his
friends. But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more
cheerful than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old
man.

"I could mention innumerable instances, which, although slight, marked
the dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty and
want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first little white
flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground. Early in the
morning, before she had risen, he cleared away the snow that obstructed
her path to the milkhouse, 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 of the snow, and performed those offices that I had
seen done by Felix. I afterwards found that these labours, performed by
an invisible hand, greatly astonished them; and once or twice I heard
them, on these occasions, utter the words good spirit, wonderful; but I
did not then understand the signification of these terms.

"My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to discover the
motives and feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive to
know why Felix appeared so miserable and Agatha so sad. I thought
(foolish wretch!) that it might be in my power to restore happiness to
these deserving people. When I slept, or was absent, the forms of the
venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the excellent Felix
flitted before me, I looked upon them as superior beings, who would be
the arbiters of my future destiny. I formed in my imagination a thousand
pictures of presenting myself to them, and their reception of me. I
imagined that they would be disgusted, until, by my gentle demeanour and
conciliating words, I should first win their favour, and afterwards
their love.

"These thoughts exhilarated me, and led me to apply with fresh ardour to
the acquiring the art of language. My organs were indeed harsh, but
supple: and although my voice was very unlike the soft music of their
tones, yet I pronounced such words as I understood with tolerable ease.
It was as the ass and the lap-dog; yet surely the gentle ass whose
intentions were affectionate, although his manners were rude, deserved
better treatment than blows and execration.

"The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly altered the
aspect of the earth. Men, who before this change seemed to have been hid
in caves, dispersed themselves, and were employed in various arts of
cultivation. The birds sang in more cheerful notes, and the leaves began
to bud forth on the trees. Happy, happy earth! fit habitation for gods,
which, so short a time before, was bleak, damp, and unwholesome. My
spirits were elevated by the enchanting appearance of nature; the past
was blotted from my memory, the present was tranquil, and the future
gilded by bright rays of hope and anticipations of joy."

                   CHAPTER XIII


"I NOW hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate events
that impressed me with feelings which, from what I had been, have made
me what I am.

"Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine, and the skies
cloudless. It surprised me that what before was desert and gloomy should
now bloom with the most beautiful flowers and verdure. My senses were
gratified and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight, and a thousand
sights of beauty.

"It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested from
labour- the old man played on his guitar, and the children listened to
him- that I observed the countenance of Felix was melancholy beyond
expression; he sighed frequently; and once his father paused in his
music, and I conjectured by his manner that he inquired the cause of his
son's sorrow. Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and the old man was
recommencing his music when 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, nor herself understood, the cottagers. They made many signs which I
did not comprehend; but I saw that her presence diffused gladness
through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the
morning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy, and with smiles of delight
welcomed his Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands
of the lovely stranger; and, pointing to her brother, made signs which
appeared to me to mean that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some
hours passed thus, while they, by their countenances, expressed joy, the
cause of which I did not comprehend. Presently I found, by the frequent
recurrence of some sound which the stranger repeated after them, that
she was endeavouring to learn their language; and the idea instantly
occurred to me that I should make use of the same instructions to the
same end. The stranger learned about twenty words at the first lesson,
most of them, indeed, were those which I had before understood, but I
profited by the others.

"As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early. When they
separated, Felix kissed the hand of the stranger, and said, 'Good night,
sweet Safie.' He sat up much longer, conversing with his father; and, by
the frequent repetition of her name, I conjectured that their lovely
guest was the subject of their conversation. I ardently desired to
understand them, and bent every faculty towards that purpose, but found
it utterly impossible.

"The next morning Felix went out to his work; and, after the usual
occupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat at the feet of the
old man, and, taking his guitar, played some airs so entrancingly
beautiful that they at once drew tears of sorrow and delight from my
eyes. She sang, and her voice flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or
dying away, like a nightingale of the woods.

