Transcript for:
Overview of Frankenstein's Themes and Characters

Gates of Imagination presents: Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus  by Mary Shelley. Read by Arthur Lane. Volume I. Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay  To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?—— Paradise Lost. To William Godwin, Author Of Political Justice, Caleb Williams, &C.  These Volumes ⁠Are respectfully inscribed  ⁠By The Author. PREFACE.  The event on which this fiction is  founded has been supposed, by Dr. Darwin,   and some of the physiological writers of  Germany, as not of impossible occurrence.   I shall not be supposed as according the remotest  degree of serious faith to such an imagination;   yet, in assuming it as the basis of a work of  fancy, I have not considered myself as merely   weaving a series of supernatural terrors. The  event on which the interest of the story depends   is exempt from the disadvantages of a mere tale of  spectres or enchantment. It was recommended by the   novelty of the situations which it developes;  and, however impossible as a physical fact,   affords a point of view to the imagination  for the delineating of human passions more   comprehensive and commanding than any which the  ordinary relations of existing events can yield. I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth  of the elementary principles of human nature,   while I have not scrupled to innovate  upon their combinations. The Iliad,   the tragic poetry of Greece,—Shakespeare, in the  Tempest and Midsummer Night’s Dream,—and most   especially Milton, in Paradise Lost, conform  to this rule; and the most humble novelist,   who seeks to confer or receive amusement  from his labours, may, without presumption,   apply to prose fiction a licence, or rather  a rule, from the adoption of which so many   exquisite combinations of human feeling have  resulted in the highest specimens of poetry. The circumstance on which my story rests  was suggested in casual conversation.   It was commenced, partly as a source of amusement,  and partly as an expedient for exercising any   untried resources of mind. Other motives were  mingled with these, as the work proceeded.   I am by no means indifferent to the manner in  which whatever moral tendencies exist in the   sentiments or characters it contains shall affect  the reader; yet my chief concern in this respect   has been limited to the avoiding of the enervating  effects of the novels of the present day, and to   the exhibitions of the amiableness of domestic  affection, and the excellence of universal virtue.   The opinions which naturally spring from the  character and situation of the hero are by   no means to be conceived as existing always in my  own conviction; nor is any inference justly to be   drawn from the following pages as prejudicing  any philosophical doctrine of whatever kind. It is a subject also of additional interest to the  author, that this story was begun in the majestic   region where the scene is principally laid, and  in society which cannot cease to be regretted.   I passed the summer of 1816 in the environs  of Geneva. The season was cold and rainy,   and in the evenings we crowded around  a blazing wood fire, and occasionally   amused ourselves with some German stories of  ghosts, which happened to fall into our hands.   These tales excited in us a playful desire of  imitation. Two other friends (a tale from the pen   of one of whom would be far more acceptable to the  public than any thing I can ever hope to produce)   and myself agreed to write each a story,  founded on some supernatural occurrence. The weather, however, suddenly became serene;  and my two friends left me on a journey among the   Alps, and lost, in the magnificent scenes which  they present, all memory of their ghostly visions.   The following tale is the only  one which has been completed. LETTER I. To Mrs. Saville, England. St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—. You will rejoice to hear that  no disaster has accompanied the   commencement of an enterprise which you  have regarded with such evil forebodings.   I arrived here yesterday; and my first task  is to assure my dear sister of my welfare,   and increasing confidence in  the success of my undertaking. I am already far north of London; and  as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh,   I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks,  which braces my nerves, and fills me with delight.   Do you understand this feeling? This  breeze, which has travelled from the   regions towards which I am advancing,  gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.   Inspirited by this wind of promise, my day  dreams become more fervent and vivid. I try   in vain to be persuaded that the pole  is the seat of frost and desolation;   it ever presents itself to my imagination as the  region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret,   the sun is for ever visible; its broad disk  just skirting the horizon, and diffusing a   perpetual splendour. There—for with your leave,  my sister, I will put some trust in preceding   navigators—there snow and frost are banished;  and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to   a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every  region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe.   Its productions and features may be without  example, as the phænomena of the heavenly bodies   undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes.  What may not be expected in a country of eternal   light? I may there discover the wondrous power  which attracts the needle; and may regulate a   thousand celestial observations, that require only  this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities   consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent  curiosity with the sight of a part of the world   never before visited, and may tread a land  never before imprinted by the foot of man.   These are my enticements, and they are sufficient  to conquer all fear of danger or death, and to   induce me to commence this laborious voyage with  the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little   boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of  discovery up his native river. But, supposing all   these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest  the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on   all mankind to the last generation, by discovering  a passage near the pole to those countries,   to reach which at present so many months are  requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the   magnet, which, if at all possible, can only  be effected by an undertaking such as mine. These reflections have dispelled the agitation  with which I began my letter, and I feel my   heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me  to heaven; for nothing contributes so much to   tranquillize the mind as a steady purpose,—a point  on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.   This expedition has been the favourite dream of my  early years. I have read with ardour the accounts   of the various voyages which have been made in the  prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean   through the seas which surround the pole. You may  remember, that a history of all the voyages made   for purposes of discovery composed the whole of  our good uncle Thomas’s library. My education was   neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading.  These volumes were my study day and night,   and my familiarity with them increased that  regret which I had felt, as a child, on learning   that my father’s dying injunction had forbidden my  uncle to allow me to embark in a sea-faring life. These visions faded when I perused, for the first  time, those poets whose effusions entranced my   soul, and lifted it to heaven. I also became a  poet, and for one year lived in a Paradise of   my own creation; I imagined that I also might  obtain a niche in the temple where the names   of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated.  You are well acquainted with my failure,   and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But  just at that time I inherited the fortune of   my cousin, and my thoughts were turned  into the channel of their earlier bent. Six years have passed since I  resolved on my present undertaking.   I can, even now, remember the hour from which  I dedicated myself to this great enterprise.   I commenced by inuring my body to hardship.  I accompanied the whale-fishers on several   expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily  endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep;   I often worked harder than the common sailors  during the day, and devoted my nights to the   study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and  those branches of physical science from which a   naval adventurer might derive the greatest  practical advantage. Twice I actually hired   myself as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler,  and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I   felt a little proud, when my captain offered me  the second dignity in the vessel, and entreated   me to remain with the greatest earnestness;  so valuable did he consider my services. And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve  to accomplish some great purpose.   My life might have been passed in ease and  luxury; but I preferred glory to every enticement   that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some  encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative!   My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes  fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed.   I am about to proceed on a  long and difficult voyage;   the emergencies of which will demand all  my fortitude: I am required not only to   raise the spirits of others, but sometimes  to sustain my own, when their’s are failing. This is the most favourable period for travelling  in Russia. They fly quickly over the snow in their   sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my  opinion, far more agreeable than that of an   English stage-coach. The cold is not excessive,  if you are wrapt in furs, a dress which I have   already adopted; for there is a great difference  between walking the deck and remaining seated   motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents  the blood from actually freezing in your veins.   I have no ambition to lose my life on the  post-road between St. Petersburgh and Archangel. I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight  or three weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship   there, which can easily be done by paying the  insurance for the owner, and to engage as many   sailors as I think necessary among those  who are accustomed to the whale-fishing.   I do not intend to sail until the  month of June: and when shall I return?   Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question?  If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years,   will pass before you and I may meet. If I  fail, you will see me again soon, or never. Farewell, my dear, excellent, Margaret.  Heaven shower down blessings on you,   and save me, that I may again and again testify  my gratitude for all your love and kindness. Your affectionate brother, R. Walton. LETTER II. To Mrs. Saville, England. Archangel, 28th March, 17—. How slowly the time passes here,  encompassed as I am by frost and snow;   yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise.   I have hired a vessel, and am occupied in  collecting my sailors; those whom I have already   engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend,  and are certainly possessed of dauntless courage. But I have one want which I have  never yet been able to satisfy;   and the absence of the object of which I now  feel as a most severe evil. I have no friend,   Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of  success, there will be none to participate my joy;   if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will  endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall   commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that  is a poor medium for the communication of feeling.   I desire the company of a man who could sympathize  with me; whose eyes would reply to mine.   You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but  I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have   no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed  of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind,   whose tastes are like my own, to approve or  amend my plans. How would such a friend repair   the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent  in execution, and too impatient of difficulties.   But it is a still greater evil to me that I am  self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my   life I ran wild on a common, and read nothing but  our uncle Thomas’s books of voyages. At that age I   became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our  own country; but it was only when it had ceased   to be in my power to derive its most important  benefits from such a conviction, that I perceived   the necessity of becoming acquainted with  more languages than that of my native country.   Now I am twenty-eight, and am in reality more  illiterate than many school-boys of fifteen.   It is true that I have thought more, and that my  day dreams are more extended and magnificent; but   they want (as the painters call it) keeping; and I  greatly need a friend who would have sense enough   not to despise me as romantic, and affection  enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind. Well, these are useless complaints; I shall  certainly find no friend on the wide ocean,   nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and  seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross   of human nature, beat even in these rugged  bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man   of wonderful courage and enterprise; he is madly  desirous of glory. He is an Englishman, and in the   midst of national and professional prejudices,  unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the   noblest endowments of humanity. I first became  acquainted with him on board a whale vessel:   finding that he was unemployed in this city, I  easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise. The master is a person of an excellent  disposition, and is remarkable in the   ship for his gentleness, and  the mildness of his discipline.   He is, indeed, of so amiable a nature, that  he will not hunt (a favourite, and almost the   only amusement here), because he cannot endure to  spill blood. He is, moreover, heroically generous.   Some years ago he loved a young Russian  lady, of moderate fortune; and having   amassed a considerable sum in prize-money,  the father of the girl consented to the match.   He saw his mistress once before the destined  ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and,   throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to  spare her, confessing at the same time that she   loved another, but that he was poor, and that  her father would never consent to the union.   My generous friend reassured the suppliant,  and on being informed of the name of her lover   instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already  bought a farm with his money, on which he had   designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he  bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the   remains of his prize-money to purchase stock, and  then himself solicited the young woman’s father   to consent to her marriage with her lover. But  the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself   bound in honour to my friend; who, when he found  the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor   returned until he heard that his former mistress  was married according to her inclinations.   “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim.  He is so; but then he has passed all his   life on board a vessel, and has scarcely  an idea beyond the rope and the shroud. But do not suppose that, because I complain a  little, or because I can conceive a consolation   for my toils which I may never know, that I  am wavering in my resolutions. Those are as   fixed as fate; and my voyage is only now delayed  until the weather shall permit my embarkation.   The winter has been dreadfully severe;  but the spring promises well, and it   is considered as a remarkably early season; so  that, perhaps, I may sail sooner than I expected.   I shall do nothing rashly; you know  me sufficiently to confide in my   prudence and considerateness whenever the  safety of others is committed to my care. I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near  prospect of my undertaking. It is impossible to   communicate to you a conception of the trembling  sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful,   with which I am preparing to depart. I am going  to unexplored regions, to “the land of mist   and snow;” but I shall kill no albatross,  therefore do not be alarmed for my safety. Shall I meet you again, after having traversed  immense seas, and returned by the most southern   cape of Africa or America? I dare not expect such  success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse   of the picture. Continue to write to me by every  opportunity: I may receive your letters (though   the chance is very doubtful) on some occasions  when I need them most to support my spirits.   I love you very tenderly. Remember me with  affection, should you never hear from me again. Your affectionate brother, Robert Walton. LETTER III. To Mrs. Saville, England. July 7th, 17—. My Dear Sister, I write a few lines in haste, to say that  I am safe, and well advanced on my voyage.   This letter will reach England by a merchant-man  now on its homeward voyage from Archangel;   more fortunate than I, who may not see  my native land, perhaps, for many years.   I am, however, in good spirits: my men  are bold, and apparently firm of purpose;   nor do the floating sheets of  ice that continually pass us,   indicating the dangers of the region towards  which we are advancing, appear to dismay them.   We have already reached a very high latitude; but  it is the height of summer, and although not so   warm as in England, the southern gales, which  blow us speedily towards those shores which I   so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree  of renovating warmth which I had not expected. No incidents have hitherto befallen us, that would  make a figure in a letter. One or two stiff gales,   and the breaking of a mast, are accidents  which experienced navigators scarcely   remember to record; and I shall be well content,  if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage. Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured,  that for my own sake, as well as your’s,   I will not rashly encounter danger. I  will be cool, persevering, and prudent. Remember me to all my English friends. Most affectionately yours, R. W. LETTER IV. To Mrs. Saville, England. August 5th, 17—. So strange an accident has happened to  us, that I cannot forbear recording it,   although it is very probable that you will see me  before these papers can come into your possession. Last Monday (July 31st), we were nearly surrounded  by ice, which closed in the ship on all sides,   scarcely leaving her the sea room in which she  floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous,   especially as we were compassed  round by a very thick fog.   We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change  would take place in the atmosphere and weather. About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and  we beheld, stretched out in every direction,   vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed  to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned,   and my own mind began to grow watchful  with anxious thoughts, when a strange   sight suddenly attracted our attention, and  diverted our solicitude from our own situation.   We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge  and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north,   at the distance of half a mile: a being which had  the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic   stature, sat in the sledge, and guided the  dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the   traveller with our telescopes, until he was  lost among the distant inequalities of the ice. This appearance excited our unqualified wonder.   We were, as we believed, many hundred miles  from any land; but this apparition seemed to   denote that it was not, in reality, so distant  as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by ice,   it was impossible to follow his track, which  we had observed with the greatest attention. About two hours after this occurrence, we heard  the ground sea; and before night the ice broke,   and freed our ship. We, however, lay to  until the morning, fearing to encounter   in the dark those large loose masses which  float about after the breaking up of the ice.   I profited of this time to rest for a few hours. In the morning, however, as soon  as it was light, I went upon deck,   and found all the sailors busy on one side of the  vessel, apparently talking to some one in the sea.   It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen  before, which had drifted towards us in the night,   on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained  alive; but there was a human being within it,   whom the sailors were persuading to enter the  vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed   to be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered  island, but an European. When I appeared on deck,   the master said, “Here is our captain, and he  will not allow you to perish on the open sea.” On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me  in English, although with a foreign accent.   “Before I come on board your vessel,” said he,   “will you have the kindness to  inform me whither you are bound?” You may conceive my astonishment on hearing  such a question addressed to me from a man on   the brink of destruction, and to whom I should  have supposed that my vessel would have been a   resource which he would not have exchanged for  the most precious wealth the earth can afford.   I replied, however, that we were on a voyage  of discovery towards the northern pole. Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied, and  consented to come on board. Good God! Margaret, if   you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his  safety, your surprise would have been boundless.   His limbs were nearly frozen, and his body  dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering.   I never saw a man in so wretched a condition.  We attempted to carry him into the cabin;   but as soon as he had quitted the fresh  air, he fainted. We accordingly brought   him back to the deck, and restored him  to animation by rubbing him with brandy,   and forcing him to swallow a small quantity.  As soon as he shewed signs of life,   we wrapped him up in blankets, and placed  him near the chimney of the kitchen-stove.   By slow degrees he recovered, and ate a  little soup, which restored him wonderfully. Two days passed in this manner before he was able  to speak; and I often feared that his sufferings   had deprived him of understanding. When he  had in some measure recovered, I removed him   to my own cabin, and attended on him as much  as my duty would permit. I never saw a more   interesting creature: his eyes have generally  an expression of wildness, and even madness;   but there are moments when, if any one performs an  act of kindness towards him, or does him any the   most trifling service, his whole countenance is  lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence   and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But  he is generally melancholy and despairing; and   sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient  of the weight of woes that oppresses him. When my guest was a little recovered, I  had great trouble to keep off the men,   who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but  I would not allow him to be tormented by their   idle curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose  restoration evidently depended upon entire repose.   Once, however, the lieutenant asked, Why he had  come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle? His countenance instantly assumed an aspect  of the deepest gloom; and he replied,   “To seek one who fled from me.” “And did the man whom you pursued  travel in the same fashion?” “Yes.” “Then I fancy we have seen him; for,  the day before we picked you up,   we saw some dogs drawing a sledge,  with a man in it, across the ice.” This aroused the stranger’s attention; and  he asked a multitude of questions concerning   the route which the dæmon, as  he called him, had pursued.   Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said,  “I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity,   as well as that of these good people; but  you are too considerate to make inquiries.” “Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent   and inhuman in me to trouble you  with any inquisitiveness of mine.” “And yet you rescued me from a  strange and perilous situation;   you have benevolently restored me to life.” Soon after this he inquired, if I thought  that the breaking up of the ice had destroyed   the other sledge? I replied, that I could  not answer with any degree of certainty;   for the ice had not broken until near  midnight, and the traveller might have   arrived at a place of safety before that  time; but of this I could not judge. From this time the stranger seemed very  eager to be upon deck, to watch for the   sledge which had before appeared; but I  have persuaded him to remain in the cabin,   for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness  of the atmosphere. But I have promised that some   one should watch for him, and give him instant  notice if any new object should appear in sight. Such is my journal of what relates to this  strange occurrence up to the present day.   The stranger has gradually improved in health,  but is very silent, and appears uneasy when any   one except myself enters his cabin. Yet his  manners are so conciliating and gentle, that   the sailors are all interested in him, although  they have had very little communication with him.   For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother;   and his constant and deep grief fills me with  sympathy and compassion. He must have been   a noble creature in his better days, being  even now in wreck so attractive and amiable. I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret,  that I should find no friend on the wide ocean;   yet I have found a man who, before  his spirit had been broken by misery,   I should have been happy to have  possessed as the brother of my heart. I shall continue my journal  concerning the stranger at intervals,   should I have any fresh incidents to record. August 13th, 17—. My affection for my guest increases every day. He   excites at once my admiration and  my pity to an astonishing degree.   How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by  misery without feeling the most poignant grief?   He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so  cultivated; and when he speaks, although his   words are culled with the choicest art, yet they  flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence. He is now much recovered from his illness, and is  continually on the deck, apparently watching for   the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although  unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own   misery, but that he interests himself deeply  in the employments of others. He has asked   me many questions concerning my design; and I  have related my little history frankly to him.   He appeared pleased with the confidence, and  suggested several alterations in my plan,   which I shall find exceedingly useful. There is no  pedantry in his manner; but all he does appears to   spring solely from the interest he instinctively  takes in the welfare of those who surround him.   He is often overcome by gloom, and then he sits  by himself, and tries to overcome all that is   sullen or unsocial in his humour. These paroxysms  pass from him like a cloud from before the sun,   though his dejection never leaves him. I  have endeavoured to win his confidence;   and I trust that I have succeeded. One day I  mentioned to him the desire I had always felt   of finding a friend who might sympathize  with me, and direct me by his counsel.   I said, I did not belong to that class  of men who are offended by advice.   “I am self-educated, and perhaps I hardly  rely sufficiently upon my own powers.   I wish therefore that my companion should  be wiser and more experienced than myself,   to confirm and support me; nor have I  believed it impossible to find a true friend.” “I agree with you,” replied the stranger, “in  believing that friendship is not only a desirable,   but a possible acquisition. I once had a  friend, the most noble of human creatures,   and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting  friendship. You have hope, and the world before   you, and have no cause for despair. But I——I have  lost every thing, and cannot begin life anew.” As he said this, his countenance became  expressive of a calm settled grief,   that touched me to the heart. But he was  silent, and presently retired to his cabin. Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel  more deeply than he does the beauties of nature.   The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded  by these wonderful regions, seems still to have   the power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a  man has a double existence: he may suffer misery,   and be overwhelmed by disappointments; yet when  he has retired into himself, he will be like   a celestial spirit, that has a halo around him,  within whose circle no grief or folly ventures. Will you laugh at the enthusiasm I express  concerning this divine wanderer? If you do,   you must have certainly lost that simplicity which  was once your characteristic charm. Yet, if you   will, smile at the warmth of my expressions, while  I find every day new causes for repeating them. August 19th, 17—. Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You  may easily perceive, Captain Walton,   that I have suffered great and unparalleled  misfortunes. I had determined, once,   that the memory of these evils should die with  me; but you have won me to alter my determination.   You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I  once did; and I ardently hope that the   gratification of your wishes may not be  a serpent to sting you, as mine has been.   I do not know that the relation of my misfortunes  will be useful to you, yet, if you are inclined,   listen to my tale. I believe that the strange  incidents connected with it will afford a view   of nature, which may enlarge your faculties  and understanding. You will hear of powers   and occurrences, such as you have been accustomed  to believe impossible: but I do not doubt that my   tale conveys in its series internal evidence of  the truth of the events of which it is composed.” You may easily conceive that I was much  gratified by the offered communication;   yet I could not endure that he should renew his  grief by a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the   greatest eagerness to hear the promised narrative,  partly from curiosity, and partly from a strong   desire to ameliorate his fate, if it were in my  power. I expressed these feelings in my answer. “I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy,  but it is useless; my fate is nearly fulfilled.   I wait but for one event, and  then I shall repose in peace.   I understand your feeling,” continued he,  perceiving that I wished to interrupt him;   “but you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you  will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my   destiny: listen to my history, and you will  perceive how irrevocably it is determined.” He then told me, that he would commence his  narrative the next day when I should be at   leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest  thanks. I have resolved every night, when I am   not engaged, to record, as nearly as possible in  his own words, what he has related during the day.   If I should be engaged, I  will at least make notes.   This manuscript will doubtless afford you the  greatest pleasure: but to me, who know him, and   who hear it from his own lips, with what interest  and sympathy shall I read it in some future day! 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;   and it was not until the decline of  life that he thought of marrying,   and bestowing on the state sons who might carry  his virtues and his name down to posterity. As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate  his character, I cannot refrain from relating   them. One of his most intimate friends was  a merchant, who, from a flourishing state,   fell, through numerous mischances, into  poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort,   was of a proud and unbending disposition, and  could not bear to live in poverty and oblivion   in the same country where he had formerly been  distinguished for his rank and magnificence.   Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most  honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter   to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown  and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort   with the truest friendship, and was deeply grieved  by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances.   He grieved also for the loss of his  society, and resolved to seek him   out and endeavour to persuade him to begin the  world again through his credit and assistance. Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal  himself; and it was ten months before my father   discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery,  he hastened to the house, which was situated   in a mean street, near the Reuss. But when he  entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him.   Beaufort had saved but a very small sum  of money from the wreck of his fortunes;   but it was sufficient to provide  him with sustenance for some months,   and in the mean time he hoped to procure some  respectable employment in a merchant’s house.   The interval was consequently spent in inaction;  his grief only became more deep and rankling,   when he had leisure for reflection; and at  length it took so fast hold of his mind,   that at the end of three months he lay on a  bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion. His daughter attended him with the greatest  tenderness; but she saw with despair that   their little fund was rapidly decreasing, and  that there was no other prospect of support.   But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind  of an uncommon mould; and her courage   rose to support her in her adversity. She  procured plain work; she plaited straw;   and by various means contrived to earn a  pittance scarcely sufficient to support life. Several months passed in this  manner. Her father grew worse;   her time was more entirely occupied in attending  him; her means of subsistence decreased;   and in the tenth month her father died in  her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar.   This last blow overcame her; and she knelt  by Beaufort’s coffin, weeping bitterly,   when my father entered the chamber. He came like a  protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed   herself to his care, and after the interment  of his friend he conducted her to Geneva, and   placed her under the protection of a relation. Two  years after this event Caroline became his wife. When my father became a husband and a  parent, he found his time so occupied   by the duties of his new situation, that he  relinquished many of his public employments,   and devoted himself to the  education of his children.   Of these I was the eldest, and the destined  successor to all his labours and utility.   No creature could have more tender parents  than mine. My improvement and health were   their constant care, especially as I remained  for several years their only child. But before I   continue my narrative, I must record an incident  which took place when I was four years of age. My father had a sister, whom he tenderly loved,  and who had married early in life an Italian   gentleman. Soon after her marriage, she had  accompanied her husband into her native country,   and for some years my father had very little  communication with her. About the time I mentioned   she died; and a few months afterwards he received  a letter from her husband, acquainting him with   his intention of marrying an Italian lady,  and requesting my father to take charge of the   infant Elizabeth, the only child of his deceased  sister. “It is my wish,” he said, “that you should   consider her as your own daughter, and educate  her thus. Her mother’s fortune is secured to her,   the documents of which I will commit to your  keeping. Reflect upon this proposition; and decide   whether you would prefer educating your niece  yourself to her being brought up by a stepmother.” My father did not hesitate,  and immediately went to Italy,   that he might accompany the little  Elizabeth to her future home.   I have often heard my mother say, that  she was at that time the most beautiful   child she had ever seen, and shewed signs even  then of a gentle and affectionate disposition.   These indications, and a desire to bind as closely  as possible the ties of domestic love, determined   my mother to consider Elizabeth as my future wife;  a design which she never found reason to repent. From this time Elizabeth Lavenza became my  playfellow, and, as we grew older, my friend.   She was docile and good tempered, yet  gay and playful as a summer insect.   Although she was lively and animated, her  feelings were strong and deep, and her   disposition uncommonly affectionate. No one could  better enjoy liberty, yet no one could submit with   more grace than she did to constraint and caprice.  Her imagination was luxuriant, yet her capability   of application was great. Her person was the  image of her mind; her hazel eyes, although   as lively as a bird’s, possessed an attractive  softness. Her figure was light and airy; and,   though capable of enduring great fatigue, she  appeared the most fragile creature in the world.   While I admired her understanding and fancy, I  loved to tend on her, as I should on a favourite   animal; and I never saw so much grace both of  person and mind united to so little pretension. Every one adored Elizabeth. If the servants had  any request to make, it was always through her   intercession. We were strangers to any species  of disunion and dispute; for although there was   a great dissimilitude in our characters, there  was an harmony in that very dissimilitude.   I was more calm and philosophical than my  companion; yet my temper was not so yielding.   My application was of longer endurance;  but it was not so severe whilst it endured.   I delighted in investigating the facts relative to  the actual world; she busied herself in following   the aërial creations of the poets. The world  was to me a secret, which I desired to discover;   to her it was a vacancy, which she sought  to people with imaginations of her own. My brothers were considerably younger than myself;  but I had a friend in one of my schoolfellows,   who compensated for this deficiency. Henry  Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva,   an intimate friend of my father. He was a boy of  singular talent and fancy. I remember, when he was   nine years old, he wrote a fairy tale, which was  the delight and amazement of all his companions.   His favourite study consisted in books of  chivalry and romance; and when very young,   I can remember, that we used to act plays  composed by him out of these favourite books,   the principal characters of which were  Orlando, Robin Hood, Amadis, and St. George. No youth could have passed more happily than  mine. My parents were indulgent, and my companions   amiable. Our studies were never forced; and by  some means we always had an end placed in view,   which excited us to ardour in the prosecution of  them. It was by this method, and not by emulation,   that we were urged to application. Elizabeth was  not incited to apply herself to drawing, that her   companions might not outstrip her; but through the  desire of pleasing her aunt, by the representation   of some favourite scene done by her own hand.  We learned Latin and English, that we might read   the writings in those languages; and so far from  study being made odious to us through punishment,   we loved application, and our amusements would  have been the labours of other children. Perhaps   we did not read so many books, or learn languages  so quickly, as those who are disciplined according   to the ordinary methods; but what we learned  was impressed the more deeply on our memories. In this description of our domestic circle I  include Henry Clerval; for he was constantly   with us. He went to school with me, and generally  passed the afternoon at our house; for being an   only child, and destitute of companions at  home, his father was well pleased that he   should find associates at our house; and we were  never completely happy when Clerval was absent. I feel pleasure in dwelling on the recollections  of childhood, before misfortune had tainted my   mind, and changed its bright visions of extensive  usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon   self. But, in drawing the picture of my early  days, I must not omit to record those events   which led, by insensible steps to my after  tale of misery: for when I would account to   myself for the birth of that passion, which  afterwards ruled my destiny, I find it arise,   like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost  forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded,   it became the torrent which, in its course,  has swept away all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the genius that has  regulated my fate; I desire therefore,   in this narration, to state those facts which  led to my predilection for that science.   When I was thirteen years of age, we all went  on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon:   the inclemency of the weather obliged us to  remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I   chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius  Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the theory which   he attempts to demonstrate, and the wonderful  facts which he relates, soon changed this feeling   into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon  my mind; and, bounding with joy, I communicated my   discovery to my father. I cannot help remarking  here the many opportunities instructors possess   of directing the attention of their pupils to  useful knowledge, which they utterly neglect.   My father looked carelessly at the  title-page of my book, and said,   “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not  waste your time upon this; it is sad trash.” If, instead of this remark, my father  had taken the pains, to explain to me,   that the principles of Agrippa had been  entirely exploded, and that a modern   system of science had been introduced, which  possessed much greater powers than the ancient,   because the powers of the latter were chimerical,  while those of the former were real and practical;   under such circumstances, I should  certainly have thrown Agrippa aside,   and, with my imagination warmed as it was,  should probably have applied myself to the   more rational theory of chemistry which  has resulted from modern discoveries.   It is even possible, that the train of my ideas  would never have received the fatal impulse that   led to my ruin. But the cursory glance my father  had taken of my volume by no means assured me   that he was acquainted with its contents; and  I continued to read with the greatest avidity. When I returned home, my first care was  to procure the whole works of this author,   and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus  Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies   of these writers with delight; they appeared  to me treasures known to few beside myself;   and although I often wished to communicate  these secret stores of knowledge to my father,   yet his indefinite censure of my  favourite Agrippa always withheld me.   I disclosed my discoveries to Elizabeth,  therefore, under a promise of strict secrecy;   but she did not interest herself in the subject,  and I was left by her to pursue my studies alone. It may appear very strange, that a disciple of  Albertus Magnus should arise in the eighteenth   century; but our family was not scientifical,  and I had not attended any of the lectures   given at the schools of Geneva. My dreams were  therefore undisturbed by reality; and I entered   with the greatest diligence into the search of  the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life.   But the latter obtained my  most undivided attention:   wealth was an inferior object; but what glory  would attend the discovery, if I could banish   disease from the human frame, and render  man invulnerable to any but a violent death! Nor were these my only visions. The raising  of ghosts or devils was a promise liberally   accorded by my favourite authors, the  fulfilment of which I most eagerly sought;   and if my incantations were always unsuccessful,  I attributed the failure rather to my own   inexperience and mistake, than to a want  of skill or fidelity in my instructors. The natural phænomena that take place every day  before our eyes did not escape my examinations.   Distillation, and the wonderful effects of steam,  processes of which my favourite authors were   utterly ignorant, excited my astonishment; but  my utmost wonder was engaged by some experiments   on an air-pump, which I saw employed by a  gentleman whom we were in the habit of visiting. The ignorance of the early philosophers  on these and several other points served   to decrease their credit with me: but  I could not entirely throw them aside,   before some other system should  occupy their place in my mind. When I was about fifteen years old, we had retired  to our house near Belrive, when we witnessed a   most violent and terrible thunder-storm. It  advanced from behind the mountains of Jura;   and the thunder burst at once with frightful  loudness from various quarters of the heavens.   I remained, while the storm lasted, watching  its progress with curiosity and delight.   As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a  stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful   oak, which stood about twenty yards from our  house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished,   the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained  but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next   morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular  manner. It was not splintered by the shock,   but entirely reduced to thin ribbands of wood.  I never beheld any thing so utterly destroyed. The catastrophe of this tree  excited my extreme astonishment;   and I eagerly inquired of my father the  nature and origin of thunder and lightning.   He replied, “Electricity;” describing at the  same time the various effects of that power.   He constructed a small electrical machine, and  exhibited a few experiments; he made also a kite,   with a wire and string, which drew  down that fluid from the clouds. This last stroke completed the  overthrow of Cornelius Agrippa,   Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, who had so  long reigned the lords of my imagination.   But by some fatality I did not feel inclined  to commence the study of any modern system;   and this disinclination was influenced  by the following circumstance. My father expressed a wish that I should attend  a course of lectures upon natural philosophy,   to which I cheerfully consented. Some  accident prevented my attending these   lectures until the course was nearly finished.  The lecture, being therefore one of the last,   was entirely incomprehensible to me. The  professor discoursed with the greatest   fluency of potassium and boron, of sulphates  and oxyds, terms to which I could affix no idea;   and I became disgusted with the science of  natural philosophy, although I still read   Pliny and Buffon with delight, authors, in my  estimation, of nearly equal interest and utility. My occupations at this age were principally  the mathematics, and most of the branches   of study appertaining to that science. I  was busily employed in learning languages;   Latin was already familiar to me, and  I began to read some of the easiest   Greek authors without the help of a lexicon. I  also perfectly understood English and German.   This is the list of my accomplishments at the age  of seventeen; and you may conceive that my hours   were fully employed in acquiring and maintaining  a knowledge of this various literature. Another task also devolved upon me, when  I became the instructor of my brothers.   Ernest was six years younger than myself, and  was my principal pupil. He had been afflicted   with ill health from his infancy, through which  Elizabeth and I had been his constant nurses:   his disposition was gentle, but he was incapable  of any severe application. William, the youngest   of our family, was yet an infant, and the most  beautiful little fellow in the world; his lively   blue eyes, dimpled cheeks, and endearing  manners, inspired the tenderest affection. Such was our domestic circle, from which  care and pain seemed for ever banished.   My father directed our studies, and my mother  partook of our enjoyments. Neither of us possessed   the slightest pre-eminence over the other; the  voice of command was never heard amongst us;   but mutual affection engaged us all to comply  with and obey the slightest desire of each other. CHAPTER II.  When I had attained the age of seventeen,  my parents resolved that I should become   a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I  had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva;   but my father thought it necessary,  for the completion of my education,   that I should be made acquainted with other  customs than those of my native country.   My departure was therefore fixed at an early date;  but, before the day resolved upon could arrive,   the first misfortune of my life occurred—an  omen, as it were, of my future misery. Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; but her  illness was not severe, and she quickly recovered.   During her confinement, many arguments  had been urged to persuade my mother   to refrain from attending upon her. She  had, at first, yielded to our entreaties;   but when she heard that her favourite was  recovering, she could no longer debar herself   from her society, and entered her chamber  long before the danger of infection was past.   The consequences of this imprudence were  fatal. On the third day my mother sickened;   her fever was very malignant, and the looks of  her attendants prognosticated the worst event.   On her death-bed the fortitude and benignity  of this admirable woman did not desert her.   She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself:  “My children,” she said, “my firmest hopes of   future happiness were placed on the prospect  of your union. This expectation will now be the   consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love,  you must supply my place to your younger cousins.   Alas! I regret that I am taken from you;  and, happy and beloved as I have been,   is it not hard to quit you all? But these are  not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour   to resign myself cheerfully to death, and will  indulge a hope of meeting you in another world.” She died calmly; and her countenance expressed  affection even in death. I need not describe   the feelings of those whose dearest ties  are rent by that most irreparable evil,   the void that presents itself to the soul, and  the despair that is exhibited on the countenance.   It is so long before the mind can persuade  itself that she, whom we saw every day, and   whose very existence appeared a part of our own,  can have departed for ever—that the brightness of   a beloved eye can have been extinguished, and the  sound of a voice so familiar, and dear to the ear,   can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are  the reflections of the first days; but when the   lapse of time proves the reality of the evil,  then the actual bitterness of grief commences.   Yet from whom has not that rude  hand rent away some dear connexion;   and why should I describe a sorrow  which all have felt, and must feel?   