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About Google Book Search Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web at |http : //books . google . com/ NFDi TUANrtFKR '^"^^ HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY From the Library of JOHN LIVINGSTON LOWES Professor of English 191 8-1930 Francis Lee Higginson Professor of English Literature 1930-1945 FRANKENSTEIN OR THE MODERN PROMETHEUS FRANKENSTEIN OR THE MODERN PROMETHEUS Br MRS. SHELLEY LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS Broadway, Ludgate Hill GLASGOW AND NEW YORK 1888 Kce<F<Pc H-^yM/^ INTRODUCTION. THE Publishers of the Standard Novels, in selecting " Frankenstein " for one of their series, expressed a wish that I should furnish them with some account of the origin of the story. I am the more willing to comply, because I shall thus give a general answer to the question, so very frequently asked me— "How I, then a young girl, came to think of, and to dilate upon, so very hideous an idea?" It is true that I am very averse to bringing myself forward in print; but as my account will only appear as an appendage to a former production, and as it will be confined to such topics as have connection with my authorship alone, I can scarcely accuse myself of a personal intrusion. It is not singular that, as the daughter of two persons of distinguished literary celebrity, I should very early in life have thought of writing. As a child I scribbled; and my favourite pastime, during the hours given me for recreation, was to "write stories." Still I had a dearer pleasure than this, which was the formation of castles in the air— the indulging in waking dreams— the following up trains of thought, which had for their subject the formation of a succession of imaginary in- cidents. My dreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable than my writings. In the latter I was a close VI INTRODUCTION. imitator — ratber doing as others had done, than putting down the suggestions of my own mind. What I wrote was intended at least for one other eye — my childhood's companion and friend ; but my dreams were all my own ; I accounted for them to nobody ; they were my refuge when annoyed—my dearest pleasure when free.' I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed a considerable time in Scotland. I made occasional visits to the more picturesque parts; but my habitual residence was on the blank and dreary northern shores of the Tay, near Dundee. Blank and dreary on retro- spection I call them; they were not so to me then. They were the eyry of freedom, and the pleasant region where unheeded I could commune with the creatures of my fancy. I wrote then— but in a most common- place style. It was beneath the trees of the grounds belonging to our house, or on die blesdc sides of the woodless mountains near, that my true compositions, the airy flights of my imagination, were bom and fostered. I did not make myself the heroine of my tales. Life appeared to me too commonplace an a6Eur as regarded myself. I could not figure to mysdf that romantic woes or wonderful events would ever be my lot ; but I was not confined to my own identity, and I could people the hours -with creations far more interesting to me at that age than my own sensations. After this my life became busier, and reality stood in place of fiction. My husband, howcTer, was from the first very anxious that I should prove myself worthy of my parentage, and enrol myself on the page of fame. He was for ever inciting me to obtain literary repuUtion, which even on my own part I cared for then, though since I have become infinitely tndifierent to it. At this INTRODUCTION. Ttt time he desired that I shoald -write, not so much witb the idea that I could produce anything worthy <^ notice, but that he might himsdf pidge how far I possessed the promise of better things hereafter. Still I did nothing. Trarelling, and the cares of a family, occupied my time ; and study, in the way of reading, or improving my ideas in communication with his far more cultivated mind, was all of literary employment that engaged mj attention. In the summer of i8f6 we visited Switzerland, and became the neighbours of Lord Byron. At first we spent our pleasant hours on the lake, or wandering on its shores; and Lord Byron, who was writing the third canto of *' Childe Harold,*' was the only one among us who put his thoughts upon paper. These, as be boought them successively to us, clothed in all the light and bar- mony of poetry, seemed to stamp as divine the g^ries of heaven and earth, whose influences we partook with him. But it proved a wet, ungenial summer, and incessant rain often confined us for days to the house. Some volumes of ghost stories, translated from die German into French, fell into our hands. There was the History of the Inconstant Lover, who, when he tbonght to cla^ the bride to whom he had pledged his vows, £ound him* self in the arms of the pale ghost of her whom he bad deserted. There was the tale of the sinful founder of his race, whose miserable doom it was to bestow the kiss of death on all the younger sons of his fated house, just when they reached the age of promise. His gigantic, shadowy form, clothed like the ghost in Hamlet, in com* plete armour, but with the beaver up, was seen at mid* night, by the moon's fitful beams, to advance slowly along the gloomy avenue. The shape was lost beneath Vm INTRODUCTION. the shadow of the castle walls, but soon a gate swung back, a step was heard, the door of the chamber opened, and he advanced to the couch of the blooming youths, cradled in liealthy sleep. Eternal sorrow sat upon his face as he bent down and kissed the forehead of the boys, who from that hour withered like flowers snapt upon the stalk. I have not seen these stories since then ; but their incidents are as fresh in my mind as if I had read them yesterday. " We will each write a ghosl story," said Lord Byron ; and his proposition was acceded to. There were four of us. The noble author began a tale, a fragment of which he printed at the end of his poem of Mazeppa. Shelley, more apt to embody ideas and sentiments in the radiance of brilliant imagery, and in the music of the most melo- dious verse that adorns our language, than to invent the machinery of a story, commenced one founded on the experiences of his early life. Poor Polidori had some terrible idea about a skull -headed lady, who was so punished for peeping through a keyhole— what to seel forget — something very shocking and wrong of course ; but when she was reduced to a worse condition than the renowned Tom of Coventry, he did not know what to do with her, and was obliged to despatch her to the tomb of the dpulets, the only place for which she was fitted. The illustrious poets also, annoyed by the platitude of prose, speedily relinquished their uncongenial task. I busied myself to think of a story , — a story to rival those which had excited us to this task. One which would speak to the mysterious fears of our nature, and awaken thrilling horror — one to make the reader dread to look round, to curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings of the heart. If I did not accomplish these things, my INTRODUCTION. IX ghost story would be unworthy of its name. I thought and pondered — vainly. I felt that blank incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorship, when dull Nothing replies to our anxious invocations. Have you thought of a story 1 I was asked each morning, and each morning I was forced to reply with a mortifying negative. Everything must have a beginning, to speak in San* chean phrase; and that beginning must be linked to something that went before. The Hindoos give the world an elephant to support it, but they make the elephant stand upon a tortoise. Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of Toid, but out of chaos; the materials must, in the first place, be afforded : it can give form to dark, shapeless substances, but cannot bring into being the substance itself. In all matters of discovery and invention, even of those that appertain to the imagination, we are con- tinually reminded of the story of Columbus and his tgg. Invention consists in the capacity of seizing on the capabilities of a subject, and in the power of moulding and fashioning ideas suggested to it. Many and long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley, to which I was a devout but nearly silent listener. During one of these, various philo- sophical doctrines were discussed, and among others the nature of the principle of life, and whether there was any probability of its ever being discovered and communicated. They talked of the experiments of Dr. Darwin (I speak not of what the Doctor really did, or said that he did, but, as more to my purpose, of what was then spoken of as having been done by him), who preserved a piece of vermicelli in a glass case, till by some extraordinary X INTRODUCTION. means it began to move with voluntary motion. Not thus, after all, would life be given. Perhaps a corpse would be reanimated; galvanism had given token of such things : perhaps the component parts of a creature might be manufactured, brought together, and endued with vital warmth. Night waned upon this talk ; and even the witching hour had gone by, Ijefore we retired to rest. When I placed my head on my pillow, I did not sleep, nor could I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden, possessed and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw — with shut eyes, but acute mental vision — I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a njan stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion. Frightful must it be ; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechan- ism of the Creator of the world. His success would terrify the artist; he would rush away from his odious handiwork, horror-stricken. He would hope that, left to itself, the slight spark of life which he had communi- cated would fade; that this thing, which had received such imperfect animation, would subside into dead matter ; and he might sleep in the belief that the silence of the grave would quench for ever the transient existence of the hideous corpse which he had looked upon as the cradle of life. He sleeps ; but he is awakened; he opens his eyes; behold the horrid thing stands at his bedside, opening his curtains, and looking on him with yellow, watery, but speculative eyes. INTRODUCTION. XI I opened mine in terror. The idea so possessed my mind, that a thrill of fear ran through me, and I wished to exchange the ghastly image of my fancy for the realities around. I see them still ; the very room, the dark parquet, the closed shutters, with the moonlight struggling through, and the sense I had that the glassy lake and white high Alps were beyond. I conld not so easily get rid of my hideous phantom ; still it haunted me. 1 must try to think of something else. I recurred to my ghost story, — my tiresome unlucky ghost story 1 Oh ! if I could only contrive one which would frighten my reader as I myself had been frightened that night ! Swift as light and as cheering was the idea that broke in upon me. " I have found it ! What terrified me will terrify others ; and I need only describe the spectre which had haunted my midnight pillow." On the morrow I announced that I had thought of a story. I began that day with the words. It was on a dreary nigbt of November, making only a transcript of the grim terrors of my waking dream. At first I thought but of a few pages — of a short tale ; but Shelley urged me to develop the idea at greater length. I certainly did not owe the suggestion of one incident, nor scarcely of one train of feeling, to my husband, and yet but for his incitement it would never have taken the form in which it was presented to the world. From this declaration I must except the preface. As far as I can recollect, it was entirely written by him. And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. I have an aflfection for it, for it was the offspring of happy days, when death and grief were but words, which found no true echo in my heart. Its several pages speak of many a walk, many a drive, and Xll INTRODUCTION. many a conversation, when I was not alone; and my companion was one whom, in this world, I shall never see more. But this is for myself; my readers have nothing to do with these associations. I will add but one word as to the alterations I have made. They are principally those of style. I have changed no portion of the story, nor introduced any new ideas or circumsunces. I have mended the lan- guage where it was so bald as to interfere with the interest of the narrative ; and these changes occur almost exclusively in the beginning of the first volume. Through- out they are entirely confined to such parts as are mere adjuncts to the story, leaving the core and substance of it untouched. M. W. S. London, October 15, 1831. PREFACE. 'TTHE event on which this fiction is founded has been •*■ supposed, by Dr. Darwin and some of the physiolo- gical 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 imagina- tion for the delineating of human passions more compre- hensive and commanding than any which the ordinarj' 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, — Shakspeare, in the Tempest and Midsummer Night's Dreslm, — and most especially Milton, in Paradise Lost, conform to this rule ; and the XIV PREFACE. most humble novelist, who seeks to confer or receive amusement from his labours, may, without presumption, apply to prose fiction a license, 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 saurce of amusement, and partly as an expedient for exer- cising any untried resources of mind. Other motives were mingled with these, as the work proceeded. I am by no means indifferent to the manner in which whatever moral tendencies exist in the sentiments or characters it contains shall affect the reader ; yet my chief concern in this respect has been limited to the avoiding the ener- vatk^ 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 natorally spring from the character and situation of the here 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 philo- sophical 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 PREFACE. XV 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. -Sfe FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. LETTER I. To Mrs, Saville, England. St. Petersburg, Dec. ii, 17—. 'V'OU will rejoice to hear that no disaster has ■*• accompanied the commencement of an en- terprise 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 Petersburg, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves, and fills me with delight. Do you under- stand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing. 1 8 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 per- suaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desola- tion ; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible ; its broad disk just skirting the horizon, and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There — for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators — there snow and frost are banished ; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto dis- covered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light ? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle ; and may regulate a thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by die 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 9 expedition of discovery up his native river. But, supposing all tiiese conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation, by dis- covering 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 affected 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 tran- quillise the mind as a steady purpose, — a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expediticxi 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 die prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember, that a history of all the vo5'ages 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 read- ing. 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 20 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 Shakspeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted with my failure, and how heavily I bore the disap- pointment. 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 earnest- ness ; so valuable did he consider my services. And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 21 accomplish some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury ; but I pre- ferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative? My courage and my resolution is firm ; but my hopes fluc- tuate, 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. Petersburg 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 22 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 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^ per- haps years, will pass before you and I may meeL 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 n. To Mrs, Saville, England. Archangel, 28M Marck, 17 — . How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow ; yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel, and am occupied in collecting my sailors ; those whom I have already engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend, and are certainly possessed of dauntless courage. But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy ; and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil. I have no friend, Margaret : when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to parti- cipate my joy ; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 23 I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true ; but that is a poor medium for the communication c^ 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 dojuf 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 J 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. 24 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 char- acteristically, of advancement in his profession. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by culti- vation, retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel : finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise. The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance, added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage, made me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of my character, that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on board ship : I have never believed it to be necessary ; and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his kindliness of heart, and the respect and obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2$ 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 con- sent 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 I "you will exclaim. He is so ; but then he is wholly un- educated : he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends him^ which, while it 26 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 ray embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully severe ; but the spring promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably early season ; so tliat peiiiaps I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do notliing rashly : you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness, whenever the safety of others is committed to my care. I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the trem- bling 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 dtsdose 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 modem poets. There THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2^ is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand. I am practically industrious — pains- taking ;— a workman to execute with perseverance and labour ; — but besides this, there is a love for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, inter- twined 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. Gxitinue 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. Re- member me with affection, should you never hear from me again.— Your affectionate brother, Robert Walton. LETTER III. To Mrs, SavilUy England. July 7. 17—. My dear Sister, — I write a few lines in haste, to say that I am safe, and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on its homeward voyage from 28 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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. Where- fore not ? Thus far I have gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas : the very stars them- selves being \^atnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the untamed yet obedient element ? What can stop the deter- mined heart and resolved will of man ? THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 29 My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must finish. Heaven bless my be- loved sister I R. W. LETl'ER IV. To Mrs. Saville, England. August 5, 17—. So strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before these papers can come into your possession. Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly sur- rounded by ice, which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat danger- ous, especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place in the atmos- phere 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 30 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, the north, at the distance of half a mik : 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 ob- served with the greatest attention. About two hours after this occurrence, we heard the ground sea; and before night the ice broke, and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours. In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck, and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking to some one in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night, on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive, but there was a human being within it, whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel. He was not as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabi- THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 3 1 tant of some undiscovared 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 Enghsh, although witli 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 dis- covery towards the northern pole. Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied, and con- sented to come on board. Good God I Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his safety, your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were nearly fi-ozen, and his body dread- fully 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 32 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow degrees he recovered, and ate a little soup, which restored him wonderfully. Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak ; and I often feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin, and attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more interesting creature : his eyes have generally an expression of wildness, and even madness ; but there are moments when, if any one performs an act of kindness towards him, or does him any the most trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy and despairing ; and some- times 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.'* THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 33 " And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion ? '* ''Yes." ** Tlien I fancy we have seen him ; for the day before we picked you up, we saw some dogs draw- ing 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 in- quisitiveness 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 theother 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 (31) * 34 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, have persuaded him to remain iA the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmos- vphere. 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 conciliat- ing and gentle, that the sailors are all interested in him, although they have had very little coramuni- <:ation 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 l^rgaret, that I should find no friend on the ^4de 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 su-anger at intervals, should I hav« any fresh in- cidents to record. August 13, 17 — . My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noWe a crea- ture destroyed by misery, without feelirg the most THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 35 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 doquence. He is now much recovered from his illness, and is continually on the deck, apparently watdiing 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 m the projects of others. He has frequently conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him without disguise. He entered attentively imo 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 glacQy I would sacrifice my fortune, my exist- ence, 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 firom between his fingers, — z groan burst from his heaving breast 36 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, I paused ; — at length he spoke, in broken accents : — " Unhappy man I 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 I " 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 37 for despair. But I — I have lost everything, and cannot begin life anew." As he said this, his countenance became expres- sive of a calm settled grief, that touched me to the heart. But he was silent, and presently retired to his cabin. Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence : he may suffer misery, and be overwhelmed by disappointments; yet, when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit, that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures. Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express con- cerning 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 extra- ordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses, that elevates him so immeasur- ably 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. 38 FRANKEKSTEIN ; OR, and a voice whose varied intonations are soul- subduing music. August 19, 17 — . Yesterday the stranger said to me, ** You may easily perceive, Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had deter- mined, 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 gratificati<Mi 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 reflea 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 under- taking, 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 unbeKef, 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 grati- THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 39 fied by the offered commDnication ; yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eao;emess to hear the promised narrative, partly from curiosity, and partly from a strong deare to ameliorate his fate, if.it were in my power. 1 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 shsdl repose in peace» I understand your feeling," continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt him ; ** but you are mis- taken, 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. Tliis promise drew from me the warmest thanks. 1 have resolved every night, when I am not impera- tively occupied by my duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has rdated 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 ia some future day I Even now, as I commence my task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous ej-es dwell on me with all their melancholy 40 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 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 I 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 cir- cumstances 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 nume- rous mischahces, 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 magni- THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 4 1 ficence. 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 circum- stances. 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 pro- vide him with sustenance for some months, and in the meantime he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a merchant's house. The interval was, consequently, spent in inaction ; his grief only became more deep and rankling, when he had leisure for reflection ; and at length it took so fast hold of his mind, that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion. His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness ; but she saw with despair that their B2 42 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 adver- sity. 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 lime was more entirely occupied in attending him ; her means of subsist- ence 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 wonh. There was a show of gratitude and THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 43 -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, recom- pensing 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 ^ 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 ^uiion 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 bom at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I re- mained 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 44 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol, and something better — their child, the inno- cent and helpless creature bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they owed towards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity, and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord, that all seemed but one train of enjoyment to me. For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their bene- volent disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty ; it was a necessit}', a passion, — remembering what she had sufiered, and how she had been relieved, — for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of '.heir walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale attracted their notice, as being singularly dis- consolate, while the number of half-clothed chil- dren gathered about it, spoke of penury in its worst THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 45 shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard-working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants ; this child was thin, and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold, and, despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of sensibility and sweetness, that none could behold her without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features. The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese noble- man. Her mother was a German, and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with these good people to nurse : they were better off then. They had not been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory of Italy, — one among the schiavi ognor frementiy who exerted himself to 46 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, obtain liie liberty of his country. He became the victim of its weakness. Whether he had died, or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria, was not known. His property ^as confiscated, his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued wnh 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 plapng with me in the hall of our villa, a child feirer than pictured cheruh — a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks, and whose form and nfiotions 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 un- fair 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 occupa- tions and my pleasures. Every one loved Elizabeth. The passionate and dmost reverential attadiment with which all re- garded 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. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 47 — "I have a pretty present for my Victor - morrow he shall have it." And when, on the morrow, she presented Rizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childisli seriousness, inter- preted 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 dis- uttion or dispme. Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together. Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition ; but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense application, and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge. She busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets; and in the majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss home — the sublime shapes of the mountains; the changes of the 48 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 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 in- different, 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 enter- prise, 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 49 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 chival- rous 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 tem- perature 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, pos- sessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desire'd 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, 50 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 sem- blance 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 thoughtfol in his generosity — so full of kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for ad- venturous exploit, had she not onfolded to him the real loveliness of beneficence, and made the doing good the end and aim of his soaring ambition. I feel exquisite pleasurein dwelling on the recollec- tions of childhood, before misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed its bright visions of exten- sive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those evems which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery : for when I would account to myself for the birth of THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 5 1 that passion, which afterwards riiied tny destiny, I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but swelling ^s it proceeded, it became the torrent which in its course has swept away ail my hopes and yoys* Natural philosophy is the genius that has regu- lated my fate ; I desire, therefore, in this narration, "to sute 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 <:arelesdy at ike title-page of my book, and said, '*Ah1 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 x modern system of science had been introduced^ whic^h possessed much greater powers than the ancient, because the powers of the Jatter were chimerical, while those of the former were real 52 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 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 con- tinued to read with the greatest avidity. When I returned home, my first care was to procure the whole works of this author, and after- wards 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 imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature. In spite of the intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern philosophers, I always came from my studies dis- contented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great and unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors in each branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted, appeared even to my boy*s apprehensions as tyros engaged in the same pursuit. Theuntaught peasant beheld the elements around him, and was acquainted with their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 53 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 fortifica- tions 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 pre- ceptors, I entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life ; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame, and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death ! Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which I 54 FRANKENSTEIN i OR^ 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 re- tired to our house near Bekive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It ad- vanced 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 streani of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak, which stood about twenty yards froni our house ; and so soon as the dazzling l%ht 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 55 with US, and, excited by this catastrophe, he entered on the explanation of a theory which he had formed on the subjea of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new and astonishing to Hie. All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagmation ; 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 despi- cable. 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 apper- taining to that science, as being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy of my consideration. Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the immediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my life — the last effort made by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars, and ready to envelop $6 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, me. Her victory was announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul, which followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tor- menting '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 edu- cation, 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 ill- ness 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 en- THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 57 treaties ; 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 Eliza- beth 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 1 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, ^8 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, and whose very existence appeared a part of otir own, can have departed for ever — that the bright- ness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished, and the sound of a voice so familiar, and dear to the ear, can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the e\'il, then the actual Wttemess of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude Itand rent away some dear connection ? and why should I describe a sorrow which all have felt, and must fed ? Tlie 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 bad been deferred by these events, was now again determined upon, I obtained from mj' 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 THE MODERN PR03f£TH£US. 59 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 sunsliine of her smiles and spent tiiem upon us. She fo^ot even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget. The day of my dq)arture at length arrived. Clerval spent the last evening widi us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit him to accompany me, and to become my fellow- student ; but in vain. His fiather was a narrow- minded trader, aod saw idloiess and ruin in the aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply felt the misfortune of being debarred from a liberd education. He said littk ; but when he spoke, I read in his kindling eye and in his animated glance a restcained but firm resolve, not to be chakied to the miserable details of commerce. We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from eadi 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 mom- ning'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 liand once more* my Elizabeth to rene^ her en- treaties that I would write often, and to bestow 6o FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 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 endeav- ouring 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 repug- nance 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 reflec- tions as I commenced my journey ; but as I pro- ceeded, 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 com- plied with, and it would, indeed, have been folly to repent. I had suflficient 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 MODERN PROMETHEUS. 