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1 | 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 daydreams 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 phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in
those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal
light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and
may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to
render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my
ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited,
and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my
enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and
to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when
he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of
discovery up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false,
you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind,
to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those
countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by
ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be
effected by an undertaking such as mine. These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter,
and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for
nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a steady purpose—a
point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has been
the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts of
the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the
North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember
that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the
whole of our good Uncle Thomas’ library. My education was neglected, yet I was
passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night, and my
familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt, as a child, on
learning that my father’s dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me
to embark in a seafaring life. These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets whose
effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven. I also became a poet and
for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation; I imagined that I also
might obtain a niche in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are
consecrated. You are well acquainted with my failure and how heavily I bore the
disappointment. But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and
my thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent. Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can, even
now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great enterprise.
I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on
several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine,
thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder than the common sailors during
the day and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of
medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer
might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as
an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must
own I felt a little proud when my captain offered me the second dignity in the
vessel and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness, so valuable
did he consider my services. And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose? My
life might have been passed in ease and luxury, but I preferred glory to every
enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would
answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution 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 theirs are failing. This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly
over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion, far
more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach. The cold is not excessive,
if you are wrapped in furs—a dress which I have already adopted, for there is a
great difference between walking the deck and 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 |
2 | 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 sympathise with me, whose eyes would reply to
mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of
a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a
cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to
approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your
poor brother! I am too ardent in execution and too impatient of difficulties.
But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated: for the first
fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common and read nothing but our Uncle
Thomas’ books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated
poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power
to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction that I perceived
the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my native
country. Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality more illiterate than many
schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more and that my
daydreams are more extended and magnificent, but they want (as the painters
call it) keeping; and I greatly need a friend who would have sense
enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour
to regulate my mind. Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the
wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet some
feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged
bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage and
enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or rather, to word my phrase more
characteristically, of advancement in his profession. He is an Englishman, and
in the midst of national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by
cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first became
acquainted with him on board a whale vessel; finding that he was unemployed in
this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise. The master is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable in the
ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance,
added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage, made me very desirous
to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under your
gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of my character
that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on
board ship: I have never believed it to be necessary, and when I heard of a
mariner equally noted for his kindliness of heart and the respect and obedience
paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to
secure his services. I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a
lady who owes to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story.
Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having
amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to
the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was
bathed in tears, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her,
confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he was poor, and
that her father would never consent to the union. My generous friend reassured
the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover, instantly
abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he
had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on
his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase stock, and
then himself solicited the young woman’s father to consent to her marriage with
her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour
to my friend, who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country,
nor returned until he heard that his former mistress was married according to
her inclinations. “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim. He is so; but then
he is wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant
carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct the more
astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would
command. Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little or because I can conceive a
consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am wavering in my
resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate, and my voyage is only now delayed
until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully
severe, but the spring promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably
early season, so that perhaps I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do
nothing rashly: you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and
considerateness whenever the safety of others is committed to my care. I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of 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 or if I should come
back to you as worn and woeful as the “Ancient Mariner.” You will smile at my
allusion, but I will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment
to, my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean to that
production of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something at work
in my soul which I do not understand. I am practically industrious—painstaking,
a workman to execute with perseverance and labour—but besides this there is a
love for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined in all my
projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild
sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore. But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after having
traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or
America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the
reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to me by every
opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions when I need them most
to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection,
should you never hear from me again. Your affectionate brother,
Robert Walton |
3 | 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 merchantman now on its homeward
voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land,
perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold and
apparently firm of purpose, nor do the floating sheets of ice that continually
pass us, indicating the dangers of the region towards which we are advancing,
appear to dismay them. We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is
the height of summer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern
gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire
to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not expected. No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a letter.
One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak are accidents which
experienced navigators scarcely remember to record, and I shall be well content
if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage. Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake, as well as yours, I
will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering, and prudent. But success shall crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have
gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas, the very stars themselves
being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the
untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart and resolved
will of man? My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must finish.