The time at length arrives, when grief is rather  an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that   plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a  sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead,   but we had still duties which we ought to perform;  we must continue our course with the rest,   and learn to think ourselves fortunate, whilst  one remains whom the spoiler has not seized. My journey to Ingolstadt, which had been deferred  by these events, was now again determined upon.   I obtained from my father a respite of some weeks.  This period was spent sadly; my mother’s death,   and my speedy departure, depressed our spirits;  but Elizabeth endeavoured to renew the spirit   of cheerfulness in our little society. Since  the death of her aunt, her mind had acquired   new firmness and vigour. She determined to  fulfil her duties with the greatest exactness;   and she felt that that most imperious duty,  of rendering her uncle and cousins happy,   had devolved upon her. She consoled me,  amused her uncle, instructed my brothers;   and I never beheld her so enchanting as  at this time, when she was continually   endeavouring to contribute to the happiness  of others, entirely forgetful of herself. The day of my departure at length arrived. I had  taken leave of all my friends, excepting Clerval,   who spent the last evening with us. He bitterly  lamented that he was unable to accompany me:   but his father could not be persuaded to  part with him, intending that he should   become a partner with him in business,  in compliance with his favourite theory,   that learning was superfluous in the commerce  of ordinary life. Henry had a refined mind;   he had no desire to be idle, and was well pleased  to become his father’s partner, but he believed   that a man might be a very good trader,  and yet possess a cultivated understanding. We sat late, listening to his complaints, and  making many little arrangements for the future.   The next morning early I departed. Tears gushed  from the eyes of Elizabeth; they proceeded   partly from sorrow at my departure, and partly  because she reflected that the same journey was   to have taken place three months before, when  a mother’s blessing would have accompanied me. I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey  me away, and indulged in the most melancholy   reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded  by amiable companions, continually engaged in   endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure, I was now  alone. In the university, whither I was going, I   must form my own friends, and be my own protector.  My life had hitherto been remarkably secluded and   domestic; and this had given me invincible  repugnance to new countenances. I loved my   brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were “old  familiar faces;” but I believed myself totally   unfitted for the company of strangers. Such  were my reflections as I commenced my journey;   but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose.  I ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge.   I had often, when at home, thought it hard to  remain during my youth cooped up in one place,   and had longed to enter the world, and  take my station among other human beings.   Now my desires were complied with, and it  would, indeed, have been folly to repent. I had sufficient leisure for these and many other  reflections during my journey to Ingolstadt,   which was long and fatiguing. At length the  high white steeple of the town met my eyes.   I alighted, and was conducted to my solitary  apartment, to spend the evening as I pleased. The next morning I delivered my letters of  introduction, and paid a visit to some of   the principal professors, and among others to  M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy.   He received me with politeness, and asked me  several questions concerning my progress in   the different branches of science appertaining to  natural philosophy. I mentioned, it is true, with   fear and trembling, the only authors I had ever  read upon those subjects. The professor stared:   “Have you,” he said, “really spent  your time in studying such nonsense?” I replied in the affirmative. “Every  minute,” continued M. Krempe with warmth,   “every instant that you have wasted on  those books is utterly and entirely lost.   You have burdened your memory with exploded  systems, and useless names. Good God! in what   desert land have you lived, where no one was  kind enough to inform you that these fancies,   which you have so greedily imbibed, are a thousand  years old, and as musty as they are ancient?   I little expected in this enlightened  and scientific age to find a disciple of   Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear Sir,  you must begin your studies entirely anew.” So saying, he stept aside, and wrote down a list  of several books treating of natural philosophy,   which he desired me to procure, and dismissed me,   after mentioning that in the beginning of  the following week he intended to commence   a course of lectures upon natural philosophy  in its general relations, and that M. Waldman,   a fellow-professor, would lecture upon  chemistry the alternate days that he missed. I returned home, not disappointed, for I had  long considered those authors useless whom the   professor had so strongly reprobated; but I did  not feel much inclined to study the books which   I procured at his recommendation. M. Krempe  was a little squat man, with a gruff voice   and repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore,  did not prepossess me in favour of his doctrine.   Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern  natural philosophy. It was very different, when   the masters of the science sought immortality and  power; such views, although futile, were grand:   but now the scene was changed. The ambition  of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to   the annihilation of those visions on which  my interest in science was chiefly founded.   I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless  grandeur for realities of little worth. Such were my reflections during the first  two or three days spent almost in solitude.   But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought  of the information which M. Krempe had given   me concerning the lectures. And although I could  not consent to go and hear that little conceited   fellow deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I  recollected what he had said of M. Waldman,   whom I had never seen, as he  had hitherto been out of town. Partly from curiosity, and partly from  idleness, I went into the lecturing room,   which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This  professor was very unlike his colleague. He   appeared about fifty years of age, but with an  aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence;   a few gray hairs covered his temples, but those  at the back of his head were nearly black.   His person was short, but remarkably erect;  and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard.   He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the  history of chemistry and the various improvements   made by different men of learning, pronouncing  with fervour the names of the most distinguished   discoverers. He then took a cursory view of the  present state of the science, and explained many   of its elementary terms. After having made  a few preparatory experiments, he concluded   with a panegyric upon modern chemistry,  the terms of which I shall never forget:— “The ancient teachers of this science,” said he,  “promised impossibilities, and performed nothing.   The modern masters promise very little;  they know that metals cannot be transmuted,   and that the elixir of life is a chimera.  But these philosophers, whose hands seem   only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes  to pour over the microscope or crucible,   have indeed performed miracles. They  penetrate into the recesses of nature,   and shew how she works in her hiding  places. They ascend into the heavens;   they have discovered how the blood circulates,  and the nature of the air we breathe.   They have acquired new and almost unlimited  powers; they can command the thunders of heaven,   mimic the earthquake, and even mock the  invisible world with its own shadows.” I departed highly pleased with the professor  and his lecture, and paid him a visit the same   evening. His manners in private were even  more mild and attractive than in public;   for there was a certain dignity  in his mien during his lecture,   which in his own house was replaced by  the greatest affability and kindness.   He heard with attention my little narration  concerning my studies, and smiled at the   names of Cornelius Agrippa, and Paracelsus, but  without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited.   He said, that “these were men to whose  indefatigable zeal modern philosophers   were indebted for most of the foundations  of their knowledge. They had left to us,   as an easier task, to give new names, and arrange  in connected classifications, the facts which they   in a great degree had been the instruments of  bringing to light. The labours of men of genius,   however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail  in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of   mankind.” I listened to his statement, which was  delivered without any presumption or affectation;   and then added, that his lecture had removed  my prejudices against modern chemists;   and I, at the same time, requested his advice  concerning the books I ought to procure. “I am happy,” said M. Waldman, “to have gained  a disciple; and if your application equals   your ability, I have no doubt of your success.  Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy   in which the greatest improvements have been and  may be made; it is on that account that I have   made it my peculiar study; but at the same time I  have not neglected the other branches of science.   A man would make but a very sorry chemist, if he  attended to that department of human knowledge   alone. If your wish is to become really a man of  science, and not merely a petty experimentalist,   I should advise you to apply to every branch  of natural philosophy, including mathematics.” He then took me into his laboratory, and  explained to me the uses of his various   machines; instructing me as to what I ought to  procure, and promising me the use of his own,   when I should have advanced far enough in  the science not to derange their mechanism.   He also gave me the list of books which  I had requested; and I took my leave. Thus ended a day memorable to  me; it decided my future destiny. CHAPTER III.  From this day natural philosophy, and particularly  chemistry, in the most comprehensive sense of the   term, became nearly my sole occupation. I read  with ardour those works, so full of genius and   discrimination, which modern inquirers have  written on these subjects. I attended the   lectures, and cultivated the acquaintance,  of the men of science of the university;   and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of  sound sense and real information, combined, it   is true, with a repulsive physiognomy and manners,  but not on that account the less valuable. In M.   Waldman I found a true friend. His gentleness was  never tinged by dogmatism; and his instructions   were given with an air of frankness and good  nature, that banished every idea of pedantry.   It was, perhaps, the amiable character of this  man that inclined me more to that branch of   natural philosophy which he professed, than  an intrinsic love for the science itself.   But this state of mind had place only in the  first steps towards knowledge: the more fully   I entered into the science, the more exclusively  I pursued it for its own sake. That application,   which at first had been a matter of duty and  resolution, now became so ardent and eager,   that the stars often disappeared in the light of  morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory. As I applied so closely, it may be  easily conceived that I improved rapidly.   My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the  students; and my proficiency, that of the masters.   Professor Krempe often asked me, with a  sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on?   whilst M. Waldman expressed the most  heart-felt exultation in my progress.   Two years passed in this manner, during which  I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged,   heart and soul, in the pursuit of some  discoveries, which I hoped to make.   None but those who have experienced them can  conceive of the enticements of science. In other   studies you go as far as others have gone before  you, and there is nothing more to know; but in   a scientific pursuit there is continual food for  discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate capacity,   which closely pursues one study, must infallibly  arrive at great proficiency in that study;   and I, who continually sought the attainment of  one object of pursuit, and was solely wrapt up in   this, improved so rapidly, that, at the end of two  years, I made some discoveries in the improvement   of some chemical instruments, which procured me  great esteem and admiration at the university.   When I had arrived at this point, and had  become as well acquainted with the theory and   practice of natural philosophy as depended on the  lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt,   my residence there being no longer conducive  to my improvements, I thought of returning   to my friends and my native town, when an  incident happened that protracted my stay. One of the phænonema which had peculiarly  attracted my attention was the structure   of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal  endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself,   did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold  question, and one which has ever been considered   as a mystery; yet with how many things are  we upon the brink of becoming acquainted,   if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our  inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my   mind, and determined thenceforth to apply myself  more particularly to those branches of natural   philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless  I had been animated by an almost supernatural   enthusiasm, my application to this study would  have been irksome, and almost intolerable.   To examine the causes of life, we must first have  recourse to death. I became acquainted with the   science of anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I  must also observe the natural decay and corruption   of the human body. In my education my father had  taken the greatest precautions that my mind should   be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do  not ever remember to have trembled at a tale of   superstition, or to have feared the apparition of  a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy;   and a church-yard was to me merely the receptacle  of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the   seat of beauty and strength, had become food for  the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause and   progress of this decay, and forced to spend  days and nights in vaults and charnel houses.   My attention was fixed upon every object  the most insupportable to the delicacy of   the human feelings. I saw how the fine  form of man was degraded and wasted;   I beheld the corruption of death  succeed to the blooming cheek of life;   I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the  eye and brain. I paused, examining and analysing   all the minutiæ of causation, as exemplified in  the change from life to death, and death to life,   until from the midst of this darkness a sudden  light broke in upon me—a light so brilliant   and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became  dizzy with the immensity of the prospect which it   illustrated, I was surprised that among so many  men of genius, who had directed their inquiries   towards the same science, that I alone should  be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret. Remember, I am not recording the vision of a  madman. The sun does not more certainly shine   in the heavens, than that which I now affirm  is true. Some miracle might have produced it,   yet the stages of the discovery were  distinct and probable. After days   and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I  succeeded in discovering the cause of generation   and life; nay, more, I became myself capable  of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter. The astonishment which I had at first  experienced on this discovery soon gave   place to delight and rapture. After  so much time spent in painful labour,   to arrive at once at the summit of my desires,  was the most gratifying consummation of my toils.   But this discovery was so great and  overwhelming, that all the steps by   which I had been progressively led to it were  obliterated, and I beheld only the result.   What had been the study and desire of the  wisest men since the creation of the world,   was now within my grasp. Not that, like a  magic scene, it all opened upon me at once:   the information I had obtained was of a nature  rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I   should point them towards the object of my search,  than to exhibit that object already accomplished.   I was like the Arabian who  had been buried with the dead,   and found a passage to life aided only by one  glimmering, and seemingly ineffectual light. I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and  hope which your eyes express, my friend,   that you expect to be informed of the secret  with which I am acquainted; that cannot be:   listen patiently until the end of my story, and  you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon   that subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded  and ardent as I then was, to your destruction   and infallible misery. Learn from me, if  not by my precepts, at least by my example,   how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge,  and how much happier that man is who believes his   native town to be the world, than he who aspires  to become greater than his nature will allow. When I found so astonishing a power placed within  my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the   manner in which I should employ it. Although I  possessed the capacity of bestowing animation,   yet to prepare a frame for the reception  of it, with all its intricacies of fibres,   muscles, and veins, still remained a work  of inconceivable difficulty and labour.   I doubted at first whether I should attempt  the creation of a being like myself or one   of simpler organization; but my imagination  was too much exalted by my first success to   permit me to doubt of my ability to give life  to an animal as complex and wonderful as man.   The materials at present within my command hardly  appeared adequate to so arduous an undertaking;   but I doubted not that I should ultimately  succeed. I prepared myself for a multitude of   reverses; my operations might be incessantly  baffled, and at last my work be imperfect:   yet, when I considered the improvement which  every day takes place in science and mechanics,   I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would  at least lay the foundations of future success.   Nor could I consider the magnitude and  complexity of my plan as any argument of its   impracticability. It was with these feelings  that I began the creation of a human being.   As the minuteness of the parts formed a  great hindrance to my speed, I resolved,   contrary to my first intention, to make the  being of a gigantic stature; that is to say,   about eight feet in height, and proportionably  large. After having formed this determination,   and having spent some months in successfully  collecting and arranging my materials, I began. No one can conceive the variety of feelings  which bore me onwards, like a hurricane,   in the first enthusiasm of 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  their’s. Pursuing these reflections, I thought,   that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless  matter, I might in process of time (although I   now found it impossible) renew life where death  had apparently devoted the body to corruption. These thoughts supported my spirits, while I  pursued my undertaking with unremitting ardour.   My cheek had grown pale with study, and my  person had become emaciated with confinement.   Sometimes, on the very brink  of certainty, I failed;   yet still I clung to the hope which the  next day or the next hour might realize.   One secret which I alone possessed was  the hope to which I had dedicated myself;   and the moon gazed on my midnight labours,  while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness,   I pursued nature to her hiding places. Who  shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil,   as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the  grave, or tortured the living animal to animate   the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble,  and my eyes swim with the remembrance;   but then a resistless, and almost frantic impulse,  urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul   or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was  indeed but a passing trance, that only made   me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as,  the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate,   I had returned to my old habits. I collected bones  from charnel houses; and disturbed, with profane   fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human  frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell,   at the top of the house, and separated from all  the other apartments by a gallery and staircase,   I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs  were starting from their sockets in attending to   the details of my employment. The dissecting  room and the slaughter-house furnished many   of my materials; and often did my human nature  turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst,   still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually  increased, I brought my work near to a conclusion. The summer months passed while I was thus  engaged, heart and soul, in one pursuit.   It was a most beautiful season; never did  the fields bestow a more plentiful harvest,   or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage: but  my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature.   And the same feelings which made me neglect  the scenes around me caused me also to forget   those friends who were so many miles absent,  and whom I had not seen for so long a time.   I knew my silence disquieted them; and I  well remembered the words of my father:   “I know that while you are pleased with  yourself, you will think of us with affection,   and we shall hear regularly from you.  You must pardon me, if I regard any   interruption in your correspondence as a proof  that your other duties are equally neglected.” I knew well therefore what would be my father’s  feelings; but I could not tear my thoughts from   my employment, loathsome in itself, but which  had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination.   I wished, as it were, to procrastinate all that  related to my feelings of affection until the   great object, which swallowed up every  habit of my nature, should be completed. I then thought that my father would be  unjust if he ascribed my neglect to vice,   or faultiness on my part; but I am now convinced  that he was justified in conceiving that I should   not be altogether free from blame. A human being  in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and   peaceful mind, and never to allow passion or a  transitory desire to disturb his tranquillity.   I do not think that the pursuit of  knowledge is an exception to this rule.   If the study to which you apply yourself  has a tendency to weaken your affections,   and to destroy your taste for those simple  pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix,   then that study is certainly unlawful, that  is to say, not befitting the human mind.   If this rule were always observed; if no man  allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere   with the tranquillity of his domestic  affections, Greece had not been enslaved;   Cæsar would have spared his country; America  would have been discovered more gradually;   and the empires of Mexico and  Peru had not been destroyed. But I forget that I am moralizing in  the most interesting part of my tale;   and your looks remind me to proceed. My father made no reproach in his letters; and  only took notice of my silence by inquiring   into my occupations more particularly  than before. Winter, spring, and summer,   passed away during my labours; but I did not  watch the blossom or the expanding leaves—sights   which before always yielded me supreme delight,  so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation.   The leaves of that year had withered before my  work drew near to a close; and now every day   shewed me more plainly how well I had succeeded.  But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I   appeared rather like one doomed by slavery to toil  in the mines, or any other unwholesome trade, than   an artist occupied by his favourite employment.  Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever,   and I became nervous to a most painful degree;  a disease that I regretted the more because I   had hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and  had always boasted of the firmness of my nerves.   But I believed that exercise and amusement  would soon drive away such symptoms;   and I promised myself both of these,  when my creation should be complete. CHAPTER IV.  It was on a dreary night of November, that  I beheld the accomplishment of my toils.   With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony,  I collected the instruments of life around me,   that I might infuse a spark of being into  the lifeless thing that lay at my feet.   It was already one in the morning; the  rain pattered dismally against the panes,   and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the  glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the   dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed  hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs. How can I describe my emotions at this  catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch   whom with such infinite pains and  care I had endeavoured to form?   His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected  his features as beautiful. Beautiful!—Great   God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work  of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was   of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of  a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only   formed a more horrid contrast with his watery  eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as   the dun white sockets in which they were set, his  shrivelled complexion, and straight black lips. The different accidents of life are not so  changeable as the feelings of human nature.   I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the  sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate   body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and  health. I had desired it with an ardour that far   exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished,  the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless   horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to  endure the aspect of the being I had created,   I rushed out of the room, and continued a long  time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose   my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded  to the tumult I had before endured; and I threw   myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring  to seek a few moments of forgetfulness.   But it was in vain: I slept indeed, but I was  disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw   Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the  streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I   embraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss on  her lips, they became livid with the hue of death;   her features appeared to change, and I thought  that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my   arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the  grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel.   I started from my sleep with horror; a cold  dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered,   and every limb became convulsed; when, by the  dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced   its way through the window-shutters, I beheld the  wretch—the miserable monster whom I had created.   He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes,  if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me.   His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate  sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks.   He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one  hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me,   but I escaped, and rushed down stairs. I took  refuge in the court-yard belonging to the house   which I inhabited; where I remained during the  rest of the night, walking up and down in the   greatest agitation, listening attentively,  catching and fearing each sound as if it   were to announce the approach of the demoniacal  corpse to which I had so miserably given life. Oh! no mortal could support the  horror of that countenance. A mummy   again endued with animation could  not be so hideous as that wretch.   I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly  then; but when those muscles and joints were   rendered capable of motion, it became a thing  such as even Dante could not have conceived. I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes  my pulse beat so quickly and hardly,   that I felt the palpitation of every artery;  at others, I nearly sank to the ground through   languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this  horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment:   dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest  for so long a space, were now become a hell to me;   and the change was so rapid,  the overthrow so complete! Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and  discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the   church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock,  which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened   the gates of the court, which had that night been  my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing   them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the  wretch whom I feared every turning of the street   would present to my view. I did not dare return  to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt   impelled to hurry on, although wetted by the rain,  which poured from a black and comfortless sky. I continued walking in this manner for some  time, endeavouring, by bodily exercise,   to ease the load that weighed upon my mind.  I traversed the streets, without any clear   conception of where I was, or what I was doing.  My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear;   and I hurried on with irregular  steps, not daring to look about me: Like one who, on a lonely road, Doth walk in fear and dread,  And, having once turn’d round, walks on, And turns no more his head;  Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.  Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to  the inn at which the various diligences and   carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew  not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes   fixed on a coach that was coming towards me from  the other end of the street. As it drew nearer,   I observed that it was the Swiss diligence:  it stopped just where I was standing;   and, on the door being opened, I perceived Henry  Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out.   “My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed  he, “how glad I am to see you! how   fortunate that you should be here  at the very moment of my alighting!” Nothing could equal my delight on seeing  Clerval; his presence brought back to my   thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those  scenes of home so dear to my recollection.   I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot  my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly,   and for the first time during many months, calm  and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore,   in the most cordial manner, and we walked towards  my college. Clerval continued talking for some   time about our mutual friends, and his own good  fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt.   “You may easily believe,” said he, “how great was  the difficulty to persuade my father that it was   not absolutely necessary for a merchant not to  understand any thing except book-keeping; and,   indeed, I believe I left him incredulous  to the last, for his constant answer to   my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of  the Dutch schoolmaster in the Vicar of Wakefield:   ‘I have ten thousand florins a year without  Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.’   But his affection for me at length  overcame his dislike of learning,   and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage  of discovery to the land of knowledge.” “It gives me the greatest delight to see you;   but tell me how you left my  father, brothers, and Elizabeth.” “Very well, and very happy, only a little  uneasy that they hear from you so seldom.   By the bye, I mean to lecture you a little upon  their account myself.—But, my dear Frankenstein,”   continued he, stopping short, and gazing full  in my face, “I did not before remark how very   ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as  if you had been watching for several nights.” “You have guessed right; I have lately  been so deeply engaged in one occupation,   that I have not allowed myself sufficient  rest, as you see: but I hope, I sincerely hope,   that all these employments are now at  an end, and that I am at length free.” I trembled excessively; I could not endure  to think of, and far less to allude to the   occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with  a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college.   I then reflected, and the thought made me  shiver, that the creature whom I had left   in my apartment might still be there, alive, and  walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster;   but I feared still more that Henry should see  him. Entreating him therefore to remain a few   minutes at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up  towards my own room. My hand was already on the   lock of the door before I recollected myself. I  then paused; and a cold shivering came over me.   I threw the door forcibly open, as children are  accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to   stand in waiting for them on the other side;  but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in:   the apartment was empty; and my bedroom  was also freed from its hideous guest.   I could hardly believe that so great a  good-fortune could have befallen me; but when   I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I  clapped my hands for joy, and ran down to Clerval. We ascended into my room, and the  servant presently brought breakfast;   but I was unable to contain myself. It was not  joy only that possessed me; I felt my flesh   tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse  beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single   instant in the same place; I jumped over the  chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud.   Clerval at first attributed my  unusual spirits to joy on his arrival;   but when he observed me more attentively,  he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he   could not account; and my loud, unrestrained,  heartless laughter, frightened and astonished him. “My dear Victor,” cried he, “what, for God’s sake,   is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How  ill you are! What is the cause of all this?” “Do not ask me,” cried I, putting my  hands before my eyes, for I thought I   saw the dreaded spectre glide into the  room; “he can tell.—Oh, save me! save   me!” I imagined that the monster seized me; I  struggled furiously, and fell down in a fit. Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings?  A meeting, which he anticipated with such joy,   so strangely turned to bitterness. But  I was not the witness of his grief;   for I was lifeless, and did not recover  my senses for a long, long time. This was the commencement of a nervous fever,  which confined me for several months. During all   that time Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards  learned that, knowing my father’s advanced age,   and unfitness for so long a journey, and how  wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he   spared them this grief by concealing the extent of  my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more   kind and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm  in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not   doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed  the kindest action that he could towards them. But I was in reality very ill; and surely  nothing but the unbounded and unremitting   attentions of my friend could have restored  me to life. The form of the monster on whom I   had bestowed existence was for ever before my  eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him.   Doubtless my words surprised Henry: he at  first believed them to be the wanderings of   my disturbed imagination; but the pertinacity  with which I continually recurred to the same   subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed  its origin to some uncommon and terrible event. By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses,  that alarmed and grieved my friend, I recovered.   I remember the first time I became  capable of observing outward objects   with any kind of pleasure, I perceived  that the fallen leaves had disappeared,   and that the young buds were shooting  forth from the trees that shaded my window.   It was a divine spring; and the season  contributed greatly to my convalescence.   I felt also sentiments of joy and affection  revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared,   and in a short time I became as cheerful as  before I was attacked by the fatal passion. “Dearest Clerval,” exclaimed I, “how kind, how  very good you are to me. This whole winter,   instead of being spent in study, as you promised  yourself, has been consumed in my sick room.   How shall I ever repay you? I  feel the greatest remorse for   the disappointment of which I have been  the occasion; but you will forgive me.” “You will repay me entirely, if you do not  discompose yourself, but get well as fast as you   can; and since you appear in such good spirits,  I may speak to you on one subject, may I not?” I trembled. One subject! what could it be?   Could he allude to an object  on whom I dared not even think? “Compose yourself,” said Clerval,  who observed my change of colour,   “I will not mention it, if it agitates  you; but your father and cousin would be   very happy if they received a letter  from you in your own hand-writing.   They hardly know how ill you have been,  and are uneasy at your long silence.” “Is that all? my dear Henry. How could  you suppose that my first thought would   not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom  I love, and who are so deserving of my love.” “If this is your present temper, my friend,  you will perhaps be glad to see a letter   that has been lying here some days for  you: it is from your cousin, I believe.” CHAPTER V. Clerval then   put the following letter into my hands. “To V. Frankenstein. “My Dear Cousin, “I cannot describe to you the uneasiness  we have all felt concerning your health.   We cannot help imagining that your friend  Clerval conceals the extent of your disorder:   for it is now several months since we have seen  your hand-writing; and all this time you have been   obliged to dictate your letters to Henry. Surely,  Victor, you must have been exceedingly ill;   and this makes us all very wretched, as much so  nearly as after the death of your dear mother.   My uncle was almost persuaded that you were indeed  dangerously ill, and could hardly be restrained   from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. Clerval  always writes that you are getting better;   I eagerly hope that you will confirm this  intelligence soon in your own hand-writing;   for indeed, indeed, Victor, we are  all very miserable on this account.   Relieve us from this fear, and we shall  be the happiest creatures in the world.   Your father’s health is now so vigorous, that  he appears ten years younger since last winter.   Ernest also is so much improved, that you would  hardly know him: he is now nearly sixteen, and   has lost that sickly appearance which he had some  years ago; he is grown quite robust and active. “My uncle and I conversed a long time last night  about what profession Ernest should follow. His   constant illness when young has deprived him  of the habits of application; and now that he   enjoys good health, he is continually in the open  air, climbing the hills, or rowing on the lake.   I therefore proposed that he should be a farmer;  which you know, Cousin, is a favourite scheme of   mine. A farmer’s is a very healthy happy  life; and the least hurtful, or rather the   most beneficial profession of any. My uncle had  an idea of his being educated as an advocate,   that through his interest he might become a judge.  But, besides that he is not at all fitted for such   an occupation, it is certainly more creditable  to cultivate the earth for the sustenance of man,   than to be the confidant, and sometimes the  accomplice, of his vices; which is the profession   of a lawyer. I said, that the employments  of a prosperous farmer, if they were not a   more honourable, they were at least a happier  species of occupation than that of a judge,   whose misfortune it was always to meddle with the  dark side of human nature. My uncle smiled, and   said, that I ought to be an advocate myself, which  put an end to the conversation on that subject. “And now I must tell you a little story that will  please, and perhaps amuse you. Do you not remember   Justine Moritz? Probably you do not; I will  relate her history, therefore, in a few words.   Madame Moritz, her mother, was a widow with  four children, of whom Justine was the third.   This girl had always been the favourite of  her father; but, through a strange perversity,   her mother could not endure her, and, after  the death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill.   My aunt observed this; and, when Justine was  twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother   to allow her to live at her house. The republican  institutions of our country have produced simpler   and happier manners than those which prevail  in the great monarchies that surround it.   Hence there is less distinction between  the several classes of its inhabitants;   and the lower orders being neither so poor nor  so despised, their manners are more refined and   moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same  thing as a servant in France and England. Justine,   thus received in our family, learned the duties  of a servant; a condition which, in our fortunate   country, does not include the idea of ignorance,  and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being. “After what I have said, I dare say you  well remember the heroine of my little tale:   for Justine was a great favourite of your’s; and  I recollect you once remarked, that if you were   in an ill-humour, one glance from Justine could  dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto   gives concerning the beauty of Angelica—she looked  so frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a   great attachment for her, by which she was induced  to give her an education superior to that which   she had at first intended. This benefit was fully  repaid; Justine was the most grateful little   creature in the world: I do not mean that she made  any professions, I never heard one pass her lips;   but you could see by her eyes that  she almost adored her protectress.   Although her disposition was gay, and in many  respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest   attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought  her the model of all excellence, and endeavoured   to imitate her phraseology and manners, so  that even now she often reminds me of her. “When my dearest aunt died, every one was too  much occupied in their own grief to notice poor   Justine, who had attended her during her  illness with the most anxious affection.   Poor Justine was very ill; but  other trials were reserved for her. “One by one, her brothers and sister died; and  her mother, with the exception of her neglected   daughter, was left childless. The conscience of  the woman was troubled; she began to think that   the deaths of her favourites was a judgment from  heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman   Catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed  the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly,   a few months after your departure for Ingolstadt,  Justine was called home by her repentant mother.   Poor girl! she wept when she quitted our house:  she was much altered since the death of my aunt;   grief had given softness and a winning mildness  to her manners, which had before been remarkable   for vivacity. Nor was her residence at her  mother’s house of a nature to restore her gaiety.   The poor woman was very vacillating in her  repentance. She sometimes begged Justine to   forgive her unkindness, but much oftener  accused her of having caused the deaths   of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting  at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline,   which at first increased her irritability, but  she is now at peace for ever. She died on the   first approach of cold weather, at the beginning  of this last winter. Justine has returned to us;   and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is  very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty;   as I mentioned before, her mien and her  expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt. “I must say also a few words to you, my  dear cousin, of little darling William.   I wish you could see him; he is very tall  of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes,   dark eye-lashes, and curling hair. When he  smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek,   which are rosy with health. He has  already had one or two little wives,   but Louisa Biron is his favourite, a  pretty little girl of five years of age. “Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to  be indulged in a little gossip concerning   the good people of Geneva. The pretty  Miss Mansfield has already received the   congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage  with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq.   Her ugly sister, Manon, married M.  Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn.   Your favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has  suffered several misfortunes since the departure   of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already  recovered his spirits, and is reported to be   on the point of marrying a very lively pretty  Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow,   and much older than Manoir; but she is very  much admired, and a favourite with every body. “I have written myself into good spirits,  dear cousin; yet I cannot conclude without   again anxiously inquiring concerning your  health. Dear Victor, if you are not very ill,   write yourself, and make your father and all  of us happy; or——I cannot bear to think of   the other side of the question; my tears  already flow. Adieu, my dearest cousin.” “Elizabeth Lavenza. “Geneva, March 18th, 17—.” “Dear, dear Elizabeth!” I exclaimed  when I had read her letter,   “I will write instantly, and relieve  them from the anxiety they must feel.”   I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued  me; but my convalescence had commenced,   and proceeded regularly. In another  fortnight I was able to leave my chamber. One of my first duties on my recovery was to  introduce Clerval to the several professors   of the university. In doing this, I underwent  a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds   that my mind had sustained. Ever since the fatal  night, the end of my labours, and the beginning   of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent  antipathy even to the name of natural philosophy.   When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the  sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the   agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this,  and had removed all my apparatus from my view.   He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived  that I had acquired a dislike for the room which   had previously been my laboratory. But these cares  of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited   the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture  when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the   astonishing progress I had made in the sciences.  He soon perceived that I disliked the subject;   but, not guessing the real cause, he attributed  my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject   from my improvement to the science itself, with  a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out.   What could I do? He meant to  please, and he tormented me.   I felt as if he had placed carefully, one by  one, in my view those instruments which were   to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow  and cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet   dared not exhibit the pain I felt. Clerval, whose  eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning   the sensations of others, declined the subject,  alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance; and the   conversation took a more general turn. I thanked  my friend from my heart, but I did not speak.   I saw plainly that he was surprised, but he  never attempted to draw my secret from me;   and although I loved him with a mixture of  affection and reverence that knew no bounds,   yet I could never persuade myself to confide to  him that event which was so often present to my   recollection, but which I feared the detail  to another would only impress more deeply. M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my  condition at that time, of almost insupportable   sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me  even more pain than the benevolent approbation   of M. Waldman. “D—n the fellow!” cried he; “why,  M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us all.   Aye, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless  true. A youngster who, but a few years ago,   believed Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as the  gospel, has now set himself at the head of   the university; and if he is not soon pulled  down, we shall all be out of countenance.—Aye,   aye,” continued he, observing my face expressive  of suffering, “M. Frankenstein is modest;   an excellent quality in a young man. Young men  should be diffident of themselves, you know,   M. Clerval; I was myself when young: but  that wears out in a very short time.” M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself,   which happily turned the conversation  from a subject that was so annoying to me. Clerval was no natural philosopher. His  imagination was too vivid for the minutiæ   of science. Languages were his principal study;  and he sought, by acquiring their elements,   to open a field for self-instruction on  his return to Geneva. Persian, Arabic,   and Hebrew, gained his attention, after he had  made himself perfectly master of Greek and Latin.   For my own part, idleness had ever been irksome to  me; and now that I wished to fly from reflection,   and hated my former studies, I felt great  relief in being the fellow-pupil with my   friend, and found not only instruction but  consolation in the works of the orientalists.   Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy  elevating to a degree I never experienced   in studying the authors of any other country.  When you read their writings, life appears to   consist in a warm sun and garden of roses,—in the  smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire   that consumes your own heart. How different from  the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome. Summer passed away in these occupations, and my  return to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of   autumn; but being delayed by several accidents,  winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed   impassable, and my journey was retarded until the  ensuing spring. I felt this delay very bitterly;   for I longed to see my native town, and  my beloved friends. My return had only   been delayed so long from an unwillingness to  leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had   become acquainted with any of its inhabitants.  