6 1 The next morning 1 delivered my letters of introduction, and paid a visit to some of the principal professors. Chance — or rather the evil influence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway over me from the moment I turned my reluctant steps from my father's door — led me first to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He was an uncouth man, but deeply imbued in the secrets of his science. He asked me several questions concerning my progress in the different branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I replied carelessly; and, partly in contempt, mentioned the names of my alchemists as the principal authors I had studied. The professor stared : ** Have you," he said, "really spent your time in studying such nonsense ? " I replied in the affirmative. '* Every minute," continued M. Krempe with warmth, "everj' 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 1 in what desert land have you lived, where no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies, which you have so greedily imbibed, are a thousand years old, and as musty as they are ancient ? I little expected, in this enlightened and scientific age, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew.*' So saying, he stept aside, and wrote down a list 62 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 commeiKe a course of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow-professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he omitted. I returned home not disappointed, for I haye 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 alche- mists. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modem natural philosophy. It was very different, when the masters of the science sought immor- tality and power ; such views, although futile, were THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 63 grand : but now the scene ^-as 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 diimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of Kttle worth. Such were my reflections during the first two or tkree days of my residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming acquainted with the localities, and die 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 consem to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M. Wald- man, 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. Wald- man emered shortly after. This professor was very unlike his coUeague. 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 remark- ably 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, 64 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 con- cluded with a panegyric upon modem 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 com- mand the thunders of heaven, mimic the earth- quake, 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 65 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 m)rsteries of creation. I closed not my eyes that night My internal being was in a state of insurrection and turmoil ; 1 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 with- out the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited. He said, that ** these were men to whose inde- fatigable zeal modem philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their knowledge. (31) c <66 fbakkensthn; ok, They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new ixames, aod 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 geniuSj however erroneously directed, -scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind." I listened to hisstatement, which was delivered without any presumption or ■affectation ; and then added, that his lectui<e had re- moved my prejudicesagainstmodem chemists; I ex- pressed myself in measured terms, with the modesty and deiereixe 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. Waldnian, ** to have gained a disciple ; and if your application equals your ability, 1 have no doubt of your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosopliy 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 die 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." THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 67 He then took me into his laboratory, and ex- pkined to me the uses of his varioirs 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 dns day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sde occupation, I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and dis- crimination, which modem inquirers ha\'e written on these subjects. I attended the leaures, and cultivated the acquaintance, of the men of science c^ the university ; and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense and real in^mation, 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 68 FRANKENSTEIN *, OR, for me the path of knowledge, and made the most abstruse inquiries clear and facile to my apprehen- sion. 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 con- ceived 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 ex- perienced 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 con- tinual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate capacity, which closely pursues one study, must infallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study: and I, who continually sought the attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely wrapt up in this, improved so rapidly, that, at the end of two years, I made some discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 69 procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had arrived at this point, and had become as well acquainted with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning to my friends and my native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay. One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed ? It was a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery ; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind, and de- termined thenceforth to apply myself more particu- larly to those branches of natural philosophy which relate to ph)rsiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my applica- tion 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 pre- 70 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, cautions that my mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever remehaber to liave trembled at a tale of superstition, or to have feared the apparition of a spirit, Dackness had no effea upon my £ancy; and a church^^ard was to me merely tlie 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 objea tlie most insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine fonn of man was degraded and wasted ; I beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming chedc of life ; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and braio. I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in the change from Hfe to death, and death to life, until from the midst of this darkness a sudden H^ 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, 1 am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not more certainly shine in the heavens, than that which 1 now affirm is true. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. yt Some mirack might hare produced h, y^ the stages • of the discovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I s u c ceede d in dbco^^dg the cause of generation ondi life ; nay, moce, I became myself capable of bestow- ing animation upon lifeless matter. The astonishment "vhidi I had at first experienced on this discovery soon gave j^ce to dcKght and rapture. After so mudi time spent in painful labou r,, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires, was the most gratifying consummation of my toils. But tliis discovery was so great and overwhelming, that all the steps by which I had been progressiv^y 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 wass now within my grasp. Not that, Hke a magic scene, it aM opened, upon me at once : die information I had obtained was of a nature rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them towanis tbe object of my search, than to exhibit that cAyyict already accoQc^lished. I was like the Ambiau who had been buried with the dead, and fotmd a passage to^ life, aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly ineffectual, light. I see by your eagerness, and the wander and hope wliich your eyes express, my friend, that you expcct to be informed of the secret with which I am ac- quainted ; that cannot be : listen patiently until the end of my story, and you will easily perceive whjr 72 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 as- pires to become greater than his nature will allow. When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time con- cerning 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 diffi- culty and labour. I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like myself, or one of simpler organisation ; but my imagi- nation 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 founda- THE MODERN PROMETHEUS, 73 tions of future success. Nor could I consider the magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argu- ment 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 hin- drance 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 pro- portionably large. After having formed this deter- mination, and having spent some months in success- fully collecting and arranging my materials, I begaa No one can conceive the variety of feehngs 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 ; 74 FRANKEKSTEIN ; OR, 3ret still I clung to the hope which the next day or the next hour might realise. One secret which I akme possessed was the hope to which I had dedi- ■cated myself ; and the moon gazed on my midnight labours,- while, with unrdaxed and breathless eager- ness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil, as I <Jabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless <lay ? 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 acute- ness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had rctiumcd to my old habits. I collected bones from chamel-liouses ; and disturbed, with profene 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 deuils 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 MODERN PROMETHEUS. 75 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 re- membered 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 youi You must pardon me if I regard any interruption in your correspondence as a proof tliat 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 76 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, never to allow passion or a transitory desire to dis- turb his tranquillity. I do not think that the pur- suit of knowledge is an exception to this rule. If tiie study to which you apply yourself has a ten- dency 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 ; Cresar 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 77 by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other un- wholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his favourite employment. Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and 1 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 mypur- pose 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, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning ; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creamre open ; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs. How can I describe my emotions at this catas- trophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with 78 FRANKENSTEIN; OR such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His Hmbs 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 change- able as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation ; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room, and con- tinued a long time traversing my bedchamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length las- situde succeeded to the tumult I had before endured ; and I threw myself on tlie bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetflil- ness. 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 healtli, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 79 embraced her ; but as I imprinted the first kiss oa her lips, they became livid with the hue of death ; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the onrpse 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 tlirough the window shutters, I beheld the wretch — the miser- able naonster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed ; and liis eyes^ if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds^ while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken^ but I did not hear ; one hand was stretched out,, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belong- ing to the house which I inhabited ; where I re- mained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening atten- tively, 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. Ohl 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 unfinislied ; he was ugly then; but when those muscles and joints 80 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 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 weak- ness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitter- ness 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 I Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared eveiy turning of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but feh im- pelled 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 : — THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 8 1 " Like one when 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." * 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 ob- served 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 sprang 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 I " 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 * Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner.** 82 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, to Ingolstadt. *' You may easily believe," said he, **how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that all necessary knowledge was not com- prised in the noble art of book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in the Vicar of Wakefield : — * I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.' But his affection for me at length over- came his dislike of learning, and he has pei^mitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to tlie land of knowledge." " It gives me the greatest delight to see you •, but tell me how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth?" *' Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By-the-bye, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account myself. — But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he, stopping short, and gazing full in my face, " I did not before remark how very ill you appear ; so thin and pale ; you look as if you had been watching for several nights." ** You have guessed right ; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation, that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see: but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an end, and that I am at length free." I trembled excessively; I could not endure to THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 8j 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 thea 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, 1 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 recolleaed myself. I then paused ; and a cdd 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 bed-room 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 poe- sently brought breakfast ; but I was unable to con- tain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me p I felt my flesh tmgle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. 1 was unable to reraaia 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 84 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 be- fore my eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room ; " ^ 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 85 but the unbounded and unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words surprised Henry : he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my disturbed imagination ; but the pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the same subject, persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event. By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses, that alarmed and grieved my friend, 1 recovered. I remember the first time I became capable of ob- serving 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 disap- peared, 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.** ^6 FRANKEKSTHIN ; OR, " You will repay me entirely, if you do not dis- compose yourself, but get well as fast as you can ; and since you appear in such good spirhs, I may speak tp 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 «ven think ? ** Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, " I will not mention it, if it 4igitates you ; but your father and cousin would be ^ery 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 rsuppose that my first thought wxjuld 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 my hands. It was from my own Elizabeth : — "My dearest Cousin, — ^You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account. You are for- THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 87 bidden to write — to hold a pen ; yet one word from you, dear Victor, is necessary to calm our apprehensions. For a long time 1 haye thought that each post would bring this line, and my persuasions have restrained my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have pre- vented 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 1 1 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 aflSection of your poor cousin. Yet that is over now : Clenal writes that mdeed you are getting better. I eagerly hope tl:at you will con&nn tlm intelligence soon in your own handwriting. ** Get well— and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home, and friends who love you dearly. Your father's health is vigorous, and he asks but to see you, — but to be assured that you are well ; and not a care will ever cloud his benevolent countenance. How pleased YOU would be to remark the improvement of our Ernest I 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 rowinp: 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 chil- dren, 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. 88 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, kind faces around me. Since you left us, t>ut one change has taken place in our little household. Do you re- memher on what occasion Justine Moritz entered our family ? Probably you do not ; I will relate her histor}', 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 in- stitutions of our country have produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less dis- tinction 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 igno- rance, and a sacrifice of the disunity of a human being. "Justine, you may rememoer, 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 con- cerning the beauty of Angelica — she looked so frank- hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attach- ment 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 mv aunt. She thought her the model of all excellence, and endeavoured THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 89 to imitate her phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her. '* When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much occupied in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other trials were reserved for her. *' One by one, her brothers and sister died ; and her mother, with the exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her favourites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I believe tier contessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor girl! she wept when she quitted our house; she was much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the first approach of cold weather, at the begin- ning of this last winter. ' Justine has returned to us ; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is verv clever and gentle, and extremely pretty ; as I mentioned before, her mien and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt. * " I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling William. I wish you could see him ; he is very tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with 90 FRAKKENSTEIM ; OR> bealth. He has already had oae or two Httle wtves, bat Louisa Biron is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age. " Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a huk gossip concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has ^ready received the con- gratulatory visits on her approaching marriage with a. young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M. Duvillatd, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite schoolfellow,^ Louis Manoir, has su&red several misfortunes since the departure of Oerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the poinct of marrying a \'ery Itvdy pretty Frenchwoman, >iadame Taveraier. She is a widow, and much older than Manoir ; bat she is very much admired, and a favourite with everybody. *' I have written myself into better spirits, dear co«siii ; bat my anxiety returns upon me as I conclude. Write, dearest Victoar— one line — one word will be a blessing to us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his kindness, his a&ction, and his many letters : we are sincerely gnttefnl. Adieu I my cousin; take care of yourself; and, 1 entreat you, write 1 "Elizabeth La vemza. *'Qbnrva, March 18, aj— ." " Dear, dear Elizabeth I " I exclaimed, when I had read lier 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 THE ICODERN FRQMETUEUS. 9S rough usage, iU befitting the wounds that my mind ha4 sustained. £v)er since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the begmoing of my misfortunes^ I bad conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of natural pbibsophy. When I was other- wise quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew aU the agony of my ner- vous 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 Cierval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonish- ing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I dishkcd the subject ; but not guess- ing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to modesty, and changed the sctbject ^om my im- provement to the science iuelf, with a desire, as I evidently saw, oi 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 whidi were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I wdthed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt. Cierval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning tiie sensations of others^ declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance ; and the conversation took a more 92 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, general turn. I thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me ; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply. M. Krempe was not equally docile *, and in my condition at that time, of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. " D— n the fellow ! '* cried he ; "why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us all. 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," con- tinued 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. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 9 J 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 en- gaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on the same studies. Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction but consolation in the works of the Orientalists. I did not, like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for I did not contemplate making any other use of them than temporary amusement. I read merely to understand their meaning, and they well repaid my labours. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating, to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country. When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses, — in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that con- sumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical poetr)' of Greece and Rome ! Summer passed away in these occupations, and 94 FRANKENSTEW; OR, my return to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of autttmn ; but being ddayed by severai accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable, and my jource}^ was retarded until the ensuing spring. I feh tliis delay very bitteriy ; 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 Qerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully; and ahhough the spring was uncommonly late, when it came its beauty com- pensated for its dilatoriness* The momh 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 Ingoistadt, that I might bid a personal farewell to the coumry I had so long in- habited. I acceded with pleasure to this proposi- tion : I was fond of exerdse, 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 perambulatians : my health and spirits had long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the salubrious ail I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and tlie conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the intercourse of my fellow-creatures^ and rendered me unsocial; but THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 95 Clerval called forth tlie better feelings of my heart ; he again taught me to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children. Excellent friend I 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, in- animate 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 ah-eady in bud. I was imdisturbed 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 ray gaiety, and sincerely sym- pathised in my feelings; he exerted liiniself to amosc 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 imita- tion 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. 96 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, We returned to our college on a Sunday after- noon : 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 im- patiently 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 ciay 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 tne 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 1— that sweet child, whose smiles de- lighted and warmed my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay ! Victor, he is murdered I ** 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 ; aud then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 97 gone on before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until they should return. Presently Ernest came, and inquired it 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 mur- derer's Mnger 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 I ' " 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 tea^ 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 exer- tions to discover him are unremitted ; but tney will not restore my beloved William I " Come, dearest Victor ; you alone can console Eliza- beth. 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 vou, my son, to return and be our comforter? Your (31) D 98 PRANKEKSTEDJ ; OR, dear mtnher I Alas, Victor 1 I now say, Thank God she did not live to witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling I " Come, Victor ; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin, but with feelings ol peace and gentle- ness, that will heal, instead of festering, the woimds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my friend, but wjjth kindness anda&ction for those who lore you, and not with :hatred for your enemies. — Yottr affectionate and afflicted father^ " Alphonse Frankenstein. ** Geneva, Jl% 12, 17—." Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was surprised to observe the despair that succeeded to the joy I atiirst expressed on receiving news from my friends. I threw the letter on the table, and covered my face with my hands, " My dear Frankdnstein," exclaimed Hemy,when he perceived me weep with bitterness, '''^re j-ou always to be unhappy ? My dear friend, what has hapipened ? '* i motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the room in the extremest agitation. Tears aJso 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 mtend to do ? " ^'To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses." During our walk, Qerval endeavoured to say a THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 99 few words of consolation ; he could only express his heartfelt sy-mpathy. "Poor William 1" said he, "dear lovely chill, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who that had seen him bright and joj'ous in his young beauty, but must weep over his untimely loss i To die so miserably ; to fed the murderer's grasp! How much more a murderer, that could destroy such radiant inno- cence I Poor little fcUow I 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 be knows no pain. He am no longer he a subject for pity ; we must reserve that for his miserable survivors." Qerval spoke thus as we htirried through the streets; the words impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered them afterwards in soli- tude. But now, as soon as Ae horses arriwd, I hurried imo a cabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend. My jonrney 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 stistain the muhhude of feelings that aowded into my mind. I passed through scenes ^miliar to ray youth, but which I had fflot seen for neariy six years. How altered eveiydnog might be during that time 1 One lOO FRANKEKSTEIN ; OR, sudden and desolating change had taken place ; but a thousand little circumstances might have by degrees worked other alteration?, 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 scsne 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 1 my own beautiful lake I 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 circum- stances ; but they were days of comparative happi- ness, 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 01 Streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake I 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 1 I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not con- ceive 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 Mount Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly ; and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I n)ight 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. 102 FRANKENSTEIN; OR^ I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm increased every minute, and the thunder burSt with a terrifi-c cmsh, over my head. It. was echoed feom Saleve, die Juras^and the Alps 6£ Savoy y vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake, making it ^pear like a vast sheet of ftre *,. then for an instant everything seemed of a pitchy darkness^ until the eye recovered itself from die preceding flash. The stormy as is oftea the case in Switzerland, appeared at once ia varioOfS parts of the heavens. The most violent storm himg exactly north of the town, over that part of the lake which lies between the promootory of Bdrive and the v^lage of Cop^t. Another storm enliglitened Jora with faint flashes j and another darkened and sometimes disclosed the Mdle,. a peaked mountain to the east of the lake. While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific,! wandered on with a hasty step. Tliis noble war im the sky elevated my spirits ; I clasped my liands, and exclaimed aloud, ^^ William, dear angel ! diis is tliy funeral,, the thy dirge ! " As I said these vrards, I percei\'ed in the gloom a figure which stole firom beliind a clump of trees near me ; I stood fixed, gazing intently : I could not be mis- taken. A flash of lightning illuminated the objea, 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 THE MODERN PROStETflEUS. 10 3 I had gtven 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 v my teetit chattered^ and I was forced to lean against a tree for support. The figure passed me quickly, aad I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in htmian sliape could have destroyed that fair child. He was the murderer ! I coiild not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of tbe fact. I thought o£ pursuing the devil j but h wookL have been in vain, ias another flash dis- covered him tio me hanging among die rocks of the neady perpendicular ascent of Monr Sa^ve^ a hiU that bounds Plainpalais on die sootk. He soon reached the summit^ and disappeared. I remained mottoaless. The thimder ceased; but the rain still continued, and. the^ scene wa& envetoped in an unpenetrable darkness. I revolved in my mind the events which I had until nowsought 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 iatjo the world a depraved wretch^ whose del%ht was ia carnage and misery ; had he not murdered my brother? No one can conceive the angubh I suB^red duringr 104 l^HANKENSTEIK ; OR, the remainder of the night, which 1 spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not feel the in- convenience 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 >\ath 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 1 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 10$ Sal^ve ? 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 alle- viate ; yet your presence will, I hope, revive our father, who seems sinking under his misfortune ; and your persuasions will induce poor Elizabeth to I06 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations. — Poor William ! he was our darling and our pride ! " Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes ; 41 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 con- solation ; slie accused herself of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched. But since tiie murderer has been dis- covered" " 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 liim too ; he was free last night ! " " I do not know what you mean," replied my brotlier, in accents of wonder, ** but to us the dis- covery we have made completes our misery. No •one would believe it at first ; and even now Eliza- beth 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 fright- ful, so appalling a crime ? " "Justine Moritz I Poor, poor girl, is she the THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. IO7 accused ? But it is wrongfully ; ever}' 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 mur- der of poor William had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed for several day^. During this interval, one of the ser- vants, 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 mis- taken ; I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good Justine, is innocent," At that instant my father entered. I saw un- happiness deeply impressed on his countenance, but he endeavoured to wekome me cheerfully ; and» after we had exchanged our mournful greeting, I08 FRANKENSTEIN J OB, woulci 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 WilHam." " We do also, unfortunately," replied my father ; " for indeed I had rather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and in- gratitude 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 liis 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. IO9 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 con- victed 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 I everyone else believes in her guilt, and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible : and to see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me hopeless and despairing." She wept. *' Dearest niece," said my father, **dry your tears. If she is, as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and the activity with which 1 shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality." no FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 oblite- rated in an ignominious grave ; and I the cause f 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 ex- culpated 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 confidentininnocence, and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated by thousands ; for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have THE MODERX PROMETHEUS. Ill excited, was obliterated in the minds of the specta- tors 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 ^ection seemed to attest her utter guiltlessness. The trial began ; and, after the advocate against her had stated the charge, several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined against her, which might have staggered any one who had not such proof of her innocence as I had. She had been out the "\\4iole 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 kouse 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 violem hysterics, and kept her bed for several 1 1 2 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, days. The picture was then produced, which the servant had found in her pocket ; and when Eliza- beth, in a fahering 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 ex- pressed. 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 protesta- tions 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 favouraWe interpretation, where any circumstance appears doubtful or suspicious." She then related that, by the permission of Eliza- beth, she had passed the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the house of an aunt at Ch^ne, 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. II3 were shut, and she was forced to remain several hours of the night in a bam 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 proba- bilities 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 114 FRANKENSTEIN; 0R, have a few witnesses examined concerning my character ; and if their testimony shall not over- weigh my supposed guilt, I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my innocence." Several wimesses 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 per- mission 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 pre- tended 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 1 j. attended her own motlier during a tedious illness^ in a naanner that excited the admiration of all who knew her ; after which she again lived in my unde'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 aflfectionate motlier. 