Heaven bless my beloved sister! R.W. |
4 | 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 someone
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 a European. When I
appeared on deck the master said, “Here is our captain, and he will not allow
you to perish on the open sea.” On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a foreign
accent. “Before I come on board your vessel,” said he, “will you have the
kindness to inform me whither you are bound?” You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to me
from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom I should have supposed that
my vessel would have been a resource which he would not have exchanged for the
most precious wealth the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we were on
a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole. Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board. Good
God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his safety,
your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were nearly frozen, and his
body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so
wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him into the cabin, but as soon as
he had quitted the fresh air he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the
deck and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy and forcing him
to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life we wrapped him
up in blankets and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow
degrees he recovered and ate a little soup, which restored him wonderfully. Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak, and I often feared
that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he had in some
measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin and attended on him as much as
my duty would permit. I never saw a more interesting creature: his eyes have
generally an expression of wildness, and even madness, but there are moments
when, if anyone performs an act of kindness towards him or does him any the
most trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a
beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is
generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if
impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him. When my guest was a little recovered I had great trouble to keep off the men,
who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not allow him to be
tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose
restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once, however, the
lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle. His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom, and he
replied, “To seek one who fled from me.” “And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?” “Yes.” “Then I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked you up we saw some
dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice.” This aroused the stranger’s attention, and he asked a multitude of questions
concerning the route which the 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 a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the
stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck to watch for the
sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in the
cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere. I have
promised that someone should watch for him and give him instant notice if any
new object should appear in sight. Such is my 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 anyone 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 projects of others. He has frequently conversed with me
on mine, which I have communicated to him without disguise. He entered
attentively into all my arguments in favour of my eventual success and into
every minute detail of the measures I had taken to secure it. I was easily led
by the sympathy which he evinced to use the language of my heart, to give
utterance to the burning ardour of my soul and to say, with all the fervour
that warmed me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every
hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man’s life or death were but a
small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the
dominion I should acquire and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As
I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my listener’s countenance. At first I
perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before his
eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle fast from
between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused; at length
he spoke, in broken accents: “Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you
drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you
will dash the cup from your lips!” Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the paroxysm of
grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened powers, and many hours
of repose and tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his composure. Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise himself
for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of despair, he
led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He asked me the history
of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told, but it awakened various trains
of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a friend, of my thirst for a
more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than had ever fallen to my lot, and
expressed my conviction that a man could boast of little happiness who did not
enjoy this blessing. “I agree with you,” replied the stranger; “we are unfashioned creatures, but
half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves—such a friend ought
to be—do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I once
had a friend, the most noble of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to
judge respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world before you, and have
no cause for despair. But I—I have lost everything and cannot begin life anew.” As he said this his countenance became expressive of a calm, settled grief that
touched me to the heart. But he was silent and presently retired to his cabin. Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the
beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these
wonderful regions seem still to have the power of elevating his soul from
earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery and be
overwhelmed by disappointments, yet when he has retired into himself, he will
be like a celestial spirit that has a halo around him, within whose circle no
grief or folly ventures. Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine wanderer? You
would not if you saw him. You have been tutored and refined by books and
retirement from the world, and you are therefore somewhat fastidious; but this
only renders you the more fit to appreciate the extraordinary merits of this
wonderful man. Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is
which he possesses that elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I
ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment, a quick but
never-failing power of judgment, a penetration into the causes of things,
unequalled for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression
and a voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music. 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 at
one time that the memory of these evils should die with me, but you have won me
to alter my determination. You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did;
and I ardently hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent
to sting you, as mine has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters
will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same
course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am,
I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct
you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you in case of failure.
Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous. Were we
among the tamer scenes of nature I might fear to encounter your unbelief,
perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear possible in these wild and
mysterious regions which would provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with
the ever-varied powers of nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in
its series internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is
composed.” You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered communication,
yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by a recital of his
misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the promised narrative,
partly from curiosity and partly from a strong desire to ameliorate his fate if
it were in my power. I expressed these feelings in my answer. “I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is useless; my fate is
nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall repose in peace. I
understand your feeling,” continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt
him; “but you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name you;
nothing can alter my destiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how
irrevocably it is determined.” He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when I should
be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have resolved
every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to record, as
nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during the day. If I
should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will doubtless
afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who know him, and who hear it from
his own lips—with what interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future
day! Even now, as I commence my task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears;
his lustrous eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his
thin hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated
by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story, frightful the
storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course and wrecked it—thus! |
1 | I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of
that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics,
and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation.
He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable
attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied
by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his
marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband
and the father of a family. As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain
from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a merchant who, from a
flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man,
whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition and could not
bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly
been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts,
therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter to the
town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved
Beaufort with the truest friendship and was deeply grieved by his retreat in
these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored the false pride which led
his friend to a conduct so little worthy of the affection that united them. He
lost no time in endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him
to begin the world again through his credit and assistance. Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself, and it was ten months
before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened
to the house, which was situated in a mean street near the Reuss. But when he
entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very
small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes, but it was sufficient to
provide him with sustenance for some months, and in the meantime he hoped to
procure some respectable employment in a merchant’s house. The interval was,
consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling
when he had leisure for reflection, and at length it took so fast hold of his
mind that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable 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. There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but this
circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection.
There was a sense of justice in my father’s upright mind which rendered it
necessary that he should approve highly to love strongly. Perhaps during former
years he had suffered from the late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved and
so was disposed to set a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of
gratitude and worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the
doting fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues and a
desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her for the sorrows she
had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace to his behaviour to her.
Everything was made to yield to her wishes and her convenience. He strove to
shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher
wind and to surround her with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion
in her soft and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her
hitherto constant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During
the two years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had
gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after their
union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of scene and
interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders, as a restorative for
her weakened frame. From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born at
Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained for
several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each other, they
seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of love to
bestow them upon me. My mother’s tender caresses and my father’s smile of
benevolent pleasure while regarding me are my first recollections. I was their
plaything and their idol, and something better—their child, the innocent and
helpless creature bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and
whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery,
according as they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep
consciousness of what they owed towards the being to which they had given life,
added to the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined
that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience,
of charity, and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all
seemed but one train of enjoyment to me. For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a
daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five years
old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a
week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition often made
them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty;
it was a necessity, a passion—remembering what she had suffered, and how she
had been relieved—for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the
afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale
attracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of
half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst shape. One
day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me,
visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working, bent down
by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among
these there was one which attracted my mother far above all the rest. She
appeared of a different stock. The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little
vagrants; this child was thin and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living
gold, and despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of
distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless,
and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of sensibility and
sweetness that none could behold her without looking on her as of a distinct
species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp in all her
features. The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and
admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was not
her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a German and
had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with these good people
to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been long married, and their
eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge was one of those
Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory of Italy—one among the
schiavi ognor frementi, who exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his
country. He became the victim of its weakness. Whether he had died or still
lingered in the dungeons of Austria was not known. His property was
confiscated; his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her
foster parents and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose among
dark-leaved brambles. When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of our
villa a child fairer than pictured cherub—a creature who seemed to shed
radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter than the
chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his permission my
mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They
were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them, but
it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want when Providence
afforded her such powerful protection. They consulted their village priest, and
the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents’ house—my
more than sister—the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and
my pleasures. Everyone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment with
which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride and my delight. On
the evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother had said
playfully, “I have a pretty present for my Victor—tomorrow he shall have it.”
And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I,
with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon
Elizabeth as mine—mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on
her I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other
familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body forth the
kind of relation in which she stood to me—my more than sister, since till death
she was to be mine only. |
2 | We were brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in our ages.
I need not say that we were strangers to any species of disunion or dispute.
Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast that
subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together. Elizabeth was of a calmer
and more concentrated disposition; but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a
more intense application and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for
knowledge. She busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets;
and in the majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss home —the
sublime shapes of the mountains, the changes of the seasons, tempest and calm,
the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of our Alpine summers—she
found ample scope for admiration and delight. While my companion contemplated
with a serious and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of things, I
delighted in investigating their causes. The world was to me a secret which I
desired to divine. Curiosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of
nature, gladness akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the
earliest sensations I can remember. On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave up
entirely their wandering life and fixed themselves in their native country. We
possessed a house in Geneva, and a campagne on Belrive, the eastern
shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league from the city.
We resided principally in the latter, and the lives of my parents were passed
in considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd and to attach
myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore, to my school-fellows
in general; but I united myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one
among them. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of
singular talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger for
its own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He composed
heroic songs and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly
adventure. He tried to make us act plays and to enter into masquerades, in
which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles, of the Round
Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train who shed their blood to redeem
the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidels. No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My parents
were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We felt that they
were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their caprice, but the agents
and creators of all the many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled with
other families I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and
gratitude assisted the development of filial love. My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some law in
my temperature they were turned not towards childish pursuits but to an eager
desire to learn, and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess that
neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments, nor the
politics of various states possessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of
heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward
substance of things or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of
man that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or
in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world. Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral relations of
things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men
were his theme; and his hope and his dream was to become one among those whose
names are recorded in story as the gallant and adventurous benefactors of our
species. The saintly soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in
our peaceful home. Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet
glance of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was
the living spirit of love to soften and attract; I might have become sullen in
my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that she was there to
subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval—could aught ill
entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval? Yet he might not have been so
perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his generosity, so full of kindness and
tenderness amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to
him the real loveliness of beneficence and made the doing good the end and aim
of his soaring ambition. I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before
misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of extensive
usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in drawing
the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by
insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would account to
myself for the birth of that passion which afterwards 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. My father looked
carelessly at the title page of my book and said, “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My
dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash.” If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me that
the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded and that a modern system
of science had been introduced which possessed much greater powers than the
ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while those of the
former were real and practical, under such circumstances I should certainly
have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was,
by returning with greater ardour to my former studies. It is even possible that
the train of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to
my ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no means
assured me that he was acquainted with its contents, and I continued to read
with the greatest avidity. When I returned home my first care was to procure the whole works of this
author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied
the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures
known to few besides myself. I have described myself as always having been
imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature. In spite of
the intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern philosophers, I always
came from my studies discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to
have avowed that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great and
unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors in each branch of natural
philosophy with whom I was acquainted appeared even to my boy’s apprehensions
as tyros engaged in the same pursuit. The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him and was acquainted with
their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more. He had
partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal lineaments were still a
wonder and a mystery. He might dissect, anatomise, and give names; but, not to
speak of a final cause, causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were
utterly unknown to him. I had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments
that seemed to keep human beings from entering the citadel of nature, and
rashly and ignorantly I had repined. But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and knew more.
I took their word for all that they averred, and I became their disciple. It
may appear strange that such should arise in the eighteenth century; but while
I followed the routine of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great
degree, self-taught with regard to my favourite studies. My father was not
scientific, and I was left to struggle with a child’s blindness, added to a
student’s thirst for knowledge. Under the guidance of my new preceptors I
entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone
and the elixir of life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention.
Wealth was an inferior object, but what glory would attend the discovery if I
could banish disease from the human frame and render man invulnerable to any
but a violent death! Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a promise
liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the 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. And thus for a time I was occupied by exploded
systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory theories and
floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious knowledge, guided by
an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident again changed
the current of my ideas. When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near Belrive,
when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It advanced from
behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder burst at once with frightful
loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained, while the storm
lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the
door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak
which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling
light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted
stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a
singular manner. It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to
thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld anything so utterly destroyed. Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of electricity.