The winter, however, was spent cheerfully; and   although the spring was uncommonly late, when it  came, its beauty compensated for its dilatoriness. The month of May had already commenced, and I  expected the letter daily which was to fix the   date of my departure, when Henry proposed a  pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt   that I might bid a personal farewell to the  country I had so long inhabited. I acceded   with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of  exercise, and Clerval had always been my favourite   companion in the rambles of this nature that I  had taken among the scenes of my native country. We passed a fortnight in these perambulations:  my health and spirits had long been restored,   and they gained additional strength  from the salubrious air I breathed,   the natural incidents of our progress,  and the conversation of my friend.   Study had before secluded me from the intercourse  of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial;   but Clerval called forth the better feelings of  my heart; he again taught me to love the aspect   of nature, and the cheerful faces of children.  Excellent friend! how sincerely did you love me,   and endeavour to elevate my mind, until it was  on a level with your own. A selfish pursuit had   cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness  and affection warmed and opened my senses;   I became the same happy creature who, a few years  ago, loving and beloved by all, had no sorrow or   care. When happy, inanimate nature had the power  of bestowing on me the most delightful sensations.   A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with  ecstacy. The present season was indeed divine;   the flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges,  while those of summer were already in bud:   I was undisturbed by thoughts which during  the preceding year had pressed upon me,   notwithstanding my endeavours to throw  them off, with an invincible burden. Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and  sincerely sympathized in my feelings:   he exerted himself to amuse me, while he  expressed the sensations that filled his soul.   The resources of his mind on this  occasion were truly astonishing:   his conversation was full of imagination; and  very often, in imitation of the Persian and   Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful  fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my   favourite poems, or drew me out into arguments,  which he supported with great ingenuity. We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon:   the peasants were dancing, and every  one we met appeared gay and happy.   My own spirits were high, and I bounded along  with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity. CHAPTER VI. On my return,   I found the following letter from my father:— “To V. Frankenstein. “My Dear Victor, “You have probably waited impatiently for a letter  to fix the date of your return to us; and I was at   first tempted to write only a few lines, merely  mentioning the day on which I should expect you.   But that would be a cruel kindness, and I dare  not do it. What would be your surprise, my son,   when you expected a happy and gay welcome, to  behold, on the contrary, tears and wretchedness?   And how, Victor, can I relate our misfortune?  Absence cannot have rendered you callous to   our joys and griefs; and how shall  I inflict pain on an absent child?   I wish to prepare you for the woeful news,  but I know it is impossible; even now your eye   skims over the page, to seek the words which  are to convey to you the horrible tidings. “William is dead!—that sweet child, whose  smiles delighted and warmed my heart,   who was so gentle, yet so  gay! Victor, he is murdered! “I will not attempt to console you;   but will simply relate the  circumstances of the transaction. “Last Thursday (May 7th) I, my niece, and your  two brothers, went to walk in Plainpalais.   The evening was warm and serene, and we  prolonged our walk farther than usual.   It was already dusk before we thought of  returning; and then we discovered that William and   Ernest, who had gone on before, were not  to be found. We accordingly rested on a   seat until they should return. Presently Ernest  came, and inquired if we had seen his brother:   he said, that they had been playing together, that  William had run away to hide himself, and that   he vainly sought for him, and afterwards waited  for him a long time, but that he did not return. “This account rather alarmed us, and we continued  to search for him until night fell, when Elizabeth   conjectured that he might have returned to the  house. He was not there. We returned again, with   torches; for I could not rest, when I thought that  my sweet boy had lost himself, and was exposed to   all the damps and dews of night: Elizabeth also  suffered extreme anguish. About five in the   morning I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night  before I had seen blooming and active in health,   stretched on the grass livid and motionless: the  print of the murderer’s finger was on his neck. “He was conveyed home, and the anguish that  was visible in my countenance betrayed the   secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to see  the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent her;   but she persisted, and entering the room where  it lay, hastily examined the neck of the victim,   and clasping her hands exclaimed, ‘O  God! I have murdered my darling infant!’ “She fainted, and was restored with extreme  difficulty. When she again lived, it was only   to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same  evening William had teazed her to let him wear a   very valuable miniature that she possessed of your  mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless   the temptation which urged the murderer to the  deed. We have no trace of him at present, although   our exertions to discover him are unremitted;  but they will not restore my beloved William. “Come, dearest Victor; you alone can  console Elizabeth. She weeps continually,   and accuses herself unjustly as the cause  of his death; her words pierce my heart.   We are all unhappy; but will not that  be an additional motive for you, my son,   to return and be our comforter? Your  dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say,   Thank God she did not live to witness the  cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling! “Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of  vengeance against the assassin, but with   feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal,  instead of festering the wounds of our minds.   Enter the house of mourning, my friend,   but with kindness and affection for those who  love you, and not with hatred for your enemies. “Your affectionate and afflicted father, “Alphonse Frankenstein. “Geneva, May 12th, 17—.” Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I  read this letter, was surprised to observe the   despair that succeeded to the joy I at first  expressed on receiving news from my friends.   I threw the letter on the table,  and covered my face with my hands. “My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed Henry,  when he perceived me weep with bitterness,   “are you always to be unhappy? My  dear friend, what has happened?” I motioned to him to take up the letter, while  I walked up and down the room in the extremest   agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of  Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune. “I can offer you no consolation,   my friend,” said he; “your disaster is  irreparable. What do you intend to do?” “To go instantly to Geneva: come  with me, Henry, to order the horses.” During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to raise my  spirits. He did not do this by common topics of   consolation, but by exhibiting the truest  sympathy. “Poor William!” said he, “that   dear child; he now sleeps with his angel mother.  His friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest:   he does not now feel the murderer’s grasp; a sod  covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain.   He can no longer be a fit subject for pity; the  survivors are the greatest sufferers, and for   them time is the only consolation. Those maxims of  the Stoics, that death was no evil, and that the   mind of man ought to be superior to despair  on the eternal absence of a beloved object,   ought not to be urged. Even Cato wept  over the dead body of his brother.” Clerval spoke thus as we  hurried through the streets;   the words impressed themselves on my mind,  and I remembered them afterwards in solitude.   But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried  into a cabriole, and bade farewell to my friend. My journey was very melancholy. At first I  wished to hurry on, for I longed to console   and sympathize with my loved and sorrowing  friends; but when I drew near my native town, I   slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the  multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind.   I passed through scenes familiar to my youth,  but which I had not seen for nearly six years.   How altered every thing might be during that time?  One sudden and desolating change had taken place;   but a thousand little circumstances might have  by degrees worked other alterations which,   although they were done more tranquilly,  might not be the less decisive.   Fear overcame me; I dared not advance,   dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me  tremble, although I was unable to define them. I remained two days at Lausanne,  in this painful state of mind.   I contemplated the lake: the waters were placid;   all around was calm, and the snowy mountains,  “the palaces of nature,” were not changed.   By degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored  me, and I continued my journey towards Geneva. The road ran by the side of the lake, which  became narrower as I approached my native town.   I discovered more distinctly the black sides  of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blânc;   I wept like a child: “Dear mountains! my  own beautiful lake! how do you welcome   your wanderer? Your summits are  clear; the sky and lake are blue   and placid. Is this to prognosticate  peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?” I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself  tedious by dwelling on these preliminary   circumstances; but they were days of comparative  happiness, and I think of them with pleasure.   My country, my beloved country! who but a  native can tell the delight I took in again   beholding thy streams, thy mountains,  and, more than all, thy lovely lake. Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear  again overcame me. Night also closed around;   and when I could hardly see the dark  mountains, I felt still more gloomily.   The picture appeared a vast and dim scene  of evil, and I foresaw obscurely that I was   destined to become the most wretched of  human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly,   and failed only in one single circumstance,  that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded,   I did not conceive the hundredth part  of the anguish I was destined to endure. It was completely dark when I  arrived in the environs of Geneva;   the gates of the town were already shut;  and I was obliged to pass the night   at Secheron, a village half a league to the  east of the city. The sky was serene; and,   as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the  spot where my poor William had been murdered.   As I could not pass through the town, I was  obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive   at Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw  the lightnings playing on the summit of Mont   Blânc in the most beautiful figures. The storm  appeared to approach rapidly; and, on landing,   I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its  progress. It advanced; the heavens were clouded,   and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large  drops, but its violence quickly increased. I quitted my seat, and walked on, although  the darkness and storm increased every minute,   and the thunder burst with a terrific crash  over my head. It was echoed from Salêve,   the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy; vivid flashes of  lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake,   making it appear like a vast sheet of fire;  then for an instant every thing seemed of   a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered  itself from the preceding flash. The storm,   as is often the case in Switzerland, appeared  at once in various parts of the heavens. The   most violent storm hung exactly north of the town,  over that part of the lake which lies between the   promontory of Belrive and the village of Copêt.  Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes;   and another darkened and sometimes disclosed the  Môle, a peaked mountain to the east of the lake. While I watched the storm, so beautiful yet  terrific, I wandered on with a hasty step.   This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I  clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud, “William,   dear angel! this is thy funeral, this thy dirge!”  As I said these words, I perceived in the gloom   a figure which stole from behind a clump of  trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing intently:   I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning  illuminated the object, and discovered its   shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature, and the  deformity of its aspect, more hideous than belongs   to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the  wretch, the filthy dæmon to whom I had given life.   What did he there? Could he be (I shuddered  at the conception) the murderer of my brother?   No sooner did that idea cross my imagination,  than I became convinced of its truth; my teeth   chattered, and I was forced to lean against a  tree for support. The figure passed me quickly,   and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in human  shape could have destroyed that fair child.   He was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The  mere presence of the idea was an irresistible   proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing the  devil; but it would have been in vain, for another   flash discovered him to me hanging among the rocks  of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Salêve,   a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the south.  He soon reached the summit, and disappeared. I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the  rain still continued, and the scene was enveloped   in an impenetrable darkness. I revolved in my mind  the events which I had until now sought to forget:   the whole train of my progress towards  the creation; the appearance of the   work of my own hands alive at  my bed side; its departure.   Two years had now nearly elapsed since  the night on which he first received life;   and was this his first crime? Alas! I had  turned loose into the world a depraved   wretch, whose delight was in carnage and  misery; had he not murdered my brother? No one can conceive the anguish I suffered  during the remainder of the night, which I spent,   cold and wet, in the open air. But I did  not feel the inconvenience of the weather;   my imagination was busy in scenes of evil  and despair. I considered the being whom I   had cast among mankind, and endowed with the  will and power to effect purposes of horror,   such as the deed which he had now done,  nearly in the light of my own vampire,   my own spirit let loose from the grave, and  forced to destroy all that was dear to me. Day dawned; and I directed  my steps towards the town.   The gates were open; and I hastened to my  father’s house. My first thought was to   discover what I knew of the murderer,  and cause instant pursuit to be made.   But I paused when I reflected on the story that  I had to tell. A being whom I myself had formed,   and endued with life, had met me at midnight  among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain.   I remembered also the nervous fever with which I  had been seized just at the time that I dated my   creation, and which would give an air of delirium  to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable.   I well knew that if any other had communicated  such a relation to me, I should have looked upon   it as the ravings of insanity. Besides, the  strange nature of the animal would elude all   pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to  persuade my relatives to commence it. Besides,   of what use would be pursuit? Who could arrest  a creature capable of scaling the overhanging   sides of Mont Salêve? These reflections  determined me, and I resolved to remain silent. It was about five in the morning when  I entered my father’s house. I told the   servants not to disturb the family, and went into  the library to attend their usual hour of rising. Six years had elapsed, passed as a  dream but for one indelible trace,   and I stood in the same place where  I had last embraced my father before   my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and  respectable parent! He still remained to me.   I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood  over the mantle-piece. It was an historical   subject, painted at my father’s desire, and  represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony   of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead  father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale;   but there was an air of dignity and beauty,  that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity.   Below this picture was a miniature of William;  and my tears flowed when I looked upon it.   While I was thus engaged, Ernest entered: he  had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me.   He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me:  “Welcome, my dearest Victor,” said he. “Ah!   I wish you had come three months ago, and then  you would have found us all joyous and delighted.   But we are now unhappy; and, I am afraid, tears  instead of smiles will be your welcome. Our father   looks so sorrowful: this dreadful event seems to  have revived in his mind his grief on the death of   Mamma. Poor Elizabeth also is quite inconsolable.”  Ernest began to weep as he said these words. “Do not,” said I, “welcome me thus;  try to be more calm, that I may not   be absolutely miserable the moment I enter  my father’s house after so long an absence.   But, tell me, how does my father support his  misfortunes? and how is my poor Elizabeth?” “She indeed requires consolation; she accused  herself of having caused the death of my brother,   and that made her very wretched. But  since the murderer has been discovered——” “The murderer discovered! Good God! how can  that be? who could attempt to pursue him? It is   impossible; one might as well try to overtake the  winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw.” “I do not know what you mean; but we were  all very unhappy when she was discovered.   No one would believe it at first; and  even now Elizabeth will not be convinced,   notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed,  who would credit that Justine Moritz,   who was so amiable, and fond of all the family,  could all at once become so extremely wicked?” “Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is  she the accused? But it is wrongfully;   every one knows that; no one  believes it, surely, Ernest?” “No one did at first; but several circumstances  came out, that have almost forced conviction upon   us: and her own behaviour has been so confused,  as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that,   I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will  be tried to-day, and you will then hear all.” He related that, the morning on which the  murder of poor William had been discovered,   Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her  bed; and, after several days, one of the servants,   happening to examine the apparel she had worn on  the night of the murder, had discovered in her   pocket the picture of my mother, which had been  judged to be the temptation of the murderer. The   servant instantly shewed it to one of the others,  who, without saying a word to any of the family,   went to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition,  Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the   fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a  great measure by her extreme confusion of manner. This was a strange tale, but it did not  shake my faith; and I replied earnestly,   “You are all mistaken; I know the murderer.  Justine, poor, good Justine, is innocent.” At that instant my father entered. I saw  unhappiness deeply impressed on his countenance,   but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and,  after we had exchanged our mournful greeting,   would have introduced some other topic than  that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed,   “Good God, Papa! Victor says that he knows  who was the murderer of poor William.” “We do also, unfortunately,” replied my father;  “for indeed I had rather have been for ever   ignorant than have discovered so much depravity  and ingratitude in one I valued so highly.” “My dear father, you are  mistaken; Justine is innocent.” “If she is, God forbid that she should  suffer as guilty. She is to be tried to-day,   and I hope, I sincerely hope,  that she will be acquitted.” This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in  my own mind that Justine, and indeed every human   being, was guiltless of this murder. I had no  fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence   could be brought forward strong enough to convict  her; and, in this assurance, I calmed myself,   expecting the trial with eagerness, but  without prognosticating an evil result. We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had  made great alterations in her form since I   had last beheld her. Six years before she  had been a pretty, good-humoured girl,   whom every one loved and caressed. She was now a  woman in stature and expression of countenance,   which was uncommonly lovely. An open and capacious  forehead gave indications of a good understanding,   joined to great frankness of disposition. Her  eyes were hazel, and expressive of mildness, now   through recent affliction allied to sadness. Her  hair was of a rich, dark auburn, her complexion   fair, and her figure slight and graceful.  She welcomed me with the greatest affection.   “Your arrival, my dear cousin,” said she, “fills  me with hope. You perhaps will find some means   to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who  is safe, if she be convicted of crime? I rely on   her innocence as certainly as I do upon my own.  Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not   only lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor  girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away   by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never  shall know joy more. But she will not, I am sure   she will not; and then I shall be happy again,  even after the sad death of my little William.” “She is innocent, my Elizabeth,” said I,  “and that shall be proved; fear nothing,   but let your spirits be cheered by  the assurance of her acquittal.” “How kind you are! every one else believes  in her guilt, and that made me wretched;   for I knew that it was impossible: and to see  every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner,   rendered me hopeless and despairing.” She wept. “Sweet niece,” said my father,  “dry your tears. If she is,   as you believe, innocent, rely  on the justice of our judges,   and the activity with which I shall prevent  the slightest shadow of partiality.” CHAPTER VII. We passed a few sad hours,   until eleven o’clock, when the trial  was to commence. My father and the   rest of the family being obliged to attend as  witnesses, I accompanied them to the court.   During the whole of this wretched mockery of  justice, I suffered living torture. It was to   be decided, whether the result of my curiosity  and lawless devices would cause the death of two   of my fellow-beings: one a smiling babe, full of  innocence and joy; the other far more dreadfully   murdered, with every aggravation of infamy  that could make the murder memorable in horror.   Justine also was a girl of merit, and possessed  qualities which promised to render her life happy:   now all was to be obliterated in an  ignominious grave; and I the cause!   A thousand times rather would I have confessed  myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine;   but I was absent when it was committed, and  such a declaration would have been considered   as the ravings of a madman, and would not  have exculpated her who suffered through me. The appearance of Justine was calm. She was  dressed in mourning; and her countenance,   always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity  of her feelings, exquisitely beautiful.   Yet she appeared confident in innocence, and did  not tremble, although gazed on and execrated by   thousands; for all the kindness which her beauty  might otherwise have excited, was obliterated in   the minds of the spectators by the imagination of  the enormity she was supposed to have committed.   She was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was  evidently constrained; and as her confusion had   before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she  worked up her mind to an appearance of courage.   When she entered the court, she threw her eyes  round it, and quickly discovered where we were   seated. A tear seemed to dim her eye when she  saw us; but she quickly recovered herself,   and a look of sorrowful affection seemed  to attest her utter guiltlessness. The trial began; and after the advocate against  her had stated the charge, several witnesses were   called. Several strange facts combined against  her, which might have staggered any one who had   not such proof of her innocence as I had. She  had been out the whole of the night on which the   murder had been committed, and towards morning had  been perceived by a market-woman not far from the   spot where the body of the murdered child had been  afterwards found. The woman asked her what she did   there; but she looked very strangely, and only  returned a confused and unintelligible answer.   She returned to the house about eight o’clock; and  when one inquired where she had passed the night,   she replied, that she had been looking for the  child, and demanded earnestly, if any thing had   been heard concerning him. When shewn the body,  she fell into violent hysterics, and kept her bed   for several days. The picture was then produced,  which the servant had found in her pocket; and   when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that  it was the same which, an hour before the child   had been missed, she had placed round his neck, a  murmur of horror and indignation filled the court. Justine was called on for her defence. As the  trial had proceeded, her countenance had altered.   Surprise, horror, and misery,  were strongly expressed.   Sometimes she struggled with her tears;  but when she was desired to plead,   she collected her powers, and spoke in  an audible although variable voice:— “God knows,” she said, “how  entirely I am innocent.   But I do not pretend that my protestations  should acquit me: I rest my innocence   on a plain and simple explanation of the  facts which have been adduced against me;   and I hope the character I have always borne will  incline my judges to a favourable interpretation,   where any circumstance appears  doubtful or suspicious.” She then related that, by the permission  of Elizabeth, she had passed the evening   of the night on which the murder had been  committed, at the house of an aunt at Chêne,   a village situated at about a league from  Geneva. On her return, at about nine o’clock,   she met a man, who asked her if she had  seen any thing of the child who was lost.   She was alarmed by this account, and passed  several hours in looking for him, when the   gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced  to remain several hours of the night in a barn   belonging to a cottage, being unwilling to call  up the inhabitants, to whom she was well known.   Unable to rest or sleep, she quitted her asylum  early, that she might again endeavour to find my   brother. If she had gone near the spot where  his body lay, it was without her knowledge.   That she had been bewildered when questioned  by the market-woman, was not surprising,   since she had passed a sleepless night, and  the fate of poor William was yet uncertain.   Concerning the picture she could give no account. “I know,” continued the unhappy victim, “how  heavily and fatally this one circumstance weighs   against me, but I have no power of explaining  it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance,   I am only left to conjecture concerning the  probabilities by which it might have been placed   in my pocket. But here also I am checked.  I believe that I have no enemy on earth,   and none surely would have been so  wicked as to destroy me wantonly.   Did the murderer place it there? I know of  no opportunity afforded him for so doing;   or if I had, why should he have stolen  the jewel, to part with it again so soon? “I commit my cause to the justice of  my judges, yet I see no room for hope.   I beg permission to have a few witnesses  examined concerning my character;   and if their testimony shall  not overweigh my supposed guilt,   I must be condemned, although I would  pledge my salvation on my innocence.” Several witnesses were called, who had known  her for many years, and they spoke well of her;   but fear, and hatred of the crime  of which they supposed her guilty,   rendered them timorous, and unwilling to come  forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource,   her excellent dispositions and irreproachable  conduct, about to fail the accused,   when, although violently agitated, she  desired permission to address the court. “I am,” said she, “the cousin of the unhappy  child who was murdered, or rather his sister,   for I was educated by and have lived with his  parents ever since and even long before his birth.   It may therefore be judged indecent in  me to come forward on this occasion;   but when I see a fellow-creature about to perish  through the cowardice of her pretended friends,   I wish to be allowed to speak, that I  may say what I know of her character.   I am well acquainted with the accused.  I have lived in the same house with her,   at one time for five, and at another for nearly  two years. During all that period she appeared to   me the most amiable and benevolent of human  creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein,   my aunt, in her last illness with the greatest  affection and care; and afterwards attended her   own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner  that excited the admiration of all who knew her.   After which she again lived in my uncle’s house,  where she was beloved by all the family. She was   warmly attached to the child who is now dead, and  acted towards him like a most affectionate mother.   For my own part, I do not hesitate to say, that,  notwithstanding all the evidence produced against   her, I believe and rely on her perfect innocence.  She had no temptation for such an action:   as to the bauble on which the chief proof  rests, if she had earnestly desired it,   I should have willingly given it to  her; so much do I esteem and value her.” Excellent Elizabeth! A murmur of approbation  was heard; but it was excited by her generous   interference, and not in favour of poor Justine,  on whom the public indignation was turned with   renewed violence, charging her with the blackest  ingratitude. She herself wept as Elizabeth spoke,   but she did not answer. My own agitation and  anguish was extreme during the whole trial. I   believed in her innocence; I knew it. Could the  dæmon, who had (I did not for a minute doubt)   murdered my brother, also in his hellish sport  have betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy.   I could not sustain the horror of my situation;  and when I perceived that the popular voice,   and the countenances of the judges, had  already condemned my unhappy victim,   I rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures  of the accused did not equal mine; she was   sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse  tore my bosom, and would not forego their hold. I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the  morning I went to the court; my lips and throat   were parched. I dared not ask the fatal question;  but I was known, and the officer guessed the   cause of my visit. The ballots had been thrown;  they were all black, and Justine was condemned. I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt.   I had before experienced sensations of horror; and  I have endeavoured to bestow upon them adequate   expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of  the heart-sickening despair that I then endured.   The person to whom I addressed myself added, that  Justine had already confessed her guilt. “That   evidence,” he observed, “was hardly required in so  glaring a case, but I am glad of it; and, indeed,   none of our judges like to condemn a criminal upon  circumstantial evidence, be it ever so decisive.” When I returned home, Elizabeth  eagerly demanded the result. “My cousin,” replied I, “it is decided as  you may have expected; all judges had rather   that ten innocent should suffer, than that one  guilty should escape. But she has confessed.” This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had  relied with firmness upon Justine’s innocence.   “Alas!” said she, “how shall I ever again  believe in human benevolence? Justine, whom   I loved and esteemed as my sister, how could she  put on those smiles of innocence only to betray;   her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or  ill-humour, and yet she has committed a murder.” Soon after we heard that the poor victim had  expressed a wish to see my cousin. My father   wished her not to go; but said, that he left  it to her own judgment and feelings to decide.   “Yes,” said Elizabeth, “I will go, although she  is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany me:   I cannot go alone.” The idea of this visit  was torture to me, yet I could not refuse. We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and beheld  Justine sitting on some straw at the further end;   her hands were manacled, and  her head rested on her knees.   She rose on seeing us enter; and  when we were left alone with her,   she threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth,  weeping bitterly. My cousin wept also. “Oh, Justine!” said she, “why did you rob me of  my last consolation. I relied on your innocence;   and although I was then very wretched,  I was not so miserable as I am now.” “And do you also believe that I am  so very, very wicked? Do you also   join with my enemies to crush me?”  Her voice was suffocated with sobs. “Rise, my poor girl,” said Elizabeth,  “why do you kneel, if you are innocent?   I am not one of your enemies; I believed you  guiltless, notwithstanding every evidence, until   I heard that you had yourself declared your guilt.  That report, you say, is false; and be assured,   dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence  in you for a moment, but your own confession.” “I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I  confessed, that I might obtain absolution;   but now that falsehood lies heavier  at my heart than all my other sins.   The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I  was condemned, my confessor has besieged me;   he threatened and menaced, until I almost began to  think that I was the monster that he said I was.   He threatened excommunication and hell fire  in my last moments, if I continued obdurate.   Dear lady, I had none to support me; all looked on  me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition.   What could I do? In an evil hour I subscribed  to a lie; and now only am I truly miserable.” She paused, weeping, and then continued—“I  thought with horror, my sweet lady, that you   should believe your Justine, whom your blessed  aunt had so highly honoured, and whom you loved,   was a creature capable of a crime which none  but the devil himself could have perpetrated.   Dear William! dearest blessed child!  I soon shall see you again in heaven,   where we shall all be happy; and that consoles  me, going as I am to suffer ignominy and death.” “Oh, Justine! forgive me for having for one  moment distrusted you. Why did you confess?   But do not mourn, my dear girl; I will every  where proclaim your innocence, and force belief.   Yet you must die; you, my  playfellow, my companion,   my more than sister. I never can  survive so horrible a misfortune.” “Dear, sweet Elizabeth, do not weep. You ought  to raise me with thoughts of a better life,   and elevate me from the petty cares  of this world of injustice and strife.   Do not you, excellent  friend, drive me to despair.” “I will try to comfort you; but this, I fear,  is an evil too deep and poignant to admit of   consolation, for there is no hope. Yet heaven  bless thee, my dearest Justine, with resignation,   and a confidence elevated beyond this world.  Oh! how I hate its shews and mockeries! when   one creature is murdered, another is immediately  deprived of life in a slow torturing manner;   then the executioners, their hands yet  reeking with the blood of innocence,   believe that they have done a great deed.  They call this retribution. Hateful name!   When that word is pronounced, I know greater  and more horrid punishments are going to   be inflicted than the gloomiest tyrant has  ever invented to satiate his utmost revenge.   Yet this is not consolation for you, my Justine,  unless indeed that you may glory in escaping from   so miserable a den. Alas! I would I were in  peace with my aunt and my lovely William,   escaped from a world which is hateful to  me, and the visages of men which I abhor.” Justine smiled languidly.  “This, dear lady, is despair,   and not resignation. I must not learn the lesson  that you would teach me. Talk of something else,   something that will bring peace,  and not increase of misery.” During this conversation I had retired to  a corner of the prison-room, where I could   conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me.  Despair! Who dared talk of that? The poor victim,   who on the morrow was to pass the dreary boundary  between life and death, felt not as I did,   such deep and bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth,  and ground them together, uttering a groan that   came from my inmost soul. Justine started. When  she saw who it was, she approached me, and said,   “Dear Sir, you are very kind to visit me;  you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty.” I could not answer. “No, Justine,” said  Elizabeth; “he is more convinced of your   innocence than I was; for even when he heard  that you had confessed, he did not credit it.” “I truly thank him. In these last moments I  feel the sincerest gratitude towards those   who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the  affection of others to such a wretch as I am!   It removes more than half my misfortune;  and I feel as if I could die in peace,   now that my innocence is acknowledged  by you, dear lady, and your cousin.” Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others  and herself. She indeed gained the resignation   she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt  the never-dying worm alive in my bosom,   which allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth  also wept, and was unhappy; but her’s also was the   misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that  passes over the fair moon, for a while hides,   but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and  despair had penetrated into the core of my heart;   I bore a hell within me, which nothing could  extinguish. We staid several hours with Justine;   and it was with great difficulty that  Elizabeth could tear herself away.   “I wish,” cried she, “that I were to die with  you; I cannot live in this world of misery.” Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while  she with difficulty repressed her bitter tears.   She embraced Elizabeth, and said, in a voice of  half-suppressed emotion, “Farewell, sweet lady,   dearest Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend;  may heaven in its bounty bless and preserve you;   may this be the last misfortune that you will ever  suffer. Live, and be happy, and make others so.” As we returned, Elizabeth said, “You know not, my  dear Victor, how much I am relieved, now that I   trust in the innocence of this unfortunate girl. I  never could again have known peace, if I had been   deceived in my reliance on her. For the moment  that I did believe her guilty, I felt an anguish   that I could not have long sustained. Now my heart  is lightened. The innocent suffers; but she whom I   thought amiable and good has not betrayed the  trust I reposed in her, and I am consoled.” Amiable cousin! such were your thoughts, mild  and gentle as your own dear eyes and voice.   But I—I was a wretch, and none ever  conceived of the misery that I then endured. END OF VOLUME I. VOLUME II. CHAPTER I. Nothing is more painful to the human mind,   than, after the feelings have been worked up by a  quick succession of events, the dead calmness of   inaction and certainty which follows, and deprives  the soul both of hope and fear. Justine died; she   rested; and I was alive. The blood flowed freely  in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse   pressed on my heart, which nothing could remove.  Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered like an evil   spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief  beyond description horrible, and more, much more,   (I persuaded myself) was yet behind. Yet my heart  overflowed with kindness, and the love of virtue.   I had begun life with benevolent intentions,  and thirsted for the moment when I should put   them in practice, and make myself useful to my  fellow-beings. Now all was blasted: instead of   that serenity of conscience, which allowed me to  look back upon the past with self-satisfaction,   and from thence to gather promise of new hopes,  I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt,   which hurried me away to a hell of intense  tortures, such as no language can describe. This state of mind preyed upon my health,  which had entirely recovered from the first   shock it had sustained. I shunned the face  of man; all sound of joy or complacency   was torture to me; solitude was my only  consolation—deep, dark, death-like solitude. My father observed with pain the alteration  perceptible in my disposition and habits,   and endeavoured to reason with me on the  folly of giving way to immoderate grief.   “Do you think, Victor,” said he, “that I do not  suffer also? No one could love a child more than I   loved your brother;” (tears came into his eyes as  he spoke); “but is it not a duty to the survivors,   that we should refrain from augmenting their  unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief?   It is also a duty owed to yourself; for excessive  sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment,   or even the discharge of daily usefulness,  without which no man is fit for society.” This advice, although good, was  totally inapplicable to my case;   I should have been the first to hide  my grief, and console my friends,   if remorse had not mingled its bitterness  with my other sensations. Now I could only   answer my father with a look of despair,  and endeavour to hide myself from his view. About this time we retired to our house at  Belrive. This change was particularly agreeable   to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten  o’clock, and the impossibility of remaining on the   lake after that hour, had rendered our residence  within the walls of Geneva very irksome to me.   I was now free. Often, after the rest of the  family had retired for the night, I took the boat,   and passed many hours upon the water. Sometimes,  with my sails set, I was carried by the wind;   and sometimes, after rowing into the middle of the  lake, I left the boat to pursue its own course,   and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I  was often tempted, when all was at peace around   me, and I the only unquiet thing that wandered  restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly,   if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh  and interrupted croaking was heard only when I   approached the shore—often, I say, I was tempted  to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters   might close over me and my calamities for ever.  But I was restrained, when I thought of the   heroic and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly  loved, and whose existence was bound up in mine.   I thought also of my father, and surviving  brother: should I by my base desertion leave   them exposed and unprotected to the malice  of the fiend whom I had let loose among them? At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that  peace would revisit my mind only that I might   afford them consolation and happiness. But that  could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope.   I had been the author of unalterable  evils; and I lived in daily fear,   lest the monster whom I had created  should perpetrate some new wickedness.   I had an obscure feeling that all was not over,  and that he would still commit some signal crime,   which by its enormity should almost  efface the recollection of the past.   There was always scope for fear, so long as any  thing I loved remained behind. My abhorrence of   this fiend cannot be conceived. When I thought of  him, I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became inflamed,   and I ardently wished to extinguish that  life which I had so thoughtlessly bestowed.   When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my  hatred and revenge burst all bounds of moderation.   I would have made a pilgrimage to the  highest peak of the Andes, could I,   when there, have precipitated him to their  base. I wished to see him again, that I might   wreak the utmost extent of anger on his head,  and avenge the deaths of William and Justine. Our house was the house of mourning. My  father’s health was deeply shaken by the   horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad  and desponding; she no longer took delight in   her ordinary occupations; all pleasure  seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead;   eternal woe and tears she then thought was the  just tribute she should pay to innocence so   blasted and destroyed. She was no longer that  happy creature, who in earlier youth wandered   with me on the banks of the lake, and talked with  ecstacy of our future prospects. She had become   grave, and often conversed of the inconstancy  of fortune, and the instability of human life. “When I reflect, my dear cousin,” said she,  “on the miserable death of Justine Moritz, I no   longer see the world and its works as they before  appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts   of vice and injustice, that I read in books or  heard from others, as tales of ancient days,   or imaginary evils; at least they were remote, and  more familiar to reason than to the imagination;   but now misery has come home, and men appear to  me as monsters thirsting for each other’s blood.   Yet I am certainly unjust. Every body believed  that poor girl to be guilty; and if she could   have committed the crime for which she suffered,  assuredly she would have been the most depraved of   human creatures. For the sake of a few jewels,  to have murdered the son of her benefactor and   friend, a child whom she had nursed from its  birth, and appeared to love as if it had been   her own! I could not consent to the death of any  human being; but certainly I should have thought   such a creature unfit to remain in the society of  men. Yet she was innocent. I know, I feel she was   innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that  confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can   look so like the truth, who can assure themselves  of certain happiness? I feel as if I were walking   on the edge of a precipice, towards which  thousands are crowding, and endeavouring to   plunge me into the abyss. William and Justine  were assassinated, and the murderer escapes;   he walks about the world free, and perhaps  respected. But even if I were condemned to   suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I  would not change places with such a wretch.” I listened to this discourse with the extremest  agony. I, not in deed, but in effect, was the   true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my  countenance, and kindly taking my hand said,   “My dearest cousin, you must calm yourself. These  events have affected me, God knows how deeply;   but I am not so wretched as you are.  There is an expression of despair,   and sometimes of revenge, in your  countenance, that makes me tremble.   Be calm, my dear Victor; I would sacrifice my  life to your peace. We surely shall be happy:   quiet in our native country, and not mingling in  the world, what can disturb our tranquillity?” She shed tears as she said this,  distrusting the very solace that she gave;   but at the same time she smiled, that she might  chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart.   My father, who saw in the unhappiness that was  painted in my face only an exaggeration of that   sorrow which I might naturally feel, thought that  an amusement suited to my taste would be the best   means of restoring to me my wonted serenity.  It was from this cause that he had removed to   the country; and, induced by the same motive, he  now proposed that we should all make an excursion   to the valley of Chamounix. I had been there  before, but Elizabeth and Ernest never had;   and both had often expressed an earnest desire  to see the scenery of this place, which had been   described to them as so wonderful and sublime.  Accordingly we departed from Geneva on this   tour about the middle of the month of August,  nearly two months after the death of Justine. The weather was uncommonly fine; and if mine had  been a sorrow to be chased away by any fleeting   circumstance, this excursion would certainly  have had the effect intended by my father.   As it was, I was somewhat interested  in the scene; it sometimes lulled,   although it could not extinguish my grief.  During the first day we travelled in a carriage.   In the morning we had seen the mountains at a  distance, towards which we gradually advanced.   We perceived that the valley through which we  wound, and which was formed by the river Arve,   whose course we followed, closed in upon  us by degrees; and when the sun had set,   we beheld immense mountains and  precipices overhanging us on every side,   and heard the sound of the river raging among  rocks, and the dashing of water-falls around. The next day we pursued our journey upon  mules; and as we ascended still higher,   the valley assumed a more magnificent  and astonishing character.   Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny  mountains; the impetuous Arve, and cottages every   here and there peeping forth from among the  trees, formed a scene of singular beauty.   But it was augmented and rendered sublime by the  mighty Alps, whose white and shining pyramids and   domes towered above all, as belonging to another  earth, the habitations of another race of beings. We passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the  ravine, which the river forms, opened before us,   and we began to ascend the mountain that overhangs  it. Soon after we entered the valley of Chamounix.   This valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not  so beautiful and picturesque as that of Servox,   through which we had just passed. The high and  snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries;   but we saw no more ruined  castles and fertile fields.   Immense glaciers approached the road; we heard  the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche,   and marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blânc,  the supreme and magnificent Mont Blânc, raised   itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and  its tremendous dome overlooked the valley. During this journey, I sometimes joined  Elizabeth, and exerted myself to point out   to her the various beauties of the scene.  I often suffered my mule to lag behind,   and indulged in the misery of reflection. At  other times I spurred on the animal before   my companions, that I might forget them,  the world, and, more than all, myself.   When at a distance, I alighted, and threw myself  on the grass, weighed down by horror and despair.   