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 inno- cence. 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 wil- lingly given it to her; so much do I esteem and value her." A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth's sunple and powerful appeal ; but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in favour of poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned with renewed violence, dialing her with the bladkest 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 tlie 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 ia Il6 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, agon)'. 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 tliat ten THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. II7 innocent should suffer, than that one guihy 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, liow 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 j and you, Victor, shall accompany me: I cannot go alone." The idea of this visit was tormre 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 her- self at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My cousin wept also. *' O Justine I " said she, ** why did you rob me of my last consolation ? I relied on your inno- cence ; 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 3 1 8 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, wicked? Do you also join with my enemies to -crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?" Her voice was suffocated witii 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, notwith- standing every evidence, until I heard that you had yourself declared your guilt. That report, you .^ay, is false; and be assured, dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a inoment, but your own confession." " I did confess ; but I confessed a lie. I con- fessed, 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 tiiat 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 evfl 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 ioved^ was a creature capable of a crime which- THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. II9 none but the devil himself could have perpetrated. Dear William ! dearest blessed child ! I soon shall see you again in heaven, where we shall all be happy ; and that consoles me, going as I am to suffer ignominy and death." *'0 Justine! forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you. Why did you confess? But do not mourn, dear giri. Do not fear. I will proclaim, I will prove your innocence, I will meh the stony hearts of your enemies by my tears and prayers. You shall not die ! — You, my playfellow, my companion, my sister, perish on the scaffold I No ! no ! I never could survive so horrible a misfortune." Justine shook her head mournfully. " I do not fear to die," she said ; '* that pang is past God raises ray weakness, and gives me courage to endure tiie worst. I leave a sad and bitter world ; and if you remember me, and think of me as of one unjustly condemned, I am resigned to the fate awaiting me. Learn from rae, dear lady, to submit in patience to the will of Heaven ! " During the conversation I had retired to a comer of the prison-room, where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair ! Who dared talk of tiiat ? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass the awful boundary between life and death, felt not as I did, such deep and bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth, and ground them together, uttering a groan that came from my inmost souL 120 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, Justine started. When she saw who it was, she approached me, and said, ** Dear sir, you are very- kind to visit me ; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty ? *' I could not answer. '* No, Justine," said Eliza- beth ; ** 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 i It removes more than half my misfortune ; and I feel as if I could die in peace, now that my innocence is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin." Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth also wept, and was unhappy ; but hers also was the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair moon, for a while hides but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core of my heart ; I bore a hell within me, which nothing could extinguish. We stayed several hours with Justine : and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear her- self away. " I wish," cried she, " that I were to die with you ; I cannot live in this world of misery." THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 121 Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty repressed her bitter tears. She em- braced Elizabeth, and said, in a voice of half-sup- pressed emotion, "FareweU, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend ; may Heaven, in its bounty, bless and preserve you ; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever suffer I 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 vsrretched victim. She perished on the scaffold as a murderess I From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing I 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 I Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and the sound of your lamentations shall again and again be heard 1 Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early, much-loved friend *, he who would spend each vital 122 FRAKKEKSTHIN ; OR, drop of blood for your sokes— who has no tiiought nor sense of jojv except as it is mirrored also in your dear countenances: — who would fill, the air with blessings, and spend bis life in serving yoa — 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 souly as, torn by re- morse, horror, and despair, I beheid those: I laved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William, and Justine, the first haj^s victims to my unhailowsd arts. CHAPTER IX. NoTHQSG is. nnore painfiil to the human mind^ than, after the feelings have been worked up by a quick succession of events, die dead calmness of inaction and certainty which follows^ and deprives thffi. soul' both of hope aiid fear. Justine died^ she rested ^ and I was alive. The blood flowed feedy 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, fior I had committed deeds of mischief beyond description horriblcy and more, much more (I per- suaded raysdfX was yet behind. Yet my heart ovcrflawed whh kindness, and the love of virtue;. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I23 I had begun life with benevolent intentioos, and thirsted for the moment when I should put them in practice, and make myself useful to mj fellow- beings. Now all was blasted: instead of that serenity of conscience, which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfacdon,. and frona 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 toittoes, such as no language can describe. This state of mind preyed upon my health, winch had perhaps never entirely recovered from tlic first sliock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man -y all sound of )oy or con^lacency was torture to me ;. solitude was ray only consolation — deep, dark, deathlike soUtudie. My fatlier observed with pain the aheration perceptible in my disposition and hatntSy and en^ deavoured 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 dairk 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 1 loved your brother ;" (tears came into his e^'es as he spoke ; ) *' but is it not a duty to the sorvivors,^ that we sliould refrain from augmenting their un^ happiness by an appearance of immoderate giief^ It is also a duty owed to yourself ; for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or 124 FRANKENSTEIN; OR^ even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society." This advice, although good, was totally inappli- cable 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 en- deavour 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 some- times, 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, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 125 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. 126 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, Out house was the laouse of mourning. My father's health was deeply Shaken by the horror of riie recent events. EKzabeih was sad and despond- ing ; she oo longer took ^delight in her ordmary occupations ; all pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the xlead ; eternal woe and tears she then thought was the just trrbnte she should pay to innocence so blasted and destroyed. She was no longer lihat happy creature, who in earlier youth wandered whh 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 froni 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 lomger see the world and its works as they before appeared to me. Before, I looked upon rhe accounts of vice and injustice, that I read in books or heard from odiers, as tales of ancient dsys, or imaginary evils ; at least they were remote, and more familiar to reason than to the imagination ; bait now misery lias come liome, and men appear to ane as monsters thirsting for each other's Wood. Yet I :am certainly unjust. Everybody believed that poor girl to be guilty ; and if she could have committed the crime for which she suflered, 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 bene£actor and THE MODERN PHQMETHEUS. 1 27 friend, a child whom she had nursed from its hinhg 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 im£t to remain in the society of men. But she was innocettt. I know, I feel she was innocent ; you are of the same opinbn, and that confirms me. Alas 1 Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure them- selves of certain happiness ? I feel as if I were walking on the ^gQ of a precipice, towards wJiicli thousands are <:rowding^ and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss, William and Justine were assassinated, and the anurderer escapes ; he walks about the worid free^ and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer xm the scaffold lor the same crimes, I would not diange places with sucli a wretch." I listened to this discourse with die 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 expr>ession 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 liopes in you. Have we lost the power of 128 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, rendering you happy ? Ah 1 while we love— while we afe 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 in- effectual. 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 whirl- wind 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 29 had passed since then : / 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 ^Jeeper in the ravine of Arve. The immense mountains and precipices that over- hung 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 impe- tuous 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 habi- tations of another race of beings. I passed the bridge of P^lissier, where the ravine, (31) R 130 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, which the river forms, opened before mc, and I began to ascend the mountain that overiiangs it Soon after I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque, as thatof 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 approach 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 ddme 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I3I of body and of mind which I had endured. For a short space of time I remained at the window, watching the pallid lightnings that played above Mont Blanc, and listening to the rushing of the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath. The same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations ; when I placed my head upon my pillow, sleep crept over me ; I felt it as it came ; and blessed the giver of oblivion. CHAPTER 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 sokmn silence of this glorious presence-chamber of imperial Nature was broken only by the brawling waves, or the fall of some vast fragment, the thunder sound of the avalanche, or the cracking, reverberated along the mountains of the accumulated ice, which, through the silent working of immutable laws, was ever and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a plaything in their hands. These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest coo- 132 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, solation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling ; and although they did not remove my grief, they sub- dued and tranquillised it. In some degree, also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the last month. I retired to rest at night ; my slumbers, as it were, waited on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes which I had contemplated during the day. They congregated round me ; the unstained snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods, and ragged bare ravine ; the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds — they all gathered round me, and bade me be at peace. Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke ? All of soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every thought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of those mighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil, and seek them in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me ? My mule was brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of Montanvert. I re- membered the eflect that the view of the tremendous and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It had then filled me with a sublime ecstacy, that gave wings to the soul, and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 33 nature had indeed always the effect of solemnising my mind, and causing me to forget the passing cares of hfe. 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, pro- duces a concussion of air sufficient to draw destruc- tion 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 1 why does man boast of sensi- 134 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, bilities 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 vrand'nng thought pollutes the day. We feel, conceive, or reason ;,laugh or weep. Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away ; It is the sane : for, be it joy or sorrow, The path of its departure still is free. Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his nKurrow ; Nought may endure but mutability i " It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of tlie ascent. For some time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. K 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 35 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 tremen- dous and abhorred I) 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, 136 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, vile insect I 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 i^iU 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 ; 1 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 57 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. O Franken- stein, 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 ean I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a favourable eye upon thy crea- ture, who implores thy goodness and compassion ? Believe me, Frankeinstein : 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 138 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, ^re my refuge. I have wandered here many days ; the caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the only one which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for they are kinder to me than your fellow-beings. If the muhitude 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 wretched- ness. 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 guihy are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they are, to speak in their own defence before they are con- demned. 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 I 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 59 author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw light! Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that foritied }'0U ! You have made me wretched beyond expression. You have left me no power to consider whether I am just to you, or not. Begone I 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 fisien to me, and grant me thy compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this from you. Hear my tale ; .it is long and strange, and the temperature of this place is not fitting to your fine sensations ; come to the hut upon the mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens ; before it descends to hide itself behind yon snowy precipices, and illuminate another world, you will have heard my story, and can decide. On you it rests, whether I quit for ever the neighbourhood of man, and lead a harmless life, or become the scourge of your fellow-creatures, and the author of your own speedy ruin." As he said this, he led the way across the ice : I followed. My heart was full, and I did not answer him ; but, as I proceeded, I weighed the various arguments that he had used, and deter- mined at least to listen to his tale. I was partly urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my 140 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 con- sented 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 my being : all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct. A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard, and smelt, at the same time ; and it was, indeed, a long time before I learned to dis- tinguish 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I41 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 ray 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 tor- mented 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 m)rself so desolate. Before I had quitted your apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had covered myself with some clothes ; but these were insuf- ficient 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 ovjer the heavens, and gave me a sensation of pleasure. I started up, and 142 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 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 1 covered myselfj^ and sat down upon the ground. No distinct ideas occupied my mind ; all was con- fused, 1 felt light, and hunger, and thirst, and darkness ; innumerable sounds rung in my ears, and on all sides various scents saluted me ; the only object that I could distinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes on that with pleasure. " Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night had greatly lessened, when I began to distinguish my sensations from each other. I gradually saw plainly the dear stream that supplied me with drink, and the trees that shaded me with their ^iage. I was delighted when I first dis- covered 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 ray own mode, but the uncouth and inarticulate * The moon. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I4J sounds which broke from me frightened me into silence again. '* The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a kssened form, showed itself, while I still remained in the forest. My sensations had,, by this thne, become distinct, and my mind received every day additional ideas. My eyes became accus- tomed 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 tiie blackbird and thrush were sweet and entidng. " One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been left by some wander- ing beggais, and was overcome with delight at the w^armth 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 1 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 bum. 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 collect- ing a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it, 144 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 oflals 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 mudi im- proved. " 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, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 14) 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 dis- covered 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 discon- solate, 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 dr}' ; 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 146 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, devoured the remnants of the shepherd's breakfast^ which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine ; the latter, however, I did not like. Then, over- come 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 I the huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses, engaged my admiration by turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese that 1 saw placed at the windows of some of the cottages, allured my appetite. One of the best of these 1 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 fear- fully 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 47 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 innumer- able 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 niy^ kennel, tliat 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 car- peted it with clean straw, I retired ; for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered too well my treatment the night before, to trust myself in his power. I had first, however, provided for my sustenance for that day, by a loaf of coarse bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink, more conveniently than from my hand^ of the pure water which flowed by my retreat* I 148 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 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 re- turned, 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 despond- ence. Uttering a few sounds with an air of melan- choly, 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, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 49 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 occu- pied 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 comer, 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 pro- duce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale. It was a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch I 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 sensa- tions of a peculiar and overpowering nature : they 150 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, -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, bear- ing 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 cot- tage, 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 piece of cheese. She rseemed pleased, and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which she placed in water, and then upon tlie fire. She afterwards continued her work, whilst the young man went into the garden, and appeared busily employed in digging and pull- ing 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 « J THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I5I was slight and graceful in his figure, and his features were moulded with the finest symmetry ; yet his eyes and attitude expressed the utmost sad- ness and despondency. The old man returned to the cottage; and the youth, with tools different from those he had used in the morning, direaed 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 de- lighted 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 pro- duced 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 har- mony 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. 152 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, CHAPTER XII. **I LAY on my straw, but I could not sleep. 1 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 here- after think it right to pursue, that for the present I would remain quietly in my hovel, watching, and endeavouring to discover the motives which in- fluenced 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 contempla- tion. 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 benevo- lent smiles. ** They were not entirely happy. The young THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I 53 man and his companion often went apart, and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their un- happiness ; but I was deeply aflfected 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 un- happy? 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 ex- cellent clothes ; and, still more, they enjoyed one another's company and speech, interchanging each day looks of aflfection 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 dis- covered 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 poig- nantly, especially the two younger cottagers ; for several times they placed food before the old man, when the)' reserved none for themselves. ** This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I 154 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, liad 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 witli 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 collect- ing 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 suf- ficient 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, >^dth 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 THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I55 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 unravd 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, milky hready 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 sistery or Agatha ; and the youth Felix, brother y ov son, I cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas appro- priated 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, unlmppy, '* I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and beauty of the cottagers greatly en- deared 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 cotuge, their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the superior accomplishments of 156 FRAKKENSTEIK ; OR, my friends. The old man, I could perceive, often endeavoured to encourage his children, as some- times 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 Jier countenance and tone were more cheerful after having listened to the exhorta- tions 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 be- neath the snowy ground. Early in the morning, before ^he had risen, he cleared away the snow that obstructed her path to the milk-house, drew water from the well, and brought the wood from the outhouse, where, to his perpetual astonish- ment, he found his store always replenished by an invisible hand. In the day, I believe, he worked sometimes for a neighbouring farmer, because he THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I 57 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, al- though I eagerly longed to discover myself to the trottagers, I ought not to make the attempt until I had first become master of their language ; which knowledge might enable me to make them over- look 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 158 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification. Alas I 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 be- came far more pleasant than it had been. **My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the morning, I attended the motions of the cottagers ; and when they were dispersed in various occupations, I slept : the remainder of the day was spent in observing my friends. When they had retired to rest, if there was any moon, or the night was star-light, I went into the woods, and collected my own food and fuel for the cottage. When I returned, as often as it was necessary, I cleared their path from the snow, and performed those THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I 59 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 under- stand the signification of these terms. " My thoughts now became more aaive, 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 ima- gined 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, l60 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 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 thou- sand scents of delight, and a thousand sights of beauty. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. l6l ** It was on one of these da)rs, when my cot- tagers 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 fre- quently ; 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 recommenc- ing 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 (31) F l62 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, Avith pleasure ; and at that moment I thought him ^s beautiful as the stranger. She appeared affected by diflferent 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, con- ducted 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 tliat her presence diffused gladness through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissi- pates the morning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly haj^y, 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 coun- tenances, expressed joy, the cause of which I did not comprehend. Presently I found, by the fre- <que»f rectirrence of some sound which the stranger THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 163 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 under- stood, 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 tliat 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 entranc- ingly 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 1 64 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, explain to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to express that she bestowed on him the greatest delight by her music. The da)rs now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration, that joy had taken place of sad- ness 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 inter- spersed 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 atteniion, 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 ; THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. l6$ 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, govern- ments, 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 1 66 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, 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 fortli 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 in- structions 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 re- spected 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 1 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 pro- perty. I was, besides, endued with a figure hide- ously deformed and loathsome ; I was not even of * the same nature as man. I was more agile than they, and could subsist upon coarser diet ; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 6/ 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 knonwrlcdge. Oil, that I had for ever remained in my native wood, nor known nor felt be}XMid the sensations of hui^ger, tliirst, and heat 1 *' Of what a strange nature is knowledge I It clings to the mind, when it has once seized on it^ like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes ta 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 w^bich Hither increased than satisHed 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 con- versation of the loved Felix, were not for me. Miserable unhappy wretch I '* Other lessons were impressed upon me even 1 68 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, more deeply. I heard of the difference of sexes ; and the birth and growth of children ; how the father doted on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies of the older child ; how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapped up in the precious charge ; how the mind of youth expanded and gained knowledge ; of brother, sister, and all the various relationships which bind one human being to another in mutual bonds. "But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched my infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I distinguished nothing. From my earliest remembrance I had been as I then was in height and proportion. I had never yet seen a being resembling me, or who claimed any inter- course with me. What was I? The question again recurred, to be answered only with groans. "I will soon explain to what these feehngs tended ; but allow me now to return to the cot- tagers, whose story excited in me such various feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated in additional love and re- verence for my protectors (for so I loved, in an innocent, half painful self-deceit, to call them). THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 169 CHAPTER XrV. " Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends. It was one which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind, unfolding as it did a number of circumstances, each interesting and wonderful to one so utterly inexperienced as I was. " The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descended from a good family in France, where he had lived for many years in affluence, respected by his superiors, and beloved by his equals. His son was bred in the service of his country; and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the highest distinction. A few months before my arrival, they had lived in a large and luxurious city, called Paris, surrounded by friends, and pos- sessed of every enjoyment which virtue, refinement of intellect, or taste, accompanied by a moderate fortune, could afford. *' The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin. He was a Turkish merchant, and had in- habited Paris for many years, when, for some reason which I could not learn, he became ob- noxious to the government. He was seized and cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from Constantinople to join him. He was tried, and condemned to death. The injustice of his sentence was very flagrant ;• all Paris 'was indignant ; and it 170 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, was judged that his religion and wealth, rather than the crime alleged against him, had been the cause of his condemnation. ** Felix had accidentally been present at the trial ; his horror and indignation were uncontrollable, when he heard the decision of the court. He made, at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver him, and then looked around for the means* After many fruitless attempts to gain admittance to the prison, he fout^ a strongly grated window in an unguarded part of the building, which lighted the dungeon of the unfortunate Mahometan; who, loaded with chains^ waited in despair the execution of the barbarous sentence. Felix visited the grate at night, and made known to the prisoner his intentions in his favour. The Turk, amazed and delighted, endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his deliverer by promises of reward and wealth. Felix rejected his offers with contempt; yet when he saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit her father, and who, by her gestures, expressed her lively gratitude, the youth could not hdp owning to his own mind, that the captive possessed a treasure which vi-ould fully reward his toil and hazatxL ** The Turk quickly perceived the impression tliat his daughter had made on tlie heart of Felix, and endeavoured to secure liim more entffehr in his interests by the promise of her hand in marriage, so soon as he should be conveyed to a place of safety. Felix was too delicate to accept this offer ; THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I7I yet he looked forward to the probability of the event as to the consummation of his happiness. ** During the ensuing days, while the prepara^ tions were going forward for the escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed by several letters that he received from this lovely girl, wlio fi^und means to express her thoughts in the lan- guage of her lover by the aid 9f an old man, a servant of her father, who understood French. She thanked him in the most ardent terms for bis in- tended services towards her parem; and at the same time she gently deplored her own fate. **I liave copies of these letters; for I found means, during ray residence in the hovel» to pro- cure tiic implements of writing ; and the letters were often in the hands of Felix or Agatha, Before I depart, I will give them to you, they will pnDve the truth of my tale ; but at present, as the sun is already far declined, I shall only have time to repeat the substance of them to you- '* Safie related, that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized and made a slave by the Turks ; re- commended by her beauty, she had won the heart of the father of Safie, who married her. The young girl spoke in high and enthusiastic terms of her mother, who, bom in freedom, spurned the bondage to which she was now reduced. She instructed her daughter in the tenets of her religion, and taught her to aspire to higher powers of intel- lect, and an independence of spirit, forbidden to 172 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, the female followers of Mahomet. This lady died ; but her lessons were indelibly impressed on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of again returning to Asia, and being immured within the walls of a harem, allowed only to occupy her- self with infantile amusements, ill suited to the temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas and a noble emulation for virtue. The prospect of marrying a Christian, and remaining in a country where women were allowed to take a rank in society, was enchanting to her. "The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed ; but, on the night previous to it, he quitted his prison, and before morning was distant many leagues from Paris. Felix had procured passports in the name of his father, sister, and himself. He had previously communicated his plan to the former, who aided the deceit by quitting his house, under the pretence of a journey, and concealed him- self, with his daughter, in an obscure part of Paris. '* Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons, and across Mont Cenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided to wait a favour- able opportunity of passing into some part of the Turkish dominions. " Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment of his departure, before which time the Turk renewed his promise that she should be united to his deliverer ; and Felix remained with them in expectation of that event; and in the THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I73 meantime he enjoyed the society of the Arabian, who exhibited towards him the simplest and tenderest affection. They conversed with one another through the means of an interpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation of looks ; and Safie sang to him the divine airs of her native country. " The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place, and encouraged the hopes of the youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed far other plans. He loathed the idea that his daughter should be united to a Christian; but he feared the resent- ment of Felix, if he should appear lukewarm ; for he knew that he was still in the power of his deliverer, if he should choose to betray him to the Italian state which they inhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which he should be enabled to prolong the deceit until it might be no longer necessary, and secretly to take his daughter with him when he departed. His plans were facilitated by the news which arrived from Paris. "The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape of their victim, and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer. The plot of Felix was quickly discovered, and De Lacey and Agatha were thrown into prison. The news reached Felix, and roused him from his dream of pleasure. His blind and aged father, and his gentle sister, lay in a noisome dungeon, while he enjoyed the free air, and the society of her whom he loved. 