On this occasion a man of great research in natural philosophy was with us, and
excited by this catastrophe, he entered on the explanation of a theory which he
had formed on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new
and astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius
Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by
some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed
studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be known. All that
had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable. By one of those
caprices of the mind which we are perhaps most subject to in early youth, I at
once gave up my former occupations, set down natural history and all its
progeny as a deformed and abortive creation, and entertained the greatest
disdain for a would-be science which could never even step within the threshold
of real knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics and
the branches of study appertaining to that science as being built upon secure
foundations, and so worthy of my consideration. Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we
bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this almost
miraculous change of inclination and will was the immediate suggestion of the
guardian angel of my life—the last effort made by the spirit of preservation to
avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars and ready to envelop
me. Her victory was announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul
which followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting studies.
It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with their prosecution,
happiness with their disregard. It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual. Destiny
was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible
destruction. |
3 | When I had attained the age of seventeen my parents resolved that I should
become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto attended the
schools of Geneva, but my father thought it necessary for the completion of my
education that I should be made acquainted with other customs than those of my
native country. My departure was therefore fixed at an early date, but before
the day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred—an
omen, as it were, of my future misery. Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she was in
the greatest danger. During her illness many arguments had been urged to
persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had at first yielded
to our entreaties, but when she heard that the life of her favourite was
menaced, she could no longer control her anxiety. She attended her sickbed; her
watchful attentions triumphed over the malignity of the distemper—Elizabeth was
saved, but the consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver. On
the third day my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied by the most
alarming symptoms, and the looks of her medical attendants prognosticated the
worst event. On her deathbed the fortitude and benignity of this best of women
did not desert her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself. “My
children,” she said, “my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the
prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the consolation of your
father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to my younger children.
Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved as I have been,
is it not hard to quit you all? But these are not thoughts befitting me; I will
endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to death and will indulge a hope of
meeting you in another world.” She died calmly, and her countenance expressed affection even in death. I need
not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by that most
irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the soul, and the despair
that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind can
persuade itself that she whom we saw every day and whose very existence
appeared a part of our own can have departed for ever—that the brightness of 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 connection? And why should I describe a
sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length arrives when
grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that plays upon
the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was
dead, but we had still duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our
course with the rest and learn to think ourselves fortunate whilst one remains
whom the spoiler has not seized. My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was now
again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of some weeks. It
appeared to me sacrilege so soon to leave the repose, akin to death, of the
house of mourning and to rush into the thick of life. I was new to sorrow, but
it did not the less alarm me. I was unwilling to quit the sight of those that
remained to me, and above all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth in some
degree consoled. She indeed veiled her grief and strove to act the comforter to us all. She
looked steadily on life and assumed its duties with courage and zeal. She
devoted herself to those whom she had been taught to call her uncle and
cousins. Never was she so enchanting as at this time, when she recalled the
sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us. She forgot even her own regret
in her endeavours to make us forget. The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last evening with
us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit him to accompany me and
to become my fellow student, but in vain. His father was a narrow-minded trader
and saw idleness and ruin in the aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry
deeply felt the misfortune of being debarred from a liberal education. He said
little, but when he spoke I read in his kindling eye and in his animated glance
a restrained but firm resolve not to be chained to the miserable details of
commerce. We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other nor persuade
ourselves to say the word “Farewell!” It was said, and we retired under the
pretence of seeking repose, each fancying that the other was deceived; but when
at morning’s dawn I descended to the carriage which was to convey me away, they
were all there—my father again to bless me, Clerval to press my hand once more,
my Elizabeth to renew her entreaties that I would write often and to bestow the
last feminine attentions on her playmate and friend. I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away and indulged in the
most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by amiable
companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure—I was
now alone. In the university whither I was going I must form my own friends and
be my own protector. My life had hitherto been remarkably secluded and
domestic, and this had given me invincible repugnance to new countenances. I
loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were “old familiar faces,” but
I believed myself totally unfitted for the company of strangers. Such were my
reflections as I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes
rose. I ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had often, when at
home, thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up in one place and had
longed to enter the world and take my station among other human beings. Now my
desires were complied with, and it would, indeed, have been folly to repent. I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my journey
to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At length the high white steeple
of the town met my eyes. I alighted and was conducted to my solitary apartment
to spend the evening as I pleased. The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction and paid a visit to
some of the principal professors. Chance—or rather the evil influence, the
Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway over me from the moment I
turned my reluctant steps from my father’s door—led me first to M. Krempe,
professor of natural philosophy. He was an uncouth man, but deeply imbued in
the secrets of his science. He asked me several questions concerning my
progress in the different branches of science appertaining to natural
philosophy. I replied carelessly, and partly in contempt, mentioned the names
of my alchemists as the principal authors I had studied. The professor stared.