At eight in the evening I arrived at Chamounix.  My father and Elizabeth were very much fatigued;   Ernest, who accompanied us, was delighted, and in  high spirits: the only circumstance that detracted   from his pleasure was the south wind, and the  rain it seemed to promise for the next day. We retired early to our  apartments, but not to sleep;   at least I did not. I remained many hours at  the window, watching the pallid lightning that   played above Mont Blânc, and listening to the  rushing of the Arve, which ran below my window. CHAPTER II.  The next day, contrary to the prognostications  of our guides, was fine, although clouded.   We visited the source of the Arveiron, and rode  about the valley until evening. These sublime and   magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest  consolation that I was capable of receiving.   They elevated me from all littleness of feeling;  and although they did not remove my grief,   they subdued and tranquillized it. In some  degree, also, they diverted my mind from   the thoughts over which it had brooded for  the last month. I returned in the evening,   fatigued, but less unhappy, and conversed with  my family with more cheerfulness than had been my   custom for some time. My father was pleased, and  Elizabeth overjoyed. “My dear cousin,” said she,   “you see what happiness you diffuse when  you are happy; do not relapse again!” The following morning the rain poured  down in torrents, and thick mists hid   the summits of the mountains. I rose  early, but felt unusually melancholy.   The rain depressed me; my old feelings  recurred, and I was miserable.   I knew how disappointed my father would be at this  sudden change, and I wished to avoid him until I   had recovered myself so far as to be enabled  to conceal those feelings that overpowered me.   I knew that they would remain that day at the inn;  and as I had ever inured myself to rain, moisture,   and cold, I resolved to go alone to the summit  of Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the   view of the tremendous and ever-moving glacier  had produced upon my mind when I first saw it.   It had then filled me with a sublime ecstacy that  gave wings to the soul, and allowed it to soar   from the obscure world to light and joy. The sight  of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed   always the effect of solemnizing my mind, and  causing me to forget the passing cares of life.   I determined to go alone, for I  was well acquainted with the path,   and the presence of another would destroy  the solitary grandeur of the scene. The ascent is precipitous, but the path  is cut into continual and short windings,   which enable you to surmount the  perpendicularity of the mountain.   It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand  spots the traces of the winter avalanche may be   perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on  the ground; some entirely destroyed, others bent,   leaning upon the jutting rocks of the mountain,  or transversely upon other trees. The path, as you   ascend higher, is intersected by ravines of snow,  down which stones continually roll from above;   one of them is particularly dangerous, as the  slightest sound, such as even speaking in a loud   voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient  to draw destruction upon the head of the speaker.   The pines are not tall or luxuriant, but they are  sombre, and add an air of severity to the scene.   I looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were  rising from the rivers which ran through it,   and curling in thick wreaths around the  opposite mountains, whose summits were   hid in the uniform clouds, while rain poured  from the dark sky, and added to the melancholy   impression I received from the objects around  me. Alas! why does man boast of sensibilities   superior to those apparent in the brute;  it only renders them more necessary beings.   If our impulses were confined to hunger, thirst,  and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we   are moved by every wind that blows, and a chance  word or scene that that word may convey to us. We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep. We rise; one wand’ring thought pollutes the day.  We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh, or weep, Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;  It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow, The path of its departure still is free.  Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow; Nought may endure but mutability!  It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of  the ascent. For some time I sat upon the rock   that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered both  that and the surrounding mountains. Presently a   breeze dissipated the cloud, and I descended upon  the glacier. The surface is very uneven, rising   like the waves of a troubled sea, descending  low, and interspersed by rifts that sink deep.   The field of ice is almost a league in width,  but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it.   The opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular  rock. From the side where I now stood Montanvert   was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league;  and above it rose Mont Blânc, in awful majesty.   I remained in a recess of the rock, gazing on  this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea,   or rather the vast river of ice, wound among its  dependent mountains, whose aërial summits hung   over its recesses. Their icy and glittering  peaks shone in the sunlight over the clouds.   My heart, which was before sorrowful, now swelled  with something like joy; I exclaimed—“Wandering   spirits, if indeed ye wander, and  do not rest in your narrow beds,   allow me this faint happiness, or take me, as  your companion, away from the joys of life.” As I said this, I suddenly beheld the figure of a  man, at some distance, advancing towards me with   superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices in  the ice, among which I had walked with caution;   his stature also, as he approached,  seemed to exceed that of man.   I was troubled: a mist came over my  eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me;   but I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the  mountains. I perceived, as the shape came nearer,   (sight tremendous and abhorred!) that it was the  wretch whom I had created. I trembled with rage   and horror, resolving to wait his approach,  and then close with him in mortal combat.   He approached; his countenance bespoke bitter  anguish, combined with disdain and malignity,   while its unearthly ugliness rendered  it almost too horrible for human eyes.   But I scarcely observed this; anger and  hatred had at first deprived me of utterance,   and I recovered only to overwhelm him with words  expressive of furious detestation and contempt. “Devil!” I exclaimed, “do you dare approach me?  and do not you fear the fierce vengeance of my   arm wreaked on your miserable head?  Begone, vile insect! or rather stay,   that I may trample you to dust! and, oh,  that I could, with the extinction of your   miserable existence, restore those victims  whom you have so diabolically murdered!” “I expected this reception,” said the  dæmon. “All men hate the wretched;   how then must I be hated, who am miserable  beyond all living things! Yet you, my creator,   detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom  thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by   the annihilation of one of us. You purpose to  kill me. How dare you sport thus with life?   Do your duty towards me, and I will do  mine towards you and the rest of mankind.   If you will comply with my conditions, I will  leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse,   I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated  with the blood of your remaining friends.” “Abhorred monster! fiend that thou  art! the tortures of hell are too   mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched  devil! you reproach me with your creation;   come on then, that I may extinguish the  spark which I so negligently bestowed.” My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him,   impelled by all the feelings which can arm  one being against the existence of another. He easily eluded me, and said, “Be calm! I entreat you to hear me, before  you give vent to your hatred on my devoted   head. Have I not suffered enough,  that you seek to increase my misery?   Life, although it may only be an accumulation  of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.   Remember, thou hast made me more powerful than  thyself; my height is superior to thine; my joints   more supple. But I will not be tempted to set  myself in opposition to thee. I am thy creature,   and I will be even mild and docile to my natural  lord and king, if thou wilt also perform thy part,   the which thou owest me. Oh, Frankenstein,  be not equitable to every other, and trample   upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy  clemency and affection, is most due. Remember,   that I am thy creature: I ought to be thy Adam;  but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou   drivest from joy for no misdeed. Every where I see  bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded.   I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend.  Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.” “Begone! I will not hear you. There  can be no community between you and me;   we are enemies. Begone, or let us try our  strength in a fight, in which one must fall.” “How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause  thee to turn a favourable eye upon thy creature,   who implores thy goodness and compassion?  Believe me, Frankenstein: I was benevolent;   my soul glowed with love and humanity: but am  I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator,   abhor me; what hope can I gather from your  fellow-creatures, who owe me nothing? they   spurn and hate me. The desert mountains and dreary  glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here many   days; the caves of ice, which I only do not fear,  are a dwelling to me, and the only one which man   does not grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for  they are kinder to me than your fellow-beings.   If the multitude of mankind knew of my existence,  they would do as you do, and arm themselves for my   destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor  me? I will keep no terms with my enemies. I am   miserable, and they shall share my wretchedness.  Yet it is in your power to recompense me, and   deliver them from an evil which it only remains  for you to make so great, that not only you and   your family, but thousands of others, shall  be swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage.   Let your compassion be moved, and do not disdain  me. Listen to my tale: when you have heard that,   abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge that  I deserve. But hear me. The guilty are allowed,   by human laws, bloody as they may be, to speak  in their own defence before they are condemned.   Listen to me, Frankenstein. You accuse me of  murder; and yet you would, with a satisfied   conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh, praise  the eternal justice of man! Yet I ask you not   to spare me: listen to me; and then, if you can,  and if you will, destroy the work of your hands.” “Why do you call to my remembrance circumstances  of which I shudder to reflect, that I have been   the miserable origin and author? Cursed be the  day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw light!   Cursed (although I curse myself)  be the hands that formed you!   You have made me wretched beyond expression.  You have left me no power to consider whether   I am just to you, or not. Begone! relieve  me from the sight of your detested form.” “Thus I relieve thee, my creator,” he said,  and placed his hated hands before my eyes,   which I flung from me with violence; “thus  I take from thee a sight which you abhor.   Still thou canst listen to me, and grant me thy  compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed,   I demand this from you. Hear my tale; it  is long and strange, and the temperature   of this place is not fitting to your fine  sensations; come to the hut upon the mountain.   The sun is yet high in the heavens; before  it descends to hide itself behind yon snowy   precipices, and illuminate another world,  you will have heard my story, and can decide.   On you it rests, whether I quit for ever the  neighbourhood of man, and lead a harmless life,   or become the scourge of your fellow-creatures,  and the author of your own speedy ruin.” As he said this, he led the way across the ice: I  followed. My heart was full, and I did not answer   him; but, as I proceeded, I weighed the various  arguments that he had used, and determined at   least to listen to his tale. I was partly urged by  curiosity, and compassion confirmed my resolution.   I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of  my brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation or   denial of this opinion. For the first time, also,  I felt what the duties of a creator towards his   creature were, and that I ought to render him  happy before I complained of his wickedness.   These motives urged me to comply with his demand.   We crossed the ice, therefore,  and ascended the opposite rock.   The air was cold, and the rain again began to  descend: we entered the hut, the fiend with an   air of exultation, I with a heavy heart, and  depressed spirits. But I consented to listen;   and, seating myself by the fire which my odious  companion had lighted, he thus began his tale. CHAPTER III. “It is with considerable   difficulty that I remember the original æra of  my being: all the events of that period appear   confused and indistinct. A strange multiplicity  of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard,   and smelt, at the same time; and it was, indeed, a  long time before I learned to distinguish between   the operations of my various senses. By degrees, I  remember, a stronger light pressed upon my nerves,   so that I was obliged to shut my eyes. Darkness  then came over me, and troubled me; but hardly   had I felt this, when, by opening my eyes, as I  now suppose, the light poured in upon me again.   I walked, and, I believe, descended; but  I presently found a great alteration in my   sensations. Before, dark and opaque bodies had  surrounded me, impervious to my touch or sight;   but I now found that I could wander on at  liberty, with no obstacles which I could   not either surmount or avoid. The light  became more and more oppressive to me;   and, the heat wearying me as I walked, I  sought a place where I could receive shade.   This was the forest near Ingolstadt; and here  I lay by the side of a brook resting from my   fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and  thirst. This roused me from my nearly dormant   state, and I ate some berries which I found  hanging on the trees, or lying on the ground.   I slaked my thirst at the brook; and  then lying down, was overcome by sleep. “It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also,  and half-frightened as it were instinctively,   finding myself so desolate. Before I had quitted  your apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had   covered myself with some clothes; but these were  insufficient to secure me from the dews of night.   I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch;  I knew, and could distinguish, nothing;   but, feeling pain invade me on  all sides, I sat down and wept. “Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens,  and gave me a sensation of pleasure.   I started up, and beheld a radiant form rise  from among the trees. I gazed with a kind of   wonder. It moved slowly, but it enlightened my  path; and I again went out in search of berries.   I was still cold, when under one of the trees I  found a huge cloak, with which I covered myself,   and sat down upon the ground. No distinct  ideas occupied my mind; all was confused.   I felt light, and hunger,  and thirst, and darkness;   innumerable sounds rung in my ears, and on  all sides various scents saluted me: the only   object that I could distinguish was the bright  moon, and I fixed my eyes on that with pleasure. “Several changes of day and night passed, and  the orb of night had greatly lessened when I   began to distinguish my sensations from each  other. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream   that supplied me with drink, and the trees that  shaded me with their foliage. I was delighted   when I first discovered that a pleasant sound,  which often saluted my ears, proceeded from   the throats of the little winged animals who had  often intercepted the light from my eyes. I began   also to observe, with greater accuracy, the forms  that surrounded me, and to perceive the boundaries   of the radiant roof of light which canopied  me. Sometimes I tried to imitate the pleasant   songs of the birds, but was unable. Sometimes I  wished to express my sensations in my own mode,   but the uncouth and inarticulate sounds which  broke from me frightened me into silence again. “The moon had disappeared from the night, and  again, with a lessened form, shewed itself,   while I still remained in the forest. My  sensations had, by this time, become distinct,   and my mind received every day additional  ideas. My eyes became accustomed to the light,   and to perceive objects in their right forms;  I distinguished the insect from the herb, and,   by degrees, one herb from another. I found  that the sparrow uttered none but harsh notes,   whilst those of the blackbird and  thrush were sweet and enticing. “One day, when I was oppressed by cold,  I found a fire which had been left by   some wandering beggars, and was overcome with  delight at the warmth I experienced from it.   In my joy I thrust my hand into the live embers,  but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain.   How strange, I thought, that the same  cause should produce such opposite effects!   I examined the materials of the fire, and  to my joy found it to be composed of wood.   I quickly collected some branches;  but they were wet, and would not burn.   I was pained at this, and sat still  watching the operation of the fire.   The wet wood which I had placed near the heat  dried, and itself became inflamed. I reflected   on this; and, by touching the various branches,  I discovered the cause, and busied myself in   collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might  dry it, and have a plentiful supply of fire.   When night came on, and brought sleep with it,  I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should   be extinguished. I covered it carefully with dry  wood and leaves, and placed wet branches upon it;   and then, spreading my cloak, I lay  on the ground, and sunk into sleep. “It was morning when I awoke, and  my first care was to visit the fire.   I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly  fanned it into a flame. I observed this also,   and contrived a fan of branches, which roused  the embers when they were nearly extinguished.   When night came again, I found, with pleasure,  that the fire gave light as well as heat; and that   the discovery of this element was useful to me in  my food; for I found some of the offals that the   travellers had left had been roasted, and tasted  much more savoury than the berries I gathered from   the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress my food  in the same manner, placing it on the live embers.   I found that the berries were spoiled by this  operation, and the nuts and roots much improved. “Food, however, became scarce; and I often spent  the whole day searching in vain for a few acorns   to assuage the pangs of hunger. When I found this,  I resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto   inhabited, to seek for one where the few wants  I experienced would be more easily satisfied.   In this emigration, I exceedingly lamented the  loss of the fire which I had obtained through   accident, and knew not how to re-produce it. I  gave several hours to the serious consideration   of this difficulty; but I was obliged to  relinquish all attempt to supply it; and,   wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck  across the wood towards the setting sun.   I passed three days in these rambles, and at  length discovered the open country. A great fall   of snow had taken place the night before, and the  fields were of one uniform white; the appearance   was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by  the cold damp substance that covered the ground. “It was about seven in the morning, and I longed  to obtain food and shelter; at length I perceived   a small hut, on a rising ground, which had  doubtless been built for the convenience of   some shepherd. This was a new sight to me; and  I examined the structure with great curiosity.   Finding the door open, I entered. An old man sat  in it, near a fire, over which he was preparing   his breakfast. He turned on hearing a noise; and,  perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and, quitting the   hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which  his debilitated form hardly appeared capable. His   appearance, different from any I had ever before  seen, and his flight, somewhat surprised me. But   I was enchanted by the appearance of the hut: here  the snow and rain could not penetrate; the ground   was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite  and divine a retreat as Pandæmonium appeared to   the dæmons of hell after their sufferings in the  lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants   of the shepherd’s breakfast, which consisted  of bread, cheese, milk, and wine; the latter,   however, I did not like. Then overcome by fatigue,  I lay down among some straw, and fell asleep. “It was noon when I awoke; and,  allured by the warmth of the sun,   which shone brightly on the white ground,  I determined to recommence my travels;   and, depositing the remains of the  peasant’s breakfast in a wallet I found,   I proceeded across the fields for several  hours, until at sunset I arrived at a village.   How miraculous did this appear! the huts,  the neater cottages, and stately houses,   engaged my admiration by turns. The vegetables in  the gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw placed   at the windows of some of the cottages, allured  my appetite. One of the best of these I entered;   but I had hardly placed my foot within  the door, before the children shrieked,   and one of the women fainted. The whole village  was roused; some fled, some attacked me, until,   grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds  of missile weapons, I escaped to the open country,   and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel, quite  bare, and making a wretched appearance after the   palaces I had beheld in the village. This hovel,  however, joined a cottage of a neat and pleasant   appearance; but, after my late dearly-bought  experience, I dared not enter it. My place   of refuge was constructed of wood, but so low,  that I could with difficulty sit upright in it.   No wood, however, was placed on the earth, which  formed the floor, but it was dry; and although the   wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found  it an agreeable asylum from the snow and rain. “Here then I retreated, and lay down, happy  to have found a shelter, however miserable,   from the inclemency of the season, and  still more from the barbarity of man. “As soon as morning dawned, I crept from my  kennel, that I might view the adjacent cottage,   and discover if I could remain in the habitation I  had found. It was situated against the back of the   cottage, and surrounded on the sides which were  exposed by a pig-stye and a clear pool of water.   One part was open, and by that I had crept in;  but now I covered every crevice by which I might   be perceived with stones and wood, yet in such a  manner that I might move them on occasion to pass   out: all the light I enjoyed came through  the stye, and that was sufficient for me. “Having thus arranged my dwelling, and carpeted it  with clean straw, I retired; for I saw the figure   of a man at a distance, and I remembered too well  my treatment the night before, to trust myself in   his power. I had first, however, provided for  my sustenance for that day, by a loaf of coarse   bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I  could drink, more conveniently than from my hand,   of the pure water which flowed by my retreat.  The floor was a little raised, so that it was   kept perfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the  chimney of the cottage it was tolerably warm. “Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in  this hovel, until something should occur which   might alter my determination. It was indeed  a paradise, compared to the bleak forest,   my former residence, the rain-dropping branches,  and dank earth. I ate my breakfast with pleasure,   and was about to remove a plank to procure myself  a little water, when I heard a step, and, looking   through a small chink, I beheld a young creature,  with a pail on her head, passing before my hovel.   The girl was young and of gentle demeanour, unlike  what I have since found cottagers and farm-house   servants to be. Yet she was meanly dressed, a  coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being   her only garb; her fair hair was plaited, but not  adorned; she looked patient, yet sad. I lost sight   of her; and in about a quarter of an hour she  returned, bearing the pail, which was now partly   filled with milk. As she walked along, seemingly  incommoded by the burden, a young man met her,   whose countenance expressed a deeper despondence.  Uttering a few sounds with an air of melancholy,   he took the pail from her head, and bore it  to the cottage himself. She followed, and they   disappeared. Presently I saw the young man again,  with some tools in his hand, cross the field   behind the cottage; and the girl was also busied,  sometimes in the house, and sometimes in the yard. “On examining my dwelling, I found that one of  the windows of the cottage had formerly occupied   a part of it, but the panes had been filled  up with wood. In one of these was a small and   almost imperceptible chink, through which the  eye could just penetrate. Through this crevice,   a small room was visible, white-washed and  clean, but very bare of furniture. In one corner,   near a small fire, sat an old man, leaning his  head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude.   The young girl was occupied in arranging the  cottage; but presently she took something out of a   drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat down  beside the old man, who, taking up an instrument,   began to play, and to produce sounds, sweeter  than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale.   It was a lovely sight, even to me,  poor wretch! who had never beheld   aught beautiful before. The silver hair and  benevolent countenance of the aged cottager,   won my reverence; while the gentle  manners of the girl enticed my love.   He played a sweet mournful air, which I perceived  drew tears from the eyes of his amiable companion,   of which the old man took no notice, until she  sobbed audibly; he then pronounced a few sounds,   and the fair creature, leaving her work,  knelt at his feet. He raised her, and smiled   with such kindness and affection, that I felt  sensations of a peculiar and over-powering nature:   they were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such  as I had never before experienced, either from   hunger or cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew  from the window, unable to bear these emotions. “Soon after this the young man returned,  bearing on his shoulders a load of wood.   The girl met him at the door, helped  to relieve him of his burden, and,   taking some of the fuel into the cottage,  placed it on the fire; then she and the youth   went apart into a nook of the cottage, and he  shewed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese.   She seemed pleased; and went into the garden for  some roots and plants, which she placed in water,   and then upon the fire. She afterwards continued  her work, whilst the young man went into the   garden, and appeared busily employed in digging  and pulling up roots. After he had been employed   thus about an hour, the young woman joined  him, and they entered the cottage together. “The old man had, in the  mean time, been pensive; but,   on the appearance of his companions, he assumed  a more cheerful air, and they sat down to eat.   The meal was quickly dispatched. The young woman  was again occupied in arranging the cottage;   the old man walked before the cottage in the  sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of   the youth. Nothing could exceed in beauty the  contrast between these two excellent creatures.   One was old, with silver hairs and a countenance  beaming with benevolence and love: the younger   was slight and graceful in his figure, and his  features were moulded with the finest symmetry;   yet his eyes and attitude expressed  the utmost sadness and despondency.   The old man returned to the cottage;  and the youth, with tools different   from those he had used in the morning,  directed his steps across the fields. “Night quickly shut in; but, to my extreme  wonder, I found that the cottagers had a   means of prolonging light, by the use of tapers,  and was delighted to find, that the setting of   the sun did not put an end to the pleasure I  experienced in watching my human neighbours.   In the evening, the young girl and  her companion were employed in various   occupations which I did not understand; and  the old man again took up the instrument,   which produced the divine sounds  that had enchanted me in the morning.   So soon as he had finished, the youth began, not  to play, but to utter sounds that were monotonous,   and neither resembling the harmony of the old  man’s instrument or the songs of the birds;   I since found that he read aloud, but at that time  I knew nothing of the science of words or letters. “The family, after having been  thus occupied for a short time,   extinguished their lights, and  retired, as I conjectured, to rest.” CHAPTER IV. “I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep.   I thought of the occurrences of the day. What  chiefly struck me was the gentle manners of these   people; and I longed to join them, but dared not.  I remembered too well the treatment I had suffered   the night before from the barbarous villagers,  and resolved, whatever course of conduct I might   hereafter think it right to pursue, that for  the present I would remain quietly in my hovel,   watching, and endeavouring to discover the  motives which influenced their actions. “The cottagers arose the next morning before  the sun. The young woman arranged the cottage,   and prepared the food; and the  youth departed after the first meal. “This day was passed in the same routine  as that which preceded it. The young man   was constantly employed out of doors, and the  girl in various laborious occupations within.   The old man, whom I soon perceived to be blind,  employed his leisure hours on his instrument,   or in contemplation. Nothing could exceed the  love and respect which the younger cottagers   exhibited towards their venerable companion.  They performed towards him every little office   of affection and duty with gentleness; and  he rewarded them by his benevolent smiles. “They were not entirely happy. The young  man and his companion often went apart,   and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their  unhappiness; but I was deeply affected by it. If   such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less  strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being,   should be wretched. Yet why were these gentle  beings unhappy? They possessed a delightful house   (for such it was in my eyes), and every luxury;  they had a fire to warm them when chill, and   delicious viands when hungry; they were dressed in  excellent clothes; and, still more, they enjoyed   one another’s company and speech, interchanging  each day looks of affection and kindness. What did   their tears imply? Did they really express pain?  I was at first unable to solve these questions;   but perpetual attention, and time, explained to  me many appearances which were at first enigmatic. “A considerable period elapsed before I  discovered one of the causes of the uneasiness   of this amiable family; it was poverty: and they  suffered that evil in a very distressing degree.   Their nourishment consisted entirely  of the vegetables of their garden,   and the milk of one cow, who gave  very little during the winter,   when its masters could scarcely procure  food to support it. They often, I believe,   suffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly,  especially the two younger cottagers;   for several times they placed food before the  old man, when they reserved none for themselves. “This trait of kindness moved me  sensibly. I had been accustomed,   during the night, to steal a part of  their store for my own consumption;   but when I found that in doing this I  inflicted pain on the cottagers, I abstained,   and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and  roots, which I gathered from a neighbouring wood. “I discovered also another means through  which I was enabled to assist their labours.   I found that the youth spent a great part of  each day in collecting wood for the family fire;   and, during the night, I often took his  tools, the use of which I quickly discovered,   and brought home firing sufficient  for the consumption of several days. “I remember, the first time that I did this,  the young woman, when she opened the door in   the morning, appeared greatly astonished on  seeing a great pile of wood on the outside.   She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the  youth joined her, who also expressed surprise.   I observed, with pleasure, that he  did not go to the forest that day,   but spent it in repairing the  cottage, and cultivating the garden. “By degrees I made a discovery of still greater  moment. I found that these people possessed a   method of communicating their experience and  feelings to one another by articulate sounds.   I perceived that the words they spoke  sometimes produced pleasure or pain,   smiles or sadness, in the minds  and countenances of the hearers.   This was indeed a godlike science, and I ardently  desired to become acquainted with it. But I was   baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose.  Their pronunciation was quick; and the words they   uttered, not having any apparent connexion with  visible objects, I was unable to discover any   clue by which I could unravel the mystery of  their reference. By great application, however,   and after having remained during the space of  several revolutions of the moon in my hovel,   I discovered the names that were given to some  of the most familiar objects of discourse:   I learned and applied the words fire, milk,  bread, and wood. I learned also the names   of the cottagers themselves. The youth and his  companion had each of them several names, but the   old man had only one, which was father. The girl  was called sister, or Agatha; and the youth Felix,   brother, or son. I cannot describe the delight I  felt when I learned the ideas appropriated to each   of these sounds, and was able to pronounce  them. I distinguished several other words,   without being able as yet to understand or  apply them; such as good, dearest, unhappy. “I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle  manners and beauty of the cottagers greatly   endeared them to me: when they were unhappy, I  felt depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathized   in their joys. I saw few human beings beside them;  and if any other happened to enter the cottage,   their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced  to me the superior accomplishments of my friends.   The old man, I could perceive, often  endeavoured to encourage his children,   as sometimes I found that he called them,  to cast off their melancholy. He would talk   in a cheerful accent, with an expression of  goodness that bestowed pleasure even upon me.   Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes  filled with tears, which she endeavoured to wipe   away unperceived; but I generally found that  her countenance and tone were more cheerful   after having listened to the exhortations  of her father. It was not thus with Felix.   He was always the saddest of the groupe; and,  even to my unpractised senses, he appeared to   have suffered more deeply than his friends.  But if his countenance was more sorrowful,   his voice was more cheerful than that of his  sister, especially when he addressed the old man. “I could mention innumerable instances, which,  although slight, marked the dispositions of these   amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty  and want, Felix carried with pleasure to his   sister the first little white flower that  peeped out from beneath the snowy ground.   Early in the morning before she had risen, he  cleared away the snow that obstructed her path   to the milk-house, drew water from the well,  and brought the wood from the out-house, where,   to his perpetual astonishment, he found his  store always replenished by an invisible hand.   In the day, I believe, he worked sometimes for a  neighbouring farmer, because he often went forth,   and did not return until dinner, yet brought  no wood with him. At other times he worked in   the garden; but, as there was little to do in the  frosty season, he read to the old man and Agatha. “This reading had puzzled me extremely at first;  but, by degrees, I discovered that he uttered   many of the same sounds when he read as when he  talked. I conjectured, therefore, that he found   on the paper signs for speech which he understood,  and I ardently longed to comprehend these also;   but how was that possible, when I did not  even understand the sounds for which they   stood as signs? I improved, however, sensibly  in this science, but not sufficiently to follow   up any kind of conversation, although I  applied my whole mind to the endeavour:   for I easily perceived that, although I eagerly  longed to discover myself to the cottagers,   I ought not to make the attempt until I  had first become master of their language;   which knowledge might enable me to make  them overlook the deformity of my figure;   for with this also the contrast perpetually  presented to my eyes had made me acquainted. “I had admired the perfect forms of  my cottagers—their grace, beauty,   and delicate complexions: but how was I terrified,  when I viewed myself in a transparent pool!   At first I started back, unable to believe that  it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror;   and when I became fully convinced that  I was in reality the monster that I am,   I was filled with the bitterest sensations  of despondence and mortification.   Alas! I did not yet entirely know the  fatal effects of this miserable deformity. “As the sun became warmer, and the light of  day longer, the snow vanished, and I beheld the   bare trees and the black earth. From this time  Felix was more employed; and the heart-moving   indications of impending famine disappeared. Their  food, as I afterwards found, was coarse, but it   was wholesome; and they procured a sufficiency of  it. Several new kinds of plants sprung up in the   garden, which they dressed; and these signs of  comfort increased daily as the season advanced. “The old man, leaning on his son, walked  each day at noon, when it did not rain,   as I found it was called when the heavens poured  forth its waters. This frequently took place;   but a high wind quickly dried the earth, and the  season became far more pleasant than it had been. “My mode of life in my hovel was uniform.  During the morning I attended the motions   of the cottagers; and when they were  dispersed in various occupations, I slept:   the remainder of the day was spent in observing  my friends. When they had retired to rest,   if there was any moon, or the night was  star-light, I went into the woods, and   collected my own food and fuel for the cottage.  When I returned, as often as it was necessary,   I cleared their path from the snow, and performed  those offices that I had seen done by Felix.   I afterwards found that these labours, performed  by an invisible hand, greatly astonished them;   and once or twice I heard them, on these  occasions, utter the words good spirit, wonderful;   but I did not then understand  the signification of these terms. “My thoughts now became more active, and I longed  to discover the motives and feelings of these   lovely creatures; I was inquisitive to know why  Felix appeared so miserable, and Agatha so sad.   I thought (foolish wretch!) that  it might be in my power to restore   happiness to these deserving people. When  I slept, or was absent, the forms of the   venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha,  and the excellent Felix, flitted before me.   I looked upon them as superior beings, who  would be the arbiters of my future destiny.   I formed in my imagination a thousand  pictures of presenting myself to them,   and their reception of me. I imagined that they  would be disgusted, until, by my gentle demeanour   and conciliating words, I should first win  their favour, and afterwards their love. “These thoughts exhilarated me, and led me  to apply with fresh ardour to the acquiring   the art of language. My organs were indeed harsh,  but supple; and although my voice was very unlike   the soft music of their tones, yet I pronounced  such words as I understood with tolerable ease.   It was as the ass and the lap-dog; yet surely the  gentle ass, whose intentions were affectionate,   although his manners were rude, deserved  better treatment than blows and execration. “The pleasant showers and genial warmth of  spring greatly altered the aspect of the earth.   Men, who before this change seemed to have  been hid in caves, dispersed themselves,   and were employed in various arts of cultivation.  The birds sang in more cheerful notes,   and the leaves began to bud forth on the trees.  Happy, happy earth! fit habitation for gods,   which, so short a time before, was bleak, damp,  and unwholesome. My spirits were elevated by   the enchanting appearance of nature; the past was  blotted from my memory, the present was tranquil,   and the future gilded by bright rays  of hope, and anticipations of joy.” CHAPTER V.  “I now hasten to the more moving part  of my story. I shall relate events that   impressed me with feelings which, from  what I was, have made me what I am. “Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became  fine, and the skies cloudless. It surprised me,   that what before was desert and gloomy should now  bloom with the most beautiful flowers and verdure.   My senses were gratified and refreshed  by a thousand scents of delight,   and a thousand sights of beauty. “It was on one of these days,  when my cottagers periodically   rested from labour—the old man played on his  guitar, and the children listened to him—I   observed that the countenance of Felix  was melancholy beyond expression:   he sighed frequently; and once his father  paused in his music, and I conjectured   by his manner that he inquired the cause of his  son’s sorrow. Felix replied in a cheerful accent,   and the old man was recommencing his  music, when some one tapped at the door. “It was a lady on horseback,  accompanied by a countryman as a guide.   The lady was dressed in a dark suit,  and covered with a thick black veil.   Agatha asked a question; to which the stranger  only replied by pronouncing, in a sweet accent,   the name of Felix. Her voice was musical,  but unlike that of either of my friends.   On hearing this word, Felix came up hastily to the  lady; who, when she saw him, threw up her veil,   and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and  expression. Her hair of a shining raven black,   and curiously braided; her eyes were dark, but  gentle, although animated; her features of a   regular proportion, and her complexion wondrously  fair, each cheek tinged with a lovely pink. “Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw  her, every trait of sorrow vanished from his face,   and it instantly expressed a degree of ecstatic  joy, of which I could hardly have believed it   capable; his eyes sparkled, as his cheek flushed  with pleasure; and at that moment I thought him as   beautiful as the stranger. She appeared affected  by different feelings; wiping a few tears from her   lovely eyes, she held out her hand to Felix,  who kissed it rapturously, and called her,   as well as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian.  She did not appear to understand him, but smiled.   He assisted her to dismount, and, dismissing  her guide, conducted her into the cottage.   Some conversation took place between him and his  father; and the young stranger knelt at the old   man’s feet, and would have kissed his hand, but  he raised her, and embraced her affectionately. “I soon perceived, that although the stranger  uttered articulate sounds, and appeared to have a   language of her own, she was neither understood  by, or herself understood, the cottagers.   They made many signs which I did not comprehend;  but I saw that her presence diffused gladness   through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow  as the sun dissipates the morning mists.   Felix seemed peculiarly happy, and with  smiles of delight welcomed his Arabian.   Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the  hands of the lovely stranger; and, pointing to   her brother, made signs which appeared to me to  mean that he had been sorrowful until she came.   Some hours passed thus, while they,  by their countenances, expressed joy,   the cause of which I did not comprehend. Presently  I found, by the frequent recurrence of one sound   which the stranger repeated after them, that she  was endeavouring to learn their language; and   the idea instantly occurred to me, that I should  make use of the same instructions to the same end.   The stranger learned about twenty  words at the first lesson, most of   them indeed were those which I had before  understood, but I profited by the others. “As night came on, Agatha and  the Arabian retired early.   When they separated, Felix kissed the hand of the  stranger, and said, ‘Good night, sweet Safie.’   He sat up much longer, conversing with his father;  and, by the frequent repetition of her name,   I conjectured that their lovely guest was the  subject of their conversation. I ardently desired   to understand them, and bent every faculty towards  that purpose, but found it utterly impossible. “The next morning Felix went out to his work;  and, after the usual occupations of Agatha were   finished, the Arabian sat at the feet of the  old man, and, taking his guitar, played some   airs so entrancingly beautiful, that they at once  drew tears of sorrow and delight from my eyes.   She sang, and her voice flowed in a rich cadence,   swelling or dying away, like  a nightingale of the woods. “When she had finished, she gave the  guitar to Agatha, who at first declined it.   She played a simple air, and her  voice accompanied it in sweet accents,   but unlike the wondrous strain of the  stranger. The old man appeared enraptured,   and said some words, which Agatha endeavoured  to explain to Safie, and by which he appeared   to wish to express that she bestowed on  him the greatest delight by her music. “The days now passed as peaceably  as before, with the sole alteration,   that joy had taken place of sadness  in the countenances of my friends.   Safie was always gay and happy; she and I  improved rapidly in the knowledge of language,   so that in two months I began to comprehend  most of the words uttered by my protectors. “In the meanwhile also the black  ground was covered with herbage,   and the green banks interspersed with innumerable  flowers, sweet to the scent and the eyes, stars of   pale radiance among the moonlight woods; the sun  became warmer, the nights clear and balmy; and my   nocturnal rambles were an extreme pleasure to me,  although they were considerably shortened by the   late setting and early rising of the sun; for I  never ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of   meeting with the same treatment as I had formerly  endured in the first village which I entered. “My days were spent in close attention, that I  might more speedily master the language; and I   may boast that I improved more rapidly than the  Arabian, who understood very little, and conversed   in broken accents, whilst I comprehended and  could imitate almost every word that was spoken. “While I improved in speech, I also  learned the science of letters,   as it was taught to the stranger; and this opened  before me a wide field for wonder and delight. “The book from which Felix instructed  Safie was Volney’s Ruins of Empires.   I should not have understood the purport  of this book, had not Felix, in reading it,   given very minute explanations. He had chosen  this work, he said, because the declamatory   style was framed in imitation of the eastern  authors. Through this work I obtained a cursory   knowledge of history, and a view of the several  empires at present existing in the world; it gave   me an insight into the manners, governments, and  religions of the different nations of the earth.   I heard of the slothful Asiatics; of the  stupendous genius and mental activity of the   Grecians; of the wars and wonderful virtue of the  early Romans—of their subsequent degeneration—of   the decline of that mighty empire; of chivalry,  Christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery   of the American hemisphere, and wept with Safie  over the hapless fate of its original inhabitants. “These wonderful narrations  inspired me with strange feelings.   Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous,  and magnificent, yet so vicious and base?   He appeared at one time a mere scion of the  evil principle, and at another as all that can   be conceived of noble and godlike. To be a great  and virtuous man appeared the highest honour that   can befall a sensitive being; to be base and  vicious, as many on record have been, appeared   the lowest degradation, a condition more abject  than that of the blind mole or harmless worm.   For a long time I could not conceive how  one man could go forth to murder his fellow,   or even why there were laws and governments;  but when I heard details of vice and bloodshed,   my wonder ceased, and I turned  away with disgust and loathing. “Every conversation of the cottagers  now opened new wonders to me. While I   listened to the instructions which  Felix bestowed upon the Arabian,   the strange system of human society was explained  to me. I heard of the division of property,   of immense wealth and squalid poverty;  of rank, descent, and noble blood. “The words induced me to turn towards myself. I  learned that the possessions most esteemed by your   fellow-creatures were, high and unsullied descent  united with riches. A man might be respected with   only one of these acquisitions; but without either  he was considered, except in very rare instances,   as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his  powers for the profit of the chosen few. And what   was I? Of my creation and creator I was absolutely  ignorant; but I knew that I possessed no money,   no friends, no kind of property. I was,  besides, endowed with a figure hideously   deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the  same nature as man. I was more agile than they,   and could subsist upon coarser diet; I bore the  extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my   frame; my stature far exceeded their’s. When I  looked around, I saw and heard of none like me.   Was I then a monster, a blot upon the earth, from  which all men fled, and whom all men disowned? “I cannot describe to you the agony that  these reflections inflicted upon me;   I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased  with knowledge. Oh, that I had for ever remained   in my native wood, nor known or felt beyond  the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat! “Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings  to the mind, when it has once seized on it,   like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes  to shake off all thought and feeling;   but I learned that there was but one  means to overcome the sensation of pain,   and that was death—a state which  I feared yet did not understand.   