174 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, This idea was torture to him. He quickly arranged with the Turk, that if tlie latter should find a favourable opportunity for escape before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should remain as a boarder at a convent at Leghorn ; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian, he hastened to Paris, and delivered himself up to the vengeance' of the law, hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding. " He did not succeed. They remained confined for five months before the trial took place; the result of which deprived them of their fortm»e, and condemned them to a perpetual exile from their native country. "They found a miserable asjdum in the cottage in Germany, where I discovered them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for whom he and his femily endured such unheard-of oppression, on discovering that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and ruin, became a traitor to good feeling and honour, and liad quitted Italy with his daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of mone}% to aid him, as he said, in some plan of future maintenance. *' Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix, and rendered him, when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family. He could have endured poverty ; and while this distress had been the meed of his virtue, he gloried in it : but the ingratitude of the Turk, and the loss of his beloved Safie, were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I7> The arrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his soul. "When the news reached Leghorn, that Felix was deprived of his wealth and rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to think no more of her lover, but to prepare to return to her native country. The generous nature of Safie was out- raged by this command ; she attempted to expos- tuiate with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating his tyrannical mandate. "A fewda}'S after, the Turk entered his daughter's apartment, and told her hastily, that he had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn had been divulged, and that he should speedily be delivered up to the French government ; he had, conse- quent!}', hired a vessel to convey him to Constanti- nople, for which city he should sail in a few hours. He intended to leave his daughter under the care of a confidential servant, to follow at her leisure with the greater part of his property, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn. '* When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct that it would become her to pursue in this cmei^ncy. A residence in Turkey was abhorrent to lier ; her religion and her feelings w^re ahke adverse to it. By some papers of her father, which fell into her hands, she beard of the exile of her lover, and learnt the name of the spot where he then resided. She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her determination. 176 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, Taking With htr some jewels that belonged to her, and a sum of money, she quitted Italy with an attendant, a native of Leghorn, but who under- stood the common language of Turkey, and de- parted for Germany, ** She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the cottage of De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie nursed her with the most devoted affection ; but the poor girl died, -and the Arabian was left alone, unacquainted with the language of the countr}% and utterly igno- rant of the customs of the world. She fell, how- ever, into good hands. The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for which they were bound ; and, after her death, the woman of the house in which they had lived took care that Safie should arrive in safetj' at the cottage of her lover. CHAPTER XV. " Such was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed me deeply. I learned, from the views of social life which it developed, to admire their virtues, and to deprecate the vices of mankind. " As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil ; benevolence and generosity were ever present before me, inciting within me a desire to become an actor in the busy scene where so many admir- able qualities were called forth and displayed. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 77 But, in giving an account of the progress of my intellect, I must not omit a circumstance which occurred in the beginning of the month of August of the same year. " One night, during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood, where I collected my own food, and brought home firing for my protectors, I found on the ground a leathern portmanteau, containing several articles of dress and some books. I eagerly seized the prize, and returned with it to my hovel. Fortunately the books were written in the language, the elements of which I had acquired at the cottage ; they consisted of * Paradise Lost,' a volume of * Plutarch's Lives,' and the * Sorrows of Werter.' The possession of these treasures gave me extreme delight ; I now continually studied and exercised my mind upon these histories, whilst my friends were employed in their ordinary occu- pations. " I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They produced in me an infinity of new images and feelings, that sometimes raised me to ecstacy, but more frequently sunk me into the lowest dejection. In the * Sorrows of Werter,' besides the interest of its simple and affecting story, so many opinions are canvassed, and so many lights thrown upon what had hitherto been to me obscure subjects, that I found in it a never-ending source of speculation and astonishment. The gentle and domestic manners it described, combined 178 FRANKEKSTEIN ; OR, \kith lofty sentiments and feelings, which liad for their object something out of self, accorded wdi with my experience among ray protectors, and with the wants which were for ever alive in my own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a more divine being tlian I had ever beheld or ima- gined ; his character contained no pretension, but it sunk deep. The disquisitions upon death and suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder, i did not pretend to enter into tlie merits of thecase^ yet I incHncd towards the opinions of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely under- standing it. " As I read, however, I apphed much personally to my own feelings and condition. I foimd my- self similar, yet at the same time strangdy unlike to the beings concerning whom I read, ^nd to whose conversation I was a listener. 1 sympathised with, and partly understood them, but I vws un- formed in mind ; I was dependent on none, and related to none. * The path of my departure was free ; ' and there was none to lament my anniliiia- tion. My person was hideous, and my stature gigantic ? What did this mean ? Who was I ? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination ? These questions continually re- curred, but I was unable to solve them. ''The volume of 'Plutarch's Lives,' which I possessed, contained the histories of the first founders of the ancient repubUcs. This book liad THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 79 a far difFerent effect upon me from the ' Sorrows of Werter.' I learned from Werter's imaginations despondency and gloom : but Plutarch taught me high thoughts ; he elevated me above the wretched sphere of my own reflections, to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many things I read sur- passed my understanding and experience. I had a very confused knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of country, mighty rivers, and boundless seas. But I was perfealy unacquainted with towtis, and large assemblages of men. The cottage of my protectors had been the only school in which I had studied human nature ; but this book developed new and mightier scenes of action. I read of men concerned in public affairs, governing or massacring their species. I felt the greatest ardour for virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as far as I understood the signification of those terms, relative as they were, as I applied them, to pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these feelings, I was of course led to admire peaceable lawgivers, Numa,. Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my pro- tectors caused these impressions to take a firm hold on my mind ; perhaps, if my first introduction to humanity had been made by a }'oung soldier, burning for glory and slaughter, I should have been imbued with different sensations. " But ' Paradise Lost ' excited different and far deeper emotions. I read it, as I had read the other l8o FRANKENSTEIN; OR, volumes which had fallen into my hands, as a true history. It moved every feeling of wonder and awe, that the picture of an omnipotent God warring with His creatures was capable of exciting. I often referred the several situations, as their similarity struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I was ap- parently united by no link to any other being in existence ; but his state was far different from mine in every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his Creator ; he was allowed to converse with, and acquire knowledge from, beings of a superior nature : but I was wretched, helpless, and alone. Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition ; for often, hke him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me. "Another circumstance strengthened and con- firmed these feelings. Soon after my arrival in the hovel, I discovered some papers in the pocket of the dress which I had taken from your kboratory. At first I had neglected them ; but now that I was able to decipher the characters in which they were written, I began to study them with diligence. It was your journal of the four months that preceded my creation. You minutely described in thesepapers every step you took in the progress of your work ; this history was mingled with accounts of domestic occurrences. You^ doubtless, recollect these papers. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. l8l Here they are. Everything is related in them which bears reference to my accursed origin ; the whole detail of that series of disgusting circum- stances which produced it, is set in view ; the minutest description of my odious and loathsome person is given, in language which painted your own horrors, and rendered mine indelible. I sickened as I read. * Hateful day when I received life I ' I exclaimed in agony. * Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust ? God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after His own image ; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him ; but I am solitary and abhorred.' "These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude ; but when I contem- plated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable and benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself that when they should become acquainted with my admiration of their virtues, they would compas- sionate me, and overlook my personal deformity. Could they turn from their door one, however monstrous, who solicited their compassion and friendship? I resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way to fit myself for an interview with them which would decide my fate. I post- poned this attempt for some months longer ; for the importance attached to its success inspired me l82 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, with a dread lest I should fail. Besides, I found that my understanding improved so much with every day's experience, that 1 was unwilling to commence this undertaking until a few more months should have added to my sagacity. "Several charges, in the meantime, took place in the cottage. The presence of Safie difiused happiness among its inhabitants ; and I also found that a greater degree of ^ plenty reigned there. Felix and Agatlia spent more time in amusement and conversation, and "w^tq assisted in their labours by servants. They did not appear rich, but they were contented and happy; their feeliogs were serene and peaceful, while mine became every day morfr tumultuous. Increase of knowledge only discovered to me more clearly what a wretched outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is true ; but it vanished, when I beheld my person reflected in water, or my shadow in the moonsliine, even as that frail image and that inconstant shade. *'I endeavoured to crush tliese fears, and to fortify myself for the trial which in a few months I resolved to undergo ; and sometimes I allowed my thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathising with my feelings, and cheering my gloom ; their angelic countenances breathed smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream ; no Eve soothed my sorrows, nor shared my thoughts ; I was alone. I remembered Adam's THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 183 supplication to his Creator. But where was mine ? He had abandoned me ; and, in the bitterness of my heart, I cursed him. "Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the leaves decay and fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak appearance it had worn when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness of the weather ; I was better fitted by my confc^rma- tion for the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief delights were the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay apparel of summer ; when those deserted me, I turned ^nth more attention towards the cottagers. Their happiness was not decreased by the absence of summer. They loved, and sympathised with one another ; and their joys, depending on each other, were not interrupted by the casualties that took place around them. The more I saw of tlietn, the greater became my desire to claim their protection and kindness ; my heart jreamed to be known and loved by these amiable creatures : to see their sweet looks directed towards me with affection, was the utmost limit of my ambition. I dared not think that they would turn them from me with disdain and horror. The poor that stopped at their door were never driven away. I asked, it is true, for greater treasures than a little food or rest ; I required kindness and sympathy ; but I did not believe myself utterly un^^^rthy of it. ** The winter advanced, and an entire revolution 184 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, of the seasons had taken place since I awoke into life. My attention, at this time, was solely directed towards my plan of introducing myself into the cottage of my protectors. I revolved many pro- jects; but that on which I finally fixed was, to enter the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had sagacity enough to discover, that the unnatural hideousness of my person was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly beheld me. My voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it ; I thought, therefore, that if, in the absence of his children, I could gain the good- will and mediation of the old De Lacey, I might, by his means, be tolerated by my younger protectors. ** One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground, and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix departed on a long countr}' walk, and the old man, at his own desire, was left alone in the cottage. When his children had departed, he took up his guitar, and played several mournful but sweet airs, more sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before. At first his countenance was illuminated with pleasure, but, as he continued, thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded ; at length, laying aside the instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection. " My heart beat quick ; this was the hour and moment of trial, which would decide my hopes, or realise my fears. The servants were gone to a THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. l8> neighbouring fair. All was silent in and around the cottage :. it was an excellent opportunity ; yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my limbs failed me, and I sank to the ground. Again I rose ; and, exerting all the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I had placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived me, and, with renewed determination, I approached the door of their cottage. " I knocked. * Who is there ? ' said the old man — ' Come in.* " I entered ; ' Pardon this intrusion/ said I : * I am a traveller in want of a little rest ; you would greatly oblige me, if you would allow me to re- main a few minutes before the fire.* "* Enter,' said De Lacey; 'and I will try in what manner I can relieve your wants ; but, un- fortunately, my children are from home, and, as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficuh to procure food for you.' *" Do not trouble yourself, my kind host, I have food ; it is warmth and rest only that I need.' *' I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute was precious to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to commence the inter- view; when the old man addressed me—* By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman ;— are you French?' " * No ; but I was educated by a French family, and understand that language only. I am now l86 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, going to claim the protection of some friends, whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I have some hopes.' *• * Are they Germans ? ' ***No, they are French. But let us change the subject. I am an unfortunate and deserted creature ; I look around, and I have no relation or friend upon earth. These amiable pe(q)le to whom I go have never seen me, and know little of me. I am full of fears ; for if I fail there, I am an outcast in the world for ever.* " * Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate ; but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are full of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes ; and if these friends are good and amiable, do not despair.' " 'They are kind — they are the most excellent creatures in the world ; but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me. I have good dispo- sitions ; my life has been hitherto harmless, and in some degree benefkiai ; but a fetal prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they ought to sec a feeling and kind friend, they behold only a detestable monster.* *• ' That is indeed unfortunate ; but if you are really blameless, cannot you undeceive them ? * " * I am about to undertake that task ; and it is on that account that I feel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these friends; I havc» THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 87 unknown to them, been for many months in tlie liabits of daily kindness towards them ; but- they believe that I wish to injure them, and it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome/ *' * Where do these friends reside ? ' " ' Near this spot.' " The old man paused, and then continued — * If you will unreservedly confide to me the particu- lars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use in un- deceiving them. I am blind, and cannot judge of \*our countenance, but there is something in your words, which persuades me that you are sincere. I am poor, and an exile ; but it will aflford me true pleasure to be in any way serviceable to a human creature.' ** * Excellent man ! I thank you, and accept your generous offer. You raise me from the dust by this kindness ; and I trust that, by your aid, I shall not be driven from the society and sympathy of your fellow-creatures.' *' * Heaven forbid I even if you were really criminal ; for that can only drive you to despera- tion, and not instigate you to virtue. I also am un- fortunate ; I and my ^mily have been condemned, although itmocent : judge, therefore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes.' " ' How can I thank you, my best atk! only benefactor ? From your lips first have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall be for ever grateful ; and your present humanity l88 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, assures me of success with those friends whom I am on the point of meeting.' ** * May I know the names and residence of those friends ? ' " I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to rob me of, or bestow happiness on me for ever. I struggled vainly for firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed all my remaining strength ; I sank on the chair, and sobbed aloud. At that moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had not a moment to lose ; but, seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, *Now is the time! — save and protect me 1 You and your family are the friends whom I seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!' ** * Great God ! ' exclaimed the old man, * who are you ? ' "At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation on beholding me ? Agatha fainted ; and Safie, unable to attend to her friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward, and with supernatural force tore me from his father, to whose knees I clung : in a transport of fury, he dashed me to the ground, and struck me violently with a stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope. But my heart sunk within me as with bitter sick- ness, and I refrained. I saw him on the point of THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 89 repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain and anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped unperceived to my hovel. CHAPTER XVI. * ' Cursed, cursed creator I Why did I live ? Why, in that instant, did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed ? I know not ; despair had not yet taken possession of me ; my feelings were those of rage and revenge. I could with pleasure have destroyed the cottage and its inhabitants, and have glutted myself with their shrieks and misery. ** When night came, I quitted my retreat, and wandered in the wood ; and now, no longer re- strained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent to my anguish in fearful bowlings. I was like a wild beast that had broken the toils; diestroying the objects that obstructed me, and ranging through the wood with a stag-like swiftness. Oh ! what a miserable night I passed ; the cold stars shone in mockery, and the bare trees waved their branches above me : now and then the sweet voice of a bird burst forth amidst the universal stillness. All, save I, were at rest or in enjoyment : I, like the arch-fiend, bore a hell within me ; and, finding myself unsympathised with, wished to tear up the 190 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, trees, spread havoc and destruction ailDund me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin. " But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure ; I became fatigued with excess of bodily exertion, and sank on the damp grass in the sick impotence of despair. There was none among the myriads of men that existed who would pity or assist me ; and should I feel kindness towards my enemies ? No : from that moment I declared ever- lasting war against the species, and, more than all, against him who had formed me, and sent me forth to this insupportable misery. " The sun rose ; I heard the voices of men ; and knew that it was impossible to return to my retreat during that day. Accordingly I hid myself in some thick underwood, determining to devote the en- suing hours to reflection on my simation. " The pleasant sunshine, and the pure air of day, restored me to some degree of tranquillity ; and when I considered what had passed at the cottage, I could not help believing that I had been too hasty in my conclusions. I had certainly acted impru- dently. It was apparent that my conversation had interested the father in my behalf, and I was a fool in having exposed my person to the horror of his children. I ought to have familiarised the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees to have discovered myself to the rest of his family, when they should have been prepared for' my approach. But I did not believe my errors to be irretrievable ; and, after THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I9I much consideration, I resolved to return to the cottage, seek the old man, and by my representa- tions win him to my party. ** These thoughts calmed me, and in the after- noon I sank into a profound sleep ; but the ferer of my blood did not allow me to be visited by peaceful dreams. The horrible scene of the pre- ceding day was for ever acting before my eyes ; the females were flying, and the enraged Felix tearing me from his father's feet. I awoke ex- hausted ; and, finding that it was already night, 1 crept forth from my hiding-place, and went in search of food. ** When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps towards the well-known path that conducted to the cottage. All there was at peace. I crept into my hovel, and remained in silent expectation of the accustomed hour when the family arose. That hour passed, the sun mounted high in the heavens, but the cottagers did not appear. I trembled violently, apprehending some dreadful misfortune. The inside of the cottage was dark, and I heard no motion; I cannot describe the agony of this suspense. "Presently two countrymen passed by; but, pausing near the cottage, they entered into con- versation, using violent gesticulations; but I did not understand what they said, as they spoke tlie language of the country, which differed from that of my protectors. Soon after, however, Felix 192 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, approached with another man : I was surprised, as I knew that he had not quitted the cottage that morning, and waited anxiously to discover, from his discourse, the meaning of these unusual appearances. " * Do you consider,' said his companion to him, *that you will be obliged to pay three months' rent, and to lose the produce of your garden ? I do not wish to take any unfair advantage, and I beg therefore that you will take some days to consider of j^our determination.' " * It is utterly useless,' replied Felix ; * we can never again inhabit your cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest danger, owing to the dreadful circumstance that I have related. My wife and my sister will never recover their horror. I entreat you not to reason with me any more. Take possession of your tenement, and let me fly from this place.' *' Felix trembled violently as he said this. He and his companion entered the cottage, in which they remained for a few minutes, and then departed. I never saw any of the family of De Lacey more. " I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state of utter and stupid despair. My protectors had departed, and had broken the only link that held me to the world. For the first time the feelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom, and I did not strive to control them ; but, allowing myself to be borne away by the stream, I bent my ^^ THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. I93 mind towards injury and death. When I thought of my friends, of the mild voice of De Lacey, the gentle eyes of Agatha, and the exquisite beauty of the Arabian, these thoughts vanished, and a gush of tears somewhat soothed me. But again, when I reflected that they had spumed and deserted me, anger returned, a rage of anger ; and, unable to injure anything human, I turned my fury towards inanimate objects. As night advanced, I placed a variety of combustibles around the cottage ; and, after having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in the garden, I waited with forced impatience until the moon had sunk to commence my operations. "As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the woods, and quickly dispersed the clouds that had loitered in the heavens: the blast tore along like a mighty avalanche, and produced a kind of insanity in my spirits, that burst all bounds of reason and reflection. I lighted the dry branch of a tree, and danced with fury around the devoted cottage, my eyes still fixed on the western horizon, the edge of which the moon nearly touched. A part of its orb was at length hid, and I waved my brand ; it sunk, and, with a loud scream, I fired the straw, and heath, and bushes, which I had collected. The wind fanned the fire, and the cottage was quickly enveloped by the flames, which clung to it, and licked it with their forked and destroying tongues. '* As soon as I was convinced that no assistance (31) G I 1^4 PRASIKENST^M 4 OR) couM -save any part of tiae iiabitation, I qaiited the scene, sixi sougiit for refuge in the woods. " And now, whh the woiid beffore me, whither should J tend ray :steps ? I resolved to fly far from the sceoeiof my ndsforttmes; hut tx9 me, hated and des^isod, every ooantry must be eqnaify horrible. At lengdi tine thought of yrou crossed my naind. 1 learned irom }iour papers that yon were toy fiufeer, my creator; and to whom couldlappjiy wkh more dijftess than /to him who had ^iven me life ? Among the lessons titat Pelix hxd bestowed ispoia Sa^ Igeogra^iby had not been Kinniitced : I had learned from these the rdatavie -situdtionis of id&e «difienent <0Qnttihe6 of the earth. You had mentioned Geneva as the mame cf your native 4own ; and towards tins place I nesolved to proceed, ** But hfcw was I to direct mysdf ? I knew that I must travel hi ;a south- westerly 'direct ixz)n to reach my idestination:; bstut ithe sun w:as my only tguide. I did j!)ot 4bdow cibe names nf t^ie mwm that I was to pass thromgh, nor could I askiinfonnation frcxn a single hujman being ; but il did not despair. From you 'Only iconki I liope ior succour, although Siowands y/aa i fdt no sentiment hut that of hattred. (Jnfeeliag, heartless cireator! you had endowed one with perceptions and passions, and then cast ame abroad ,an object for the scorn and hotror of mankind. But on you only liad I any daini for pity and redress, and from yon I determined to seek that justice which I vainly attempted to THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 95 gain from any other being that wore the human form. *'My travels were Jong, and the sufferings I endured intense. It -was late in atrtunm when I quitted the dtstiia w^^re I had so long resided. 1 travelled only at niglit, fearful of encountering the visage of a "human being. Nature <kcayed arotmd me, and the sun became heafless; rain and snow poured around me ; mighty rivers were frozen ; the surface of the earth was hard, and chill, and bare, and I found no shelter. Oh, earth ! how often did I imprecate curses on the cause of my being I Hie mildness of my nature had fled, and all within me was turned to gall and bitterness. The nearer I approached to yxmr habitation the more deeply did I feel tlie spirit of revenge en- kindled in my heart. Snow fell, and the waters were hardened ; but I rested not. A few incidents now and then directed me, and I possessed a map of the country ; but I often wandered wide from my path . The agony of my feelings allowed me no respite ; no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could not extract its food ; but a cir- cumstance that happened wlien I arrived on tlie con- fines of Switzerland, when the sun had Teco\'ered its warmth, and the earth again began to look green, confirmed in an especial manner the bitterness and horror of my feelings. ** I generally rested during the day, and travelled only when I was secured by night from the view of 196 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, man. One morning, however, finding that my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to con- tinue my journey after the sun had risen ; the day, which was one of the first of spring, cheered even me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balmi- ness of the air. I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of these sensa- tions, I allowed myself to be borne away by them ; and, forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy. Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised my humid eyes with thankfulness towards the blessed sun which bestowed such joy upon me. " I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came to its boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river, into which many of the trees bent their branches, now budding with the fresh spring. Here I paused, not exactly know- ing what path to pursue, when I heard the sound of voices, that induced me to conceal myself under the shade of a cypress. I was scarcely hid, when a young girl came running towards the spot where I was concealed, laughing, as if she ran from some one in sport. She continued her course along the precipitous sides of the river, when suddenly her foot slipped, and she fell into the rapid stream. I rushed from my hiding-place ; and, with extreme labour from the force of the current, saved her, and dragged her to shore. She was senseless ; and I THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 1 97 endeavoured, by every means in my power, to restore animation, when I was suddenly inter- rupted by the approach of a rustic, who was pro- bably the person from whom she had playfully fled. On seeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms, hastened towards the deeper parts of the wood. I followed speedily, I hardly knew why ; but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun, which he carried, at my body, and fired. I sunk to the ground, and my injurer, with increased swiftness, escaped into the wood. *' This was then the reward of my benevolence I I had saved a human being from destruction, and, as a recompense, I now writhed under the miserable pain of a wound, which shattered the flesh and bone. The feelings of kindness and gentleness, which I had entertained but a few moments before, gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth. Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and ven- geance to all mankind . But the agony of my wound overcame me ; my pulses paused, and I fainted. *'For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring to cure the wound which I had received. The ball had entered my shoulder, and I knew not whether it had remained there or passed through ; at any rate I had no means of extracting it. My sufferings were augmented also by the oppressive sense of the injustice and ingrati- tude of their infliction. My daily vows rose for revenge — a deep and deadly revenge, such as would 198 FRANKEKSTEm; OK, alone compensate for the outrages and anguisk I had endured. ''After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued nay joum^. The labours- 1 endured were no loiager ta be alleviated by the bright sun or gentk breezes of sprii^ ; aU joy was but a mockery, which insulted my desolate state, and made me feel more painfully that I was not made for the enjojntnent of pleasure, <^ But osy tcnls now drew near a close ; and, in two months from this time, I reached the cn.TiroQS of Geneva. " It was evening when 1 arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place among the fields that surround it^ to meditate in what manner I should apply ta you. I was oppressed by fatigue and hunger, and far too unhappy to enjpy the gentle breezes of evening,, or the prospect of the sun setting behind the stupendous mountains of Jura. '* At this time a ^ght sleep relieved me from the paiLEL of reflection, which was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful child, who came running into the recess I had chosen, with all the spcMrtive- ness of infancy. Suddenly, as I giized on him, aj^ idea seized me, that this little creature was unpre- judiced, and had lived too short a time to have imbibed a horror of deformity. If, therefore, I could seize him, and educate him as my companion and friend, I should not be so desolate in this peopled earth. THE MODERN F&OMETHEUS. 199^ " Urged by this iraipufce, I seized 00 the bojr as he passed, and drew him towards me. As soon as he bchdd my form^ be placed his hands before his^ eyesy and uttered a shnll icream : 1 drew his^hand. forcibly from his face, and said, ' Ch^ what is the meaasing of this? I da Boot intend to hurt you v Ibten to. me;* * ' He stroggled victently . * Let sne go,' he cried ;- ^ monster I ugly wvetcb ! 3rDU wish to eat me, and? tear nae to pieces — yon are aa c^rc— let me go, or I will tcD my papa.' " ' Boy,, yoa will never see your father again ;. you. must come with me.* ^' ' Hideotis monster I let roe go. My papa is ai Syndic — he is M. Frankenstein — ^be vnlA punish. you. You dare not keep noe.