“Have you,” he said, “really spent your time in studying such nonsense?” I replied in the affirmative. “Every minute,” continued M. Krempe with warmth,
“every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly and entirely
lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems and useless names.
Good God! In what desert land have you lived, where no one was kind enough to
inform you that these fancies which you have so greedily imbibed are a thousand
years old and as musty as they are ancient? I little expected, in this
enlightened and scientific age, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and
Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew.” So saying, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of several books treating of
natural philosophy which he desired me to procure, and dismissed me after
mentioning that in the beginning of the following week he intended to commence
a course of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general relations, and that
M. Waldman, a fellow professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days
that he omitted. I returned home not disappointed, for I have said that I had long considered
those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I returned not at all
the more inclined to recur to these studies in any shape. M. Krempe was a
little squat man with a gruff voice and a repulsive countenance; the teacher,
therefore, did not prepossess me in favour of his pursuits. In rather a too
philosophical and connected a strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the
conclusions I had come to concerning them in my early years. As a child I had
not been content with the results promised by the modern professors of natural
science. With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth
and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of knowledge
along the paths of time and exchanged the discoveries of recent inquirers for
the dreams of forgotten alchemists. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of
modern natural philosophy. It was very different when the masters of the
science sought immortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand;
but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit
itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest in science was
chiefly founded. I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for
realities of little worth. Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my residence at
Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming acquainted with the localities
and the principal residents in my new abode. But as the ensuing week commenced,
I thought of the information which M. Krempe had given me concerning the
lectures. And although I could not consent to go and hear that little conceited
fellow deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M.
Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town. Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing room,
which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor was very unlike his
colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive
of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his temples, but those at
the back of his head were nearly black. His person was short but remarkably
erect and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a
recapitulation of the history of chemistry and the various improvements made by
different men of learning, pronouncing with fervour the names of the most
distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory view of the present state of
the science and explained many of its elementary terms. After having made a few
preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry,
the terms of which I shall never forget: “The ancient teachers of this science,” said he, “promised impossibilities and
performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little; they know that
metals cannot be transmuted and that the elixir of life is a chimera but these
philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to
pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They
penetrate into the recesses of nature and show how she works in her
hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood
circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and
almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the
earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows.” Such were the professor’s words—rather let me say such the words of the
fate—enounced to destroy me. As he went on I felt as if my soul were grappling
with a palpable enemy; one by one the various keys were touched which formed
the mechanism of my being; chord after chord was sounded, and soon my mind was
filled with one thought, one conception, one purpose. So much has been done,
exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein—more, far more, will I achieve; treading in
the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and
unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation. I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was in a state of
insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence arise, but I had no
power to produce it. By degrees, after the morning’s dawn, sleep came. I awoke,
and my yesternight’s thoughts were as a dream. There only remained a resolution
to return to my ancient studies and to devote myself to a science for which I
believed myself to possess a natural talent. On the same day I paid M. Waldman
a visit. His manners in private were even more mild and attractive than in
public, for there was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture which in
his own house was replaced by the greatest affability and kindness. I gave him
pretty nearly the same account of my former pursuits as I had given to his
fellow professor. He heard with attention the little narration concerning my
studies and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus, but
without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited. He said that “These were men
to whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers were indebted for most of the
foundations of their knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task, to give
new names and arrange in connected classifications the facts which they in a
great degree had been the instruments of bringing to light. The labours of men
of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately
turning to the solid advantage of mankind.” I listened to his statement, which
was delivered without any presumption or affectation, and then added that his
lecture had removed my prejudices against modern chemists; I expressed myself
in measured terms, with the modesty and deference due from a youth to his
instructor, without letting escape (inexperience in life would have made me
ashamed) any of the enthusiasm which stimulated my intended labours. I
requested his advice concerning the books I ought to procure. “I am happy,” said M. Waldman, “to have gained a disciple; and if your
application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success. Chemistry is
that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest improvements have been
and may be made; it is on that account that I have made it my peculiar study;
but at the same time, I have not neglected the other branches of science. A man
would make but a very sorry chemist if he attended to that department of human
knowledge alone. If your wish is to become really a man of science and not
merely a petty experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch of