I admired virtue and good feelings, and loved  the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my   cottagers; but I was shut out from intercourse  with them, except through means which I obtained   by stealth, when I was unseen and unknown,  and which rather increased than satisfied   the desire I had of becoming one among my  fellows. The gentle words of Agatha, and   the animated smiles of the charming Arabian, were  not for me. The mild exhortations of the old man,   and the lively conversation of the loved Felix,  were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch! “Other lessons were impressed upon me even more  deeply. I heard of the difference of sexes;   of the birth and growth of children; how the  father doated on the smiles of the infant,   and the lively sallies of the older child;  how all the life and cares of the mother were   wrapt up in the precious charge; how the mind of  youth expanded and gained knowledge; of brother,   sister, and all the various relationships which  bind one human being to another in mutual bonds. “But where were my friends and relations?  No father had watched my infant days,   no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses;  or if they had, all my past life was now a blot,   a blind vacancy in which I distinguished nothing.  From my earliest remembrance I had been as I then   was in height and proportion. I had never yet  seen a being resembling me, or who claimed any   intercourse with me. What was I? The question  again recurred, to be answered only with groans. “I will soon explain to what these feelings  tended; but allow me now to return to the   cottagers, whose story excited in me  such various feelings of indignation,   delight, and wonder, but which all terminated in  additional love and reverence for my protectors   (for so I loved, in an innocent, half  painful self-deceit, to call them).” CHAPTER VI.  “Some time elapsed before I  learned the history of my friends.   It was one which could not fail to impress itself  deeply on my mind, unfolding as it did a number of   circumstances each interesting and wonderful  to one so utterly inexperienced as I was. “The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was  descended from a good family in France, where he   had lived for many years in affluence, respected  by his superiors, and beloved by his equals.   His son was bred in the service of his country;  and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the highest   distinction. A few months before my arrival,  they had lived in a large and luxurious city,   called Paris, surrounded by friends, and  possessed of every enjoyment which virtue,   refinement of intellect, or taste, accompanied  by a moderate fortune, could afford. “The father of Safie had been the cause  of their ruin. He was a Turkish merchant,   and had inhabited Paris for many years, when,  for some reason which I could not learn,   he became obnoxious to the government. He was  seized and cast into prison the very day that   Safie arrived from Constantinople to join him. He  was tried, and condemned to death. The injustice   of his sentence was very flagrant; all Paris was  indignant; and it was judged that his religion and   wealth, rather than the crime alleged against  him, had been the cause of his condemnation. “Felix had been present at the trial; his  horror and indignation were uncontrollable,   when he heard the decision of the court. He made,  at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver him,   and then looked around for the means. After  many fruitless attempts to gain admittance   to the prison, he found a strongly grated  window in an unguarded part of the building,   which lighted the dungeon of the unfortunate  Mahometan; who, loaded with chains, waited   in despair the execution of the barbarous  sentence. Felix visited the grate at night,   and made known to the prisoner his intentions  in his favour. The Turk, amazed and delighted,   endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his deliverer  by promises of reward and wealth. Felix rejected   his offers with contempt; yet when he saw the  lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit her father,   and who, by her gestures, expressed her lively  gratitude, the youth could not help owning to his   own mind, that the captive possessed a treasure  which would fully reward his toil and hazard. “The Turk quickly perceived the impression that  his daughter had made on the heart of Felix,   and endeavoured to secure him more entirely  in his interests by the promise of her hand   in marriage, so soon as he should  be conveyed to a place of safety.   Felix was too delicate to accept this offer;   yet he looked forward to the probability of that  event as to the consummation of his happiness. “During the ensuing days, while the preparations  were going forward for the escape of the merchant,   the zeal of Felix was warmed by several  letters that he received from this lovely girl,   who found means to express her thoughts in the  language of her lover by the aid of an old man,   a servant of her father’s, who understood French.  She thanked him in the most ardent terms for his   intended services towards her father; and at  the same time she gently deplored her own fate. “I have copies of these letters; for I found  means, during my residence in the hovel, to   procure the implements of writing; and the letters  were often in the hands of Felix or Agatha.   Before I depart, I will give them to you, they  will prove the truth of my tale; but at present,   as the sun is already far declined, I shall only  have time to repeat the substance of them to you. “Safie related, that her mother was a Christian  Arab, seized and made a slave by the Turks;   recommended by her beauty, she had won the  heart of the father of Safie, who married her.   The young girl spoke in high and  enthusiastic terms of her mother,   who, born in freedom spurned the bondage to which  she was now reduced. She instructed her daughter   in the tenets of her religion, and taught  her to aspire to higher powers of intellect,   and an independence of spirit, forbidden to the  female followers of Mahomet. This lady died;   but her lessons were indelibly impressed on the  mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of   again returning to Asia, and the being immured  within the walls of a harem, allowed only to   occupy herself with puerile amusements, ill suited  to the temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand   ideas and a noble emulation for virtue.  The prospect of marrying a Christian, and   remaining in a country where women were allowed  to take a rank in society, was enchanting to her. “The day for the execution of the Turk was  fixed; but, on the night previous to it,   he had quitted prison, and before morning  was distant many leagues from Paris.   Felix had procured passports in the name of his  father, sister, and himself. He had previously   communicated his plan to the former, who aided  the deceit by quitting his house, under the   pretence of a journey, and concealed himself,  with his daughter, in an obscure part of Paris. “Felix conducted the fugitives through France  to Lyons, and across Mont Cenis to Leghorn,   where the merchant had decided to  wait a favourable opportunity of   passing into some part of the Turkish dominions. “Safie resolved to remain with her  father until the moment of his departure,   before which time the Turk renewed his promise  that she should be united to his deliverer;   and Felix remained with them in expectation of  that event; and in the mean time he enjoyed the   society of the Arabian, who exhibited towards  him the simplest and tenderest affection.   They conversed with one another through the  means of an interpreter, and sometimes with   the interpretation of looks; and Safie sang  to him the divine airs of her native country. “The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place,  and encouraged the hopes of the youthful lovers,   while in his heart he had formed far other plans.   He loathed the idea that his daughter  should be united to a Christian;   but he feared the resentment of Felix if he should  appear lukewarm; for he knew that he was still in   the power of his deliverer, if he should choose  to betray him to the Italian state which they   inhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which  he should be enabled to prolong the deceit until   it might be no longer necessary, and secretly  to take his daughter with him when he departed.   His plans were greatly facilitated  by the news which arrived from Paris. “The government of France were greatly enraged  at the escape of their victim, and spared no   pains to detect and punish his deliverer.  The plot of Felix was quickly discovered,   and De Lacey and Agatha were thrown into prison.  The news reached Felix, and roused him from his   dream of pleasure. His blind and aged father,  and his gentle sister, lay in a noisome dungeon,   while he enjoyed the free air, and the society of  her whom he loved. This idea was torture to him.   He quickly arranged with the Turk, that if the  latter should find a favourable opportunity   for escape before Felix could return to Italy,  Safie should remain as a boarder at a convent   at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely  Arabian, he hastened to Paris, and delivered   himself up to the vengeance of the law, hoping  to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding. “He did not succeed. They remained confined  for five months before the trial took place;   the result of which deprived  them of their fortune,   and condemned them to a perpetual  exile from their native country. “They found a miserable asylum in the  cottage in Germany, where I discovered them.   Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for  whom he and his family endured such unheard-of   oppression, on discovering that his deliverer  was thus reduced to poverty and impotence,   became a traitor to good feeling and honour, and  had quitted Italy with his daughter, insultingly   sending Felix a pittance of money to aid him,  as he said, in some plan of future maintenance. “Such were the events that preyed on  the heart of Felix, and rendered him,   when I first saw him, the most miserable of  his family. He could have endured poverty,   and when this distress had been the meed  of his virtue, he would have gloried in it:   but the ingratitude of the Turk, and the loss  of his beloved Safie, were misfortunes more   bitter and irreparable. The arrival of the  Arabian now infused new life into his soul. “When the news reached Leghorn, that  Felix was deprived of his wealth and rank,   the merchant commanded his daughter to think no  more of her lover, but to prepare to return with   him to her native country. The generous nature of  Safie was outraged by this command; she attempted   to expostulate with her father, but he left her  angrily, reiterating his tyrannical mandate. “A few days after, the Turk entered his  daughter’s apartment, and told her hastily,   that he had reason to believe that his  residence at Leghorn had been divulged,   and that he should speedily be delivered up to  the French government; he had, consequently,   hired a vessel to convey him to Constantinople,  for which city he should sail in a few hours.   He intended to leave his daughter under the  care of a confidential servant, to follow   at her leisure with the greater part of his  property, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn. “When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind  the plan of conduct that it would become her   to pursue in this emergency. A residence in  Turkey was abhorrent to her; her religion   and feelings were alike adverse to it. By some  papers of her father’s, which fell into her hands,   she heard of the exile of her lover, and learnt  the name of the spot where he then resided.   She hesitated some time, but at length she  formed her determination. Taking with her   some jewels that belonged to her, and a small sum  of money, she quitted Italy, with an attendant,   a native of Leghorn, but who understood the common  language of Turkey, and departed for Germany. “She arrived in safety at a town about  twenty leagues from the cottage of De Lacey,   when her attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie  nursed her with the most devoted affection;   but the poor girl died, and  the Arabian was left alone,   unacquainted with the language of the country,  and utterly ignorant of the customs of the world.   She fell, however, into good hands. The  Italian had mentioned the name of the   spot for which they were bound; and, after her  death, the woman of the house in which they had   lived took care that Safie should arrive  in safety at the cottage of her lover.” CHAPTER VII. “Such was the history   of my beloved cottagers. It impressed  me deeply. I learned, from the views of   social life which it developed, to admire their  virtues, and to deprecate the vices of mankind. “As yet I looked upon crime as a distant  evil; benevolence and generosity were ever   present before me, inciting within  me a desire to become an actor in   the busy scene where so many admirable  qualities were called forth and displayed.   But, in giving an account of the progress of  my intellect, I must not omit a circumstance   which occurred in the beginning of  the month of August of the same year. “One night, during my accustomed  visit to the neighbouring wood,   where I collected my own food, and brought  home firing for my protectors, I found on the   ground a leathern portmanteau, containing  several articles of dress and some books.   I eagerly seized the prize, and  returned with it to my hovel.   Fortunately the books were written in the language  the elements of which I had acquired at the   cottage; they consisted of Paradise Lost, a volume  of Plutarch’s Lives, and the Sorrows of Werter.   The possession of these treasures gave me extreme  delight; I now continually studied and exercised   my mind upon these histories, whilst my friends  were employed in their ordinary occupations. “I can hardly describe to you the effect of  these books. They produced in me an infinity   of new images and feelings, that sometimes  raised me to ecstacy, but more frequently   sunk me into the lowest dejection. In the Sorrows  of Werter, besides the interest of its simple and   affecting story, so many opinions are canvassed,  and so many lights thrown upon what had hitherto   been to me obscure subjects, that I found in  it a never-ending source of speculation and   astonishment. The gentle and domestic manners  it described, combined with lofty sentiments   and feelings, which had for their object  something out of self, accorded well with   my experience among my protectors, and with the  wants which were for ever alive in my own bosom.   But I thought Werter himself a more divine  being than I had ever beheld or imagined;   his character contained no  pretension, but it sunk deep.   The disquisitions upon death and suicide  were calculated to fill me with wonder.   I did not pretend to enter into the merits  of the case, yet I inclined towards the   opinions of the hero, whose extinction I  wept, without precisely understanding it. “As I read, however, I applied much  personally to my own feelings and condition.   I found myself similar, yet at the same time  strangely unlike the beings concerning whom I   read, and to whose conversation I was a listener.  I sympathized with, and partly understood them,   but I was unformed in mind; I was dependent  on none, and related to none. ‘The path of   my departure was free;’ and there was none to  lament my annihilation. My person was hideous,   and my stature gigantic: what did this mean? Who  was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was   my destination? These questions continually  recurred, but I was unable to solve them. “The volume of Plutarch’s Lives which I  possessed, contained the histories of the   first founders of the ancient republics. This  book had a far different effect upon me from   the Sorrows of Werter. I learned from Werter’s  imaginations despondency and gloom: but Plutarch   taught me high thoughts; he elevated me above the  wretched sphere of my own reflections, to admire   and love the heroes of past ages. Many things I  read surpassed my understanding and experience.   I had a very confused knowledge of kingdoms, wide  extents of country, mighty rivers, and boundless   seas. But I was perfectly unacquainted  with towns, and large assemblages of men.   The cottage of my protectors had been the only  school in which I had studied human nature;   but this book developed new and mightier scenes of  action. I read of men concerned in public affairs   governing or massacring their species. I felt  the greatest ardour for virtue rise within me,   and abhorrence for vice, as far as I understood  the signification of those terms, relative as   they were, as I applied them, to pleasure and  pain alone. Induced by these feelings, I was of   course led to admire peaceable law-givers, Numa,  Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus and   Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my protectors  caused these impressions to take a firm hold   on my mind; perhaps, if my first introduction  to humanity had been made by a young soldier,   burning for glory and slaughter, I should  have been imbued with different sensations. “But Paradise Lost excited different and far  deeper emotions. I read it, as I had read the   other volumes which had fallen into my hands, as a  true history. It moved every feeling of wonder and   awe, that the picture of an omnipotent God warring  with his creatures was capable of exciting.   I often referred the several situations,  as their similarity struck me, to my own.   Like Adam, I was created apparently united  by no link to any other being in existence;   but his state was far different  from mine in every other respect.   He had come forth from the hands of God  a perfect creature, happy and prosperous,   guarded by the especial care of his  Creator; he was allowed to converse with,   and acquire knowledge from beings of a superior  nature: but I was wretched, helpless, and alone.   Many times I considered Satan as the fitter  emblem of my condition; for often, like him,   when I viewed the bliss of my protectors,  the bitter gall of envy rose within me. “Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed  these feelings. Soon after my arrival in the   hovel, I discovered some papers in the pocket of  the dress which I had taken from your laboratory.   At first I had neglected them; but  now that I was able to decypher the   characters in which they were written,  I began to study them with diligence.   It was your journal of the four months that  preceded my creation. You minutely described   in these papers every step you took in the  progress of your work; this history was mingled   with accounts of domestic occurrences. You,  doubtless, recollect these papers. Here they are.   Every thing is related in them which bears  reference to my accursed origin; the whole   detail of that series of disgusting circumstances  which produced it is set in view; the minutest   description of my odious and loathsome person is  given, in language which painted your own horrors,   and rendered mine ineffaceable. I sickened as  I read. ‘Hateful day when I received life!’ I   exclaimed in agony. ‘Cursed creator! Why did  you form a monster so hideous that even you   turned from me in disgust? God in pity made man  beautiful and alluring, after his own image;   but my form is a filthy type of your’s, more  horrid from its very resemblance. Satan had   his companions, fellow-devils, to admire and  encourage him; but I am solitary and detested.’ “These were the reflections of my hours  of despondency and solitude; but when I   contemplated the virtues of the cottagers,  their amiable and benevolent dispositions,   I persuaded myself that when they should become  acquainted with my admiration of their virtues,   they would compassionate me, and overlook  my personal deformity. Could they turn   from their door one, however monstrous, who  solicited their compassion and friendship?   I resolved, at least, not to despair,  but in every way to fit myself for an   interview with them which would decide my fate.  I postponed this attempt for some months longer;   for the importance attached to its success  inspired me with a dread lest I should fail.   Besides, I found that my understanding improved  so much with every day’s experience, that I was   unwilling to commence this undertaking until a  few more months should have added to my wisdom. “Several changes, in the mean time, took place  in the cottage. The presence of Safie diffused   happiness among its inhabitants; and I also found  that a greater degree of plenty reigned there.   Felix and Agatha spent more time in amusement  and conversation, and were assisted in their   labours by servants. They did not appear  rich, but they were contented and happy;   their feelings were serene and peaceful,  while mine became every day more tumultuous.   Increase of knowledge only discovered to me  more clearly what a wretched outcast I was.   I cherished hope, it is true; but it vanished,  when I beheld my person reflected in water,   or my shadow in the moon-shine, even as  that frail image and that inconstant shade. “I endeavoured to crush these fears, and to  fortify myself for the trial which in a few months   I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed  my thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble   in the fields of Paradise, and dared to fancy  amiable and lovely creatures sympathizing with   my feelings and cheering my gloom; their angelic  countenances breathed smiles of consolation.   But it was all a dream: no Eve soothed my  sorrows, or shared my thoughts; I was alone.   I remembered Adam’s supplication  to his Creator; but where was mine?   he had abandoned me, and, in the  bitterness of my heart, I cursed him. “Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and  grief, the leaves decay and fall, and nature again   assume the barren and bleak appearance it had worn  when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon.   Yet I did not heed the bleakness of the weather;  I was better fitted by my conformation for the   endurance of cold than heat. But my chief delights  were the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all   the gay apparel of summer; when those deserted  me, I turned with more attention towards the   cottagers. Their happiness was not decreased by  the absence of summer. They loved, and sympathized   with one another; and their joys, depending  on each other, were not interrupted by the   casualties that took place around them. The more I  saw of them, the greater became my desire to claim   their protection and kindness; my heart yearned  to be known and loved by these amiable creatures:   to see their sweet looks turned towards me with  affection, was the utmost limit of my ambition.   I dared not think that they would turn them from  me with disdain and horror. The poor that stopped   at their door were never driven away. I asked, it  is true, for greater treasures than a little food   or rest; I required kindness and sympathy; but  I did not believe myself utterly unworthy of it. “The winter advanced, and an entire revolution  of the seasons had taken place since I awoke   into life. My attention, at this time, was solely  directed towards my plan of introducing myself   into the cottage of my protectors. I revolved many  projects; but that on which I finally fixed was,   to enter the dwelling when the blind old  man should be alone. I had sagacity enough   to discover, that the unnatural hideousness of  my person was the chief object of horror with   those who had formerly beheld me. My voice,  although harsh, had nothing terrible in it;   I thought, therefore, that if, in the absence  of his children, I could gain the good-will and   mediation of the old De Lacy, I might, by his  means, be tolerated by my younger protectors. “One day, when the sun shone on the  red leaves that strewed the ground,   and diffused cheerfulness, although it  denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix,   departed on a long country walk, and the old man,  at his own desire, was left alone in the cottage.   When his children had departed, he took up  his guitar, and played several mournful,   but sweet airs, more sweet and mournful  than I had ever heard him play before.   At first his countenance was illuminated with  pleasure, but, as he continued, thoughtfulness   and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside  the instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection. “My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment  of trial, which would decide my hopes, or realize   my fears. The servants were gone to a neighbouring  fair. All was silent in and around the cottage:   it was an excellent opportunity; yet, when I  proceeded to execute my plan, my limbs failed me,   and I sunk to the ground. Again I rose; and,  exerting all the firmness of which I was master,   removed the planks which I had placed before  my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air   revived me, and, with renewed determination,  I approached the door of their cottage. “I knocked. ‘Who is there?’  said the old man—‘Come in.’ “I entered; ‘Pardon this intrusion,’ said I,  ‘I am a traveller in want of a little rest;   you would greatly oblige me, if you would allow  me to remain a few minutes before the fire.’ “‘Enter,’ said De Lacy; ‘and I will try in  what manner I can relieve your wants; but,   unfortunately, my children are from home, and,   as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find  it difficult to procure food for you.’ “‘Do not trouble yourself, my kind host, I have  food; it is warmth and rest only that I need.’ “I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew  that every minute was precious to me, yet I   remained irresolute in what manner to commence  the interview; when the old man addressed me— “‘By your language, stranger, I suppose  you are my countryman;—are you French?’ “‘No; but I was educated by a French  family, and understand that language only.   I am now going to claim the  protection of some friends,   whom I sincerely love, and of  whose favour I have some hopes.’ “‘Are these Germans?’ “‘No, they are French. But let us change  the subject. I am an unfortunate and   deserted creature; I look around, and I  have no relation or friend upon earth.   These amiable people to whom I go have  never seen me, and know little of me.   I am full of fears; for if I fail there,  I am an outcast in the world for ever.’ “‘Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed  to be unfortunate; but the hearts of men,   when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest,  are full of brotherly love and charity.   Rely, therefore, on your hopes; and if these  friends are good and amiable, do not despair.’ “‘They are kind—they are the most excellent  creatures in the world; but, unfortunately,   they are prejudiced against me. I have good  dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless,   and, in some degree, beneficial; but  a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes,   and where they ought to see a feeling and kind  friend, they behold only a detestable monster.’ “‘That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are  really blameless, cannot you undeceive them?’ “‘I am about to undertake that task; and  it is on that account that I feel so many   overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love  these friends; I have, unknown to them,   been for many months in the habits  of daily kindness towards them;   but they believe that I wish to injure them, and  it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome.’ “‘Where do these friends reside?’ “‘Near this spot.’ “The old man paused, and then continued,  ‘If you will unreservedly confide to me the   particulars of your tale, I perhaps  may be of use in undeceiving them.   I am blind, and cannot judge of your countenance,   but there is something in your words which  persuades me that you are sincere. I am poor,   and an exile; but it will afford me true pleasure  to be in any way serviceable to a human creature.’ “‘Excellent man! I thank you,  and accept your generous offer.   You raise me from the dust by this  kindness; and I trust that, by your aid,   I shall not be driven from the society  and sympathy of your fellow-creatures.’ “‘Heaven forbid! even if you were really criminal;  for that can only drive you to desperation,   and not instigate you to virtue. I also am  unfortunate; I and my family have been condemned,   although innocent: judge, therefore,  if I do not feel for your misfortunes.’ “‘How can I thank you, my best and only  benefactor? from your lips first have I   heard the voice of kindness directed towards me;  I shall be for ever grateful; and your present   humanity assures me of success with those  friends whom I am on the point of meeting.’ “‘May I know the names and  residence of those friends?’ “I paused. This, I thought, was the moment  of decision, which was to rob me of,   or bestow happiness on me for ever. I struggled  vainly for firmness sufficient to answer him,   but the effort destroyed all my remaining  strength; I sank on the chair, and sobbed aloud.   At that moment I heard the steps of my younger  protectors. I had not a moment to lose; but,   seizing the hand of the old man, I cried,  ‘Now is the time!—save and protect me! You   and your family are the friends whom I seek.  Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!’ “‘Great God!’ exclaimed  the old man, ‘who are you?’ “At that instant the cottage door was opened, and  Felix, Safie, and Agatha entered. Who can describe   their horror and consternation on beholding me?  Agatha fainted; and Safie, unable to attend to her   friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted  forward, and with supernatural force tore me from   his father, to whose knees I clung: in a transport  of fury, he dashed me to the ground, and struck   me violently with a stick. I could have torn him  limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope.   But my heart sunk within me as with  bitter sickness, and I refrained.   I saw him on the point of repeating his  blow, when, overcome by pain and anguish,   I quitted the cottage, and in the general  tumult escaped unperceived to my hovel.” CHAPTER VIII. “Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why,   in that instant, did I not extinguish the spark  of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed?   I know not; despair had not yet taken possession  of me; my feelings were those of rage and revenge.   I could with pleasure have destroyed  the cottage and its inhabitants,   and have glutted myself with  their shrieks and misery. “When night came, I quitted my retreat,  and wandered in the wood; and now,   no longer restrained by the fear of discovery,  I gave vent to my anguish in fearful howlings.   I was like a wild beast that had broken  the toils; destroying the objects that   obstructed me, and ranging through  the wood with a stag-like swiftness.   Oh! what a miserable night I passed! the cold  stars shone in mockery, and the bare trees   waved their branches above me: now and then  the sweet voice of a bird burst forth amidst   the universal stillness. All, save I, were at  rest or in enjoyment: I, like the arch fiend,   bore a hell within me; and, finding myself  unsympathized with, wished to tear up the trees,   spread havoc and destruction around me, and  then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin. “But this was a luxury of sensation that could not  endure; I became fatigued with excess of bodily   exertion, and sank on the damp grass in the sick  impotence of despair. There was none among the   myriads of men that existed who would pity or  assist me; and should I feel kindness towards   my enemies? No: from that moment I declared  everlasting war against the species, and,   more than all, against him who had formed me,  and sent me forth to this insupportable misery. “The sun rose; I heard the voices of men, and  knew that it was impossible to return to my   retreat during that day. Accordingly  I hid myself in some thick underwood,   determining to devote the ensuing  hours to reflection on my situation. “The pleasant sunshine, and the pure air of  day, restored me to some degree of tranquillity;   and when I considered what  had passed at the cottage,   I could not help believing that I  had been too hasty in my conclusions.   I had certainly acted imprudently. It was apparent  that my conversation had interested the father in   my behalf, and I was a fool in having exposed  my person to the horror of his children.   I ought to have familiarized the old De Lacy  to me, and by degrees have discovered myself   to the rest of his family, when they should  have been prepared for my approach. But I did   not believe my errors to be irretrievable;  and, after much consideration, I resolved to   return to the cottage, seek the old man, and  by my representations win him to my party. “These thoughts calmed me, and in the  afternoon I sank into a profound sleep;   but the fever of my blood did not allow  me to be visited by peaceful dreams.   The horrible scene of the preceding day was  for ever acting before my eyes; the females   were flying, and the enraged Felix tearing me  from his father’s feet. I awoke exhausted; and,   finding that it was already night, I crept forth  from my hiding-place, and went in search of food. “When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps  towards the well-known path that conducted to the   cottage. All there was at peace. I crept into my  hovel, and remained in silent expectation of the   accustomed hour when the family arose. That hour  past, the sun mounted high in the heavens, but the   cottagers did not appear. I trembled violently,  apprehending some dreadful misfortune. The inside   of the cottage was dark, and I heard no motion;  I cannot describe the agony of this suspence. “Presently two countrymen passed by; but, pausing  near the cottage, they entered into conversation,   using violent gesticulations; but I  did not understand what they said,   as they spoke the language of the country,  which differed from that of my protectors.   Soon after, however, Felix  approached with another man:   I was surprised, as I knew that he had not  quitted the cottage that morning, and waited   anxiously to discover, from his discourse,  the meaning of these unusual appearances. “‘Do you consider,’ said his companion to him,  ‘that you will be obliged to pay three months’   rent, and to lose the produce of your garden?  I do not wish to take any unfair advantage,   and I beg therefore that you will take some  days to consider of your determination.’ “‘It is utterly useless,’ replied Felix, ‘we  can never again inhabit your cottage. The life   of my father is in the greatest danger, owing to  the dreadful circumstance that I have related.   My wife and my sister will never recover  their horror. I entreat you not to reason   with me any more. Take possession of your  tenement, and let me fly from this place.’ “Felix trembled violently as he said this. He and  his companion entered the cottage, in which they   remained for a few minutes, and then departed.  I never saw any of the family of De Lacy more. “I continued for the remainder of the day in my  hovel in a state of utter and stupid despair.   My protectors had departed, and had broken the  only link that held me to the world. For the first   time the feelings of revenge and hatred filled  my bosom, and I did not strive to controul them;   but, allowing myself to be borne away by the  stream, I bent my mind towards injury and death.   When I thought of my friends, of the mild voice  of De Lacy, the gentle eyes of Agatha, and the   exquisite beauty of the Arabian, these thoughts  vanished, and a gush of tears somewhat soothed me.   But again, when I reflected that they had spurned  and deserted me, anger returned, a rage of anger;   and, unable to injure any thing human, I  turned my fury towards inanimate objects.   As night advanced, I placed a variety  of combustibles around the cottage;   and, after having destroyed every  vestige of cultivation in the garden,   I waited with forced impatience until the  moon had sunk to commence my operations. “As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from  the woods, and quickly dispersed the clouds that   had loitered in the heavens: the blast tore  along like a mighty avalanche, and produced a   kind of insanity in my spirits, that burst all  bounds of reason and reflection. I lighted the   dry branch of a tree, and danced with fury around  the devoted cottage, my eyes still fixed on the   western horizon, the edge of which the moon nearly  touched. A part of its orb was at length hid,   and I waved my brand; it sunk, and, with a loud  scream, I fired the straw, and heath, and bushes,   which I had collected. The wind fanned the  fire, and the cottage was quickly enveloped   by the flames, which clung to it, and licked  it with their forked and destroying tongues. “As soon as I was convinced that no  assistance could save any part of   the habitation, I quitted the scene,  and sought for refuge in the woods. “And now, with the world before me, whither should  I bend my steps? I resolved to fly far from the   scene of my misfortunes; but to me, hated and  despised, every country must be equally horrible.   At length the thought of you crossed my mind. I  learned from your papers that you were my father,   my creator; and to whom could I apply with  more fitness than to him who had given me life?   Among the lessons that Felix had bestowed  upon Safie geography had not been omitted:   I had learned from these the relative situations  of the different countries of the earth. You had   mentioned Geneva as the name of your native town;  and towards this place I resolved to proceed. “But how was I to direct myself? I knew that  I must travel in a south-westerly direction   to reach my destination; but the sun was my only  guide. I did not know the names of the towns that   I was to pass through, nor could I ask information  from a single human being; but I did not despair.   From you only could I hope for succour,  although towards you I felt no sentiment   but that of hatred. Unfeeling, heartless creator!  you had endowed me with perceptions and passions,   and then cast me abroad an object  for the scorn and horror of mankind.   But on you only had I any claim for pity and  redress, and from you I determined to seek   that justice which I vainly attempted to gain  from any other being that wore the human form. “My travels were long, and the  sufferings I endured intense.   It was late in autumn when I quitted the  district where I had so long resided.   I travelled only at night, fearful of  encountering the visage of a human being.   Nature decayed around me, and the sun became  heatless; rain and snow poured around me; mighty   rivers were frozen; the surface of the earth was  hard, and chill, and bare, and I found no shelter.   Oh, earth! how often did I imprecate curses  on the cause of my being! The mildness of my   nature had fled, and all within me was turned to  gall and bitterness. The nearer I approached to   your habitation, the more deeply did I feel  the spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart.   Snow fell, and the waters were hardened,  but I rested not. A few incidents now and   then directed me, and I possessed a map of the  country; but I often wandered wide from my path.   The agony of my feelings allowed me no respite:  no incident occurred from which my rage and misery   could not extract its food; but a circumstance  that happened when I arrived on the confines   of Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its  warmth, and the earth again began to look green,   confirmed in an especial manner the  bitterness and horror of my feelings. “I generally rested during the day, and travelled  only when I was secured by night from the view of   man. One morning, however, finding that my  path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to   continue my journey after the sun had risen;  the day, which was one of the first of spring,   cheered even me by the loveliness of its sunshine  and the balminess of the air. I felt emotions of   gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared  dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the   novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself  to be borne away by them; and, forgetting my   solitude and deformity, dared to be happy. Soft  tears again bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised   my humid eyes with thankfulness towards the  blessed sun which bestowed such joy upon me. “I continued to wind among the paths of  the wood, until I came to its boundary,   which was skirted by a deep and rapid river,  into which many of the trees bent their branches,   now budding with the fresh spring. Here I  paused, not exactly knowing what path to pursue,   when I heard the sound of voices, that induced me  to conceal myself under the shade of a cypress.   I was scarcely hid, when a young girl came  running towards the spot where I was concealed,   laughing as if she ran from some one in sport.  She continued her course along the precipitous   sides of the river, when suddenly her foot  slipt, and she fell into the rapid stream.   I rushed from my hiding-place, and, with extreme  labour from the force of the current, saved her,   and dragged her to shore. She was senseless; and  I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to   restore animation, when I was suddenly interrupted  by the approach of a rustic, who was probably the   person from whom she had playfully fled. On seeing  me, he darted towards me, and, tearing the girl   from my arms, hastened towards the deeper parts of  the wood. I followed speedily, I hardly knew why;   but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a  gun, which he carried, at my body, and fired.   I sunk to the ground, and my injurer, with  increased swiftness, escaped into the wood. “This was then the reward of my benevolence!  I had saved a human being from destruction,   and, as a recompense, I now writhed  under the miserable pain of a wound,   which shattered the flesh and bone. The  feelings of kindness and gentleness,   which I had entertained but a few moments before,  gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth.   Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal  hatred and vengeance to all mankind.   But the agony of my wound overcame  me; my pulses paused, and I fainted. “For some weeks I led a miserable life in  the woods, endeavouring to cure the wound   which I had received. The ball had entered  my shoulder, and I knew not whether it had   remained there or passed through; at any  rate I had no means of extracting it.   My sufferings were augmented also by the  oppressive sense of the injustice and   ingratitude of their infliction. My daily vows  rose for revenge—a deep and deadly revenge,   such as would alone compensate for the  outrages and anguish I had endured. “After some weeks my wound healed,  and I continued my journey.   The labours I endured were no longer  to be alleviated by the bright sun or   gentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a  mockery, which insulted my desolate state,   and made me feel more painfully that I was  not made for the enjoyment of pleasure. “But my toils now drew near a close; and,   two months from this time, I  reached the environs of Geneva. “It was evening when I arrived, and  I retired to a hiding-place among the   fields that surround it, to meditate  in what manner I should apply to you.   I was oppressed by fatigue and hunger, and far too  unhappy to enjoy the gentle breezes of evening,   or the prospect of the sun setting  behind the stupendous mountains of Jura. “At this time a slight sleep relieved  me from the pain of reflection,   which was disturbed by the  approach of a beautiful child,   who came running into the recess I had  chosen with all the sportiveness of infancy.   Suddenly, as I gazed on him, an idea seized  me, that this little creature was unprejudiced,   and had lived too short a time to have imbibed a  horror of deformity. If, therefore, I could seize   him, and educate him as my companion and friend,  I should not be so desolate in this peopled earth. “Urged by this impulse, I seized on the  boy as he passed, and drew him towards me.   As soon as he beheld my form, he placed his hands  before his eyes, and uttered a shrill scream:   I drew his hand forcibly from his face, and  said, ‘Child, what is the meaning of this?   I do not intend to hurt you; listen to me.’ “He struggled violently; ‘Let me go,’ he  cried; ‘monster! ugly wretch! you wish to   eat me, and tear me to pieces—You are an  ogre—Let me go, or I will tell my papa.’ “‘Boy, you will never see your  father again; you must come with me.’ “‘Hideous monster! let me go;  My papa is a Syndic—he is M.   Frankenstein—he would punish  you. You dare not keep me.’ “‘Frankenstein! you belong then to my  enemy—to him towards whom I have sworn   eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim.’ “The child still struggled, and loaded me with  epithets which carried despair to my heart:   I grasped his throat to silence him,  and in a moment he lay dead at my feet. “I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with  exultation and hellish triumph: clapping my hands,   I exclaimed, ‘I, too, can create desolation;  my enemy is not impregnable; this death will   carry despair to him, and a thousand other  miseries shall torment and destroy him.’ “As I fixed my eyes on the child, I  saw something glittering on his breast.   I took it; it was a portrait of a most  lovely woman. In spite of my malignity,   it softened and attracted me. For a few  moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes,   fringed by deep lashes, and her lovely  lips; but presently my rage returned:   I remembered that I was for ever deprived of  the delights that such beautiful creatures could   bestow; and that she whose resemblance  I contemplated would, in regarding me,   have changed that air of divine benignity  to one expressive of disgust and affright. “Can you wonder that such  thoughts transported me with rage?   I only wonder that at that moment, instead of  venting my sensations in exclamations and agony,   I did not rush among mankind, and  perish in the attempt to destroy them. “While I was overcome by these feelings, I  left the spot where I had committed the murder,   and was seeking a more secluded hiding-place,  when I perceived a woman passing near me.   She was young, not indeed so beautiful as her  whose portrait I held, but of an agreeable aspect,   and blooming in the loveliness of youth and  health. Here, I thought, is one of those whose   smiles are bestowed on all but me; she shall  not escape: thanks to the lessons of Felix,   and the sanguinary laws of man, I have learned how  to work mischief. I approached her unperceived,   and placed the portrait securely  in one of the folds of her dress. “For some days I haunted the spot  where these scenes had taken place;   sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved  to quit the world and its miseries for ever.   At length I wandered towards these mountains,  and have ranged through their immense recesses,   consumed by a burning passion which you alone can  gratify. We may not part until you have promised   to comply with my requisition. I am alone,  and miserable; man will not associate with me;   but one as deformed and horrible as  myself would not deny herself to me.   My companion must be of the same species, and have  the same defects. This being you must create.” CHAPTER IX. The being finished speaking,   and fixed his looks upon me in expectation of a  reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable   to arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand  the full extent of his proposition. He continued— “You must create a female for me, with  whom I can live in the interchange of   those sympathies necessary for  my being. This you alone can do;   and I demand it of you as a  right which you must not refuse.” The latter part of his tale had  kindled anew in me the anger that   had died away while he narrated his  peaceful life among the cottagers,   and, as he said this, I could no longer  suppress the rage that burned within me. “I do refuse it,” I replied; “and no  torture shall ever extort a consent from me.   You may render me the most miserable of men,  but you shall never make me base in my own eyes.   Shall I create another like yourself, whose  joint wickedness might desolate the world.   Begone! I have answered you; you may  torture me, but I will never consent.” “You are in the wrong,” replied the fiend; “and,  instead of threatening, I am content to reason   with you. I am malicious because I am miserable;  am I not shunned and hated by all mankind?   You, my creator, would tear me to  pieces, and triumph; remember that,   and tell me why I should pity man more than he  pities me? You would not call it murder, if you   could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts,  and destroy my frame, the work of your own hands.   Shall I respect man, when he contemns me? Let  him live with me in the interchange of kindness,   and, instead of injury, I would bestow every  benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at   his acceptance. But that cannot be; the human  senses are insurmountable barriers to our union.   Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject  slavery. I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot   inspire love, I will cause fear; and chiefly  towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator,   do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have  a care: I will work at your destruction,   nor finish until I desolate your heart,  so that you curse the hour of your birth.” A fiendish rage animated him as he said  this; his face was wrinkled into contortions   too horrible for human eyes to behold; but  presently he calmed himself, and proceeded— “I intended to reason. This passion is  detrimental to me; for you do not reflect   that you are the cause of its excess. If any  being felt emotions of benevolence towards me,   I should return them an hundred and an hundred  fold; for that one creature’s sake, I would make   peace with the whole kind! But I now indulge in  dreams of bliss that cannot be realized. What I   ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a  creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself:   the gratification is small, but it is all  that I can receive, and it shall content me.   It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from  all the world; but on that account we shall be   more attached to one another. Our lives will not  be happy, but they will be harmless, and free from   the misery I now feel. Oh! my creator, make me  happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one   benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of  some existing thing; do not deny me my request!” I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the  possible consequences of my consent; but I felt   that there was some justice in his argument. His  tale, and the feelings he now expressed, proved   him to be a creature of fine sensations; and did  I not, as his maker, owe him all the portion of   happiness that it was in my power to bestow?  He saw my change of feeling, and continued— “If you consent, neither you nor any other human  being shall ever see us again: I will go to the   vast wilds of South America. My food is not that  of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid,   to glut my appetite; acorns and berries afford me  sufficient nourishment. My companion will be of   the same nature as myself, and will be content  with the same fare. We shall make our bed of   dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on man,  and will ripen our food. The picture I present to   you is peaceful and human, and you must feel  that you could deny it only in the wantonness   of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been  towards me, I now see compassion in your eyes:   let me seize the favourable moment, and persuade  you to promise what I so ardently desire.” “You propose,” replied I, “to  fly from the habitations of man,   to dwell in those wilds where the beasts  of the field will be your only companions.   How can you, who long for the love and sympathy  of man, persevere in this exile? You will return,   and again seek their kindness, and you  will meet with their detestation; your evil   passions will be renewed, and you will then have  a companion to aid you in the task of destruction.   This may not be; cease to argue  the point, for I cannot consent.” “How inconstant are your feelings! but a moment  ago you were moved by my representations,   and why do you again harden yourself  to my complaints? I swear to you,   by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that  made me, that, with the companion you bestow,   I will quit the neighbourhood of man, and dwell,  as it may chance, in the most savage of places.   