* *' * Frankenstein 1; you belong then to my enemy — to him towards whom I have sworn eternaH revenge ; you shall be my first victim.' " The diild still struggled, and loaded me wiri> epithets wliich carried despair to my heart ;• I grasped his throat to silence him, and in a moment he lay dead at my feet. *' I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation and hellisli triumph : clappings my hands, I exclaimed, ^I, too, can create desolation ;. my enemy is not invulnerable ; tlMS death wiH carry despair to him, and a thousand other miseides shaUl torment and destroy him,' *' As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw some- 200 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, thing glittering on his breast. I took it ; it was a portrait of a most lovely woman. In spite of my malignity, it softened and attracted me. For a few moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes, fringed by deep lashes, and her lovely lips; but presently my rage returned : I remembered that I was for ever deprived of the delights that such beautiful creatures could bestow; and that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, in re- garding me, have changed that air of divine be- nignity to one expressive of disgust and affright. * * Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with rage ? I only wonder that at that moment, instead of venting my sensations in exclamations and agony, I did not rush among mankind, and perish in the attempt to destroy them. ** While I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot where I had committed the murder, and seeking a more secluded hiding-place, I entered a barn which had appeared to me to be empty. A woman was sleeping on some straw; she was young : not indeed so beautiful as her whose por- trait I held ; but of an agreeable aspect, and bloom- ing in the loveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought, is one of those whose joy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but me. And then I bent over her, and whispered, * Awake, fairest, thy lover is near — he who would give his life but to obtain one look of affection from thine eyes : my beloved, awake ! ' THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 201 " The sleeper stirred ; a thrill of terror ran through me. Should she indeed awake, and see me, and curse me, and denounce the murderer ? Thus would she assuredly act, if her darkened eyes opened, and she beheld me. The thought was madness; it stirred the fiend within me—not I, but she shall suffer ; the murder I have committed because I am for ever robbed of all that she could give me, she shall atone. The crime had its source in her : be hers the punishment ! Thanks to the lessons of Felix and the sanguinary laws of man, I had learned now to work mischief. I bent over her, and placed the portrait securely in one of the folds of her dress. She moved again, and I fled. " For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place ; sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world and its miseries for ever. At length I wandered towards these mountains, and have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning passion which you alone can gratify. We may not part until you have promised to comply with my requi- sition. I am alone, and miserable ; man will not associate with me ; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My com- panion must be of the same species, and have the same defects. This being you must create." 202 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, CHAPTER XVII. The beir^g finished speaking and fixed Ins looks upon me in expectation of a reply. But I was i)ewildered, perplexed, and unable to rarrange my ideas sufficiently to understand die full extent of ibis proposition. He continued — " Yon must create a female for me, with whom I can live in the in-terchange of those sympathies necessary for my iseing. This you alone cam do ; and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse to concede." The latter partof Jiis tale had kindled anewiai nie the anger that had died away while he narrated his peaceful life among tlie cottagers, and, as he said this, I could no longer suppress (the rage that homed within ame. ** Ido refuse it," I replied ; ** aud no tortnre shall ever extort a consent from me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you -shall never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create amxtherlike 3-ourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate tlie world ? Begone I I have answered 3XXU ; 3^ou,may torture me, but I will never consent." **You are in the wrong," ^repdied the fiend; **.and, instead of threatenmg, I am contremt to reason witli you. I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces, and triumph ; remember that, and tell me THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 203 why I should pity man more than he pities iwe ? You would not call it murder, if yooi <:ould pre- cipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and desftroy. my frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I respect man, when iae contemns me? Let him live with me in the interchamgte of ^ndness ; ;and, instead of injury, I would bestow eveiy benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his aoceptas^ce. But that cannot be ; tlie human -senses are iiwur- mountable barriers to our union. Yet onine -shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries : if I cannot inspire kwe, I will cause fear ; and chiefly towards you my arch- enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguish- able hatred. Have a care : I will work at your tiestruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse the hour of your birth." A fiendish rage animated him as he said this ; his face was wrinkled into contortions too horrible for human e3res to bdaold ; but presently be calmed himself and proceeded — "I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me ; for you do not refkct that you are the cause of its excess. If any bemg felt emotions of irenevolence towards me, I should return them an hundred and an hundred fc^d ; for that one creature's satke, I would make peace with the whole kind 1 But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realised. Wiiat I ask of you is reasonable and moderate ; I demand a feature of another sex, but as hideous as myself; 204 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, the gratification is small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is true, we shall be monsters, cut oflf from all the world ; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they ^^^ll be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel. Oh ! my creator, make me happy ; let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit ! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing ; do not deny me my request I " I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences of my consent ; but I felt that there was some justice in his argu- ment. His tale, and the feelings he now expressed, proved him to be a creature of fine sensations ; and did I not, as his maker, owe him all the portion of happiness that it was in my power to bestow ? He saw my change of feeHng, and continued — ** If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us again : I will go to the vast wilds of South America. My food is not that of man ; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid to glut my appetite ; acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My companion will be of the same nature as myself, and will be con- tent with the same fare. We shall make our bed of dried leaves ; the sun will shine on us as on man, and will ripen our food. The picture I present to you is peaceful and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the wan- THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 20$ tonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me, I now see compassion in your eyes; let me seize the favourable moment, and persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire." '* You propose," replied I, " to fly from the habi- tations of man, to dwell in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your only companions. How can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man, persevere in this exile? You will return, and again seek their kindness, and you will meet with their detestation ; your evil passions will be renewed, and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of destruction. This may not be ; cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent." **How inconstant are your feelings! but a moment ago you were moved by my representa- tions, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints ? I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me, that, with the companion you bestow, I will quit the neigh- bourhood of man, and dwell as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil passions will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy ! my life will flow quietly away, and, in my dying moments, I shall not curse my maker." His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him, and sometimes felt a wish to console him ; but when I looked upon him, when I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened, and my feelings were altered to 206 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, tboae of horror and hatred.. 1 tried to stifle diese seiftsatians.;. 1 thought, tliat as I could not syn^ pathise. with him,. I had no right to withhold fK»n. hina: the smaU portion, of happiness which wa& yet in my power to bestow. *'You s>**ear," 1 said^ **to be^ harmless ; bat hawe you not already shown a degree of maiice itet shouiK^ rei^onably make me distrust you. B Maty noi evemi this bje ai feint that will increase- yotnr triumph by afFocding a wider scope for your revenge.." '*^How is. tins?- I m)ust not be trifled with : and I diemand aa answer. If I have no ties, and no aE^ctioD5, hatredi aooid vice must be my portion ; tlifi love o£ anodicr will destroy tlie cause o£ my crinaes, and I shall become a thing, of whose exist- ence every one will be ignorant. My vices are the children. o( a forced solitude that I abhor y and my virtues widl necessarily arise when I Irve in coni- muoicni witli an equal. I shall feel the affections, of a sensitive being, and become linked ta the chain. o£ existence and events,, from which: I am. aow excluded." I paused some time to< reflect on all be had rekted, and the various arguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues. which he had displayed, on tlie opening of his existence^, and the subsequent blight of all kindly feehng by the loathing and scorn which l»s pro- tectors kiad manifested towards him. His power and threats were not onmtted in my calculations ; THE. MODERN PROMETHEyS. 20J a creature who could' exist in tire ice-caves of the glaciers,, aanid: hide himself frcim pursuit among tlie ridges of inaccessible prcdpices, was a being pos- sessiiiig faicui'ties it would* be vain- to cope with. After a' long pause of reflection, I concluded that thejii^ce.due both to hinvand my fellow-creatures demanded of me: tliat I should comply with his ropiest. Turning to him, therefee, I said — " I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quk Europe for ever, and every other place in the nciglibourhood of man, as soon as I shall deliver iMD^ your hands- a female who will accompany you in yocur exile.'* "I swear," he cried, ** by the sun, and by the- Wine sky of Heaveni, and by the fire of love- that burns my heart, that if you grant my prayer, while- they exist you.shall never beh?old me again*. Depart to your home, and commence your labours : I sliall' watch their progress with unucteTaibl'e anxiety ; and feaar aotbut that when youare ready I shall appear.^ Saying i?his, he suddenly quitted me, fearfol, perhapSy of any change in my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain wilii greater speed than: the: flrglxti of an eagle^ and quickly lost among the undulations; of tlie. sea of ice. His taie had occupied' the whole day, and the- sua: was upon the verge of the horizon when he departed. 1' knew that I ought to hasten my descem towards the valley, as I shouid soon be encompassed in darkness; but my heart was 208 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of wind- ing among the little paths of the mountains, and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced, perplexed me,- occupied as I was by the emotions which the occur- rences of the day had produced. Night was far advanced, when I came to the half-way resting- place, and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at intervals, as the clouds passed from over them ; the dark pines rose before me, and every liere and there a broken tree lay on the ground ; it was a scene of wonderful solemnity, and stirred strange thoughts within me. I wept bitterly; and clasping my hands in agony, I exclaimed, '* Oh ! stars and clouds, and winds, ye are all about to mock me ; if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory ; let me become as nought ; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness." Tliese were wild and miserable thoughts ; but I cannot describe to you how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me, and how I listened to every blast of wind, as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me. Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix ; I took no rest, but returned imme- diately to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could give no expression to my sensations — they weighed on me with a mountain's weight, and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them. Thus I returned home, and entering the house, presented THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2O9 myself to the family. My haggard and wild appear- ance awoke intense alarm ; but I answered no ques- tion, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were placed under a ban — as if I had no right to claim their sympathies — as if never more might I enjoy com- panionship with them. Yet even thus I loved them to adoration ; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate myself to my most abhorred task. The prospect of such an occupation made every other circumstance of existence pass before me like a dream ; and that thought only had to me the reality of life. CHAPTER XVIII. Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva ; and I could not collect the courage to recommence my work, I feared the ven- geance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable to overcome my repugnance to the task which was enjoined me. I found that I could not compose a female without again devoting several months to profound study and laborious disquisition. I had heard of some discoveries having been made by an English philosopher, the knowledge of which was material to my success, and I sometimes thought of obtaining my father's consent to visit England for this purpose; but I clung to every pretence of delay, and shrunk from taking the first 2IO FRAKKJENSTEIK; OR, Step in an. unidectaking wliose immediate necessity began, to appear less absohiite ta me. A change indeed had taken plajce in me : my lieohliii, which had hitherto dccHned^ was now mudx restored*^ and my spirits,. when unchecked by the njcmoiry of my -unhappy promise,, rose proportionably. Mjp fo-ther saw this change wkh pleasune^ and hetiuimedf hi& thoughts towards. the best meiliod of eradicajting the remains, of my mekncholy^ wlaich) every now and, then would return, by fits^ and with a devouring.' blackness- overcast the approacliiiag: siMsliime. At! these moments I took refuge in the most pcrfecr solitude. I passed whole days on the lake alone in a little boat, watching the clouds, and listening to the rippling of the waives., silent and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun seldom failed to restore me to. some degree, of con3|rosuTe ; amd, otv my return,.! met the sailutationsof my friends with a readien smile and a more, cheerful heart. It was. after my return fromi one of these rambles^,, that my fiuher, calling me: aside, thus addressed me— "I am happy to remark,. i«y dear son^ that you) have resumed your former pleasures, and seem/ to be returning to yourselL And yet- you are stiHf unliappy, and still avoid' our society. For some time L was lost ia conjecture as to the cause of this ; but yesterday an idea; struck me, and if it is wdl' founded, 1 conjure you to avow it. Reserve on* such ai point would be not only useless-, ftut draw do^Ti trcblfi: misery an ua aUj.'" THE MODERN PROMFFHEUS. 2^11 1 trembled violeatly at his exordium, and my father comiiiuied— '' I confess, my son, that I ha\'e aiwarrs looked forward to your marriage with our dear Elizatbeth as the tie of ouar domestic comfort,, imd the stay of my declining years. You were attached* to» each other from your earliest infancy ; you studied together, and appeared,, in dispositions and tastes, entirely swited to one another. But so blind, is the experience of man, that what I con- ceived to be the best assistanus to my plan^ may- have entirely destroyed it. You, perhaps, regard, her as youar sister,, without any wish that slie might become youir wife:. Nay, you may have met with another whom yo« may love; and, considering youiself as bound in honour to EUzabeth, tins- struggle may occasion the- poignant misery which you appear to feel/' " My dear father, re-assure yourself. I love my cousin tcndterly and sincerely. I never saw any woman who cxdted, as Elizabeth does, my warmest adnricatiott and affection. My future hopes and prospeas are entirely bound up in the expeaation of ottf tinion." " Tbe expression of yoiir sentiments on this sub- ject, my dear Victor, ^ves me more pleasure than I have- for some time experienced. If you feel thus, we shali assuredly be happy, however present events may cast a gloom over us. But it is tliis gloom which appears to have taken so strong* a lK>ld of >roiir ndnd, that I wish to dissipate. Tell me, 212 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, therefore, whether you object to an immediate solemnisation of the marriage. We have been un- fortunate, and recent events have drawn us from that every-day tranquillity befitting my years and infirmities. You are younger ; yet I do not suppose, possessed as you are of a competent fortune, that an early marriage would at all interfere with any future plans of honour and utility that you may have formed. Do not suppose, however, that I wish to dictate happiness to you, or that a delay on your part would cause me any serious uneasiness. Interpret my words with candour, and answer me, I conjure you, with confidence and sincerity." I listened to my father in silence, and remained for some time incapable of offering any reply. I revolved rapidly in my mind a multitude of thoughts, and endeavoured to arrive at some con- •clusion. Alas 1 to me the idea of an immediate union with my Elizabeth was one of horror and dismay. I was bound by a solemn promise, which I had not yet fulfilled, and dared not break ; or, if I did, what manifold miseries might not impend ■over me and my devoted family ! Could I enter into a festival with this deadly weight yet hanging round my neck, and bowing me to the ground. I must perform my engagement, and let the monster depart with his mate, before I allowed myself to enjoy the delight of an union from •which I expected peace. I remembered also the necessity imposed upon THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 21 3 nie of either journeying to England, or entering into a long correspondence with those philosophers of that country, whose knowledge and discoveries were of indispensable use to me in my present undertaking. The latter method of obtaining the desired intelligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory: besides, I had an insurmountable aversioti to the idea of engaging myself in my loathsome task in my father's house, while in habits of familiar inter- course with those I loved. I knew that a thousand fearful accidents might occur, the slightest of which would disclose a tale to thrill all connected with me with horror. I was aware also that I should often lose all self-command, all capacity of hiding the harrowing sensations that would possess me during the progress of my unearthly occupation. I must absent myself from all I loved while thus employed. Once commenced, it w^ould quickly be achieved, and I might be restored to my family in peace and happiness. My promise fulfilled, the monster would depart for ever. Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some accident might meanwhile occur to destroy him, and put an end to my slavery for ever. These feelings dictated my answer to my father. I expressed a wish to visit England ; but, conceal- ing the true reasons of this request, I clothed my desires under a guise which excited no suspicion, while I urged my desire with an earnestness that easily induced my father to comply. After so long 214 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, 41 period of an absorbing melancholy, thai resembled madness in its intensity^nd effects, he was g^ad to find that I was capable of taking pleasure in the itiea of such a journey, and be hoped that <:hange of scene and varied amusemecft would, before my return, have restored me entirely to myself. The duration of my absence was left to my own choice ; a few months, or at most a year, was tlic period contemplated. One paternal kind precautrion he had taken to ensure my having a companion. Without previously communicating v,iih me, he had, in concert with Elizabeth, ZTrang^A that Qerval should join me at Strasburg. This inter- fered with the solitude I coveted for the prosecaiion of my task; ^^et at tl>e commencement ^ my journey tlie presence of my friend could in noway be an impediment, and truly I rejoiced that thus I should be saved many hours of lonely, maddening reflection. Nay, Henr}'^ might stand -betwewi me And the intrusion of my foe. If I were i^one, would he not at times force his abhorred presence on me, to remind me of my task, or to comemplate its progress ? To England, therefore, I was bound, and h was understood that my union with Elizabeth -should take place immediately on my return. My father's age Tendered him extremely averse to delay. For nn-self, there was one reward I promised -myself from my detested toils — one consolation for my unparalleled sufferings ; it was the prospect of that THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2 1 > -day when, enfranchised from my miserable 'SlaTery, •I migfht claim Elizabeth, and forget the pa* tin my union with her. I now ma^ arrangements for my journey ; but one feeling hatmted me, which filled me wii!h fear smd agitation. Dming my absence I shot^ld leave my friends unconscious 'of the existence of their enemy, and unprotected from his attaclis, exas- perated as he might 'be by my departure. But he iiad promised to follow me wherever I mighft go ; and would he not accompany me to England? This imagination was dreadful in itself, Txrt 'sooth- ing, inasmuch as it -sirpposed the safety of my friends. I was agonised with the idea df the possibility that the reverse of this might happen. But through the whole period during whrdi I was tlte slave of my creature, I allowed myself to be governed 'by the impulses of the nroment ; and my present sensations strongly intimarted that the "fiend would follow me, and exempt my faniily from the danger of his machinations. It was in the latter end of September that I ^again quitted my native country. My journey had been my own suggestion, and Elizabeth, there- fore, acquiesced : hut she was filled with disquiet at the idea of tny suffering, away from her, the inroads of misery and grief. It had heen her care Which provided me a companion in Clervafl — and yet a man is blind to a thousand ratrrate cir- cumstances, which call forth a womah^s sedulous 2l6 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, attention. She longed to bid me hasten my re- turn, — a thousand conflicting emotions rendered her mute, as she bade me a tearful silent farewell. I threw myself into the carriage that was to con- vey me away, hardly knowing whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around. I re- membered only, and it was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on it, to order that my chemical instruments should be packed to go with me. Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through many beautiful and majestic scenes ; but my eyes were fixed and unobserving. I could only think of the bourne of my travels, and the work which was to occupy me whilst they endured. After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I traversed many leagues, I arrived at Strasburg, where I waited two days for ClervaL He came. Alas, how great was the contrast be- tween us 1 He was alive to every new scene ; joy- ful when he saw the beauties of the setting sun, and more happy when he beheld it rise, and re- commence a new day. He pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape, and the appear- ances of the sky. ** This is what it is to live," he cried, " now I enjoy existence ! But you, my dear Frankenstein, wherefore are you desponding and sorrowful ! " In truth, I was occupied by gloomy thoughts, and neither saw- the descent of the evening star, nor the golden sunrise reflected in the Rhine. — And you, my friend, would be far THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 217 more amused with the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery with an eye of feeling and delight, than in listening to my reflections. I, a miserable wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to enjoyment. We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Strasburg to Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping for London. During this voyage, we passed many willowy islands, and saw several beautiful towns. We stayed a day at Manheim, and, on the fifth from our departure from Stras- burg, arrived at Mayence. The course of the Rhine below Mayence becomes much more pictur- esque. The river descends rapidly, and winds be- tween hills, not high, but steep, and of beautiful forms. We saw many ruined castles standing on the edges of precipices, surrounded by black woods, high and inaccessible. This part of the Rhine, indeed, presents a singularly variegated landscape. In one spot you view rugged hills, ruined castles overlooking tremendous precipices, with the dark Rhine rushing beneath ; and, on the sudden turn of a promontory, flourishing vineyards, with green sloping banks, and a meandering river, and populous towns occupy the scene. We travelled at the time of the vintage, and heard the song of the labourers, as we glided down the stream. Even I, depressed in mind, and my spirits continually agitated by gloomy feelings, even I was pleased. I lay at the bottom 2l8 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, of the boat, and, as I gazed on the ctoudless Mae sky, I seemed to dritii in a tranquillity to which I had long been a stranger. And if these were- my sensations, who can dfescribe those of Henr}' ? He felt as if he had been transported to Fairyland', and enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by man, *'I have seen,* he said^ ** the most beautiful scenes of ray own coimtry; I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the snowy mountains de- scend almost perpendicularly to the water, casting Wack and impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy and mournful appearance, were it not for the most verdant fsknds that relieve the eye by their gay appearance; 1 have seen this lake agitafted by a tempest, when the wind tore up whirlwinds of Water, and gave you an idea crf^ what the waterspout must be on the great ocean ; and the waves dash 'with fury the base of tfee mountain, where the priest and his mistress were overwliehned by an avalanche, and where their dying voices are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the nightly wind; I have seen the mocrmams of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud r but this countt}', Victor, pleases me more than all those wonders. The mountains of Switzerland are more majestic and strange; but there is a charm in the banks of this divine river, that I never before saw equalled. Look at that castle which overhangs yon precipice ; and that also on liie isfand, almost concealed amongst the foliage THE MODEKH PROMETHEUS. 21$ of those lovely trees ; and now that group* oC labourers coming from among tkeir vines ; and that village half hid in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely, the spirit that, inhabits and guards this place, has a soul more m harmony with man» than those who pile the glacier,, or retire to the inaccesi- sible peaks of the mountains of our own country." Clerval I beloved ^nd 1 even now it dielights me to record 3'oui woids^ and to dwiell on the praise of which you are so cnunently deserving^ He was a being frxrmed in the ** very poetry of nature." His wild and enthusiastic imagination was chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed with ardent affections, and his friendship was of thatdevoted and wondrous nature that the worldly-minded teach us to look for only in the imagination. But even human sympathies were not sufficient tosatbfy his eager mind. The scenery of exteiiaall nature, which others regard ody with admiration^ he loved with ardour : — " The sounding cataract Haunted biin likea passioa : the tall rock, The mouataia, and the deep and gloomy wood* Their colours and thetr forms, were then to him An appetite ; a feelias, and a love, That Had no need of a remoter charm. By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrowed from the eye;" * And where does he now exist ? Is this gentle and lovely being lost for ever ? Has this mind> so * Wordswocth's Tintem Abbey. 220 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and magni- ficent, which formed a world, whose existence de- pended on the life of its creator *, — has this mind perished ? Does it now only exist in my memory ? No, it is not thus ; your form so divinely wrought, and beaming with beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and consoles your unhappy friend. Pardon this gush of sorrow ; these ineffectual words are but a slight tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart, over- flowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates. I will proceed with my tale. Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland ; and we resolved to post the remainder of our way ; for the wind was contrary, and the stream of the river was too gentle to aid us. Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery ; but we arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England. It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December, that I first saw the white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames presented a new scene ; they were flat, but fertile, and almost every town was marked by the remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort, and remembered the Spanish Armada ; Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich, places which I had heard of even in my country. At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St Paul's towering above all, and the Tower famed in English histor}'. THE AlODERN PROMETHEUS. 221 CHAPTER XIX. London was our present point of rest ; we deter- mined to remain several months in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired the intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this time ; but this was with me a secondary object ; I was principally occupied with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the com- pletion of my promise, and quickly availed myself of the letters of introduction that I had brought with me, addressed to the most distinguished natural philosophers. If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness, it would have afforded me ipexpressible pleasure. But a blight had come over my existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of the information they might give me on the subject in which my interest was so terribly profound. Company was irksome to me ; when alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth ; the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory peace. But busy uninteresting joyous faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmount- able barrier placed between me and my fellow-men ; this barrier was sealed with the blood of William and Justine ; and to reflect on the events connected with those names filled my soul with anguish. But in Clerval I saw the image of my former 222 FRANKEKSTEIK ; OR, self; he was inquisitive, aod anxious to gain expe- rience and instruction. The difference of manners which lie observed was to him an inexhaustible sonroe of instruoion and amusement. He T^-as aiso pursuing an object he had long had in view. His design was to visit India, in the belief that he ^d ia. his knowledge of its various languages, and in the views he had taken of its society, the mean$ of materially assisting the progiess of European colo- iiisaicion and trade. In Biitain only could he Richer the csecntion of his plan. He was for ever busy ; and the only check to his enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mind. I tried to conceal this as much as possible, that I might not debar jhim from die pleasures natural to one wIk> was •entering x>n a new scene of life, undisturbed by any care or bitter recollection. I often refosed to accompany him, alleging another engagement, that I might remain aiooe, I now also began to coHect the materials necessary for my new creation, and tliis was to me like the torture of single drops of water continually felling on the head. Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme angui^, snd every word that I sp6ke in allusion to it carased ray lips to qmvcr, and my heart to ■palpitate. After passing some months in London, we rc- cerved a letter from a person in Scotland, who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned the beauties of his native country, and asflted us if THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 223 those were not sufEci^t allurements to Muce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perdi, where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invita.tion ; .and l, although I abhocred society, wished to view .again n^ountains and streams, and all the wondrous works with which Nature .adoms her chosen dwelling-places. We had arrived in England at the beginmng of October, and it was roow February. We .acawdii^y determined to commenoe our journey towards the north at the expiration of ono^er tnondi. ^ this expedition we did not intend to idiow tks great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Wacdsor, Oxford, Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resohrang to arrive at tl>e completion of this tour iabout tlic end of July. I packed up my diemical itnstramaits, and the .materials I had .collectedl, resolving t!0 finish my labours in some ohscnve Aook tn ithe nor^em highlands of Scotland. We quitted London on the 27th of March, and remained a few days at Windsor, rambliiag in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene 10 us mountaineers ; the majestic oaks, the qnamuaiy of -game, and tlie herds of stalely deer, wserc ajl •novelties to us. Erom thence we proceeded to Oxford. As -we entered this city, our minds were filled -wkh the remembrance of the -events that had beentnmsaaed there more than a century and a half before. It was here that Charles I. had collected his forces. 224 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, This city had remained faithful to him, after the whole nation had forsaken his cause to join the standard of Parliament and liberty. The memory of that unfortunate king, and his companions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent Goring, his queen, and son, gave a peculiar interest to every part of the city, which they might be supposed to have inhabited. The spirit of elder days found a dwell- ing here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps. If these feelings had not found an imaginary grati- fication, the appearance of the city had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The colleges are ancient and picturesque ; the streets are almost magnificent ; and the lovely Isi's, which flows beside it through meadows of exquisite ver- dure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters, which reflects its majestic assemblage of towers, and spires, and domes, embosomed among aged trees. I enjoyed this scene ; and yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the memory of the past, and the anticipation of the future. I was formed for peaceful happiness. During my youthful days discontent never visited my mind ; and if I was ever overcome by ennui y the sight of what is beauti- ful in nature, or the study of what is excellent and sublime in the productions of man, could always interest my heart, and communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree ; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit, what I shall soon cease to be — THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 22$ a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others, and intolerable to myself. We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs, and endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate to the most animating epoch of English history. Our little voyages of discovery were often prolonged by the successive objects that presented themselves. We visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden, and the field on which that patriot fell. For a moment my soul was elevated from its debasing and miser- able fears, to contemplate the divine ideas of liberty and self-sacrifice, of which these sights were the monuments and the remembrancers. For an in- stant I dared to shake off my chains, and look around me with a free and lofty spirit ; but the iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self. We left Oxford with regret, and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next place of rest. The country in the neighbourhood of this village re- sembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzer- land ; but everything is on a lower scale, and the green hills want the crown of distant white Alps, which alwajrs attend on the piny mountains of my native country. We visited the wondrous cave, and the little cabinets of natural history, where the curiosities are disposed in the same manner as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix. The latter name made me tremble, when pronounced by (31) H r226 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, iHenry ; and I hastened to quit Matlock, with which that terrible scene was thus associated. From Derby, still journeying northward, we passed two months in Cumberland and Westmore- land. I could now almost fancy myself among the Swiss mountains. The little patches of snow which yet lingered on the northom sides of the tstountains, the lakes, and the dashing of the rocky streams, were all familiar and dear sights to me. Here also we made some acquaintances, who almost contrived to cheat me into happiness. The delight of Clerval was propoftionably greater than mine ; his mind expanded in the company of men of talent, and he found in his own nature greater capacities and re- sources than he could have imagined himself to have possessed while he associated with his in- feriors. **I could pass my life here," said he to me ; *^ and among these mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine." But he found that a traveller's life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are for ever on the stretch ; and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for some- thing new, which again engages his attention, and whidi also he forsakes for other novdtiesw We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants, when the period of our appointment with our Scotch friend THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 227 approached, and we left them to travel on. For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the daemon's disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland, and wreak his vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued me, and tormented me at every moment from which I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace. I waited for my letters with feverish impatience : if they were de- layed, I was miserable, and overcome by a thousand fears ; and when they arrived, and I saw the super- scription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the fiend followed me, and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion. When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment, but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the consciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime. I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind ; and yet that city might have interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it so well as Oxford : for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing to him. But the beauty and regu- larity of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic castle, and its environs, the most delightful in the world, Arthur's Seat, St. Bernard's Well, and the 228 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, Pentland Hills, compensated him for the change, and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration. But I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey. We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Cupar, St. Andrews, and along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers, or enter into their feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest ; and accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland alone. ** Do you," said I, ** enjoy your- self, and let this be our rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two ; but do not interfere with my motions, I entreat you : leave me to peace and solitude for a short time ; and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more congenial to your own temper," Henry wished to dissuade me ; but, seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to remonstrate. He en- treated me to write often. ** I had rather be with you," he said, **in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know : hasten then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence." Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of Scotland, and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt but that the monster followed me, and would discover himself THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 229 to me when I should have finished, that he might receive his companion. With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands, and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a place fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock, whose high sides were continually beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from the mainland, which was about five miles distant. On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took possession ; an incident which would, doubtless, have occasioned some surprise, had not all the senses of the cottagers been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which I gave ; so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men. 230 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour ; but in the evening, when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea, to listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland ; it was far different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered tliickly in the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky ; and, when troubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively infant, when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean. In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived ; but, as I proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my laboratory for several days ; and at other times I toiled day and night in order to complete my work. It was, indeed, a filthy process in which I was engaged. During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy iiad blinded me to the horror of my employment ; my mind was intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands. Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from the THE MODERK PROMETHEUS. 23r actual scene in which I was engaged, mj spirits- became unequal; I grew restless and nervous. Every nKKnent 1 feared to meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them, lest they should etKounter the object which I so much dreaded to behoW. I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow- creatures, lest when alone he should come to claim, his companion. In the meantime I worked on, and my labour was already considerably advanced. I looked towards its completion with a tremulous and eager hope, which I dared not trust mjrself to question, but which was intermixed with obscure forebodings - of evil, that made my heart sicken in my bosom. CHAPTER XX. I SAT one evening in my laboratory ; the sun had set, and the moon was just rising from the sea ; I had not sufficient light for my employmei^t, and I remained idle, in a pause of consideration of whether I should leave my labour for the night,, or hasten its conclusion by an unremitting attention to it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to^ me, which led me to consider the effects of what 1 was now doing. Three years before I was engaged in the same manner, and had created a fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated. 232 FRANKENSTEIN j OR, my heart, and filled it for ever with the bitterest remorse. I was now about to form another being, of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant ; she might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate, and delight, for its own sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood of man, and hide himself in deserts ; but she had not ; and she, who in all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation. They might even hato each other ; the creature who already lived loathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence for it when it came before his eyes in the female form ? She also might .turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man ; she might quit him, and he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being deserted by one of his own species. Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit the deserts of the new world, yet one of the first results of those sympathies for which the daemon thirsted would be children, and a race of devils would be propagated upon the earth, who might make the very existence of the species of man a condition precarious and full of terror. Had I right, for my own benefit, to inflict this curse upon ever- lasting generations ? I had before been moved by the sophisms of the being I had created ; I had been struck senseless by his fiendish threats ; but THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 233 now, for the first time, the wickedness of my promise burst upon me ; I shuddered to think that future ages might curse me as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human race. I trembled, and my heart failed within me ; when> on looking up, I saw, by the light of the moon, the daemon at the casement A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths ; and he now came to mark my progress, and claim the fulfilment of my promise. As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of malice and treachery. I thought witli a sensation of madness on my promise of creating another like to him, and trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for hap- piness, and, with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew. I left the room, and, locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own heart never to resume my labours ; and then, with trembling steps, I sought my own apartment. I was alone ; none were near me to dissipate the gloom, and relieve me from the sickening oppression of the most terrible reveries. 234 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, Several hours passed, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea ; it was almost motion- less, for the winds were hushed, and all nature reposed under the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone specked the water, and now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound of voices, as the fishermen called to one another, I felt the silence, although I was hardly conscious of its extreme profundity, until my ^ar was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a person landed close to my house. In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot; I fieh a presentiment of who it was, and wished to rouse one of the peasants who dwelt in a cottage not far from mine ; but I was overcome by the sensation of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain endeavour to fly from an im- pending danger, and was rooted to the spot. Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage ; the door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Sliutting the door, he approached me, and said, in a smothered voice— ** You have destroyed the woric which you began ; what is it that you intend ? Do you dare to break your promise ? I have endured toil and misery ; I left Switzerland with you ; I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among its willow islands, and over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 235 months in the heaths of England, and among the deserts of Scotland. I have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger ; do you dare destroy my hopes ? " ** Begone I I do break my promise; never will I create another like yourself, equal in deformity and '^'ickedness." "Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself imworthy of my condescen- sion. Remember that I have power ; you believe you-rself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master ;— obey ! " " The hour of my irresolution is past, and the period of your power is arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness ; but they confirm me in a determination of not creating you a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a daemon, whose delight is in death and wretchedness ? Begone I I am firm, and your words will only exasperate my rage." The monster saw my determination in my face, and gnashed his teeth in the impotence of anger, ** Shall each man," cried he, " find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, aftd they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man I you may hate ; but beware I your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness for ever. Are you 236 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, to be happy, while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness ? You can blast my other passions ; but revenge remains — revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food ! I may die ; but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Beware ; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict." ** Devil, cease ; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice. I have declared my reso- lution to you, and I am no coward to bend beneath words. Leave me ; I am inexorable." " It is well. I go ; but remember, I shall be with you on your wedding-night." I started forward and exclaimed, "Villain I be- fore you sign my death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe." I would have seized him ; but he eluded me, and quitted the house with precipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot across the waters with an arrowy swiftness, and was soon lost amidst the waves. All was again silent ; but his words rung in my ears. I burned with rage to pursue the murderer of my peace,' and precipitate him into the ocean, I walked up and down my room hastily and per- turbed, while my imagination conjured up a thou- sand images to torment and sting me. Why had I not followed him, and closed with him in mortal THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 237 Strife? But I had suffered him to depart, and he had directed his course towards the mainland. I shuddered to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge. And then I thought again of his words — ** / will he with you on your wedding-night" That then was the period fixed for the fulfilment of my destiny. In that hour I should die, and at once satisfy and extin- guish his malice. The prospect did not move me to fear ; yet when I thought of my beloved Eliza- beth, — of her tears and endless sorrow, when she should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her, — tears, the first I had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle. The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean ; my feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness, when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of the last night's contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my fellow-creatures ; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me. I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, w^earily, it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed, or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a daemon whom I had myself created. I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, 2j8 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, separated from all it loved, and miserable in the separation. When it became noon, and the son rose higher, I lay down on the grass, and was overpowered by a deep steep. I had been awake tiie whole of the preceding night, my nerves were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The steep into which I now sunk refreshed me ; and when I awoke^ I again felt as if I belonged to a race of human beings like my- self, and 1 began to reflect upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the words of the fiend rung in my ears like a death-knell, they appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality. The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my appetite, which had be- come ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet; it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval, entreating me to join him. He said that he was wearing away his time fruitlessly where he was; that letters from the friends he had formed in London desired his return to complete the negotiation they had entered into for his Indian enterprise. He could not any longer delay his departure ; but as his journey to London might be followed, even sooner than he now conjectured, by his longer voyage, he entreated me to bestow as much of my society on him as I could spare. He besought me, therefore, to leave THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 239 my solitary isle, and to meet him at Perth, that we mig^t proceed southwards together. This letter in a degree recalled me to life, and I deter- mined to quit my island at the expiration of two days. Yet, before I departed, there was a task to per- form, on which I shuddered to reflect: I must pack up my chemical instruments ; and for that purpose I must enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work, and I must handle those utensils, the sight of which was sickening to me. The next morning, at daybreak, I summoned suf- ficient courage, and unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains of tlie half-finished creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to collect myself, and then entered the chamber. With trembling hand I conveyed the instruments out of tlie room; but I reflected that I ought not to leave the relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion of the peasants ; and I accordingly put them into a basket, with a great quantity of stones, and laying them up, determined to throw them into the sea that very night ; and in the mean- time I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning and arranging my chemical apparatus. Nothing could be more complete than the altera- tion that had taken place in my feelings since the night of the appearance of the daemon. I had 240 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair, as a thing that, with whatever consequences, must be fulfilled ; but I now felt as if a film had been taken from before my eyes, and that I, for the first time, saw clearly. The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur to me ; the threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did not reflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it. I had resolved in my own mind, that to create another like the fiend I had first made would be an act of the basest and most atrocious selfish- ness ; and I banished from my mind every thought that could lead to a different conclusion. Between two and three in the morning the moon rose ; and I then, putting my basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four miles from the shore. The scene was perfectly solitary : a few boats were returning towards land, but I sailed away from them. I felt as if I was about the commission of a dreadful crime, and avoided with shuddering anxiety any. encounter with my fellow- creatures. At one time the moon, which had before been clear, was suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took advantage of the moment of darkness, and cast my basket into the sea : I listened to the gurgling sound as it sunk, and then sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded; but the air was pure, although chilled by the north-east breeze that was then rising. But it refreshed me, and filled me with such THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 24 1 agreeable sensations, that I resolved to prolong my stay on the water ; and, fixing the rudder in a direct position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat Clouds hid the moon, everything was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat, as its keel cut through the waves ; the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly. I do not know how long I remained in this situa- tion^ but when I awoke I found that the sun had already mounted considerably. The wind was high, and the waves continually threatened the safety of my little skiff. I found that the wind was north-east, and must have driven me far from the coast from which I had embarked. I en- deavoured to change my course, but quickly found that, if I again made the attempt, the boat would be instantly filled with water. Thus situated, my only resource was to drive before the wind. I confess that I felt a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me, and was so slenderly acquainted with the geography of this part of the world, that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might be driven into the wide Atlantic, and feel all the tortures of starvation, or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters that roared and buffeted around me. I had already been out many hours, and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my other sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds that flew before the wind, only to be replaced by others : I looked upon 242 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, the sea, it was to be my grave. ** Fiend," I ex- claimed, ** yonr task is already fiilfiikd I " 1 thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval ; all left behind, on whom the monster might satisfy his sanguinary and merciless passions. This idea plunged me into a reverie, so despairing and frightful, that even now, when the scene is on the point of closing before me for ever, I shudder to reflect on it. Some hours passed thus ; but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze, and the sea became free from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell : I felt sick, and hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high land towards the south. Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dread- ful suspense I endured for several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes. How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery 1 I constructed another sail with a part of my dress, and eagerly steered my course towards the land. It had a wild and rocky appear- ance ; but, as I approached nearer^ I easily perceived the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore, and found myself suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood of civilised man, I carefully traced the windings of the land, and hailed a steeple THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 245 which I at length saw issuing from behind a small promontory. As I was in a state of extreme de- bility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town,, as a place where I could most easily procure nourish- ment. Fortunately I had money with me. As- I turned the promontory, I perceived a small neat town and a good harbour, which I entered,, my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected escape. As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arrang- ing the sails, several people crowded towards the spot They seemed much surprised at my appear- ance ; but, instead of offering me any assistance, whispered together with gestures that at any other time might have produced in me a slight sensa- tion of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they spoke English ; and I therefore addressed them in that language : " My good friends," said I, " will you be so kind as to tell me the name of this town, and inform me where I am ? " *' You will know that soon enough,*' replied a man with a hoarse voice. " May be you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste ; but you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you." I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a stranger; and I was also dis- concerted on perceiving the frowning and angry countenances of his companions. " Why do you answer me so roughly ? " I replied ; " surely it is 244 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, not the custom of Englishmen to receive strangers so inhospitably." "I do not know," said the man, "what the custom of the Enghsh may be ; but it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains." While this strange dialogue continued, I per- ceived the crowd rapidly increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which annoyed, and in some degree alarmed me. I in- quired the way to the inn ; but no one replied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they followed and surrounded me ; when an ill-looking man approaching, tapped me on the shoulder and said, *' Come, sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kirwin's, to give an account of yourself." "Who is Mr. Kin^nn? Why am I to give an account of myself? Is not this a free country? " "Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate ; and you are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was found murdered here last night." This answer startled me ; but I presently re- covered myself. I was innocent ; that could easily be proved : accordingly I followed my conductor in silence, and was led to one of the best houses in the town. I was ready to sink from fatigue and hunger ; but, being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic to rouse all my strength, that no physical debility might be construed into appre- THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 24$ hension or conscious guilt. Little did I then expect the calamity that was in a few moments to over- whelm me, and extinguish in horror and despair all fear of ignominy or death. I must pause here ; for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory of the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail, to my re- collection. CHAPTER XXI. I WAS soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old benevolent man, with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me, however, with some degree of severity : and then, turning towards my conductors, he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion. About half-a-dozen men came forward ; and, one being selected by the magistrate, he deposed, that he had been out fishing the night before with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o'clock, they observed a strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put in for port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen ; they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a creek about two miles below. He walked on first, carr}'ing a part of the fishing tackle, and his companions followed him at some distance. As he was proceeding along the sands, 246 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, he Struck his foot against something, and fell at his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist him ; and, by the light of their lantern, they found that he had fallen on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead. Their first sup- position was, that it was the corpse of some person who had been drowned, and was thrown on shore by the waves; but, on examination, they found that the clothes were not wet, and even that the body was not then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman near the spot, and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. It appeared to ben handsome young man, about five- and-twenty years of age. He had apparently been strangled ; for there was no sign of any vidence, except the black mark of fingers on his neck. The first part of tliis deposition did not in the least interest me ; but when the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I remembered the murder of my brother, and fdt myself extremely agitated ; my limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support. The magistrate observed me with a keen eye, and of course drew an unfavourable augury from my manner. The son confirmed his father's account : but when Daniel Nugent was called, he swore positively that, just before the fall of his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore ; and, as far as he could judge by the light THE MODERN PROlilETHEUS. 247 of a few Stars, it was the same boat in which I had just landed. A woman deposed, that she lived near the beach, and was standing at the door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an hour before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat, with only one man in it, pu^ off from that part of the shore where the corpse was after- wards found. Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the body into her house ; it was not cold. They put it into a bed^ and rubbed it ; and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite gone. Several other men were examined concerning my landing ; and they agreed, that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours, and had been obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed. Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body from another place, and it was likely, that as I did not appear to know the shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the town of firom the place where I had deposited the corpse. Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into the room where the body lay for interment, that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would produce upon me. 248 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, This idea was probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful night ; but, knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of the affair, I entered the room where the corpse lay, and was led up to the coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering and agony. The examination, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched before me.- I gasped for breath ; and, throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, *' Have my murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life ? Two I have already destroyed ; other victims await their destiny : but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor " The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death : my ravings, as I afterwards THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 249 heard, were frightful ; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented ; and at others, I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witoesses. Why did I not die ? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forget- fulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doating parents: how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb J Of what materials was I made^ that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture ? But I was doomed to live ; and, in two months, found myself as awaking fi*om a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding : I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened, and only felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly over- whelmed me; but when I looked around, and 250 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, saw the barred windows, and the squalidness of the room in whicli I was, ail flashed across my memory, and I groaned bitterly. This sonnd disturbed an old vraman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse» the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her coumenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterise that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, hke that of persons accustomed to see without sympathising in sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my su£[eriags — ** Are you better now, sir ? " said she, I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I bdieve I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream^ I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror." ** For that matter," replied the old woman, ** if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you I Ho.w- ever, that's none of my business; I am sent to nurse you, and get you well ; I do my duty with a safe conscience ; it were well if everj'body did the same." I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a speech to a person just saved, on the very cdg^ of death; but I felt languid, and unable to reflea on all that had THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2$ I passed. The whole series of my life appeared to me as a dream ; I sometime^ doubted if indeed it were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force of reality. As the images that floated before me became more distina, I grew feverish ; a darkness pressed around me : no one was near me who soothed me with the gentle voice of love ; no dear hand supported me. The physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared them for me ; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the second. Who could be inte- rested in the fate of a murderer, but the hangman who would gain his fee ? These were my first reflections; but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had shown me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who had provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me ; for, although he ardently desired to relieve the sufierings of every human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, there- fore, sometimes, to see that I was not neglected ; but his visits were short and with long intervals. One day, while I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those in death. I was overcome 252 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, by gloom and misery, and often reflected I had better seek death than desire to remain in a world which to me was replete with wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I should not declare myself guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts, when the door of my apartment was opened, and Mr. Kirwin entered. His coun- tenance expressed sympathy and compassion ; he drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me in French — " I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do anything to make you more comfortable?" '* I thank you ; but all that you mention is nothing to me: on the whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving." ** I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode ; for, doubtless, evidence can easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge." ** That is my least concern : I am, by a course of strange events, become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and have been, can death be any evil to me ? " "Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonising than the strange chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some sur- prising accident, on this shore, renowned for its THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2$ 5 hospitality ; seized immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was presented to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a manner, and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path." As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on this retrospect of my suffer- ings, I also felt considerable surprise at the know- ledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some astonishment- was exhibited in my countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say — " Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers that were on your person were brought me, and I examined them that I might discover some trace by which I could send to your relations an account of your misfortune and illness. I found several letters, and, among others, one which I discovered from its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva : nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter. — But you are ilt; even now you tremble : you are unfit for agitation of any kind.»» ** This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event : tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am now to lament ? " **Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin, with gentleness; **and some one, a friend, is come to visit you." I know not by what chain of thought the idea 254 FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, presented itself, but it instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my misery, and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and cried out in agony — ^** Oh I take him away \ I cannot see him ; for God's sake do not let him enter I '* Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled coun- tenance. He could not help regarding my exclama- tion as a presumption of my guilt, and said, in rather a severe tone — "I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father would have been welcome, instead Of inspiring such violent repugnance," "My father! " cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed from anguish to pleasure: **is my fjather indeed come? How kind, how very kind ! But where is he, why does he not hasten to me ? " My change of marmer surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium, and now he instamly resumed his former benevo- lence. He rose, and quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it. Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him, and cried — " Are you then safe — and Elizabeth — and Ernest?" My father calmed me with assurances of their THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. ^5$ i^'clfare, and endeavoured, by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my desponding spirits ; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness.* "What a place is this that you inhabit, my son I " said he, looking mournfully at the barred windows, and wretched appearance of the rooni . ** You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to pursue you. And poor Clerval " — ^ The name of my unlbrtunate and murdered friend was an agitation too great to be endured in my weak state ; I shed tears. "Alas! yes, my father,'* replied I; **some destiny of the most horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should have died on the coffin of Henry." We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the precarious state of my health ren- dered every precaution necessary that could ensure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in, and insisted that my strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I gradually recovered my health. As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black melancholy, that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was for ever be- fore me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation into which these rcfleaions threw me made my friends dread a dangerous relapse. 256 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, Alas ! why did they preserve so miserable and de- tested a life ? It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a close. Soon, oh ! very soon, will death extinguish these th rob- bings, and relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust ; and, in execut- ing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then the appearance of death was distant, although the wish was ever present to my thoughts ; and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins. The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three months in prison ; and although I was still weak, and in continual danger of a re- lapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the county town, where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every care of collecting witnesses, and arranging my de- fence. I was spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found ; and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated from prison. My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh atmosphere, and THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2 $7 permitted to return to my native country. I did not participate in these feelings; for to me the waUs of a dungeon or a palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever ; and al- though the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids, and the long black lashes that fringed them ; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt. My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked of Geneva, which I should soonvisit— of Elizabeth and Ernest; but these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, in- deed, I felt a wish for happiness ; and thought, with melancholy delight, of my beloved cousin ; or longed, with a devouring mdladie du pays^ to see once more the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early childhood : but my general state of feeling was a torpor, in which a prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature ; and these fits were seldom inter- rupted but by paroxysms of anguish and despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the existence I loathed ; and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance to restrain (31) I 258 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, me from committing some dreadful act of vio- lence. Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally triumphed over my selfish despair. It was necessary that I should return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those I so fondly loved ; and to lie in wait for the murderer, that if any chance led me to the place of his con- cealment, or if he dared again to blast me by his presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to the existence of the monstrous Image which I had endued with the mockery of a soul still more monstrous. My father still desired to delay our departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues of a journey : for I waS a shattered wreck, — the shadow of a human being. My strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton ; and fever night and day preyed upon my wasted frame. Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such inquietude and impatience, my father thought it best to yield. We took our passage on board a vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace, and sailed witli a fair wind from the Irish shores. It was midnight. I lay on the deck, looking at the stars, and listening to the dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight ; and my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream ; yet tlie vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2 $9 detested shore of Ireland, and the sea which sur- rounded me, told me too forcibly that I was deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, ray friend and dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole life ; my quiet happiness while residing with ray family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night in which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought ; a thou- sand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly. Ever since my recovery from the fever, I had been in the custom of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum; for it was by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now swallowed double my usual quantity, and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from thought and misery ; my dreams presented a thousand objects that scared me. To- wards morning I was possessed by a kind of night- mare; I felt the fiend's grasp in my neck, and could not free myself from it; groans and cries rung in my ears. My father, who was watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me ; the dashing waves were around : the cloudy sky above ; the fiend was not here : a sense of security, 26o FRANKENSTEIN ; OR, a feeling that a truce was established between the present hour and the irresistible, disastrous future, imparted to me a kind of calm forgetfuhiess, of which the human mind is by its structure peculiarly susceptible. CHAPTER XXII. The voyage came to an end. We landed, and pro- ceeded to Paris. I soon found that I had overtaxed my strength, and that I must repose before I could continue my journey. My father's care and atten- tions were indefatigable; but he did not know the origin of my sufferings, and sought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable ill. He wished me to seek amusement in society. I abhorred the face of man. Oh, not abhorred I they were my brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt attracted even to the most repulsive among them, as to creatures of an angelic nature and celestial mechanism. But I felt that I had no right to share their intercourse. I had unchained an enemy among them, whose joy it was to shed their blood, and to revel in their groans. How they would, each and all, abhor me, and hunt me from the world, did they know my unhallowed acts, and the crimes which had their source in me I My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society, and strove by various arguments to banish THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 26 1 my despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride. ** Alas I my father," said I, " how little do you know me. Human beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Jus- tine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge ; she died for it ; and I am the cause of this — I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry — they all died by my hands." My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same assertion ; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence. I avoided explana- tion, and maintained a continual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that I should be supposed mad ; and this in itself would for ever have chained my tongue. But, besides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which would fill my hearer with consternation, and make fear and unnatural horror the inmates of his breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sym- pathy, and was silent when I would have given the world to have confided the fatal secret. Yet 262 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, Still words like those I have recorded, would burst uncontrollably from me. I could oflFer no explana- tion of them ; but their truth in part relieved tlie burden of my mysterious woe. Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder, "My dearest Victor^ what infatuation is this? My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion again/' " I am not mad," I cried energetically ; '* the sun and the heavens, who have viewed my opera- tions, can bear witness of my truth. I am the assassin of those most innocent victims ; they died by my machinations. A thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have saved their lives ; but I could not, ray father, indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race," The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were deranged, and he in- stantly changed the subject of our conversation, and endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts. He wished as much as possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken placein Ireland, and never alluded to them, or suffered me to speak of my misfortunes. As time passed away I became more calm : misery had her dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own crimes ; sufficient for me was tlie consciousness of them. By the utmost self-violence, 1 curbed the imperious THE MODERN P&OMETUEUS. 26^ voice of wretchedness, which sometimes desired ta declare itself to the whole world ; and my manners, were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey to the sea of ice. A few days before we left Paris on our way ta Swiuerland, I received the following letter from Elizabeth ; — ** My dear Friend,— It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle dated at Paris ; youare no longer at a formidable distance, and 1 may hope to see you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you must have suffered t I expect to see you looking even more ill than when 3'ou quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in your countenance, and to find that your heart is not totally void of comfort and tranquillity. "Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would not disturb you at this period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you ; but a conversation that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders some explanation necessary before we meet. ** Explanation I you may possibly say ; what can Eliza- beth have to explain ? If you really say this, my questions are answered, and all my doubts satisfied. But you are distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread, and yet be pleased with this explanation ; and, in a pro- bability of this being the case, I dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I have often wished to express to you, but have never had the courage to begin. 264 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, ** You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of your parents ever since our infancy. We were told this when young, and taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly toke place . We were affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But as brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each other, without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you, by our mutual hap- piness, with simple truth— Do you not love another? " You have travelled ; you have spent several years of your life at Ingolstadt ; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude, from the society of every creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our connection, and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations. But this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my friend, that I love you, and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant friend and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as well as my own, when I declare to you, that our marriage would render me eter- nally miserable, unless it were the dictate of your own free choice. Even now I weep to think, that, borne down as you are by the cruellest misfortunes, you may stifle, by the word honour, all hope of that love and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so dis. interested an afl'ection for you, may increase your miseries tenfold, by being an obstacle to your wishes . Ah 1 Victor, be assured that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this supposition. Be happy, my friend ; and if you obey me in this one THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 265 request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to interrupt my tranquillity. "Do not let this letter disturb you ; do not answer to- morrow, or the next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle will send me news of your health; and if I see but one sniile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness. "Elizabeth Lavenza. ** Geneva, May x8, 17—." This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, the threat of the fiend— " /wxV/ "be with you on your wedding night I " Such was my sentence, and on that night would the daemon employ every art to destroy me, and tear me from the glimpse of happiness, which promised partly to console my sufferings. On that night he had deter- mined to consummate his crimes by my death* Well, be it so; a deadly struggle would then assuredly take place, in which if he were victorious I should be at peace, and his power over me be at an end. If he were vanquished, I should be a free man. Alas I what freedom ? such as the peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty, except that in my Elizabeth I possessed a treasure ; alas! balanced by those horrors of remorse and guilt, which would pursue me until death. 266 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, Sweet and beloved Elizabeth I I read and re- read her letter, and some softened feelings stole into my heart, and dared to whisper paradisiacal dreams of love and joy ; but the apple was already eaten, and the angel's arm bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster executed his threat, death was in- evitable ; yet, again, I considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate. My destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner ; but if my torturer should suspect that I postponed it, influenced by his menaces, he would surely find other, and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge. He had vowed to be with ine on my ufeddittg night, yet he did not consider that threat as binding him to peace in the meantime ; for, as if to show me that he was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval immediately after the enuncia- tion of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my immediate union with my cousin would con- duce either to hers or my father's happiness, my adversary's designs against my life should not retard it a single hour. In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and affectionate. "I fear, my beloved girl," I said, " little happiness remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is centred in you. Chase away your idle fears ; to you alone do I consecrate my life, and my endeavours for contentment. I have one secret, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 267 Elizabeth, a dreadful one ; when revealed to yoa, it will chill your frame with horror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this tale of misery and terror to you the day after our marriage shall take place ; for, nay sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us. But until then, I conjure you, do not mention or allude to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply." In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth's letter, we returned to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm affection ; yet tears were in her eyes, as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her also. She was thinner, and had lost much of that heavenly vivacity that had before charmed me ; but her gentleness, and soft looks of compassion, made her a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as I was. The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not jendure. Memory brought madness with it ; and when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity possessed me ; sometimes I was furious, and burnt with rage ; sometimes low and despondent. I neither spoke, nor looked at any one, but sat motionless, bewildered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me. Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits ; her gentle voice would soothe me when 268 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, transported by passion, and inspire me with human feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with me, and for me. When reason returned, she would remonstrate, and endeavour to inspire me with resignation. Ah ! it is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief. Soon after my arrival, my father spoke of my immediate marriage with Elizabeth. I remained silent. ** Have you, then, some other attachment?" "None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look forward to our union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my cousin." " My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen us; but let us only cling closer to what remains, and transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet live. Our circle will be small, but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune. And when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will be bom to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly de- prived." Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance of the threat returned : nor THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 269 can you wonder, that, omnipotent as the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as invincible ; and that when he had pronounced the words, ** I shall be with you on your wedding-night," I should regard the threat- ened fate as unavoidable. But death was no evil to me, if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced with it ; and I therefore, with a contented and even cheer- ful countenance, agreed with my father, that if my cousin would consent, the ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I ima- gined, the seal to my fate. Great God ! if for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself for ever from my native countr}', and wandered a friendless outcast over the earth, than have consented to this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real intentions ; and when I thought that I had prepared only my own death, I hastened that of a far dearer victim. As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed my feelings by an appearance of hilarity, that brought smiles and joy to the countenance of my father, but hardly deceived the ever-watchful and nicer eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid contentment, not unmingled 270 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, with a little fear, which past misfortunes had impressed, that what now appeared certain and tangible happiness, might soon dissipate into an airy dream, and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret. Preparations were made for the event; con- gratulatory visits were received ; and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up, as well as I could, in my own heart the anxiety tliat preyed there, and entered with seeming earnestness into the plans of my father, although they might only serve as the decorations of my tragedy. Through my father's exertions, a part of the inheritance of Elizabeth had been restored to her by the Austrian Government. A small possession on the shores of Como belonged to her. It was agreed that, immediately after our union, we should proceed to Villa Lavenza, and spend our first days of happiness beside the beauti- ful lake near which it stood. In the meantime I took every precaution to defend my person, in case the fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols and a dagger constantly about me, and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice ; and by these means gained a greater degree of tranquillity. Indeed, as the period approached, the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for in my marriage wore a greater appearance of certainty, as the day fixed for its solemnisation drew nearer, and I heard it THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 27 1 continually spoken of as an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent, Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded her; and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which I had promised to reveal to her on the following day. My father was in the meantime overjoyed, and, in the bustle of preparation, only recognised in the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride. After the ceremony was performed, a large party assembled at my father's ; but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence our journey by water, sleeping that night at Evian, and continuing our voyage on the following day. The day was fair, the wind favourable, all smiled on our nuptial embarkation. Those were the last moments of my life durftig which I enjoyed the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along: the sun was hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy, while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, some- times on one side of the lake, where we saw Mont Sal^ve, the pleasant banks of Montal^gre, and at a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her ; sometimes coasting the opposite banks, we saw the mighty 272 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, Jura opposing its dark side to the ambition that would quit its native country, and ' an almost insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to enslave it. I took the hand of Elizabeth : " You are sorrow- ful, my love. Ah ! if you knew what I have suffered, and what I may yet endure, you would endeavour to let me taste the quiet and freedom from despair, that this one day at least permits me to enjoy." ** Be happy, my dear Victor," replied Elizabeth ; ** there is, I hope, nothing to distress you ; and be assured that if a lively joy is not painted in my face, my heart is contented. Something whispers to me not to depend too much on the prospect that is opened before us ; but I will not listen to such a sinister voice. Observe how fast we move along, and how the clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise above the dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still more interesting. Look also at the innumerable fish that are swim- ming in the clear waters, where we can distinguish every pebble that lies at the bottoni. What a divine day I how happy and serene all nature appears I " Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to diverther thoughts and mine from all reflection upon melancholy sub- jects. But her temper was fluctuating ; joy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually gave place to distraction and reverie. The sun sunk lower in the heavens ; we passed THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 273 the river Drance, and observed its path through the chasms of the higher, and the glens of the lower hills. The Alps here come closer to the lake, and we approached the amphitheatre of mountains which forms its eastern boundary. The spire of Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it, and the range of mountain above mountain by which it was overhung. The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity, sunk at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water, and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the shore, from which it wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and hay. The sun sunk beneath the horizon as we landed ; and as I touched the shore, I felt those cares and fears revive, which soon were to clasp me, and cling to me for ever. CHAPTER XXIII. It was eight o'clock when we landed ; we walked for a short time on the shore, enjoying the transi- tory light, and then retired to the inn, and contem- plated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displa5^ing their black outlines. The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence in the west. The moon 274 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, had reached her summit in the heavens^ and was beginning to descend ; the clouds swept across it swifter than the flight of the vuhure, and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the scene of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves that were beginning to rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended. I had been calm during the day ; but so soon as night obscured the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I was anxious and watch- ful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in my bosom ; every sound terrified me ; but I resolved that I would sell my life dearly, and not shrink from the conflict until my own life, or that of my adversary, was extinguished. Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful silence ; but there was some- thing in my glance which communicated terror to her, and trembling she asked, "What is it that agitates you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear?" " Oh I peace, peace, my love," replied I, " this night, and all will be safe : but this night is dread- ful, very dreadful." I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how fearful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife, and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 275. She left me, and I continued ?ome time walking up and down the passages of the house, and in- specting every comer that might afford a retreat to my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him, and was beginning to conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the execution of his menaces ; when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the room into which Ehzabeth had retired. As I heard it, the whole^ truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended ; I could feel the blood trickling in my veins, and •tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed into the room. Great God ! why did I not then expire ? Why am I here to relate the destruction of the best hope, and the purest creature of earth ? She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down, and her pale and dis- torted features half covered by her hair. Every- where I turn I see the same figure — her bloodless^ arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer oh its bridal bier. Could I behold this, and live? Alas I life is obstinate, and clings closest where it is most hated. For a moment only did I lose recollection ; I fell senseless on the ground. When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn; their countenances expressed a breathless terror; but the horror of 276 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, Others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her ; and now, as she lay, her head upon her arm, and a handkerchief thrown across her face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her, and embraced her with ardour ; but the deadly languor and coldness of the limbs told me, that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark of the fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from her lips. While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look up. The windows of the room had before been darkened, and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had been thrown back ; and with a sensation of horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster ; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom, fired ; but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and, running with the swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 277 The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats ; nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we returned hopeless, most of my com- panions believing it to have been a form conjured up by my fancy. After having landed, they pro- ceeded to search the country, parties going in different directions among the woods and vines. I attempted to accompany them, and proceeded a short distance from the house; but my head whirled round, my steps were like those of a drunken man, I fell at last in a state of utter ex- haustion ; a film covered my eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I was carried back, and placed on a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened ; my eyes wan- dered round the room^ as if to seek something that I had lost. After an interval, I arose, as if by instinct, and crawled into the room where the corpse of my be- loved lay. There were women weeping around — I hung over it, and joined my sad tears to theirs. All this time no distinct idea presented itself to my mind ; but my thoughts rambled to various subjects, reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes, and their cause. I was bewildered in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my wife ; even at that moment I knew not that my ^78 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, only remaining friends were safe from die malig- nity of the fiend ; my father even now might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This idea made me shudder, and recalled me to action. I started up, and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed. There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake ; but the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. " I hired men to row, and took an oar myself; for I had always experienced relief from mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured, rendered me incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar ; and leaning my head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw the scenes which were familiar to me in my happier time, and which I had contemplated but the day before in the company of her. who was now but a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the waters as they had done a few hours before ; they had then been observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine, or the clouds might lower : but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had snatched from me every hope of future happiness : ^f- THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 279 no creature had ever been so miserable as I was ; so frightful an event is single in the history of man. But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last overwhelming event ? Mine has been a tale of horrors ; I have reached their acme, and what I must now relate can but be tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I was left, desolate. My own strength is exhausted ; and I must tell, in a few words, what remains of my hideous narration. I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived ; but the former sunk under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent and venerable old man ! his e5res wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their delight — his Eliza- beth, his more than daughter, whom he doated on with all that affection which a man feels, who in the decline of life, having few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs, and doomed him to waste in wretched- ness ! He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated around him ; the springs of existence suddenly gave way: he was unable to rise from his bed, and in a few days he died in my arms. What then became of me ? I know not ; I lost sensation, and chains and darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed, 280 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth ; but I awoke, and found myself in a dungeon. Melan- choly followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my miseries and situation, and was then released from my prison. For they had called me mad ; and during many months, as I understood, a solitary cell had been my habi- tation. Liberty, however, had been an useless gift to me, had I not, as I awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause — the monster whom I had created, the miserable daemon whom I had sent abroad into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head. Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes ; I began to reflect on the best means of securing him ; and for this purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town, and told him that I had an accusation to make ; that I knew the destroyer of my family ; and that I required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehension of the murderer. The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness — **Be assured, sir," said he, **no pains THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 28 1 or exertions on my part shall be spared to discover the villain." ** I thank you," replied I ; ** listen, therefore, to the deposition that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange, that I should fear you would not credit it, were there not something in truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood." My manner, as I thus addressed him, was impressive, but calm ; I had formed in my own hedrt a resolution to pursue pay destroyer to death ; and this purpose quieted my agony, and for an interval reconciled me to life. I now related my history, briefly, but \^nth firmness and precision, marking the dates with accuracy, and never deviating into invective or exclamation. The magistrate appeared at first perfectly in- credulous, but as I continued he became more attentive and interested ; I saw him sometimes shudder with horror, at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his countenance. When I had concluded my narration, I said, ** This is the being whom I accuse, and for whose seizure and punishment I call upon you to exert your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that your feelings as a man will not revolt from the execution of those functions on this occasion." 2^2 FRANKENSTEIN; OER, This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my own auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when he was called upon to act officially in consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity returned. He, however,, answered mildly, "I would willingly aflford yon every aid in your pursuit; but the creature of whom yoo speak appears to have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow an animal which can traverse the sea of ice, and inhabit caves and dens where no man would venture to intrude ? Besides, some months have elapsed siiKe the ccHxmiission of his crimes^ and no one can cofl}ecture to what place he has wandered, or what region he may now inhabit." ** 1 do not doubt tliat he hovers near the spot which I inhabit ; and if he has indeed taken reliige in the Alps, he may be hunted Kke the chamois^ and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I percdve your thoughts: you do not credit my narrative, and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the punislmient which is his desert,** As I spoke, rage sparkled in my e)res ; tlie magis- trate was intimidated. " You are mistaken," said he, "1 will exert mysdf ; and if it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured that he sliall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have yourself described to be THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 2S3 his properties, that this will prove impracticable ; and thus, while every proper measure is pursued, you should make up 3'our mind to disappoint- ment." "That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail. My revenge is of no moment to you ; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my souL My rage is unspeakable, when I reflect that the murderer, whom I have turned loose upon society, still exists. You refuse my just demand : I have but one resource ; and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to his destruc- tion." I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this ; there was a freiuy in my manner, and some- thing, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occu- pied by far other ideas than those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child, and reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium. **Man," I cried, "how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom I Cease; you know not what it is you say." I broke from tlie house angry and disturbed, and retired to meditate on some other mode of action. 284 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, CHAPTER XXIV. My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; -revenge alone endowed me with strength and composure ; it moulded my feelings, and allowed me to be calculating and calm, at periods when otherwise delirium or death would have been my portion. My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever ; my country, which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adver- sity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels which had belonged to my mother, and departed. And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but with life. I have traversed a vast portion of the earth, and have endured all the hardships which travellers, in deserts and barbarous coun- tries, are wont to meet. How I have lived, I hardly know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain, and prayed for death, but revenge kept me alive; I dared not die, and leave my adversary in being. When I quitted Geneva, my first labour was to gain some clue by which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled ; and I w*andered many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain what path I should THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 28$ pursue. As night approached, I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father reposed. I entered it, and approached the tomb which marked their graves. Everything was silent, except the leaves of the trees, which were gently agitated by the wind ; the night was nearly dark ; and the scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around, and to cast a shadow, which was felt, but not seen, around the head of the mourner. The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived ; their murderer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass, and kissed the earth, and with quivering lips exclaimed, " By the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear ; and by thee, O Night, and the spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the daemon who caused this misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will preserve my life : to execute this dear revenge, will I again behold the sun, and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my eyes for ever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead ; and on you, wander- ing ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me 286 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of agony ; let him feel the despair that now torments me." I had began my adjuration with solemnity, and an awe which almost assured me that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion ; but the furies possessed me as I con- cluded, and rage choked my utterance. I was answered through the stillness of the night by a loud and fiendish laugh. It rung on my ears long and heavily ; the mountains re-echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I should have been possessed by frenzy, and have destroyed my miserable existence, but that my vow was heard, and that I was reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away; when a well-known and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an audible whisper — ** I am satis- fied : miserable wretch I you have determined to live, and I am satisfied." I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded ; but the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose, and shone full upon his ghastly and distorted shape, as he fled with more than mortal speed. I pursued him ; and for many months this has been my task. Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rlione, but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared ; and, by a strange chance, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 287 I saw the fiend enter by night, and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my passage in the same ship ; but he escaped, I know not how. Amidst the ^ilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I have ever followed in bis track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by diis horrid apparition, informed me of his path ; sometimes be himself, who feared that if I lost all trace of him, I should despair and die, left some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw the print of his huge step on the white plain. To you first entering on life, to whom care is new, and agony unknown, how can you understand what I liave felt, and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue, were the least pains which I was destined tt> endure ; I was cursed by some devil, and carried about with me my eternal hell ; yet still a spirit of good followed and directed my steps; and, when I most murmured, would suddenly extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes, when nature, overcome by hunger, sunk under the exhaustion, a repast was prepared for me in the desert, that restored and inspirited me. The fare was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of tlie country ate ; but I will not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me. Oft«i, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would 288 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, bedim the sky, shed the few drops that revived me, and vanish. I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers ; but the daemon generally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the country chiefly collected. In other places human beings were seldom seen: and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with me, and gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing it ; or I brought with me some food that I had killed, which, after taking a small part, I always presented to those who had provided me with fire and utensils for cooking. My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! often, when most miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours, of happiness, that I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was sustained and inspirited by the hope of night : for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved country ; again I saw the benevolent countenance of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld Clerval enjoy- ing health and youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night should come, and that I THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 289 should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest friends. What agonising fondness did I feel for them 1 how did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself that they still lived ! At such moments, vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the destruction of the daemon, more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious, than as the ardent desire of my soul. What his feelings were whom I pursued I can- not know. Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of the trees, or cut in stone, that guided me, and instigated my fury. *'My reign is not yet over," (these words were legible in one of these inscriptions ;) " you live, and my power is complete. Follow me ; I seek the ever- lasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of cold and frost, to which I am impassive. You will find near this place, if you follow not too tardily, a dead hare ; eat, and be refreshed. Come on, my enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives; but many hard and miserable hours must you endure until that period shall arrive." Scoffing devil ! Again do I vow vengeance ; again do I devote thee, miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I give up my search, until he or I perish ; and then with what ecstasy shall I join my Elizabeth, and my departed friends, who (31) ^ .^90 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, •even now prepare for me the reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage I As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened, and the cold increased in a d^ree almost too severe to support The peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy ventured" forth to seize the animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding- places to seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief article of main- tenance. The triumph of my enemy increased with the -difficulty of my labours. One inscription that he left was in these words: — "Prepare I your toils only begin: wrap yourself In furs, and provide food ; for we shall soon enter upon a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred.'' My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words ; I resolved not to fail in my purpose ; and, calling on Heaven to support me, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts, until the ocean appeared at a dis- tance, and formed the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh I how unlike it was to the blue seas of the south ! Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by its superior wildness ^nd ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 29 1 Asia, and hailed with rapture the boundary of their toils. I did not weep ; but I knelt down, and, with a full heart, thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in safety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary's gibe, to meet and grapple with hipi. Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs, and thus traversed tlie snowls with inconceivable speed. I know not whether the fiend possessed the same advantages; but I found that, as before I had daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him : so much so, that when I first saw the ocean, he was but one day's journey in advance, and I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach. With new courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a wretched hamlet on the sea- shore. I inquired of the inhabitants concerning the fiend, and gained accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols ; putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage, through fear of his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter food, and, placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same night, to the joy of the horror- struck villagers, had pursued his journey across the sea in a direction that led to no land ; and they conjectured that he must speedily be destroyed by 292 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, the breaking of the ice, or frozen by the eternal frosts. On hearing this information, I suffered a tem- porary access of despair. He had escaped me; and I must commence a destructive and almost endless journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean, — amidst cold that few of the inhabitants could long endure, and which I, the native of a genial and sunny climate, could not hope to sur- vive. Yet at the idea that the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance re- tumed, and, like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling. After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead hovered round, and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey. I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities of the Frozen Ocean ; and pur- chasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I departed from land. I cannot guess how many days have passed since then ! but I have endured misery, which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribu- tion buming within my heart could have enabled me to support. Immense and rugged mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruction. But again the frost came, and made the paths of the sea secure. By the quantity of provision which I had con- THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 293 sumed, I should guess that I had passed three weeks in this journey ; and the continual protrac- tion of hope, returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of despondency and grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery. Once, after the poor animals that con- veyed me had with incredible toil gained the summit of a sloping ice-mountain, and one, sink- ing under his fatigue, died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish ; when suddenly my eye caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to discover what it could be, and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I distin- guished a sledge, and the distorted proportions of a well-known form within. Oh! with what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart! warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might not intercept the view I had of the daemon; but still my sight was dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the emo- tions that oppressed me, I wept aloud. But this was not the time for delay : I disen- cumbered the dogs of their dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food; and, after an hour's rest, which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continuecf my route. The sledge was still visible ; nor did I again lose sight of it, except at the moments when for a short time some ice-rock concealed it 294 FRANKENSTEIK ; OR, with its intervening crags. I indeed perceptibly gained on it ; and when, after nearly two days' journey, I beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my heart bounded within me. But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe, my hopes were suddenly extinguished, and 1 lost all trace of him more utterly than I had ever done before. A ground sea was heard ; the thunder of its progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous and terrific, I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose ; the sea roared ; and, as vnth the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split, and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished : in a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered piece of ice, that was continually lessening, and thus preparing for me a hideous death. In this manner many appalling hours passed ; several of my dogs died ; and I myself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress, when I saw your vessel riding at anchor, and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life. I had no conception that vessels ever came so far north, and was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars ; and by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move my ice-raft in the direction of your ship. I had determined, if you were going southward, still to THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 295. trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could pursue my enemy. But your direction was northward. You took me on board when my vigour was exhausted^ and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships into a death which I still dread — ^for my task is unfulfilled. Oh I when will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the daemon, allow me the rest I so much desire ; or must I die, and he yet live ? If I do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape ; that you will seek him, and satisfy my vengeance in his death. And do I dare to ask of you to undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No ; I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear ; if the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he shall not live — swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated woes, and sur- vive to add to the list of his dark crimes. He is eloquent and persuasive ; and once his words had even power over my heart : but trust him not. His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and fiendlike malice. Hear him not ; call on the names of William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my fath^, and of the wretched Victor, and thrust your . sword into his heart. I will hover near, and direct the steel aright. 296 FRANKEKSTEIN ; OR, WaltoNi in continuation, August 26, 17 — , You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret ; and do you not feel your blood congeal with horror, like that which even now curdles mine ? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his tale ; at others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with diflSculty the words so replete with anguish. His fine and lovely eyes were now lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow, and quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he com- manded his countenance and tones, and related the most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a volcano bursting forth, his face would sud- denly change to an expression of the wildest rage, as he shrieked out imprecations on his per- secutor. His tale is connected, and told with an appear- ance of the simplest truth ; yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me, and the apparition of the monster seen from our ship, brought to me a greater conviction of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations, however earnest and connected. Such a monster . has then really existence ! I cannot doubt it ; yet I am lost in surprise and admiration. Sometimes THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 297 I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the par- ticulars of his creature's formation : but on this point he was impenetrable. **Are you mad, my friend?" said he; "or whither does your senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for yourself and the world a demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace I learn my miseries, and do not seek to increase your own." Frankenstein discovered that I made notes con- cerning his history : he asked to see them, and then himself corrected and augmented them in many places ; but principally in giving the life and spirit to the conversations he held with his enemy. "Since you have preserved my narration," said he, " I would not that a mutilated one should go down to posterity." Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest tale that ever imagination formed. My thoughts, and every feeling of my soul, have been drunk up by the interest for my guest, which this tale, and his own elevated and gentle manners, have created. I wish to soothe him ; yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of every hope of consolation, to live ? Oh, no I the only joy that he can now know will be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and death. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the off- spring of solitude and delirium : he belfeves, that, when in dreams he holds converse with his friends, K2 298 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, and derives from that communion consolation for his miseries, or excitements to his vengeance, that they are not the creations of his fancy, but the beings themselves who visit him from the regions of a remote world. This faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that render them to me almost as imposing and interesting as truth. Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and misfortunes. On every point of general literature he displays unbounded know- ledge, and a quick and piercing apprehension. His eloquence is forcible and touching ; nor can I hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident, or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love, without tears. What a glorious creature must he have been in the days of his prosperity,, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin I He seems to feel his own worth, and the greatness of his fall. ** When younger," said he, "I believed myself destined for some great enterprise. My feelings are profound ; but I possessed a coolness of judg- ment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. . This sentiment of the worth of my nature supported me, when others would have been oppressed ; for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow-creatures. When I reflected on the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 299 myself with the herd of common projectors. Bat this thought, which supported me in the com- mencement of my career, now serves only to piunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes are as nothing ; and, like the archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were in- tense ; by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea, and executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot recollect, without passion, my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition ; but how am I sunk ! Oh ! my friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would not recognise me in this state of degra- dation. Despondency rarely visited my heart ; a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell, never, never again to rise." Af ust I then lose this admirable being ? I have longed for a friend ; I have sought one who would sympathise with and love me. Behold, on these desert seas I have found such a one ; but, I fear, I have gained him only to know his value and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he re- pulses the idea. **I thank you, Walton," he said, **for your kind intentions towards so miserable a wretch ; 300 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, but when you speak of new ties, and fresh affec- tions, think you that any can replace those who are gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval was ; or any woman another Elizabeth ? Even where the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence, the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds, which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our infantine dispositions, which, how- ever they may be afterwards modified, are never eradicated ; and they can judge of our actions with more certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A sister or a brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown early, suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be contemplated with suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit and association, but from their own merits; and wherever I am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth, and the conversation of Clerval, will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead ; and but one feeling in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life. If I were engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught with extensive utility to my fellow-creatures, then could I live to fulfil it. But such is not my destiny ; I must pursue and destroy the being to whom I gave existence; then my lot on earth will be fulfilled, and I may die." THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 3OI September 2. My Beloved Sister, — I write to )'ou, encom- passed by peril, and ignorant whether I am ever doomed to see again dear England, and the dearer friends that inhabit it. I am surrounded by moun- tains of ice, which admit of no escape, and threaten every moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows, whom I have persuaded to be my com- panions, look towards me for aid ; but I have none to bestow. There is something terribly appalling in our situation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert me. Yet it is terrible to reflect that the lives of all these men are endangered through me. If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause. And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind ? You will not hear of my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass, and you will have visitings of despair, and yet be tortured by hope. Oh I my beloved sister, the sickening failing of your heartfelt expectations is, in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a husband, and lovely children ; you may be happy : Heaven bless you, and make you so ! My unfortunate guest regards me with the ten- derest compassion. He endeavours to fill me with hope ; and talks as if life were a possession which he valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents have happened to other navigators, who 302 FRANKENSTEIN; OR^ have attempted this sea, and, in spite of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the power of his eloquence : when he speaks, they no longer despair ; he rouses their energies, and, while they hear his voice, they believe these vast mountains of ice are mole-hUls, which will vanish before the resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day of expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny caused by tliis despair. September 5. A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest, that although it is highly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot forbear recording it. We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of my unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in health : a feverish fire still glimmers in his eyes ; but he is exhausted, and, when suddenly roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent lifelessness. I mentioned in my last letter the fears I enter- tained of a mutiny. This morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend — his eyes half closed, and his limbs hanging listlessly. THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 3O3 — I was roused by half-a-dozen of the sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin. They entered, and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation to me, to make me a requisition, which, in justice, I could not refuse. We were immured in ice, and should probably never escape ; but they feared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate, and a free passage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage, and lead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They insisted, therefore, that I should en- gage with a solemn promise, that if the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my course southward. This speech troubled me. I had not despaired ; nor had I yet conceived the idea of returning, if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in possi- bility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered; when Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and, indeed, appeared hardly to have force enough to attend, now roused himself ; his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed with mo- mentary vigour. Turning towards the men, he said — ''What do you mean? What do you de- mand of your captain? Are you then so easily turned from your design ? Did you not call this a glorious expedition? And wherefore was it glorious ? Not because the way was smooth and 304 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, pladd as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and terror: because, at every new inci- dent, your fortitude was to be called forth, and your courage exhibited ; because danger and death surrounded it, and these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this was it an honourable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species ; your names adored, as belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour, and the bene- fit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away, and are content to be handed down as men who had not strength enough to endure cold and peril ; and so, poor souls, they were chilly, and returned to their warm firesides. Why, that requires not this preparation ; ye need not have come thus far, and dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat, merely to prove your- selves cowards. Oh ! be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your purposes, and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your hearts may be ;. it is mutable, and cannot with- stand you, if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace marked on your brows. Return, as heroes who have fought and conquered, and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe." He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 305 different feelings expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and heroism, that can you wonder that these men were moved ? They looked at one another, and were unable to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire, and consider of what had been said : that I would not lead them farther north, if they strenuously desired the con- trary : but that I hoped that, with reflection, their courage would return. They retired, and I turned towards my friend ; but he was sunk in languor, and almost deprived of life. How all this will terminate, I know not ; but I had rather die than return shamefully, — my pur- pose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my fate ; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never willingly continue to endure their present hardships. September 7. The die is cast ; I have consented to return, if we are not destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess, to bear this injustice with patience. September 12. It is past ; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility and glory ; — I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these 306 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and, while I am wafted towards England, and towards you, I will not despond. September 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard at a distance, as the islands split and cracked in every direction. We were in the most imminent peril ; but, as we could only remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest, whose illness increased in such a degree, that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice cracked behind us, and was driven with force towards the north ; a breeze sprang from the west, and on the nth the passage towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw this, and that their return to their native country w^as apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke, and asked the cause of the tumult. "They shout," I said, "because they will soon return to England." ** Do you then really return?" " Alas ! yes ; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them unwillingly to danger, and I must return." "Do so, if you will ; but I will not. You may give up your purpose, but mine is assigned to me by Heaven, and I dare not. I am weak; but surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with sufficient strength." Saying tliis, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 307 he endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too great for him ; he fell back, and fainted. It was long before he was restored ; and I often thought that Hfe was entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes ; he breathed with difficulty, and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing draught, and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the meantime he told me, that my friend had certainly not many hours to live. His sentence was pronounced ; and I could only grieve and be patient. I sat by his bed, watching him ; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept ; but presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and bidding me come near, said — " Alas I the strength I relied on is gone ; I feel that I shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being. Think not, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I feel that burning hatred, and ardent desire of revenge, I once expressed; but I feel myself justified in desiring the death of my adversary. During these last days I have been occupied in examining my past conduct ; nor do I find it blamable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational crea- ture, and was bound towards him, to assure, as far as was in my power, his happiness and well- being. This was my duty; but there was another still paramount to that. My duties towards the beings of my own species had greater 308 FRAXKENSTEIM ; OR, claims to my attention, because they included a greater proportion of happiness or misery. Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to create a companion for the first creature. He showed unparalleled malignity and selfishness in evil : he destroyed my friends ; he devoted to destruction beings who possessed exquisite sen- sations, happiness, and wisdom ; nor do I know where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miser- able himself, that he may render no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction was mine, but I have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I asked you to under- take my unfinished work ; and I renew this re- quest now, when I am only induced by reason and virtue. "Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends to fulfil this task, and now that you are remming to England, you will have little chance of meeting with him. But the con- sideration of these points, and the well balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I leave to you ; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the near approach of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I may still be misled by passion. **That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me ; in other respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the only happy one which I have enjoyed for several THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 309 years. The forms of the beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell^ Walton ! Seek happiness in tranquillity, and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this ? I have myself been blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed." His voice became fainter as he spoke; and at length, exhausted by his effort, he sunk into silence. About half- an -hour afterwards he attempted again to speak, but was unable ; he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes closed for ever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away from his lips. Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this glorious spirit ? What can I say, that will enable you to understand the depth of my sorrow ? All that I should express would be inadequate and feeble. My tears flow ; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of disappoint- ment. But I journey towards England, and I may there find consolation. I am interrupted. What do these sounds por- tend? It is midnight; the breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again; there is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser ; it comes from the cabin where the remains of Frankenstein still lie. I must arise, and examine. Good night, my sister. 310 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, Great God ! what a scene has just taken place ! I am yet dizzy with the remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power to detail it ; yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete without this final and wonderful -catastrophe. I entered the cabin, where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to describe; gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his face was concealed by long locks of ragged hair ; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture like that of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my approach, he ceased to utter exclamations of grief and horror, and sprung towards the window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such loathsome, yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involun- tarily, and endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to this destroyer. I called on him to stay. He paused, looking on me with wonder ; and, ^gain turning towards the lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and -every feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion. " That is also my victim I " he exclaimed : " in his murder my crimes are consummated ; the miserable series of my being is wound to its THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 3II close ! Oh, Frankenstein I generous and self- devoted being! what does it avail that I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by destroying all thou lovedst. Alas ! he is cold, he cannot answer me." His voice seemed suffocated ; and my first im- pulses, which had suggested to me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend, in destroy- ing his enemy, were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion. I approached this tremendous being ; I dared not again raise my eyes to his face, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness. I attempted to speak, but the words died away on my lips. The monster continued to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches. At length I gathered resolution to address him in a pause of the tempest of his passion: **Your repentance," I said, **is now superfluous. If you had listened to the voice of conscience, and heeded the stings of remorse, before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this extremity, Frankenstein would yet have Kved." "And do you dream," said the daemon, "do you think that I was then dead to agony and remorse? — ^He," he continued, pointing to the corpse, "he suffered not in the consummation of the deed — oh ! not the ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine during the lingering detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness 312 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, hurried me on, while my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think you that the groans of Clerval were music to my ears ? My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy; and, when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change, without torture such as you cannot even imagine. "After the murder of Clerval, I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror: I abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he, the author at once of my existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happi- ness; that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me, he sought his own enjoy- ment in feelings and passions from the indulgence of which I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat, and resolved that it should be accom- plished. I knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture; but I was the slave, not the master, of an impulse which I detested, yet could not disobey. Yet when she died I — nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The completion of my demoniacal de- THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 313 sign became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended ; there is my last victim ! " I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery ; yet, when I called to mind what Franken- stein had said of his powers of eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was re- kindled within me. ** Wretch 1" I said, "it is well that you come here to whine over the desola- tion that you have made. You throw a torch into a pile of buildings ; and, when they are con- sumed, you sit among the ruins, and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend ! if he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn from your power," ** Oh, it is not thus — not thus," interrupted the being; **yet such must be the impression con- veyed to you by what appears to be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow-feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now that virtue has become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy ? I am content 314 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, to suffer alone, while my sufferings shall endure : when I die, I am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings, who, pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding. I was nourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But now crime has degraded me beneath the meartest animal. No guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine. When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transr cendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation ; I am alone. *' You, who call Frankenstein your frieiid, seem to have a knowledge of my crimes and his mis- fortunes. But in the detail which he gave you of them, he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which 1 endured, wasting in impotent passions, For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and craving ; stilll desired love and fellow- ship, and I was still spurned. Was there no injustice in this? Am i to be thought the only THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. 315 criminal, when all human kind sinned against me ? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend from his door with contumely ? Why do you not execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the saviour of his child ? Nay, these are virtuous and inmiaculate beings I I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my Wood boils at the recollection of this injustice. "But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me ; but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the hands which executed the deed ; I think on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived, and long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more. **Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man's death is needed to consummate the series of my being, and accomplish that which must be done ; but it requires my own. 3l6 FRANKENSTEIN; OR, Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft which brought me thither, and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may aflford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel the winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and sense will pass away ; and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, y^hen the images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of the leaves and the war- bling of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to die ; now it is my only con- solation. Polluted by crimes, and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death ? ** Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of human kind whom these eyes wiU ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein I If thou wert yet alive, and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my THE MODERN PROMETHEUS, 317 destruction. But it was not so ; thou didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness ; and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine; for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close them for ever. *'But soon," he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, " I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile trium- phantly, and exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade away ; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell." He sprung from the cabin window, as he said this, upon the ice-raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance. THE END. BALLANTYNB PRESS : EDINBURGH AND LONDON. ROUTLEDGE'S POCKET LIBRARY IN MONTHLY VOLUMES. " A series of beautiful little books, tastefully bound."— ri»»rfx. *• Beautifully printed and tastefully bound. 'Saturday Review, " Deserves warm praise for the taste shown in its production." "Athenaum. •• Routledge's PERFECT Pocket Library."— i^wA. 1. BRET HARTB'S POEMS. 2. THACKERAY'S PARIS SKETCH BOOK. 3. HOOD'S COMIC POEMS. 4. DICKENS'S CHRISTMAS CAROL. 5. POEMS BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 6. WASHINGTON IRVING'S SKETCH BOOK: 7. MACAULAYS LAYS OP ANCIENT ROME. a GOLDSMITH'S VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 9. HOOD'S SERIOUS POEMS. 10. LORD LYTTON'S COMING RACE. 11. THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 12. MANON LESCAUT. 13. LONGPELLOWS SONG OP HIAWATHA. 14. STERNE'S SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY. 16. DICKENS'S CHIMES. 16. MOORE'S IRISH MELODIES AND SONOa 17. FIFTY 'BAB' BALLADS. la POEMS BY R B. BROWNING. 19. BRET HARTE'S LUCK OP ROARING CAMP. 20. POEMS BY EDGAR ALLAN FOB. 21. MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. 22. SCOTT'S LADY OP THE LAKR 23. CAMPBELL'S POETICAL WORKS. 24. LORD BYRON'S WERNER. 25. BOOK OF HUMOUR, WIT, AND WISDOM. 26. LONGPELLOWS HYPERION. 27. DICKENS'S ORICBZET ON THE HEARTH. 28. GRAY'S POETICAL WORKS. 29. WILLIS'S POETICAL WOREIS. 30. THACKERAY'S OORNHILL TO GRAND CAIRO. 81. MRS. SHELLEY'S FRANKENSTEIN. vx "> '^il •H^t^ w**^- ^A!