"When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first
declined it. She played a simple air, and her voice accompanied it in
sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain of the stranger. The old
man appeared enraptured, and said some words, which Agatha endeavoured
to explain to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to express that
she bestowed on him the greatest delight by her music.

"The days now passed as peacefully as before, with the sole alteration
that joy had taken the place of sadness in the countenances of my
friends. Safie was always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly in
the knowledge of language, so that in two months I began to comprehend
most of the words uttered by my protectors.

"In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage, and
the green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the
scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance among the moonlight woods;
the sun became warmer, the nights clear and balmy, and my nocturnal
rambles were an extreme pleasure to me, although they were considerably
shortened by the late setting and early rising of the sun; for I never
ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting with the same
treatment I had formerly endured in the first village which I entered.

"My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily
master the language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly than
the Arabian, who understood very little, and conversed in broken
accents, whilst I comprehended and could imitate almost every word that
was spoken.

"While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters, as
it was taught to the stranger; and this opened before me a wide field
for wonder and delight.

"The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney's Ruins of
Empires. I should not have understood the purport of this book, had not
Felix, in reading it, given very minute explanations. He had chosen this
work, he said, because the declamatory style was framed in imitation of
the eastern authors. Through this work I obtained a cursory knowledge of
history, and a view of the several empires at present existing in the
world it gave me an insight into the manners, governments, and religions
of the different nations of the earth. I heard of the slothful Asiatics;
of the stupendous genius and mental activity of the Grecians; of the
wars and wonderful virtue of the early Romans- of their subsequent
degenerating- of the decline of that mighty empire; of chivalry,
Christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery of the American
hemisphere, and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of its original
inhabitants.

"These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was man,
indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous and magnificent, yet so vicious
and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil principle,
and at another as all that can be conceived of noble and godlike. To be
a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour that can befall a
sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on record have been,
appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more abject than that of
the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time I could not conceive
how one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or even why there were
laws and governments; but when I heard details of vice and bloodshed, my
wonder ceased, and I turned away with disgust and loathing.

"Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me. While
I listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the Arabian,
the strange system of human society was explained to me. I heard of the
division of property, of immense wealth and squalid poverty; of rank,
descent, and noble blood.

"The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned that the
possessions most esteemed by your fellow-creatures were high and
unsullied descent united with riches. A man might be respected with only
one of these advantages but, without either, he was considered, except
in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his
powers for the profits of the chosen few! And what was I? Of my creation
and creator I was absolutely ignorant; but I knew that I possessed no
money, no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides, endued with a
figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same
nature as men. I was more agile than they, and could subsist upon
coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to
my frame; my stature far exceeded theirs. When I looked around, I saw
and heard of none like me. Was I then a monster, a blot upon the earth,
from which all men fled, and whom all men disowned?

"I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted
upon me: I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with
knowledge. Oh, that I had forever remained in my native wood, nor known
nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!

"Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind, when it
has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to
shake off all thought and feeling; but I learned that there was but one
means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death- a state
which I feared yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good
feelings, and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my
cottagers; but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except through
means which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and unknown, and
which rather increased than satisfied the desire I had of becoming one
among my fellows. The gentle words of Agatha, and the animated smiles of
the charming Arabian, were not for me. The mild exhortations of the old
man, and the lively conversation of the loved Felix, were not for me.
Miserable, unhappy wretch!

"Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply. I heard of the
difference of sexes; and the birth and growth of children; how the
father 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 wrapped up in
the precious charge; how the mind of youth expanded and gained
knowledge; of brother, sister, and all the various relationships which
bind one human being to another in mutual bonds.

"But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched my
infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if
they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I
distinguished nothing. From my earliest remembrance I had been as I then
was in height and proportion. I had never yet seen a being resembling
me, or who claimed any intercourse with me. What was I? The question
again recurred, to be answered only with groans.

"I will soon explain to what these feelings tended; but allow me now to
return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various feelings
of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated in
additional love and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in an
innocent, half painful self-deceit, to call them)."