My evil passions will have fled,  for I shall meet with sympathy;   my life will flow quietly away, and, in my  dying moments, I shall not curse my maker.” His words had a strange effect upon me. I  compassionated him, and sometimes felt a   wish to console him; but when I looked upon him,  when I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked,   my heart sickened, and my feelings were  altered to those of horror and hatred.   I tried to stifle these sensations; I thought,  that as I could not sympathize with him, I had   no right to withhold from him the small portion  of happiness which was yet in my power to bestow. “You swear,” I said, “to be harmless;  but have you not already shewn a degree   of malice that should reasonably make  me distrust you? May not even this be   a feint that will increase your triumph by  affording a wider scope for your revenge?” “How is this? I thought I had moved your  compassion, and yet you still refuse to   bestow on me the only benefit that can soften my  heart, and render me harmless. If I have no ties   and no affections, hatred and vice must be my  portion; the love of another will destroy the   cause of my crimes, and I shall become a thing,  of whose existence every one will be ignorant.   My vices are the children of a forced solitude  that I abhor; and my virtues will necessarily   arise when I live in communion with an equal. I  shall feel the affections of a sensitive being,   and become linked to the chain of existence  and events, from which I am now excluded.” I paused some time to reflect  on all he had related,   and the various arguments which he had employed.   I thought of the promise of virtues which he  had displayed on the opening of his existence,   and the subsequent blight of all kindly feeling  by the loathing and scorn which his protectors   had manifested towards him. His power and threats  were not omitted in my calculations: a creature   who could exist in the ice caves of the glaciers,  and hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of   inaccessible precipices, was a being possessing  faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a   long pause of reflection, I concluded, that the  justice due both to him and my fellow-creatures   demanded of me that I should comply with his  request. Turning to him, therefore, I said— “I consent to your demand, on your  solemn oath to quit Europe for ever,   and every other place in the neighbourhood of man,   as soon as I shall deliver into your hands a  female who will accompany you in your exile.” “I swear,” he cried, “by the sun,  and by the blue sky of heaven,   that if you grant my prayer, while they exist you  shall never behold me again. Depart to your home,   and commence your labours: I shall watch  their progress with unutterable anxiety;   and fear not but that when  you are ready I shall appear.” Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful,  perhaps, of any change in my sentiments.   I saw him descend the mountain with  greater speed than the flight of an eagle,   and quickly lost him among the  undulations of the sea of ice. His tale had occupied the whole day; and  the sun was upon the verge of the horizon   when he departed. I knew that I ought  to hasten my descent towards the valley,   as I should soon be encompassed in darkness;  but my heart was heavy, and my steps slow.   The labour of winding among the little paths  of the mountains, and fixing my feet firmly as   I advanced, perplexed me, occupied as I was by  the emotions which the occurrences of the day   had produced. Night was far advanced, when I  came to the half-way resting-place, and seated   myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at  intervals, as the clouds passed from over them;   the dark pines rose before me, and every here  and there a broken tree lay on the ground:   it was a scene of wonderful solemnity,  and stirred strange thoughts within me.   I wept bitterly; and, clasping  my hands in agony, I exclaimed,   “Oh! stars, and clouds, and winds, ye are all  about to mock me: if ye really pity me, crush   sensation and memory; let me become as nought; but  if not, depart, depart and leave me in darkness.” These were wild and miserable thoughts;  but I cannot describe to you how the   eternal twinkling of the stars weighed  upon me, and how I listened to every   blast of wind, as if it were a dull  ugly siroc on its way to consume me. Morning dawned before I arrived  at the village of Chamounix;   but my presence, so haggard and strange,  hardly calmed the fears of my family,   who had waited the whole night in  anxious expectation of my return. The following day we returned to Geneva. The  intention of my father in coming had been to   divert my mind, and to restore me to my lost  tranquillity; but the medicine had been fatal.   And, unable to account for the excess  of misery I appeared to suffer,   he hastened to return home, hoping the  quiet and monotony of a domestic life   would by degrees alleviate my sufferings  from whatsoever cause they might spring. For myself, I was passive in all their  arrangements; and the gentle affection   of my beloved Elizabeth was inadequate  to draw me from the depth of my despair.   The promise I had made to the dæmon weighed  upon my mind, like Dante’s iron cowl on the   heads of the hellish hypocrites. All pleasures  of earth and sky passed before me like a dream,   and that thought only had to me the  reality of life. Can you wonder,   that sometimes a kind of insanity possessed me,  or that I saw continually about me a multitude of   filthy animals inflicting on me incessant torture,  that often extorted screams and bitter groans? By degrees, however, these feelings became  calmed. I entered again into the every-day   scene of life, if not with interest, at  least with some degree of tranquillity. END OF VOLUME II. VOLUME III. CHAPTER I. Day after day, week after week,   passed away on my return to Geneva; and I could  not collect the courage to recommence my work.   I feared the vengeance of the disappointed fiend,  yet I was unable to overcome my repugnance to the   task which was enjoined me. I found that I could  not compose a female without again devoting   several months to profound study and laborious  disquisition. I had heard of some discoveries   having been made by an English philosopher, the  knowledge of which was material to my success,   and I sometimes thought of obtaining my father’s  consent to visit England for this purpose; but I   clung to every pretence of delay, and could not  resolve to interrupt my returning tranquillity.   My health, which had hitherto  declined, was now much restored;   and my spirits, when unchecked by the memory  of my unhappy promise, rose proportionably.   My father saw this change with pleasure, and  he turned his thoughts towards the best method   of eradicating the remains of my melancholy,  which every now and then would return by fits,   and with a devouring blackness  overcast the approaching sunshine.   At these moments I took refuge in the most perfect  solitude. I passed whole days on the lake alone in   a little boat, watching the clouds, and listening  to the rippling of the waves, silent and listless.   But the fresh air and bright sun seldom failed  to restore me to some degree of composure; and,   on my return, I met the salutations of my friends  with a readier smile and a more cheerful heart. It was after my return from one  of these rambles that my father,   calling me aside, thus addressed me:— “I am happy to remark, my dear son, that  you have resumed your former pleasures,   and seem to be returning to yourself. And yet you  are still unhappy, and still avoid our society.   For some time I was lost in  conjecture as to the cause of this;   but yesterday an idea struck me, and if it  is well founded, I conjure you to avow it.   Reserve on such a point would be not only  useless, but draw down treble misery on us all.” I trembled violently at this  exordium, and my father continued— “I confess, my son, that I have always looked  forward to your marriage with your cousin   as the tie of our domestic comfort,  and the stay of my declining years.   You were attached to each other from your earliest  infancy; you studied together, and appeared,   in dispositions and tastes, entirely suited to one  another. But so blind is the experience of man,   that what I conceived to be the best assistants  to my plan may have entirely destroyed it.   You, perhaps, regard her as your sister, without  any wish that she might become your wife.   Nay, you may have met with another whom you  may love; and, considering yourself as bound in   honour to your cousin, this struggle may occasion  the poignant misery which you appear to feel.” “My dear father, re-assure yourself. I love  my cousin tenderly and sincerely. I never   saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth  does, my warmest admiration and affection.   My future hopes and prospects are entirely  bound up in the expectation of our union.” “The expression of your sentiments  on this subject, my dear Victor,   gives me more pleasure than I  have for some time experienced.   If you feel thus, we shall assuredly be happy,  however present events may cast a gloom over us.   But it is this gloom, which appears to have taken  so strong a hold of your mind, that I wish to   dissipate. Tell me, therefore, whether you object  to an immediate solemnization of the marriage.   We have been unfortunate, and recent events  have drawn us from that every-day tranquillity   befitting my years and infirmities.  You are younger; yet I do not suppose,   possessed as you are of a competent fortune, that  an early marriage would at all interfere with any   future plans of honour and utility that you may  have formed. Do not suppose, however, that I wish   to dictate happiness to you, or that a delay on  your part would cause me any serious uneasiness.   Interpret my words with candour, and answer me,  I conjure you, with confidence and sincerity.” I listened to my father in silence, and remained  for some time incapable of offering any reply.   I revolved rapidly in my mind a multitude of  thoughts, and endeavoured to arrive at some   conclusion. Alas! to me the idea of an immediate  union with my cousin was one of horror and dismay.   I was bound by a solemn promise, which I  had not yet fulfilled, and dared not break;   or, if I did, what manifold miseries might  not impend over me and my devoted family!   Could I enter into a festival with this  deadly weight yet hanging round my neck,   and bowing me to the ground. I must perform  my engagement, and let the monster depart with   his mate, before I allowed myself to enjoy the  delight of an union from which I expected peace. I remembered also the necessity imposed  upon me of either journeying to England,   or entering into a long 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, any variation was agreeable to me,  and I was delighted with the idea of spending   a year or two in change of scene and variety  of occupation, in absence from my family;   during which period some event might happen which  would restore me to them in peace and happiness:   my promise might be fulfilled,  and the monster have departed;   or some accident might occur to destroy  him, and put an end to my slavery for ever. These feelings dictated my answer to my father.  I expressed a wish to visit England; but,   concealing the true reasons of this request, I  clothed my desires under the guise of wishing   to travel and see the world before I sat down  for life within the walls of my native town. I urged my entreaty with earnestness, and  my father was easily induced to comply;   for a more indulgent and less dictatorial  parent did not exist upon earth.   Our plan was soon arranged. I should travel to  Strasburgh, where Clerval would join me. Some   short time would be spent in the towns of Holland,  and our principal stay would be in England.   We should return by France; and it was agreed that  the tour should occupy the space of two years. My father pleased himself with the reflection,   that my union with Elizabeth should take  place immediately on my return to Geneva.   “These two years,” said he, “will pass swiftly,  and it will be the last delay that will oppose   itself to your happiness. And, indeed, I  earnestly desire that period to arrive,   when we shall all be united, and neither hopes  or fears arise to disturb our domestic calm.” “I am content,” I replied, “with your arrangement.   By that time we shall both have become wiser,  and I hope happier, than we at present are.”   I sighed; but my father kindly forbore to question  me further concerning the cause of my dejection.   He hoped that new scenes, and the amusement  of travelling, would restore my tranquillity. I now made arrangements for my journey; but  one feeling haunted me, which filled me with   fear and agitation. During my absence I should  leave my friends unconscious of the existence of   their enemy, and unprotected from his attacks,  exasperated as he might be by my departure.   But he had promised to follow me wherever I might  go; and would he not accompany me to England?   This imagination was dreadful in itself, but  soothing, inasmuch as it supposed the safety   of my friends. I was agonized with the idea of the  possibility that the reverse of this might happen.   But through the whole period during which I was  the slave of my creature, I allowed myself to   be governed by the impulses of the moment;  and my present sensations strongly intimated   that the fiend would follow me, and exempt my  family from the danger of his machinations. It was in the latter end of August that  I departed, to pass two years of exile.   Elizabeth approved of the reasons of my  departure, and only regretted that she   had not the same opportunities of enlarging her  experience, and cultivating her understanding.   She wept, however, as she bade me farewell,  and entreated me to return happy and tranquil.   “We all,” said she, “depend upon you; and if  you are miserable, what must be our feelings?” I threw myself into the carriage that was to  convey me away, hardly knowing whither I was   going, and careless of what was passing around. I  remembered only, and it was with a bitter anguish   that I reflected on it, to order that my chemical  instruments should be packed to go with me:   for I resolved to fulfil my promise while  abroad, and return, if possible, a free man.   Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed  through many beautiful and majestic scenes;   but my eyes were fixed and unobserving. I  could only think of the bourne of my travels,   and the work which was to  occupy me whilst they endured. After some days spent in listless indolence,  during which I traversed many leagues,   I arrived at Strasburgh, where I waited  two days for Clerval. He came. Alas,   how great was the contrast between us! He was  alive to every new scene; joyful when he saw   the beauties of the setting sun, and more happy  when he beheld it rise, and recommence a new day.   He pointed out to me the shifting colours of  the landscape, and the appearances of the sky.   “This is what it is to live;” he cried, “now I  enjoy existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein,   wherefore are you desponding and sorrowful?”  In truth, I was occupied by gloomy thoughts,   and neither saw the descent of the evening  star, nor the golden sun-rise reflected in   the Rhine.—And you, my friend, would be far  more amused with the journal of Clerval,   who observed the scenery with an eye of feeling  and delight, than to listen to my reflections.   I, a miserable wretch, haunted by a curse  that shut up every avenue to enjoyment. We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat  from Strasburgh to Rotterdam, whence we might   take shipping for London. During this voyage, we  passed by many willowy islands, and saw several   beautiful towns. We staid a day at Manheim, and,  on the fifth from our departure from Strasburgh,   arrived at Mayence. The course of the Rhine below  Mayence becomes much more picturesque. The river   descends rapidly, and winds between hills,  not high, but steep, and of beautiful forms.   We saw many ruined castles standing on the edges  of precipices, surrounded by black woods, high and   inaccessible. This part of the Rhine, indeed,  presents a singularly variegated landscape.   In one spot you view rugged hills, ruined castles  overlooking tremendous precipices, with the dark   Rhine rushing beneath; and, on the sudden  turn of a promontory, flourishing vineyards,   with green sloping banks, and a meandering  river, and populous towns, occupy the scene. We travelled at the time of the vintage, and  heard the song of the labourers, as we glided   down the stream. Even I, depressed in mind, and my  spirits continually agitated by gloomy feelings,   even I was pleased. I lay at the bottom of the  boat, and, as I gazed on the cloudless blue sky,   I seemed to drink in a tranquillity  to which I had long been a stranger.   And if these were my sensations, who can  describe those of Henry? He felt as if he   had been transported to Fairy-land, and  enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by man.   “I have seen,” he said, “the most beautiful scenes  of my own country; I have visited the lakes of   Lucerne and Uri, where the snowy mountains  descend almost perpendicularly to the water,   casting black and impenetrable shades, which  would cause a gloomy and mournful appearance,   were it not for the most verdant islands  that relieve the eye by their gay appearance;   I have seen this lake agitated by a tempest,  when the wind tore up whirlwinds of water,   and gave you an idea of what the water-spout must  be on the great ocean, and the waves dash with   fury the base of the mountain, where the priest  and his mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche,   and where their dying voices are still said to  be heard amid the pauses of the nightly wind;   I have seen the mountains of La Valais, and the  Pays de Vaud: but this country, Victor, pleases   me more than all those wonders. The mountains  of Switzerland are more majestic and strange;   but there is a charm in the banks of this  divine river, that I never before saw equalled.   Look at that castle which overhangs yon precipice;  and that also on the island, almost concealed   amongst the foliage of those lovely trees;  and now that group of labourers coming from   among their vines; and that village half-hid  in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely,   the spirit that inhabits and guards this place has  a soul more in harmony with man, than those who   pile the glacier, or retire to the inaccessible  peaks of the mountains of our own country.” Clerval! beloved friend! even now it delights  me to record your words, and to dwell on the   praise of which you are so eminently deserving.  He was a being formed in the “very poetry of   nature.” His wild and enthusiastic imagination  was chastened by the sensibility of his heart.   His soul overflowed with ardent affections, and  his friendship was of that devoted and wondrous   nature that the worldly-minded teach  us to look for only in the imagination.   But even human sympathies were not  sufficient to satisfy his eager mind.   The scenery of external nature, which others  regard only with admiration, he loved with ardour: —— ——“The sounding cataract Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock,  The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to him  An appetite; a feeling, and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm,  By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrowed from the eye.”  And where does he now exist? Is this gentle  and lovely being lost for ever? Has this mind   so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and  magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence   depended on the life of its creator; has this mind  perished? Does it now only exist in my memory?   No, it is not thus; your form so divinely  wrought, and beaming with beauty, has decayed,   but your spirit still visits and  consoles your unhappy friend. Pardon this gush of sorrow; these  ineffectual words are but a slight   tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry,  but they soothe my heart, overflowing   with the anguish which his remembrance  creates. I will proceed with my tale. Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of  Holland; and we resolved to post the remainder   of our way; for the wind was contrary, and the  stream of the river was too gentle to aid us. Our journey here lost the interest  arising from beautiful scenery;   but we arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence  we proceeded by sea to England. It was on a   clear morning, in the latter days of December,  that I first saw the white cliffs of Britain.   The banks of the Thames presented a new scene;  they were flat, but fertile, and almost every   town was marked by the remembrance of some story.  We saw Tilbury Fort, and remembered the Spanish   armada; Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich,  places which I had heard of even in my country. At length we saw the numerous steeples of London,   St. Paul’s towering above all, and  the Tower famed in English history. CHAPTER II. London was our present point of rest;   we determined to remain several months in this  wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired   the intercourse of the men of genius and talent  who flourished at this time; but this was with me   a secondary object; I was principally occupied  with the means of obtaining the information   necessary for the completion of my promise,  and quickly availed myself of the letters of   introduction that I had brought with me, addressed  to the most distinguished natural philosophers. If this journey had taken place  during my days of study and happiness,   it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure.   But a blight had come over my existence, and I  only visited these people for the sake of the   information they might give me on the subject  in which my interest was so terribly profound.   Company was irksome to me; when alone, I could  fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth;   the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus  cheat myself into a transitory peace. But busy   uninteresting joyous faces brought back despair to  my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier placed   between me and my fellow-men; this barrier was  sealed with the blood of William and Justine;   and to reflect on the events connected with  those names filled my soul with anguish. But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self;   he was inquisitive, and anxious to gain experience  and instruction. The difference of manners which   he observed was to him an inexhaustible  source of instruction and amusement.   He was for ever busy; and the only check to his  enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mien.   I tried to conceal this as much as possible, that  I might not debar him from the pleasures natural   to one who was entering on a new scene of life,  undisturbed by any care or bitter recollection.   I often refused to accompany him, alleging  another engagement, that I might remain alone.   I now also began to collect the materials  necessary for my new creation, and this   was to me like the torture of single drops  of water continually falling on the head.   Every thought that was devoted to it was  an extreme anguish, and every word that I   spoke in allusion to it caused my lips  to quiver, and my heart to palpitate. After passing some months in London, we  received a letter from a person in Scotland,   who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He  mentioned the beauties of his native country,   and asked us if those were not sufficient  allurements to induce us to prolong our   journey as far north as Perth, where he resided.  Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invitation;   and I, although I abhorred society, wished  to view again mountains and streams,   and all the wondrous works with which  Nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places. We had arrived in England at the beginning of  October, and it was now February. We accordingly   determined to commence our journey towards  the north at the expiration of another month.   In this expedition we did not intend to follow  the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor,   Oxford, Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes,  resolving to arrive at the completion of this   tour about the end of July. I packed my chemical  instruments, and the materials I had collected,   resolving to finish my labours in some obscure  nook in the northern highlands of Scotland. We quitted London on the 27th of March,  and remained a few days at Windsor,   rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a  new scene to us mountaineers; the majestic oaks,   the quantity of game, and the herds of  stately deer, were all novelties to us. From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we  entered this city, our minds were filled with the   remembrance of the events that had been transacted  there more than a century and a half before.   It was here that Charles I. had collected his  forces. This city had remained faithful to him,   after the whole nation had forsaken his cause  to join the standard of parliament and liberty.   The memory of that unfortunate king, and his  companions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent   Gower, his queen, and son, gave a peculiar  interest to every part of the city, which they   might be supposed to have inhabited. The spirit of  elder days found a dwelling here, and we delighted   to trace its footsteps. If these feelings had not  found an imaginary gratification, the appearance   of the city had yet in itself sufficient beauty  to obtain our admiration. The colleges are   ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost  magnificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows   beside it through meadows of exquisite verdure,  is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters,   which reflects its majestic assemblage of towers,  and spires, and domes, embosomed among aged trees. I enjoyed this scene; and yet my enjoyment  was embittered both by the memory of the past,   and the anticipation of the future. I was  formed for peaceful happiness. During my   youthful days discontent never visited my  mind; and if I was ever overcome by ennui,   the sight of what is beautiful in nature, or  the study of what is excellent and sublime in   the productions of man, could always interest my  heart, and communicate elasticity to my spirits.   But I am a blasted tree; the  bolt has entered my soul;   and I felt then that I should survive  to exhibit, what I shall soon cease to   be—a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity,  pitiable to others, and abhorrent to myself. We passed a considerable period at Oxford,  rambling among its environs, and endeavouring to   identify every spot which might relate to the most  animating epoch of English history. Our little   voyages of discovery were often prolonged by the  successive objects that presented themselves.   We visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden,  and the field on which that patriot fell. For a   moment my soul was elevated from its debasing and  miserable fears to contemplate the divine ideas of   liberty and self-sacrifice, of which these sights  were the monuments and the remembrancers. For an   instant I dared to shake off my chains, and look  around me with a free and lofty spirit; but the   iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again,  trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self. We left Oxford with regret, and proceeded to  Matlock, which was our next place of rest.   The country in the neighbourhood of this  village resembled, to a greater degree,   the scenery of Switzerland; but every thing is on  a lower scale, and the green hills want the crown   of distant white Alps, which always attend  on the piny mountains of my native country.   We visited the wondrous cave, and the  little cabinets of natural history, where   the curiosities are disposed in the same manner  as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix.   The latter name made me tremble,  when pronounced by Henry;   and I hastened to quit Matlock, with which  that terrible scene was thus associated. From Derby still journeying northward, we passed  two months in Cumberland and Westmoreland.   I could now almost fancy myself  among the Swiss mountains.   The little patches of snow which yet lingered on  the northern sides of the mountains, the lakes,   and the dashing of the rocky streams,  were all familiar and dear sights to me.   Here also we made some acquaintances, who almost  contrived to cheat me into happiness. The delight   of Clerval was proportionably greater than mine;  his mind expanded in the company of men of talent,   and he found in his own nature greater capacities  and resources than he could have imagined himself   to have possessed while he associated with his  inferiors. “I could pass my life here,” said   he to me; “and among these mountains I should  scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine.” But he found that a traveller’s life is one  that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments.   His feelings are for ever on the stretch;  and when he begins to sink into repose,   he finds himself obliged to quit that on  which he rests in pleasure for something new,   which again engages his attention, and  which also he forsakes for other novelties. We had scarcely visited the various lakes of  Cumberland and Westmoreland, and conceived   an affection for some of the inhabitants,  when the period of our appointment with our   Scotch friend approached, and we left them to  travel on. For my own part I was not sorry. I   had now neglected my promise for some time, and I  feared the effects of the dæmon’s disappointment.   He might remain in Switzerland, and wreak his  vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued me,   and tormented me at every moment from which I  might otherwise have snatched repose and peace.   I waited for my letters with feverish  impatience: if they were delayed,   I was miserable, and overcome by a thousand  fears; and when they arrived, and I saw the   superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly  dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes   I thought that the fiend followed me, and might  expedite my remissness by murdering my companion.   When these thoughts possessed me, I would not  quit Henry for a moment, but followed him as   his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage  of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed   some great crime, the consciousness  of which haunted me. I was guiltless,   but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse  upon my head, as mortal as that of crime. I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes  and mind; and yet that city might have   interested the most unfortunate being.  Clerval did not like it so well as Oxford;   for the antiquity of the latter  city was more pleasing to him.   But the beauty and regularity of the new town of  Edinburgh, its romantic castle, and its environs,   the most delightful in the world, Arthur’s Seat,  St. Bernard’s Well, and the Pentland Hills,   compensated him for the change, and filled  him with cheerfulness and admiration.   But I was impatient to arrive at  the termination of my journey. We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through  Coupar, St. Andrews, and along the banks of the   Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us. But  I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers,   or enter into their feelings or plans with  the good humour expected from a guest;   and accordingly I told Clerval that I  wished to make the tour of Scotland alone.   “Do you,” said I, “enjoy yourself, and let this  be our rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two;   but do not interfere with my motions, I entreat  you: leave me to peace and solitude for a short   time; and when I return, I hope it will be with a  lighter heart, more congenial to your own temper.” Henry wished to dissuade me; but, seeing me  bent on this plan, ceased to remonstrate. He   entreated me to write often. “I had rather be  with you,” he said, “in your solitary rambles,   than with these Scotch people, whom I do not  know: hasten then, my dear friend, to return,   that I may again feel myself somewhat at  home, which I cannot do in your absence.” Having parted from my friend, I determined  to visit some remote spot of Scotland,   and finish my work in solitude. I did not  doubt but that the monster followed me, and   would discover himself to me when I should have  finished, that he might receive his companion. With this resolution I traversed the northern  highlands, and fixed on one of the remotest   of the Orkneys as the scene labours. It was a  place fitted for such a work, being hardly more   than a rock, whose high sides were continually  beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren,   scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable  cows, and oatmeal for its inhabitants,   which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and  scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare.   Vegetables and bread, when they indulged  in such luxuries, and even fresh water,   was to be procured from the main land,  which was about five miles distant. On the whole island there were but three miserable  huts, and one of these was vacant when I arrived.   This I hired. It contained but two rooms, and  these exhibited all the squalidness of the most   miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in,  the walls were unplastered, and the door was   off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired,  bought some furniture, and took possession;   an incident which would, doubtless,  have occasioned some surprise,   had not all the senses of the cottagers been  benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was,   I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked  for the pittance of food and clothes which I gave;   so much does suffering blunt even  the coarsest sensations of men. In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour;  but in the evening, when the weather permitted, I   walked on the stony beach of the sea, to listen to  the waves as they roared, and dashed at my feet.   It was a monotonous, yet ever-changing scene.   I thought of Switzerland; it was far different  from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its   hills are covered with vines, and its cottages  are scattered thickly in the plains. Its fair   lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky; and,  when troubled by the winds, their tumult   is but as the play of a lively infant, when  compared to the roarings of the giant ocean. In this manner I distributed my occupations when  I first arrived; but, as I proceeded in my labour,   it became every day more horrible and irksome to  me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to   enter my laboratory for several days; and at other  times I toiled day and night in order to complete   my work. It was indeed a filthy process in  which I was engaged. During my first experiment,   a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me  to the horror of my employment; my mind was   intently fixed on the sequel of my labour, and my  eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings.   But now I went to it in cold blood, and my  heart often sickened at the work of my hands. Thus situated, employed in the most detestable  occupation, immersed in a solitude where nothing   could for an instant call my attention from the  actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits   became unequal; I grew restless and nervous.  Every moment I feared to meet my persecutor.   Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the  ground, fearing to raise them lest they   should encounter the object which I so much  dreaded to behold. I feared to wander from   the sight of my fellow-creatures, lest when  alone he should come to claim his companion. In the mean time I worked on, and my labour  was already considerably advanced. I looked   towards its completion with a tremulous and eager  hope, which I dared not trust myself to question,   but which was intermixed with obscure forebodings  of evil, that made my heart sicken in my bosom. CHAPTER III. I sat one evening in my laboratory;   the sun had set, and the moon was just rising  from the sea; I had not sufficient light for   my employment, and I remained idle, in a pause  of consideration of whether I should leave my   labour for the night, or hasten its conclusion  by an unremitting attention to it. As I sat,   a train of reflection occurred to me, which led me  to consider the effects of what I was now doing.   Three years before I was engaged in the  same manner, and had created a fiend whose   unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart,  and filled it for ever with the bitterest remorse.   I was now about to form another being, of  whose dispositions I was alike ignorant;   she might become ten thousand times more malignant  than her mate, and delight, for its own sake, in   murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the  neighbourhood of man, and hide himself in deserts;   but she had not; and she, who in all probability  was to become a thinking and reasoning animal,   might refuse to comply with a compact made before  her creation. They might even hate each other;   the creature who already lived loathed his own  deformity, and might he not conceive a greater   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 dæmon thirsted would be children,   and a race of devils would  be propagated upon the earth,   who might make the very existence of the species  of man a condition precarious and full of terror.   Had I a right, for my own benefit, to inflict  this curse upon everlasting generations?   I had before been moved by the sophisms of the  being I had created; I had been struck senseless   by his fiendish threats: but now, for the first  time, the wickedness of my promise burst upon me;   I shuddered to think that future ages might  curse me as their pest, whose selfishness had   not hesitated to buy its own peace at the price  perhaps of the existence of the whole human race. I trembled, and my heart failed within me; when,  on looking up, I saw, by the light of the moon,   the dæmon at the casement. A ghastly grin  wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where   I sat fulfilling the task which he had allotted  to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels;   he had loitered in forests, hid himself in  caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths;   and he now came to mark my progress,  and claim the fulfilment of my promise. As I looked on him, his countenance expressed  the utmost extent of malice and treachery.   I thought with a sensation of madness on  my promise of creating another like to him,   and, trembling with passion, tore to  pieces the thing on which I was engaged.   The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose  future existence he depended for happiness,   and, with a howl of devilish  despair and revenge, withdrew. I left the room, and, locking the door, made  a solemn vow in my own heart never to resume   my labours; and then, with trembling  steps, I sought my own apartment.   I was alone; none were near  me to dissipate the gloom,   and relieve me from the sickening  oppression of the most terrible reveries. Several hours past, and I remained near my window  gazing on the sea; it was almost motionless,   for the winds were hushed, and all nature  reposed under the eye of the quiet moon.   A few fishing vessels alone specked  the water, and now and then the gentle   breeze wafted the sound of voices, as  the fishermen called to one another.   I felt the silence, although I was hardly  conscious of its extreme profundity until my ear   was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near  the shore, and a person landed close to my house. In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking  of my door, as if some one endeavoured to   open it softly. I trembled from head to  foot; I felt a presentiment of who it was,   and wished to rouse one of the peasants  who dwelt in a cottage not far from mine;   but I was overcome by the sensation of  helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams,   when you in vain endeavour to fly from an  impending danger, and was rooted to the spot. Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along  the passage; the door opened, and the wretch   whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he  approached me, and said, in a smothered voice— “You have destroyed the work which you  began; what is it that you intend? Do   you dare to break your promise? I have endured  toil and misery: I left Switzerland with you;   I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among its  willow islands, and over the summits of its hills.   I have dwelt many months in the heaths of  England, and among the deserts of Scotland.   I have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold,  and hunger; do you dare destroy my hopes?” “Begone! I do break my promise; never  will I create another like yourself,   equal in deformity and wickedness.” “Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have  proved yourself unworthy of my condescension.   Remember that I have power; you believe yourself  miserable, but I can make you so wretched that   the light of day will be hateful to you. You  are my creator, but I am your master;—obey!” “The hour of my weakness is past, and the period  of your power is arrived. Your threats cannot   move me to do an act of wickedness; but they  confirm me in a resolution of not creating you   a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set  loose upon the earth a dæmon, whose delight is   in death and wretchedness. Begone! I am firm,  and your words will only exasperate my rage.” The monster saw my determination in my face,  and gnashed his teeth in the impotence of anger.   “Shall each man,” cried he, “find a wife for his  bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be   alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were  requited by detestation and scorn. Man, you may   hate; but beware! Your hours will pass in dread  and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must   ravish from you your happiness for ever. Are you  to be happy, while I grovel in the intensity of my   wretchedness? You can blast my other passions; but  revenge remains—revenge, henceforth dearer than   light or food! I may die; but first you, my tyrant  and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes   on your misery. Beware; for I am fearless, and  therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness   of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man,  you shall repent of the injuries you inflict.” “Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with  these sounds of malice. I have declared my   resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend  beneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable.” “It is well. I go; but remember, I shall  be with you on your wedding-night.” I started forward, and exclaimed, “Villain! before   you sign my death-warrant, be  sure that you are yourself safe.” I would have seized him; but he eluded me,   and quitted the house with precipitation:  in a few moments I saw him in his boat,   which shot across the waters with an arrowy  swiftness, and was soon lost amidst the waves. All was again silent; but  his words rung in my ears.   I burned with rage to pursue the murderer of  my peace, and precipitate him into the ocean.   I walked up and down my room hastily and  perturbed, while my imagination conjured up   a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had  I not followed him, and closed with him in mortal   strife? But I had suffered him to depart, and he  had directed his course towards the main land.   I shuddered to think who might be the next  victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge.   And then I thought again of his words—“I  will be with you on your wedding-night.”   That then was the period fixed for the  fulfilment of my destiny. In that hour   I should die, and at once satisfy and extinguish  his malice. The prospect did not move me to fear;   yet when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth,—of  her tears and endless sorrow, when she should   find her lover so barbarously snatched from  her,—tears, the first I had shed for many months,   streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to  fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle. The night passed away, and the sun rose from the  ocean; my feelings became calmer, if it may be   called calmness, when the violence of rage sinks  into the depths of despair. I left the house,   the horrid scene of the last night’s contention,  and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost   regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and  my fellow-creatures; nay, a wish that such should   prove the fact stole across me. I desired that I  might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily   it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock  of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed,   or to see those whom I most loved die under  the grasp of a dæmon whom I had myself created. I walked about the isle like a restless spectre,   separated from all it loved,  and miserable in the separation.   When it became noon, and the sun rose higher,  I lay down on the grass, and was overpowered   by a deep sleep. I had been awake the whole of  the preceding night, my nerves were agitated,   and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery.  The sleep into which I now sunk refreshed me;   and when I awoke, I again felt as if I belonged  to a race of human beings like myself, and I   began to reflect upon what had passed with greater  composure; yet still the words of the fiend rung   in my ears like a death-knell, they appeared like  a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality. The sun had far descended, and I still sat on  the shore, satisfying my appetite, which had   become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a  fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men   brought me a packet; it contained letters from  Geneva, and one from Clerval, entreating me to   join him. He said that nearly a year had elapsed  since we had quitted Switzerland, and France was   yet unvisited. He entreated me, therefore, to  leave my solitary isle, and meet him at Perth,   in a week from that time, when we might arrange  the plan of our future proceedings. This letter   in a degree recalled me to life, and I determined  to quit my island at the expiration of two days. Yet, before I departed, there was a task to  perform, on which I shuddered to reflect:   I must pack my chemical instruments; and for that  purpose I must enter the room which had been the   scene of my odious work, and I must handle those  utensils, the sight of which was sickening to me.   The next morning, at day-break, I summoned  sufficient courage, and unlocked the door of   my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished  creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on   the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled  the living flesh of a human being. I paused to   collect myself, and then entered the chamber.  With trembling hand I conveyed the instruments   out of the room; but I reflected that I ought  not to leave the relics of my work to excite   the horror and suspicion of the peasants, and I  accordingly put them into a basket, with a great   quantity of stones, and laying them up, determined  to throw them into the sea that very night; and   in the mean time I sat upon the beach, employed  in cleaning and arranging my chemical apparatus. Nothing could be more complete than the alteration  that had taken place in my feelings since the   night of the appearance of the dæmon. I had  before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair,   as a thing that, with whatever consequences, must  be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film had been   taken from before my eyes, and that I, for the  first time, saw clearly. The idea of renewing my   labours did not for one instant occur to me; the  threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I   did not reflect that a voluntary act of mine could  avert it. I had resolved in my own mind, that to   create another like the fiend I had first made  would be an act of the basest and most atrocious   selfishness; and I banished from my mind every  thought that could lead to a different conclusion. Between two and three in the morning the moon  rose; and I then, putting my basket aboard a   little skiff, sailed out about four miles from  the shore. The scene was perfectly solitary:   a few boats were returning towards land, but I  sailed away from them. I felt as if I was about   the commission of a dreadful crime, and avoided  with shuddering anxiety any encounter with my   fellow-creatures. At one time the moon, which had  before been clear, was suddenly overspread by a   thick cloud, and I took advantage of the moment  of darkness, and cast my basket into the sea;   I listened to the gurgling sound as it sunk, and  then sailed away from the spot. The sky became   clouded; but the air was pure, although chilled  by the north-east breeze that was then rising.   But it refreshed me, and filled me with such  agreeable sensations, that I resolved to prolong   my stay on the water, and fixing the rudder in a  direct position, stretched myself at the bottom   of the boat. Clouds hid the moon, every thing was  obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat,   as its keel cut through the waves; the murmur  lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly. I do not know how long I remained in this  situation, but when I awoke I found that   the sun had already mounted considerably.  The wind was high, and the waves continually   threatened the safety of my little skiff. I  found that the wind was north-east, and must   have driven me far from the coast from which I  had embarked. I endeavoured to change my course,   but quickly found that if I again made the attempt  the boat would be instantly filled with water.   Thus situated, my only resource  was to drive before the wind.   I confess that I felt a few sensations of terror.  I had no compass with me, and was so little   acquainted with the geography of this part of the  world that the sun was of little benefit to me.   I might be driven into the wide Atlantic,  and feel all the tortures of starvation,   or be swallowed up in the immeasurable  waters that roared and buffeted around me.   I had already been out many hours, and  felt the torment of a burning thirst,   a prelude to my other sufferings. I looked on the  heavens, which were covered by clouds that flew   before the wind only to be replaced by others:  I looked upon the sea, it was to be my grave.   “Fiend,” I exclaimed, “your task is already  fulfilled!” I thought of Elizabeth, of my father,   and of Clerval; and sunk into a reverie,  so despairing and frightful, that even now,   when the scene is on the point of closing  before me for ever, I shudder to reflect on it. Some hours passed thus; but by degrees,  as the sun declined towards the horizon,   the wind died away into a gentle breeze,  and the sea became free from breakers.   But these gave place to a heavy swell; I felt  sick, and hardly able to hold the rudder,   when suddenly I saw a line of  high land towards the south. Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the  dreadful suspense I endured for several hours,   this sudden certainty of life rushed  like a flood of warm joy to my heart,   and tears gushed from my eyes. How mutable are our feelings, and how strange  is that clinging love we have of life even in   the excess of misery! I constructed  another sail with a part of my dress,   and eagerly steered my course towards the  land. It had a wild and rocky appearance;   but as I approached nearer, I easily perceived  the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the   shore, and found myself suddenly transported  back to the neighbourhood of civilized man.   I eagerly traced the windings of the land, and  hailed a steeple which I at length saw issuing   from behind a small promontory. As I was in a  state of extreme debility, I resolved to sail   directly towards the town as a place where  I could most easily procure nourishment.   Fortunately I had money with me. As I turned  the promontory, I perceived a small neat town   and a good harbour, which I entered, my heart  bounding with joy at my unexpected escape. As I was occupied in fixing the  boat and arranging the sails,   several people crowded towards the spot. They  seemed very much surprised at my appearance;   but, instead of offering me any assistance,  whispered together with gestures that at any   other time might have produced in me a slight  sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked   that they spoke English; and I therefore addressed  them in that language: “My good friends,” said I,   “will you be so kind as to tell me the name  of this town, and inform me where I am?” “You will know that soon enough,”  replied a man with a gruff voice.   “May be you are come to a place that  will not prove much to your taste;   but you will not be consulted as  to your quarters, I promise you.” I was exceedingly surprised on receiving  so rude an answer from a stranger;   and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the  frowning and angry countenances of his companions.   “Why do you answer me so roughly?” I replied:   “surely it is not the custom of Englishmen  to receive strangers so inhospitably.” “I do not know,” said the man, “what  the custom of the English may be;   but it is the custom of the  Irish to hate villains.” While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived  the crowd rapidly increase. Their faces expressed   a mixture of curiosity and anger, which  annoyed, and in some degree alarmed me.   I inquired the way to the inn; but no one replied.   I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose  from the crowd as they followed and surrounded me;   when an ill-looking man approaching,  tapped me on the shoulder, and said,   “Come, Sir, you must follow me to Mr.  Kirwin’s, to give an account of yourself.” “Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an  account of myself? Is not this a free country?” “Aye, Sir, free enough for honest  folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate;   and you are to give an account of the death of a  gentleman who was found murdered here last night.” This answer startled me; but I presently recovered  myself. I was innocent; that could easily be   proved: accordingly I followed my conductor in  silence, and was led to one of the best houses   in the town. I was ready to sink from fatigue  and hunger; but, being surrounded by a crowd,   I thought it politic to rouse all my strength,  that no physical debility might be construed   into apprehension or conscious guilt. Little  did I then expect the calamity that was in a   few moments to overwhelm me, and extinguish in  horror and despair all fear of ignominy or death. I must pause here; for it requires  all my fortitude to recall the memory   of the frightful events which I am about to  relate, in proper detail, to my recollection. CHAPTER IV. I was soon introduced   into the presence of the magistrate, an old  benevolent man, with calm and mild manners.   He looked upon me, however, with  some degree of severity; and then,   turning towards my conductors, he asked  who appeared as witnesses on this occasion. About half a dozen men came forward; and one being  selected by the magistrate, he deposed, that he   had been out fishing the night before with his son  and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten   o’clock, they observed a strong northerly blast  rising, and they accordingly put in for port.   It was a very dark night, as the moon had not  yet risen; they did not land at the harbour,   but, as they had been accustomed, at a creek  about two miles below. He walked on first,   carrying a part of the fishing tackle, and  his companions followed him at some distance.   As he was proceeding along the sands, he struck  his foot against something, and fell all his   length on the ground. His companions came up to  assist him; and, by the light of their lantern,   they found that he had fallen on the body  of a man, who was to all appearance dead.   Their first supposition was, that it was the  corpse of some person who had been drowned,   and was thrown on shore by the waves; but, upon  examination, they found that the clothes were   not wet, and even that the body was not  then cold. They instantly carried it to   the cottage of an old woman near the spot, and  endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life.   He appeared to be a handsome young man, about five  and twenty years of age. He had apparently been   strangled; for there was no sign of any violence,  except the black mark of fingers on his neck. The first part of this deposition did not in  the least interest me; but when the mark of   the fingers was mentioned, I remembered the murder  of my brother, and felt myself extremely agitated;   my limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes,  which obliged me to lean on a chair for support.   The magistrate observed me with a keen eye, and of  course drew an unfavourable augury from my manner. The son confirmed his father’s account:  but when Daniel Nugent was called, he   swore positively that, just before the fall of his  companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it,   at a short distance from the shore; and, as far  as he could judge by the light of a few stars,   it was the same boat in which I had just landed. A woman deposed, that she lived near the beach,  and was standing at the door of her cottage,   waiting for the return of the fishermen,  about an hour before she heard of the   discovery of the body, when she saw  a boat, with only one man in it,   push off from that part of the shore  where the corpse was afterwards found. Another woman confirmed the account of the  fishermen having brought the body into her house;   it was not cold. They put it  into a bed, and rubbed it;   and Daniel went to the town for an  apothecary, but life was quite gone. Several other men were examined concerning my  landing; and they agreed, that, with the strong   north wind that had arisen during the night,  it was very probable that I had beaten about   for many hours, and had been obliged to return  nearly to the same spot from which I had departed.   Besides, they observed that it appeared that  I had brought the body from another place,   and it was likely, that as I did not appear  to know the shore, I might have put into the   harbour ignorant of the distance of the town of ——  from the place where I had deposited the corpse. Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired  that I should be taken into the room where the   body lay for interment that it might be observed  what effect the sight of it would produce upon me.   This idea was probably suggested by  the extreme agitation I had exhibited   when the mode of the murder had been described.   I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate  and several other persons, to the inn. I could not   help being struck by the strange coincidences that  had taken place during this eventful night; but,   knowing that I had been conversing with several  persons in the island I had inhabited about the   time that the body had been found, I was perfectly  tranquil as to the consequences of the affair. I entered the room where the corpse  lay, and was led up to the coffin.   How can I describe my sensations on  beholding it? I feel yet parched with horror,   nor can I reflect on that terrible  moment without shuddering and agony,   that faintly reminds me of the anguish of the  recognition. The trial, the presence of the   magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream from  my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of Henry   Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath;  and, throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed,   “Have my murderous machinations deprived you also,  my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already   destroyed; other victims await their destiny:  but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor”—— The human frame could no longer support  the agonizing suffering that I endured,   and I was carried out of the  room in strong convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months  on the point of death: my ravings, as I afterwards   heard, were frightful; I called myself the  murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval.   Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist  me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was   tormented; and, at others, I felt the fingers of  the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed   aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as  I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone   understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries  were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever  was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness   and rest? Death snatches away many blooming  children, the only hopes of their doating parents:   how many brides and youthful lovers have been one  day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next   a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of  what materials was I made, that I could thus   resist so many shocks, which, like the turning  of the wheel, continually renewed the torture. But I was doomed to live; and, in two months,  found myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison,   stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded  by gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the   miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning,  I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding:   I had forgotten the particulars of what had  happened, and only felt as if some great   misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when  I looked around, and saw the barred windows, and   the squalidness of the room in which I was, all  flashed across my memory, and I groaned bitterly. This sound disturbed an old woman who  was sleeping in a chair beside me.   She was a hired nurse, the  wife of one of the turnkeys,   and her countenance expressed all those bad  qualities which often characterize that class.   The lines of her face were hard and rude,  like that of persons accustomed to see   without sympathizing in sights of misery.  Her tone expressed her entire indifference;   she addressed me in English, and the voice struck  me as one that I had heard during my sufferings: “Are you better now, Sir?” said she. I replied in the same language, with a feeble  voice, “I believe I am; but if it be all true,   if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I  am still alive to feel this misery and horror.” “For that matter,” replied the old woman, “if  you mean about the gentleman you murdered,   I believe that it were better for you if you  were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you;   but you will be hung when  the next sessions come on.   However, that’s none of my business, I  am sent to nurse you, and get you well;   I do my duty with a safe conscience, it  were well if every body did the same.” I turned with loathing from the woman who  could utter so unfeeling a speech to a   person just saved, on the very edge of death;  but I felt languid, and unable to reflect on   all that had passed. The whole series of my life  appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if   indeed it were all true, for it never presented  itself to my mind with the force of reality. As the images that floated before me  became more distinct, I grew feverish;   a darkness pressed around me; no one was near  me who soothed me with the gentle voice of love;   no dear hand supported me. The  physician came and prescribed medicines,   and the old woman prepared them for me; but  utter carelessness was visible in the first,   and the expression of brutality was  strongly marked in the visage of the second.   Who could be interested in the fate of a  murderer, but the hangman who would gain his fee? These were my first reflections;   but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin  had shewn me extreme kindness.   He had caused the best room in the prison to be  prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best);   and it was he who had provided a physician and  a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me;   for, although he ardently desired to relieve the  sufferings of every human creature, he did not   wish to be present at the agonies and miserable  ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore,   sometimes to see that I was not neglected; but  his visits were short, and at long intervals. One day, when I was gradually recovering,  I was seated in a chair, my eyes half open,   and my cheeks livid like those in death, I was  overcome by gloom and misery, and often reflected   I had better seek death than remain miserably  pent up only to be let loose in a world replete   with wretchedness. At one time I considered  whether I should not declare myself guilty,   and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent  than poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts,   when the door of my apartment was opened, and  Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed   sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair  close to mine, and addressed me in French— “I fear that this place is very shocking to you;  can I do any thing to make you more comfortable?” “I thank you; but all that  you mention is nothing to me:   on the whole earth there is no comfort  which I am capable of receiving.” “I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be  but of little relief to one borne down as you   are by so strange a misfortune. But you will,  I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode; for,   doubtless, evidence can easily be brought  to free you from the criminal charge.” “That is my least concern: I am, by a course  of strange events, become the most miserable   of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am  and have been, can death be any evil to me?” “Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate  and agonizing than the strange chances that   have lately occurred. You were thrown, by  some surprising accident, on this shore,   renowned for its hospitality: seized  immediately, and charged with murder.   The first sight that was presented to  your eyes was the body of your friend,   murdered in so unaccountable a manner, and placed,  as it were, by some fiend across your path.” As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the  agitation I endured on this retrospect of my   sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at  the knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me.   I suppose some astonishment was exhibited in  my countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say— “It was not until a day or two after your  illness that I thought of examining your dress,   that I might discover some trace by which  I could send to your relations an account   of your misfortune and illness.  I found several letters, and,   among others, one which I discovered from  its commencement to be from your father.   I instantly wrote to Geneva: nearly two months  have elapsed since the departure of my letter.—But   you are ill; even now you tremble: you  are unfit for agitation of any kind.” “This suspense is a thousand times  worse than the most horrible event:   tell me what new scene of death has been  acted, and whose murder I am now to lament.” “Your family is perfectly well,” said Mr. Kirwin,   with gentleness; “and some one,  a friend, is come to visit you.” I know not by what chain of thought the idea  presented itself, but it instantly darted into   my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my  misery, and taunt me with the death of Clerval,   as a new incitement for me to  comply with his hellish desires.   I put my hand before my  eyes, and cried out in agony— “Oh! take him away! I cannot see him;  for God’s sake, do not let him enter!” Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled  countenance. He could not help regarding   my exclamation as a presumption of my  guilt, and said, in rather a severe tone— “I should have thought, young man,  that the presence of your father   would have been welcome, instead of  inspiring such violent repugnance.” “My father!” cried I, while every feature and  every muscle was relaxed from anguish to pleasure.   “Is my father, indeed, come? How kind,   how very kind. But where is he,  why does he not hasten to me?” My change of manner surprised and pleased  the magistrate; perhaps he thought that   my former exclamation was a momentary return of  delirium, and now he instantly resumed his former   benevolence. He rose, and quitted the room with  my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it. Nothing, at this moment, could have given me  greater pleasure than the arrival of my father.   I stretched out my hand to him, and cried— “Are you then safe—and Elizabeth—and Ernest?” My father calmed me with assurances  of their welfare, and endeavoured,   by dwelling on these subjects so interesting  to my heart, to raise my desponding spirits;   but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode  of cheerfulness. “What a place is this that you   inhabit, my son!” said he, looking mournfully at  the barred windows, and wretched appearance of   the room. “You travelled to seek happiness, but a  fatality seems to pursue you. And poor Clerval—” The name of my unfortunate  and murdered friend was an   agitation too great to be endured  in my weak state; I shed tears. “Alas! yes, my father,” replied I; “some  destiny of the most horrible kind hangs over me,   and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I  should have died on the coffin of Henry.” We were not allowed to converse for any length  of time, for the precarious state of my health   rendered every precaution necessary that  could insure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in,   and insisted that my strength should not  be exhausted by too much exertion. But the   appearance of my father was to me like that of my  good angel, and I gradually recovered my health. As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a  gloomy and black melancholy, that nothing could   dissipate. The image of Clerval was for ever  before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once   the agitation into which these reflections threw  me made my friends dread a dangerous relapse.   Alas! why did they preserve so miserable  and detested a life? It was surely that I   might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a  close. Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish   these throbbings, and relieve me from the mighty  weight of anguish that bears me to the dust;   and, in executing the award of justice, I shall  also sink to rest. Then the appearance of death   was distant, although the wish was ever present to  my thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless   and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution  that might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins. The season of the assizes approached. I had  already been three months in prison; and although   I was still weak, and in continual danger of a  relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred   miles to the county-town, where the court was  held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every care   of collecting witnesses, and arranging my defence.  I was spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as   a criminal, as the case was not brought before  the court that decides on life and death. The   grand jury rejected the bill, on its being proved  that I was on the Orkney Islands at the hour the   body of my friend was found, and a fortnight  after my removal I was liberated from prison. My father was enraptured on finding me freed from  the vexations of a criminal charge, that I was   again allowed to breathe the fresh atmosphere,  and allowed to return to my native country.   I did not participate in these feelings; for  to me the walls of a dungeon or a palace were   alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned  for ever; and although the sun shone upon me,   as upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw around  me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness,   penetrated by no light but the glimmer  of two eyes that glared upon me.   Sometimes they were the expressive  eyes of Henry, languishing in death,   the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids, and the  long black lashes that fringed them; sometimes it   was the watery clouded eyes of the monster, as  I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt. My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of  affection. He talked of Geneva, which I should   soon visit—of Elizabeth, and Ernest; but  these words only drew deep groans from me.   Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish for happiness;  and thought, with melancholy delight,   of my beloved cousin; or longed, with a devouring  maladie du pays, to see once more the blue lake   and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in  early childhood: but my general state of feeling   was a torpor, in which a prison was as welcome  a residence as the divinest scene in nature;   and these fits were seldom interrupted,  but by paroxysms of anguish and despair.   At these moments I often endeavoured to put an  end to the existence I loathed; and it required   unceasing attendance and vigilance to restrain  me from committing some dreadful act of violence. I remember, as I quitted the prison, I heard one  of the men say, “He may be innocent of the murder,   but he has certainly a bad conscience.”  These words struck me. A bad conscience! yes,   surely I had one. William, Justine, and Clerval,  had died through my infernal machinations;   “And whose death,” cried I, “is to finish the  tragedy? Ah! my father, do not remain in this   wretched country; take me where I may forget  myself, my existence, and all the world.” My father easily acceded to my desire; and,  after having taken leave of Mr. Kirwin,   we hastened to Dublin. I felt as if  I was relieved from a heavy weight,   when the packet sailed with  a fair wind from Ireland,   and I had quitted for ever the country which  had been to me the scene of so much misery. It was midnight. My father slept in the cabin;  and I lay on the deck, looking at the stars,   and listening to the dashing of the waves. I  hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my   sight, and my pulse beat with a feverish joy,  when I reflected that I should soon see Geneva.   The past appeared to me in the light of a  frightful dream; yet the vessel in which I was,   the wind that blew me from the detested shore of  Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me, told   me too forcibly that I was deceived by no vision,  and that Clerval, my friend and dearest companion,   had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my  creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole life;   my quiet happiness while residing with my  family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my   departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered shuddering  at the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to the   creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to  mind the night during which he first lived. I was   unable to pursue the train of thought; a thousand  feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly. Ever since my recovery from the fever I had  been in the custom of taking every night a   small quantity of laudanum; for it was by means of  this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest   necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed  by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I   now took a double dose, and soon slept profoundly.  But sleep did not afford me respite from thought   and misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects  that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by   a kind of night-mare; I felt the fiend’s grasp  in my neck, and could not free myself from it;   groans and cries rung in my ears. My father, who  was watching over me, perceiving my restlessness,   awoke me, and pointed to the port of  Holyhead, which we were now entering. CHAPTER V. We had resolved   not to go to London, but to cross the country  to Portsmouth, and thence to embark for Havre.   I preferred this plan principally because  I dreaded to see again those places in   which I had enjoyed a few moments of  tranquillity with my beloved Clerval.   I thought with horror of seeing again those  persons whom we had been accustomed to   visit together, and who might make inquiries  concerning an event, the very remembrance of   which made me again feel the pang I endured when  I gazed on his lifeless form in the inn at ——. As for my father, his desires and exertions  were bounded to the again seeing me restored   to health and peace of mind. His tenderness and  attentions were unremitting; my grief and gloom   was obstinate, but he would not despair. Sometimes  he thought that I felt deeply the degradation of   being obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he  endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride. “Alas! my father,” said I, “how little do you know  me. Human beings, their feelings and passions,   would indeed be degraded, if such a wretch as  I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine,   was as innocent as I, and she suffered  the same charge; she died for it; and I   am the cause of this—I murdered her. William,  Justine, and Henry—they all died by my hands.” My father had often, during my imprisonment,  heard me make the same assertion; when I thus   accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an  explanation, and at others he appeared to consider   it as caused by delirium, and that, during my  illness, some idea of this kind had presented   itself to my imagination, the remembrance  of which I preserved in my convalescence.   I avoided explanation, and maintained a continual  silence concerning the wretch I had created.   I had a feeling that I should be supposed  mad, and this for ever chained my tongue,   when I would have given the whole world  to have confided the fatal secret. Upon this occasion my father said, with an  expression of unbounded wonder, “What do you mean,   Victor? are you mad? My dear son, I entreat  you never to make such an assertion again.” “I am not mad,” I cried energetically; “the sun  and the heavens, who have viewed my operations,   can bear witness of my truth. I am the assassin  of those most innocent victims; they died by my   machinations. A thousand times would I have shed  my own blood, drop by drop, to have saved their   lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I  could not sacrifice the whole human race.” The conclusion of this speech convinced my father  that my ideas were deranged, and he instantly   changed the subject of our conversation, and  endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts.   He wished as much as possible to obliterate  the memory of the scenes that had taken place   in Ireland, and never alluded to them, or  suffered me to speak of my misfortunes. As time passed away I became more calm: misery had  her dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked   in the same incoherent manner of my own crimes;  sufficient for me was the consciousness of them.   By the utmost self-violence, I curbed  the imperious voice of wretchedness,   which sometimes desired to declare itself  to the whole world; and my manners were   calmer and more composed than they had ever  been since my journey to the sea of ice. We arrived at Havre on the 8th of  May, and instantly proceeded to Paris,   where my father had some business  which detained us a few weeks.   In this city, I received the  following letter from Elizabeth:— “To Victor Frankenstein. “My Dearest Friend, “It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive  a letter from my uncle dated at Paris;   you are no longer at a formidable distance, and  I may hope to see you in less than a fortnight.   My poor cousin, how much you must have suffered!   I expect to see you looking even more ill than  when you quitted Geneva. This winter has been   passed most miserably, tortured as I have been  by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in   your countenance, and to find that your heart is  not totally devoid of comfort and tranquillity. “Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that  made you so miserable a year ago, even perhaps   augmented by time. I would not disturb you at this  period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you;   but a conversation that I had with  my uncle previous to his departure   renders some explanation necessary before we meet. “Explanation! you may possibly say;  what can Elizabeth have to explain?   If you really say this, my questions are answered,   and I have no more to do than to sign myself your  affectionate cousin. But you are distant from me,   and it is possible that you may dread, and  yet be pleased with this explanation; and,   in a probability of this being the case, I dare  not any longer postpone writing what, during   your absence, I have often wished to express to  you, but have never had the courage to begin. “You well know, Victor, that our union had  been the favourite plan of your parents ever   since our infancy. We were told this when  young, and taught to look forward to it as   an event that would certainly take place. We were  affectionate playfellows during childhood, and,   I believe, dear and valued friends  to one another as we grew older.   But as brother and sister often entertain a  lively affection towards each other, without   desiring a more intimate union, may not such also  be our case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me,   I conjure you, by our mutual happiness,  with simple truth—Do you not love another? “You have travelled; you have spent several years  of your life at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you,   my friend, that when I saw you last autumn so  unhappy, flying to solitude, from the society   of every creature, I could not help supposing  that you might regret our connexion, and believe   yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of  your parents, although they opposed themselves to   your inclinations. But this is false reasoning.  I confess to you, my cousin, that I love you,   and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have  been my constant friend and companion. But it is   your happiness I desire as well as my own, when I  declare to you, that our marriage would render me   eternally miserable, unless it were the dictate  of your own free choice. Even now I weep to think,   that, borne down as you are by the cruelest  misfortunes, you may stifle, by the word honour,   all hope of that love and happiness which would  alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so   interested an affection for you, may increase your  miseries ten-fold, by being an obstacle to your   wishes. Ah, Victor, be assured that your cousin  and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to   be made miserable by this supposition. Be happy,  my friend; and if you obey me in this one request,   remain satisfied that nothing on earth will  have the power to interrupt my tranquillity. “Do not let this letter disturb  you; do not answer it 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 smile on your lips when we meet,   occasioned by this or any other exertion  of mine, I shall need no other happiness. “Elizabeth Lavenza. “Geneva, May 18th, 17—.” This letter revived in my memory what I had  before forgotten, the threat of the fiend—“I   will be with you on your wedding-night!” Such was  my sentence, and on that night would the dæmon   employ every art to destroy me, and tear me from  the glimpse of happiness which promised partly   to console my sufferings. On that night he had  determined to consummate his crimes by my death.   Well, be it so; a deadly struggle  would then assuredly take place,   in which if he was victorious, I should be  at peace, and his power over me be at an end.   If he were vanquished, I should be a  free man. Alas! what freedom? such as   the peasant enjoys when his family have been  massacred before his eyes, his cottage burnt,   his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift,  homeless, pennyless, and alone, but free.   Such would be my liberty, except that  in my Elizabeth I possessed a treasure;   alas! balanced by those horrors of remorse  and guilt, which would pursue me until death. Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and  re-read her letter, and some softened   feelings stole into my heart, and dared to  whisper paradisaical dreams of love and joy;   but the apple was already eaten, and the  angel’s arm bared to drive me from all hope.   Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster  executed his threat, death was inevitable;   yet, again, I considered whether my marriage  would hasten my fate. My destruction might   indeed arrive a few months sooner; but if my  torturer should suspect that I postponed it,   influenced by his menaces, he would surely find  other, and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge.   He had vowed to be with me on my wedding-night,  yet he did not consider that threat as binding   him to peace in the mean time; for, as if to  shew me that he was not yet satiated with blood,   he had murdered Clerval immediately  after the enunciation of his threats.   I resolved, therefore, that if my immediate union  with my cousin would conduce either to her’s or my   father’s happiness, my adversary’s designs against  my life should not retard it a single hour. In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth.  My letter was calm and affectionate.   “I fear, my beloved girl,” I said, “little  happiness remains for us on earth; yet all that   I may one day enjoy is concentered in you. Chase  away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate   my life, and my endeavours for contentment.  I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one;   when revealed to you, it will chill  your frame with horror, and then,   far from being surprised at my misery, you will  only wonder that I survive what I have endured.   I will confide this tale of misery and terror to  you the day after our marriage shall take place;   for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect  confidence between us. But until then, I conjure   you, do not mention or allude to it. This I most  earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply.” In about a week after the arrival of  Elizabeth’s letter, we returned to Geneva.   My cousin welcomed me with warm affection;  yet tears were in her eyes, as she beheld   my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I  saw a change in her also. She was thinner,   and had lost much of that heavenly vivacity  that had before charmed me; but her gentleness,   and soft looks of compassion, made her a more fit  companion for one blasted and miserable as I was. The tranquillity which I  now enjoyed did not endure.   Memory brought madness with it; and when I thought  on what had passed, a real insanity possessed me;   sometimes I was furious, and burnt with rage,  sometimes low and despondent. I neither spoke   or looked, but sat motionless, bewildered by  the multitude of miseries that overcame me. Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from  these fits; her gentle voice would soothe   me when transported by passion, and inspire  me with human feelings when sunk in torpor.   She wept with me, and for  me. When reason returned,   she would remonstrate, and endeavour  to inspire me with resignation.   Ah! it is well for the unfortunate to be resigned,  but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies   of remorse poison the luxury there is otherwise  sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief. Soon after my arrival my father spoke  of my immediate marriage with my cousin.   I remained silent. “Have you, then, some other attachment?” “None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look forward  to our union with delight. Let the day therefore   be fixed; and on it I will consecrate myself, in  life or death, to the happiness of my cousin.” “My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy  misfortunes have befallen us; but let us only   cling closer to what remains, and transfer our  love for those whom we have lost to those who yet   live. Our circle will be small, but bound close  by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune.   And when time shall have softened  your despair, new and dear objects   of care will be born to replace those of  whom we have been so cruelly deprived.” Such were the lessons of my father. But to  me the remembrance of the threat returned:   nor can you wonder, that, omnipotent as the  fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood,   I should almost regard him as invincible; and  that when he had pronounced the words, “I shall   be with you on your wedding-night,” I should  regard the threatened fate as unavoidable. But   death was no evil to me, if the loss of Elizabeth  were balanced with it; and I therefore, with a   contented and even cheerful countenance, agreed  with my father, that if my cousin would consent,   the ceremony should take place in ten days, and  thus put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate. Great God! if for one instant I had thought what  might be the hellish intention of my fiendish   adversary, I would rather have banished  myself for ever from my native country,   and wandered a friendless outcast over the earth,  than have consented to this miserable marriage.   But, as if possessed of magic powers, the  monster had blinded me to his real intentions;   and when I thought that I prepared only my own  death, I hastened that of a far dearer victim. As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer,   whether from cowardice or a prophetic  feeling, I felt my heart sink within me.   But I concealed my feelings by an appearance  of hilarity, that brought smiles and joy to the   countenance of my father, but hardly deceived  the ever-watchful and nicer eye of Elizabeth.   She looked forward to our union with placid  contentment, not unmingled with a little fear,   which past misfortunes had impressed, that what  now appeared certain and tangible happiness,   might soon dissipate into an airy dream, and  leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret. Preparations were made for the event;  congratulatory visits were received;   and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut  up, as well as I could, in my own heart   the anxiety that preyed there, and entered with  seeming earnestness into the plans of my father,   although they might only serve  as the decorations of my tragedy.   A house was purchased for us near Cologny,  by which we should enjoy the pleasures of the   country, and yet be so near Geneva as to see my  father every day; who would still reside within   the walls, for the benefit of Ernest, that  he might follow his studies at the schools. In the mean time I took every precaution to  defend my person, in case the fiend should   openly attack me. I carried pistols and a  dagger constantly about me, and was ever   on the watch to prevent artifice; and by these  means gained a greater degree of tranquillity.   Indeed, as the period approached, the  threat appeared more as a delusion,   not to be regarded as worthy to disturb my peace,  while the happiness I hoped for in my marriage   wore a greater appearance of certainty, as the  day fixed for its solemnization drew nearer, and   I heard it continually spoken of as an occurrence  which no accident could possibly prevent. Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour  contributed greatly to calm her mind.   But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes  and my destiny, she was melancholy, and a   presentiment of evil pervaded her; and perhaps  also she thought of the dreadful secret, which I   had promised to reveal to her the following day.  My father was in the mean time overjoyed, and,   in the bustle of preparation, only observed in the  melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride. After the ceremony was performed, a  large party assembled at my father’s;   but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should pass  the afternoon and night at Evian, and return to   Cologny the next morning. As the day was fair, and  the wind favourable, we resolved to go by water. Those were the last moments of my life during  which I enjoyed the feeling of happiness.   We passed rapidly along: the sun was hot, but we  were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy,   while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene,  sometimes on one side of the lake, where we   saw Mont Salêve, the pleasant banks of Montalêgre,  and at a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful   Mont Blânc, and the assemblage of snowy  mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her;   sometimes coasting the opposite banks,  we saw the mighty Jura opposing its   dark side to the ambition that  would quit its native country,   and an almost insurmountable barrier to  the invader who should wish to enslave it. I took the hand of Elizabeth: “You are sorrowful,  my love. Ah! if you knew what I have suffered,   and what I may yet endure, you would endeavour to  let me taste the quiet, and freedom from despair,   that this one day at least permits me to enjoy.” “Be happy, my dear Victor,” replied Elizabeth;  “there is, I hope, nothing to distress you;   and be assured that if a lively joy is not  painted in my face, my heart is contented.   Something whispers to me not to depend too  much on the prospect that is opened before us;   but I will not listen to such a sinister voice.   Observe how fast we move along, and how the  clouds which sometimes obscure, and sometimes   rise above the dome of Mont Blânc, render this  scene of beauty still more interesting. Look   also at the innumerable fish that are swimming in  the clear waters, where we can distinguish every   pebble that lies at the bottom. What a divine  day! how happy and serene all nature appears!” Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her  thoughts and mine from all reflection   upon melancholy subjects. But her temper  was fluctuating; joy for a few instants   shone in her eyes, but it continually  gave place to distraction and reverie. The sun sunk lower in the heavens;  we passed the river Drance,   and observed its path through the chasms of  the higher, and the glens of the lower hills.   The Alps here come closer to the lake, and  we approached the amphitheatre of mountains   which forms its eastern boundary. The spire of  Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it,   and the range of mountain above  mountain by which it was overhung. The wind, which had hitherto carried us along  with amazing rapidity, sunk at sunset to a light   breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water,  and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as   we approached the shore, from which it wafted  the most delightful scent of flowers and hay.   The sun sunk beneath the horizon as  we landed; and as I touched the shore,   I felt those cares and fears revive, which soon  were to clasp me, and cling to me for ever. CHAPTER VI. It was eight o’clock when we landed;   we walked for a short time on the  shore, enjoying the transitory light,   and then retired to the inn, and  contemplated the lovely scene of waters,   woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness,  yet still displaying their black outlines. The wind, which had fallen in the south,  now rose with great violence in the west.   The moon had reached her summit in the  heavens, and was beginning to descend;   the clouds swept across it swifter than the  flight of the vulture, and dimmed her rays,   while the lake reflected the scene of the  busy heavens, rendered still busier by the   restless waves that were beginning to rise.  Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended. I had been calm during the day; but so soon  as night obscured the shapes of objects,   a thousand fears arose in my mind.   I was anxious and watchful, while my right hand  grasped a pistol which was hidden in my bosom;   every sound terrified me; but I resolved that  I would sell my life dearly, and not relax the   impending conflict until my own life, or  that of my adversary, were extinguished. Elizabeth observed my agitation for  some time in timid and fearful silence;   at length she said, “What is it that agitates  you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear?” “Oh! peace, peace, my love,” replied  I, “this night, and all will be safe:   but this night is dreadful, very dreadful.” I passed an hour in this state of mind, when  suddenly I reflected how dreadful the combat   which I momentarily expected would be to my  wife, and I earnestly entreated her to retire,   resolving not to join her until I had obtained  some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy. She left me, and I continued some time walking up  and down the passages of the house, and inspecting   every corner that might afford a retreat to my  adversary. But I discovered no trace of him,   and was beginning to conjecture that  some fortunate chance had intervened   to prevent the execution of his menaces; when  suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream.   It came from the room into which Elizabeth had  retired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed   into my mind, my arms dropped, the motion  of every muscle and fibre was suspended;   I could feel the blood trickling in my veins,  and tingling in the extremities of my limbs.   This state lasted but for an instant; the  scream was repeated, and I rushed into the room. Great God! why did I not then expire! Why am I  here to relate the destruction of the best hope,   and the purest creature of earth. She was there,  lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed,   her head hanging down, and her pale and  distorted features half covered by her hair.   Every where I turn I see the same figure—her  bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the   murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold  this, and live? Alas! life is obstinate,   and clings closest where it is most hated. For a  moment only did I lose recollection; I fainted. When I recovered, I found myself surrounded  by the people of the inn; their countenances   expressed a breathless terror: but the horror  of others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow   of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from  them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth,   my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so  worthy. She had been moved from the posture in   which I had first beheld her; and now, as she  lay, her head upon her arm, and a handkerchief   thrown across her face and neck, I might have  supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her, and   embraced her with ardour; but the deathly languor  and coldness of the limbs told me, that what I now   held in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth  whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous   mark of the fiend’s grasp was on her neck, and  the breath had ceased to issue from her lips. While I still hung over her in the  agony of despair, I happened to look up.   The windows of the room had before been darkened;   and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale  yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber.   The shutters had been thrown back; and, with a  sensation of horror not to be described, I saw   at the open window a figure the most hideous and  abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster;   he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger  he pointed towards the corpse of my wife.   I rushed towards the window, and drawing a  pistol from my bosom, shot; but he eluded me,   leaped from his station, and, running with the  swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake. The report of the pistol brought a crowd into  the room. I pointed to the spot where he had   disappeared, and we followed the track  with boats; nets were cast, but in vain.   After passing several hours, we returned  hopeless, most of my companions believing   it to have been a form conjured by my fancy.  After having landed, they proceeded to search   the country, parties going in different  directions among the woods and vines. I did not accompany them; I was exhausted: a  film covered my eyes, and my skin was parched   with the heat of fever. In this state I lay on  a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened;   my eyes wandered round the room, as  if to seek something that I had lost. At length I remembered that my  father would anxiously expect the   return of Elizabeth and myself,  and that I must return alone.   This reflection brought tears into  my eyes, and I wept for a long time;   but my thoughts rambled to various subjects,  reflecting on my misfortunes, and their cause.   I was bewildered in a cloud of wonder and horror.  The death of William, the execution of Justine,   the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my wife; even  at that moment I knew not that my only remaining   friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend;  my father even now might be writhing under his   grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This  idea made me shudder, and recalled me to action.   I started up, and resolved to return  to Geneva with all possible speed. There were no horses to be procured,  and I must return by the lake;   but the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell  in torrents. However, it was hardly morning,   and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night.  I hired men to row, and took an oar myself, for I   had always experienced relief from mental torment  in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery   I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I  endured, rendered me incapable of any exertion.   I threw down the oar; and, leaning my head upon my  hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose.   If I looked up, I saw the scenes which were  familiar to me in my happier time, and which I had   contemplated but the day before in the company of  her who was now but a shadow and a recollection.   Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain had  ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish   play in the waters as they had done a few hours  before; they had then been observed by Elizabeth.   Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a  great and sudden change. The sun might shine,   or the clouds might lour; but nothing could  appear to me as it had done the day before.   A fiend had snatched from me every hope of  future happiness: no creature had ever been   so miserable as I was; so frightful an  event is single in the history of man. But why should I dwell upon the incidents  that followed this last overwhelming event.   Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have reached  their acme, and what I must now relate can but   be tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my  friends were snatched away; I was left desolate.   My own strength is exhausted; and I must tell, in  a few words, what remains of my hideous narration. I arrived at Geneva. My father and  Ernest yet lived; but the former   sunk under the tidings that I bore. I see  him now, excellent and venerable old man!   his eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had  lost their charm and their delight—his niece,   his more than daughter, whom he doated on with  all that affection which a man feels, who,   in the decline of life, having few affections,  clings more earnestly to those that remain.   Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery  on his grey hairs, and doomed him to waste in   wretchedness! He could not live under the  horrors that were accumulated around him;   an apoplectic fit was brought on,  and in a few days he died in my arms. What then became of me? I know not; I lost  sensation, and chains and darkness were the   only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes,  indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery   meadows and pleasant vales with the friends of my  youth; but awoke, and found myself in a dungeon.   Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a  clear conception of my miseries and situation,   and was then released from my  prison. For they had called me mad;   and during many months, as I understood,  a solitary cell had been my habitation. But liberty had been a useless gift to  me had I not, as I awakened to reason,   at the same time awakened to revenge. As the  memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me,   I began to reflect on their  cause—the monster whom I had created,   the miserable dæmon whom I had sent  abroad into the world for my destruction.   I was possessed by a maddening rage when I  thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed   that I might have him within my grasp to wreak  a great and signal revenge on his cursed head. Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless  wishes; I began to reflect on the best means of   securing him; and for this purpose, about a month  after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge   in the town, and told him that I had an accusation  to make; that I knew the destroyer of my family;   and that I required him to exert his whole  authority for the apprehension of the murderer. The magistrate listened to me with  attention and kindness: “Be assured,   sir,” said he, “no pains or exertions on my  part shall be spared to discover the villain.” “I thank you,” replied I; “listen, therefore,  to the deposition that I have to make.   It is indeed a tale so strange, that  I should fear you would not credit it,   were there not something in truth which,  however wonderful, forces conviction.   The story is too connected to be mistaken for  a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood.”   My manner, as I thus addressed him, was  impressive, but calm; I had formed in my   own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer  to death; and this purpose quieted my agony,   and provisionally reconciled me to life. I now  related my history briefly, but with firmness   and precision, marking the dates with accuracy,  and never deviating into invective or exclamation. The magistrate appeared at first perfectly  incredulous, but as I continued he became   more attentive and interested; I saw  him sometimes shudder with horror,   at others a lively surprise, unmingled with  disbelief, was painted on his countenance. When I had concluded my narration, I  said. “This is the being whom I accuse,   and for whose detection and punishment I  call upon you to exert your whole power.   It is your duty as a magistrate, and I  believe and hope that your feelings as   a man will not revolt from the execution  of those functions on this occasion.” This address caused a considerable change in the  physiognomy of my auditor. He had heard my story   with that half kind of belief that is given  to a tale of spirits and supernatural events;   but when he was called upon to act officially in  consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity   returned. He, however, answered mildly, “I would  willingly afford you every aid in your pursuit;   but the creature of whom you speak  appears to have powers which would put   all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow  an animal which can traverse the sea of ice,   and inhabit caves and dens, where  no man would venture to intrude?   Besides, some months have elapsed  since the commission of his crimes,   and no one can conjecture to what place he has  wandered, or what region he may now inhabit.” “I do not doubt that he hovers  near the spot which I inhabit;   and if he has indeed taken refuge in the  Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois,   and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive  your thoughts: you do not credit my narrative,   and do not intend to pursue my enemy  with the punishment which is his desert.” As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes;  the magistrate was intimidated; “You   are mistaken,” said he, “I will exert myself;  and if it is in my power to seize the monster,   be assured that he shall suffer punishment  proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what   you have yourself described to be his properties,  that this will prove impracticable, and that,   while every proper measure is pursued, you should  endeavour to make up your mind to disappointment.” “That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of  little avail. My revenge is of no moment to you;   yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I confess that  it is the devouring and only passion of my soul.   My rage is unspeakable, when I reflect that the  murderer, whom I have turned loose upon society,   still exists. You refuse my just  demand: I have but one resource;   and I devote myself, either in my  life or death, to his destruction.” I trembled with excess of agitation as I  said this; there was a phrenzy in my manner,   and something, I doubt not, of that haughty  fierceness, which the martyrs of old are said to   have possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose  mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of   devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had  much the appearance of madness. He endeavoured   to soothe me as a nurse does a child, and  reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium. “Man,” I cried, “how ignorant art  thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease;   you know not what it is you say.” I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and  retired to meditate on some other mode of action. CHAPTER VII. My present situation was   one in which all voluntary thought was swallowed  up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge   alone endowed me with strength and composure;  it modelled my feelings, and allowed me to be   calculating and calm, at periods when otherwise  delirium or death would have been my portion. My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever;  my country, which, when I was happy and beloved,   was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became  hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money,   together with a few jewels which had  belonged to my mother, and departed. And now my wanderings began,  which are to cease but with life.   I have traversed a vast portion  of the earth, and have endured all   the hardships which travellers, in deserts  and barbarous countries, are wont to meet.   How I have lived I hardly know; many times have I  stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain,   and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive;  I dared not die, and leave my adversary in being. When I quitted Geneva, my first labour  was to gain some clue by which I might   trace the steps of my fiendish  enemy. But my plan was unsettled;   and I wandered many hours around the confines of  the town, uncertain what path I should pursue.   As night approached, I found myself at the  entrance of the cemetery where William,   Elizabeth, and my father, reposed. I entered it,  and approached the tomb which marked their graves.   Every thing was silent, except the leaves of the  trees, which were gently agitated by the wind;   the night was nearly dark; and the scene  would have been solemn and affecting even   to an uninterested observer. The spirits  of the departed seemed to flit around,   and to cast a shadow, which was felt but  seen not, around the head of the mourner. The deep grief which this scene had at first  excited quickly gave way to rage and despair.   They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also  lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my weary   existence. I knelt on the grass, and kissed the  earth, and with quivering lips exclaimed, “By the   sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that  wander near me, by the deep and eternal grief that   I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and by  the spirits that preside over thee, I swear to   pursue the dæmon, who caused this misery, until  he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For   this purpose I will preserve my life: to execute  this dear revenge, will I again behold the sun,   and tread the green herbage of earth, which  otherwise should vanish from my eyes for ever.   And I call on you, spirits of the dead; and  on you, wandering ministers of vengeance,   to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the  cursed and hellish monster drink deep of agony;   let him feel the despair that now torments me.” I had begun my adjuration with solemnity,  and an awe which almost assured me that   the shades of my murdered friends  heard and approved my devotion;   but the furies possessed me as I  concluded, and rage choaked my utterance. I was answered through the stillness of night  by a loud and fiendish laugh. It rung on my   ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed  it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with   mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I  should have been possessed by phrenzy, and have   destroyed my miserable existence, but that my vow  was heard, and that I was reserved for vengeance.   The laughter died away: when a  well-known and abhorred voice,   apparently close to my ear, addressed me  in an audible whisper—“I am satisfied:   miserable wretch! you have determined  to live, and I am satisfied.” I darted towards the spot from which the sound  proceeded; but the devil eluded my grasp.   Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose,   and shone full upon his ghastly and distorted  shape, as he fled with more than mortal speed. I pursued him; and for many months this has been  my task. Guided by a slight clue, I followed   the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The blue  Mediterranean appeared; and, by a strange chance,   I saw the fiend enter by night, and hide  himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea.   I took my passage in the same ship;  but he escaped, I know not how. Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although  he still evaded me, I have ever followed in his   track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by this  horrid apparition, informed me of his path;   sometimes he himself, who feared that if I lost  all trace I should despair and die, often left   some mark to guide me. The snows descended on  my head, and I saw the print of his huge step   on the white plain. To you first entering on  life, to whom care is new, and agony unknown,   how can you understand what I have felt,  and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue,   were the least pains which I was destined to  endure; I was cursed by some devil, and carried   about with me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit  of good followed and directed my steps, and,   when I most murmured, would suddenly extricate  me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties.   Sometimes, when nature, overcome by hunger, sunk  under the exhaustion, a repast was prepared for me   in the desert, that restored and inspirited  me. The fare was indeed coarse, such as the   peasants of the country ate; but I may not doubt  that it was set there by the spirits that I had   invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the  heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst,   a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed  the few drops that revived me, and vanish. I followed, when I could, the courses of the  rivers; but the dæmon generally avoided these,   as it was here that the population of the country  chiefly collected. In other places human beings   were seldom seen; and I generally subsisted  on the wild animals that crossed my path.   I had money with me, and gained the friendship  of the villagers by distributing it,   or bringing with me some food that I had  killed, which, after taking a small part,   I always presented to those who had provided  me with fire and utensils for cooking. My life, as it passed thus, was indeed  hateful to me, and it was during sleep   alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep!  often, when most miserable, I sank to repose,   and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The  spirits that guarded me had provided these   moments, or rather hours, of happiness, that I  might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage.   Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk under  my hardships. During the day I was sustained and   inspirited by the hope of night: for in sleep I  saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved country;   again I saw the benevolent countenance of my  father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth’s   voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and  youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome march,   I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night  should come, and that I should then enjoy reality   in the arms of my dearest friends. What agonizing  fondness did I feel for them! how did I cling   to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted  even my waking hours, and persuade myself that   they still lived! At such moments vengeance,  that burned within me, died in my heart, and   I pursued my path towards the destruction of the  dæmon, more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the   mechanical impulse of some power of which I was  unconscious, than as the ardent desire of my soul. What his feelings were whom I pursued, I  cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he left   marks in writing on the barks of the trees, or cut  in stone, that guided me, and instigated my fury.   “My reign is not yet over,” (these words  were legible in one of these inscriptions);   “you live, and my power is complete. Follow  me; I seek the everlasting ices of the north,   where you will feel the misery of cold  and frost, to which I am impassive.   You will find near this place, if you follow not  too tardily, a dead hare; eat, and be refreshed.   Come on, my enemy; we have  yet to wrestle for our lives;   but many hard and miserable hours must you  endure, until that period shall arrive.” Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance;  again do I devote thee, miserable fiend,   to torture and death. Never will I  omit my search, until he or I perish;   and then with what ecstacy  shall I join my Elizabeth,   and those who even now prepare for me the reward  of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage. As I still pursued my journey to the northward,  the snows thickened, and the cold increased   in a degree almost too severe to support.  The peasants were shut up in their hovels,   and only a few of the most hardy ventured  forth to seize the animals whom starvation   had forced from their hiding places to seek  for prey. The rivers were covered with ice,   and no fish could be procured; and thus I was  cut off from my chief article of maintenance. The triumph of my enemy increased with the  difficulty of my labours. One inscription that he   left was in these words: “Prepare! your toils only  begin: wrap yourself in furs, and provide food,   for we shall soon enter upon a journey where your  sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred.” My courage and perseverance were  invigorated by these scoffing words;   I resolved not to fail in my purpose; and,  calling on heaven to support me, I continued   with unabated fervour to traverse immense  deserts, until the ocean appeared at a distance,   and formed the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh!  how unlike it was to the blue seas of the south!   Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished  from land by its superior wildness and ruggedness.   The Greeks wept for joy when they beheld  the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia,   and hailed with rapture the boundary of their  toils. I did not weep; but I knelt down, and,   with a full heart, thanked my guiding  spirit for conducting me in safety to   the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my  adversary’s gibe, to meet and grapple with him. Some weeks before this period I had procured a  sledge and dogs, and thus traversed the snows   with inconceivable speed. I know not whether  the fiend possessed the same advantages;   but I found that, as before I had daily lost  ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him;   so much so, that when I first saw the ocean,  he was but one day’s journey in advance,   and I hoped to intercept him before he should  reach the beach. With new courage, therefore,   I pressed on, and in two days arrived  at a wretched hamlet on the seashore.   I inquired of the inhabitants concerning  the fiend, and gained accurate information.   A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the  night before, armed with a gun and many pistols;   putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary  cottage, through fear of his terrific appearance.   He had carried off their store of winter  food, and, placing it in a sledge,   to draw which he had seized on a numerous  drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them,   and the same night, to the joy of the  horror-struck villagers, had pursued his   journey across the sea in a direction that  led to no land; and they conjectured that   he must speedily be destroyed by the breaking  of the ice, or frozen by the eternal frosts. On hearing this information, I  suffered a temporary access of despair.   He had escaped me; and I must commence a  destructive and almost endless journey across   the mountainous ices of the ocean,—amidst cold  that few of the inhabitants could long endure,   and which I, the native of a genial and  sunny climate, could not hope to survive.   Yet at the idea that the fiend should live and  be triumphant, my rage and vengeance returned,   and, like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other  feeling. After a slight repose, during which the   spirits of the dead hovered round, and instigated  me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey. I exchanged my land sledge for one fashioned  for the inequalities of the frozen ocean;   and, purchasing a plentiful stock  of provisions, I departed from land. I cannot guess how many  days have passed since then;   but I have endured misery, which nothing but the  eternal sentiment of a just retribution burning   within my heart could have enabled me to support.  Immense and rugged mountains of ice often barred   up my passage, and I often heard the thunder of  the ground sea, which threatened my destruction.   But again the frost came, and  made the paths of the sea secure. By the quantity of provision which I had consumed  I should guess that I had passed three weeks in   this journey; and the continual protraction of  hope, returning back upon the heart, often wrung   bitter drops of despondency and grief from my  eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her prey,   and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery;  when once, after the poor animals that carried me   had with incredible toil gained the summit of  a sloping ice mountain, and one sinking under   his fatigue died, I viewed the expanse before me  with anguish, when suddenly my eye caught a dark   speck upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to  discover what it could be, and uttered a wild cry   of ecstacy when I distinguished a sledge, and the  distorted proportions of a well-known form within.   Oh! with what a burning gush did hope revisit my  heart! warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily   wiped away, that they might not intercept the  view I had of the dæmon; but still my sight was   dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way  to the emotions that oppressed me, I wept aloud. But this was not the time for delay; I  disencumbered the dogs of their dead companion,   gave them a plentiful portion of food; and, after  an hour’s rest, which was absolutely necessary,   and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I  continued my route. The sledge was still visible;   nor did I again lose sight of it, except at  the moments when for a short time some ice rock   concealed it with its intervening crags. I indeed  perceptibly gained on it; and when, after nearly   two days’ journey, I beheld my enemy at no more  than a mile distant, my heart bounded within me. But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of  my enemy, my hopes were suddenly extinguished,   and I lost all trace of him more  utterly than I had ever done before.   A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its  progress, as the waters rolled and swelled   beneath me, became every moment more ominous  and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain.   The wind arose; the sea roared; and, as with  the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split,   and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming  sound. The work was soon finished: in a few   minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and  my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered   piece of ice, that was continually lessening,  and thus preparing for me a hideous death. In this manner many appalling hours  passed; several of my dogs died;   and I myself was about to sink  under the accumulation of distress,   when I saw your vessel riding at anchor, and  holding forth to me hopes of succour and life.   I had no conception that vessels ever came  so far north, and was astounded at the sight.   I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to  construct oars; and by these means was enabled,   with infinite fatigue, to move my ice-raft in the  direction of your ship. I had determined, if you   were going southward, still to trust myself to the  mercy of the seas, rather than abandon my purpose.   I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with  which I could still pursue my enemy. But your   direction was northward. You took me on board when  my vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have   sunk under my multiplied hardships into a death,  which I still dread,—for my task is unfulfilled. Oh! when will my guiding spirit,  in conducting me to the dæmon,   allow me the rest I so much desire; or must  I die, and he yet live? If I do, swear to me,   Walton, that he shall not escape; that you will  seek him, and satisfy my vengeance in his death.   Yet, do I dare ask you to undertake my pilgrimage,  to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No;   I am not so selfish. Yet, when  I am dead, if he should appear;   if the ministers of vengeance should conduct him  to you, swear that he shall not live—swear that   he shall not triumph over my accumulated woes,  and live to make another such a wretch as I am.   He is eloquent and persuasive; and once his  words had even power over my heart: but trust   him not. His soul is as hellish as his form, full  of treachery and fiend-like malice. Hear him not;   call on the manes of William, Justine, Clerval,  Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor,   and thrust your sword into his heart. I will  hover near, and direct the steel aright. Walton, in continuation. August 26th, 17—. You have read this strange and terrific story,  Margaret; and do you not feel your blood congealed   with horror, like that which even now curdles  mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony,   he could not continue his tale; at others,  his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with   difficulty the words so replete with agony. His  fine and lovely eyes were now lighted up with   indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow, and  quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he   commanded his countenance and tones, and related  the most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice,   suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like  a volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly   change to an expression of the wildest rage, as  he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor. His tale is connected, and told with an appearance  of the simplest truth; yet I own to you that the   letters of Felix and Safie, which he shewed me,  and the apparition of the monster, seen from our   ship, brought to me a greater conviction of the  truth of his narrative than his asseverations,   however earnest and connected. Such  a monster has then really existence;   I cannot doubt it; yet I am lost in surprise and  admiration. Sometimes I endeavoured to gain from   Frankenstein the particulars of his creature’s  formation; but on this point he was impenetrable. “Are you mad, my friend?” said he, “or whither  does your senseless curiosity lead you? Would   you also create for yourself and the world a  demoniacal enemy? Or to what do your questions   tend? Peace, peace! learn my miseries,  and do not seek to increase your own.” Frankenstein discovered that I made notes  concerning his history: he asked to see them,   and then himself corrected and augmented them  in many places; but principally in giving the   life and spirit to the conversations he held  with his enemy. “Since you have preserved   my narration,” said he, “I would not that a  mutilated one should go down to posterity.” Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened  to the strangest tale that ever imagination   formed. My thoughts, and every feeling of my soul,  have been drunk up by the interest for my guest,   which this tale, and his own elevated and gentle  manners have created. I wish to soothe him;   yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so  destitute of every hope of consolation, to live?   Oh, no! the only joy that he can now know will  be when he composes his shattered feelings to   peace and death. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the  offspring of solitude and delirium: he believes,   that, when in dreams he holds converse with  his friends, and derives from that communion   consolation for his miseries, or excitements to  his vengeance, that they are not the creations of   his fancy, but the real beings who visit him from  the regions of a remote world. This faith gives   a solemnity to his reveries that render them to  me almost as imposing and interesting as truth. Our conversations are not always confined  to his own history and misfortunes. On every   point of general literature he displays unbounded  knowledge, and a quick and piercing apprehension.   His eloquence is forcible and touching; nor can  I hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident,   or endeavours to move the passions  of pity or love, without tears.   What a glorious creature must he have been in  the days of his prosperity, when he is thus   noble and godlike in ruin. He seems to feel  his own worth, and the greatness of his fall. “When younger,” said he, “I felt as if I were  destined for some great enterprise. My feelings   are profound; but I possessed a coolness  of judgment that fitted me for illustrious   achievements. This sentiment of the worth of  my nature supported me, when others would have   been oppressed; for I deemed it criminal to  throw away in useless grief those talents   that might be useful to my fellow-creatures.  When I reflected on the work I had completed,   no less a one than the creation of a sensitive and  rational animal, I could not rank myself with the   herd of common projectors. But this feeling, which  supported me in the commencement of my career,   now serves only to plunge me lower in the dust.  All my speculations and hopes are as nothing;   and, like the archangel who aspired  to omnipotence, I am chained in an   eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my  powers of analysis and application were intense;   by the union of these qualities I conceived the  idea, and executed the creation of a man. Even now   I cannot recollect, without passion, my reveries  while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my   thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning  with the idea of their effects. From my infancy   I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition;  but how am I sunk! Oh! my friend, if you had known   me as I once was, you would not recognize me in  this state of degradation. Despondency rarely   visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear  me on, until I fell, never, never again to rise.” Must I then lose this admirable being?   I have longed for a friend; I have sought  one who would sympathize with and love me.   Behold, on these desert seas I have found  such a one; but, I fear, I have gained him   only to know his value, and lose him. I would  reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea. “I thank you, Walton,” he said, “for your kind  intentions towards so miserable a wretch; but   when you speak of new ties, and fresh affections,  think you that any can replace those who are gone?   Can any man be to me as Clerval  was; or any woman another Elizabeth?   Even where the affections are not strongly moved  by any superior excellence, the companions of our   childhood always possess a certain power over our  minds, which hardly any later friend can obtain.   They know our infantine dispositions, which,  however they may be afterwards modified, are never   eradicated; and they can judge of our actions  with more certain conclusions as to the integrity   of our motives. A sister or a brother can never,  unless indeed such symptoms have been shewn early,   suspect the other of fraud or false dealing,  when another friend, however strongly he may   be attached, may, in spite of himself, be invaded  with suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not   only through habit and association, but from their  own merits; and, wherever I am, the soothing voice   of my Elizabeth, and the conversation of  Clerval, will be ever whispered in my ear.   They are dead; and but one feeling in such a  solitude can persuade me to preserve my life.   If I were engaged in any high undertaking or  design, fraught with extensive utility to my   fellow-creatures, then could I live to fulfil  it. But such is not my destiny; I must pursue and   destroy the being to whom I gave existence; then  my lot on earth will be fulfilled, and I may die.” September 2d. My Beloved Sister, I write to you, encompassed by peril, and  ignorant whether I am ever doomed to see   again dear England, and the dearer friends that  inhabit it. I am surrounded by mountains of ice,   which admit of no escape, and threaten every  moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows, whom   I have persuaded to be my companions, look towards  me for aid; but I have none to bestow. There is   something terribly appalling in our situation,  yet my courage and hopes do not desert me. We   may survive; and if we do not, I will repeat the  lessons of my Seneca, and die with a good heart. Yet what, Margaret, will be the state of your  mind? You will not hear of my destruction,   and you will anxiously await my return. Years  will pass, and you will have visitings of despair,   and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! my beloved  sister, the sickening failings of your   heart-felt expectations are, in prospect,  more terrible to me than my own death.   But you have a husband, and lovely children; you  may be happy: heaven bless you, and make you so! My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest  compassion. He endeavours to fill me with hope;   and talks as if life were a possession which he  valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents   have happened to other navigators, who have  attempted this sea, and, in spite of myself, he   fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors  feel the power of his eloquence: when he speaks,   they no longer despair: he rouses their energies,  and, while they hear his voice, they believe these   vast mountains of ice are mole-hills, which  will vanish before the resolutions of man.   These feelings are transitory; each day’s  expectation delayed fills them with fear,   and I almost dread a mutiny  caused by this despair. September 5th. A scene has just passed of such uncommon  interest, that although it is highly   probable that these papers may never reach  you, yet I cannot forbear recording it. We are still surrounded by mountains of ice,  still in imminent danger of being crushed in   their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many  of my unfortunate comrades have already found   a grave amidst this scene of desolation.  Frankenstein has daily declined in health:   a feverish fire still glimmers  in his eyes; but he is exhausted,   and, when suddenly roused to any exertion, he  speedily sinks again into apparent lifelessness. I mentioned in my last letter the fears I  entertained of a mutiny. This morning, as I sat   watching the wan countenance of my friend—his eyes  half closed, and his limbs hanging listlessly,—I   was roused by half a dozen of the sailors, who  desired admission into the cabin. They entered;   and their leader addressed me. He told me that he  and his companions had been chosen by the other   sailors to come in deputation to me, to make me  a demand, which, in justice, I could not refuse.   We were immured in ice, and should probably never  escape; but they feared that if, as was possible,   the ice should dissipate, and a free passage  be opened, I should be rash enough to continue   my voyage, and lead them into fresh dangers,  after they might happily have surmounted this.   They desired, therefore, that I  should engage with a solemn promise,   that if the vessel should be freed, I  would instantly direct my coarse southward. This speech troubled me. I had not despaired;  nor had I yet conceived the idea of returning,   if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or  even in possibility, refuse this demand?   I hesitated before I answered; when  Frankenstein, who had at first been silent,   and, indeed, appeared hardly to have force enough  to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled,   and his cheeks flushed with momentary  vigour. Turning towards the men, he said— “What do you mean? What do you demand of your  captain? Are you then so easily turned from   your design? Did you not call this a glorious  expedition? and wherefore was it glorious?   Not because the way was smooth and placid as a  southern sea, but because it was full of dangers   and terror; because, at every new incident, your  fortitude was to be called forth, and your courage   exhibited; because danger and death surrounded,  and these dangers you were to brave and overcome.   For this was it a glorious, for this  was it an honourable undertaking.   You were hereafter to be hailed as the  benefactors of your species; your name adored,   as belonging to brave men who encountered  death for honour and the benefit of mankind.   And now, behold, with the first imagination of  danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and   terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away,  and are content to be handed down as men who had   not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and  so, poor souls, they were chilly, and returned   to their warm fire-sides. Why, that requires not  this preparation; ye need not have come thus far,   and dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat,  merely to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! be men, or   be more than men. Be steady to your purposes, and  firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff   as your hearts might be; it is mutable, cannot  withstand you, if you say that it shall not.   Do not return to your families with the stigma of  disgrace marked on your brows. Return as heroes   who have fought and conquered, and who know  not what it is to turn their backs on the foe.” He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the  different feelings expressed in his speech,   with an eye so full of lofty design and heroism,  that can you wonder that these men were moved.   They looked at one another, and were unable  to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire,   and consider of what had been said: that I would  not lead them further north, if they strenuously   desired the contrary; but that I hoped that,  with reflection, their courage would return. They retired, and I turned towards my friend;   but he was sunk in languor,  and almost deprived of life. How all this will terminate, I know not; but  I had rather die, than return shamefully,—my   purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will  be my fate; the men, unsupported by ideas   of glory and honour, can never willingly  continue to endure their present hardships. September 7th. The die is cast; I have consented  to return, if we are not destroyed.   Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and  indecision; I come back ignorant and disappointed.   It requires more philosophy than I possess,  to bear this injustice with patience. September 12th. It is past; I am returning to England. I  have lost my hopes of utility and glory;—I   have lost my friend. But I will endeavour  to detail these bitter circumstances to you,   my dear sister; and, while I am wafted towards  England, and towards you, I will not despond. September 19th, the ice began to move, and  roarings like thunder were heard at a distance,   as the islands split and cracked in every  direction. We were in the most imminent peril;   but, as we could only remain passive, my chief  attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest,   whose illness increased in such a degree,  that he was entirely confined to his bed.   The ice cracked behind us, and was  driven with force towards the north;   a breeze sprung from the west, and on the 11th the  passage towards the south became perfectly free.   When the sailors saw this, and that their return  to their native country was apparently assured,   a shout of tumultuous joy broke  from them, loud and long-continued.   Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke,  and asked the cause of the tumult.   “They shout,” I said, “because  they will soon return to England.” “Do you then really return?” “Alas! yes; I cannot withstand their demands.   I cannot lead them unwillingly  to danger, and I must return.” “Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may  give up your purpose; but mine is assigned   to me by heaven, and I dare not. I am weak; but  surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will   endow me with sufficient strength.” Saying  this, he endeavoured to spring from the bed,   but the exertion was too great for  him; he fell back, and fainted. It was long before he was restored; and I  often thought that life was entirely extinct.   At length he opened his eyes, but he breathed  with difficulty, and was unable to speak.   The surgeon gave him a composing draught,  and ordered us to leave him undisturbed.   In the mean time he told me, that my friend  had certainly not many hours to live. His sentence was pronounced; and I could only  grieve, and be patient. I sat by his bed watching   him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept;  but presently he called to me in a feeble voice,   and, bidding me come near, said—“Alas! the  strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I   shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor,  may still be in being. Think not, Walton,   that in the last moments of my existence I feel  that burning hatred, and ardent desire of revenge,   I once expressed, but I feel myself justified in  desiring the death of my adversary. During these   last days I have been occupied in examining  my past conduct; nor do I find it blameable.   In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a  rational creature, and was bound towards him,   to assure, as far as was in my power, his  happiness and well-being. This was my duty;   but there was another still paramount to that.  My duties towards my fellow-creatures had greater   claims to my attention, because they included  a greater proportion of happiness or misery.   Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right  in refusing, to create a companion for the first   creature. He shewed unparalleled malignity and  selfishness, in evil: he destroyed my friends;   he devoted to destruction beings who possessed  exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom;   nor do I know where this thirst for vengeance  may end. Miserable himself, that he may render   no other wretched, he ought to die. The task  of his destruction was mine, but I have failed.   When actuated by selfish and vicious motives,  I asked you to undertake my unfinished work;   and I renew this request now, when I  am only induced by reason and virtue. “Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your  country and friends, to fulfil this task;   and now, that you are returning to England, you  will have little chance of meeting with him.   But the consideration of these points, and the  well-balancing of what you may esteem your duties,   I leave to you; my judgment and ideas are  already disturbed by the near approach of death.   I dare not ask you to do what I think  right, for I may still be misled by passion. “That he should live to be an instrument of  mischief disturbs me; in other respects this hour,   when I momentarily expect my release, is the only  happy one which I have enjoyed for several years.   The forms of the beloved dead flit  before me, and I hasten to their arms.   Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity,  and avoid ambition, even if it be only the   apparently innocent one of distinguishing  yourself in science and discoveries.   Yet why do I say this? I have myself been  blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed.” His voice became fainter as he spoke; and at  length, exhausted by his effort, he sunk into   silence. About half an hour afterwards he  attempted again to speak, but was unable;   he pressed my hand feebly,  and his eyes closed for ever,   while the irradiation of a gentle  smile passed away from his lips. Margaret, what comment can I make on  the untimely extinction of this glorious   spirit? What can I say, that will enable  you to understand the depth of my sorrow?   All that I should express would be inadequate and  feeble. My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by   a cloud of disappointment. But I journey towards  England, and I may there find consolation. I am interrupted. What do these  sounds portend? It is midnight;   the breeze blows fairly, and  the watch on deck scarcely stir.   Again; there is a sound as of a human voice,  but hoarser; it comes from the cabin where the   remains of Frankenstein still lie. I must  arise, and examine. Good night, my sister. Great God! what a scene has just  taken place! I am yet dizzy with   the remembrance of it. I hardly know whether  I shall have the power to detail it; yet the   tale which I have recorded would be incomplete  without this final and wonderful catastrophe. I entered the cabin, where lay the remains  of my ill-fated and admirable friend.   Over him hung a form which I cannot find words  to describe; gigantic in stature, yet uncouth   and distorted in its proportions. As he hung over  the coffin, his face was concealed by long locks   of ragged hair; but one vast hand was extended, in  colour and apparent texture like that of a mummy.   When he heard the sound of my approach, he  ceased to utter exclamations of grief and horror,   and sprung towards the window. Never did  I behold a vision so horrible as his face,   of such loathsome, yet appalling hideousness.  I shut my eyes involuntarily, and endeavoured   to recollect what were my duties with regard  to this destroyer. I called on him to stay. He paused, looking on me with wonder; and,   again turning towards the lifeless form of  his creator, he seemed to forget my presence,   and every feature and gesture seemed instigated by  the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion. “That is also my victim!” he exclaimed;  “in his murder my crimes are consummated;   the miserable series of my being is wound  to its close! Oh, Frankenstein! generous   and self-devoted being! what does it avail that  I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably   destroyed thee by destroying all thou lovedst.  Alas! he is cold; he may not answer me.” His voice seemed suffocated; and my first  impulses, which had suggested to me the duty   of obeying the dying request of my friend, in  destroying his enemy, were now suspended by a   mixture of curiosity and compassion. I approached  this tremendous being; I dared not again raise my   looks upon his face, there was something  so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness.   I attempted to speak, but the words died  away on my lips. The monster continued to   utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches. At  length I gathered resolution to address him,   in a pause of the tempest of his passion:  “Your repentance,” I said, “is now superfluous.   If you had listened to the voice of conscience,  and heeded the stings of remorse, before you had   urged your diabolical vengeance to this  extremity, Frankenstein would yet have lived.” “And do you dream?” said the dæmon; “do you think  that I was then dead to agony and remorse?—He,”   he continued, pointing to the corpse, “he suffered  not more in the consummation of the deed;—oh! not   the ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was  mine during the lingering detail of its execution.   A frightful selfishness hurried me on,  while my heart was poisoned with remorse.   Think ye that the groans of Clerval were  music to my ears? My heart was fashioned   to be susceptible of love and sympathy; and,  when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred,   it did not endure the violence of the change  without torture such as you cannot even imagine. “After the murder of Clerval, I returned  to Switzerland, heart-broken and overcome.   I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror:  I abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he,   the author at once of my existence and of its  unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness;   that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair  upon me, he sought his own enjoyment in feelings   and passions from the indulgence of which I  was for ever barred, then impotent envy and   bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable  thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat, and   resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew  that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture;   but I was the slave, not the master of an  impulse, which I detested, yet could not disobey.   Yet when she died!—nay, then I was not miserable.  I had cast off all feeling, subdued all anguish to   riot in the excess of my despair. Evil thenceforth  became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice   but to adapt my nature to an element which  I had willingly chosen. The completion of my   demoniacal design became an insatiable passion.  And now it is ended; there is my last victim!” I was at first touched by the expressions of  his misery; yet when I called to mind what   Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence  and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on   the lifeless form of my friend, indignation  was re-kindled within me. “Wretch!” I said,   “it is well that you come here to whine over  the desolation that you have made. You throw   a torch into a pile of buildings, and when  they are consumed you sit among the ruins,   and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend! if he  whom you mourn still lived, still would he be   the object, again would he become the prey of your  accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you feel;   you lament only because the victim of your  malignity is withdrawn from your power.” “Oh, it is not thus—not thus,” interrupted the  being; “yet such must be the impression conveyed   to you by what appears to be the purport of my  actions. Yet I seek not a fellow-feeling in my   misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I  first sought it, it was the love of virtue,   the feelings of happiness and affection with  which my whole being overflowed, that I wished   to be participated. But now, that virtue has  become to me a shadow, and that happiness and   affection are turned into bitter and loathing  despair, in what should I seek for sympathy?   I am content to suffer alone, while my sufferings  shall endure: when I die, I am well satisfied that   abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory.  Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue,   of fame, and of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to  meet with beings, who, pardoning my outward form,   would love me for the excellent qualities which  I was capable of bringing forth. I was nourished   with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But now  vice has degraded me beneath the meanest animal.   No crime, no mischief, no malignity, no  misery, can be found comparable to mine.   When I call over the frightful catalogue  of my deeds, I cannot believe that I am he   whose thoughts were once filled with sublime  and transcendant visions of the beauty and   the majesty of goodness. But it is even so;  the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil.   Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and  associates in his desolation; I am quite alone. “You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to  have a knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes.   But, in the detail which he gave you of them,  he could not sum up the hours and months of   misery which I endured, wasting in impotent  passions. For whilst I destroyed his hopes,   I did not satisfy my own desires.  They were for ever ardent and craving;   still I desired love and fellowship, and I was  still spurned. Was there no injustice in this?   Am I to be thought the only criminal,  when all human kind sinned against me?   Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend  from his door with contumely? Why do you not   execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the  saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous   and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the  abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at,   and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my blood  boils at the recollection of this injustice. “But it is true that I am a wretch. I  have murdered the lovely and the helpless;   I have strangled the innocent as  they slept, and grasped to death his   throat who never injured me or any other  living thing. I have devoted my creator,   the select specimen of all that is worthy  of love and admiration among men, to misery;   I have pursued him even to that irremediable  ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death.   You hate me; but your abhorrence cannot equal that  with which I regard myself. I look on the hands   which executed the deed; I think on the heart  in which the imagination of it was conceived,   and long for the moment when they will meet my  eyes, when it will haunt my thoughts, no more. “Fear not that I shall be the instrument  of future mischief. My work is nearly   complete. Neither your’s nor any man’s death  is needed to consummate the series of my being,   and accomplish that which must be done; but it  requires my own. Do not think that I shall be   slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your  vessel on the ice-raft which brought me hither,   and shall seek the most northern extremity of  the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile,   and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that  its remains may afford no light to any curious and   unhallowed wretch, who would create such another  as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer   feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the  prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched.   He is dead who called me into being; and when I  shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both   will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the  sun or stars, or feel the winds play on my cheeks.   Light, feeling, and sense, will pass away; and  in this condition must I find my happiness.   Some years ago, when the images which  this world affords first opened upon me,   when I felt the cheering warmth of summer, and  heard the rustling of the leaves and the chirping   of the birds, and these were all to me, I should  have wept to die; now it is my only consolation.   Polluted by crimes, and torn by the bitterest  remorse, where can I find rest but in death? “Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of  human kind whom these eyes will ever behold.   Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive,  and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me,   it would be better satiated in  my life than in my destruction.   But it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction,  that I might not cause greater wretchedness; and   if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hast not  yet ceased to think and feel, thou desirest not my   life for my own misery. Blasted as thou wert, my  agony was still superior to thine; for the bitter   sting of remorse may not cease to rankle in my  wounds until death shall close them for ever. “But soon,” he cried, with sad and  solemn enthusiasm, “I shall die,   and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon  these burning miseries will be extinct.   I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly,  and exult in the agony of the torturing flames.   The light of that conflagration will fade away;  my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds.   My spirit will sleep in peace; or if it thinks,  it will not surely think thus. Farewell.” He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this,  upon the ice-raft which lay close to the vessel.   He was soon borne away by the waves,  and lost in darkness and distance. THE END.