natural philosophy, including mathematics.” He then took me into his laboratory and explained to me the uses of his various
machines, instructing me as to what I ought to procure and promising me the use
of his own when I should have advanced far enough in the science not to derange
their mechanism. He also gave me the list of books which I had requested, and I
took my leave. Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny. |
4 | 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. In a thousand
ways he smoothed for me the path of knowledge and made the most abstruse
inquiries clear and facile to my apprehension. My application was at first
fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded and soon became so
ardent and eager that the stars often disappeared in the light of morning
whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory. As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that my progress was rapid.
My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students, and my proficiency that
of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how
Cornelius Agrippa went on, whilst M. Waldman expressed the most heartfelt
exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this manner, during which I paid
no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of some
discoveries which I hoped to make. None but those who have experienced them can
conceive of the enticements of science. In other studies you go as far as
others have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a
scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of
moderate capacity which closely pursues one study must infallibly arrive at
great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the attainment
of one object of pursuit and was solely wrapped up in this, improved so rapidly
that at the end of two years I made some discoveries in the improvement of some
chemical instruments, which procured me great esteem and admiration at the
university. When I had arrived at this point and had become as well acquainted
with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons
of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer
conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning to my friends and my
native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay. One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the
structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life. Whence,
I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold
question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with how
many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or
carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in
my mind and determined thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those
branches of natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been
animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study
would have been irksome and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life,
we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of
anatomy, but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural decay and
corruption of the human body. In my education my father had taken the greatest
precautions that my mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do
not ever remember to have trembled at a tale of superstition or to have feared
the apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy, and a
churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which,
from being the seat of beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I
was led to examine the cause and progress of this decay and forced to spend
days and nights in vaults and charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon every
object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how
the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of death
succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders
of the eye and brain. I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae of
causation, as exemplified in the change from life to death, and death to life,
until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me—a light
so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the
immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so
many men of genius who had directed their inquiries towards the same science,
that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret. Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not more
certainly shine in the heavens than that which I now affirm is true. Some
miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery were distinct
and probable. After days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I
succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more, I became
myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter. The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon gave
place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful labour, to
arrive at once at the summit of my desires was the most gratifying consummation
of my toils. But this discovery was so great and overwhelming that all the
steps by which I had been progressively led to it were obliterated, and I
beheld only the result. What had been the study and desire of the wisest men
since the creation of the world was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic
scene, it all opened upon me at once: the information I had obtained was of a
nature rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them towards
the object of my search than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I was
like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead and found a passage to life,
aided only by one glimmering and seemingly ineffectual light. I see by your eagerness and the wonder and hope which your eyes express, my
friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which I am
acquainted; that cannot be; listen patiently until the end of my story, and you
will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that subject. I will not lead you
on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your destruction and infallible
misery. Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how
dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge and how much happier that man is who
believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater
than his nature will allow. When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long
time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although I possessed
the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame for the reception
of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a
work of inconceivable difficulty and labour. I doubted at first whether I
should attempt the creation of a being like myself, or one of simpler
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 theirs.
Pursuing these reflections, I thought that if I could bestow animation upon
lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it
impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to
corruption. These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with
unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person had
become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, I
failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or the next hour might
realise. One secret which I alone possessed was the hope to which I had
dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with
unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places. Who
shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed
damps of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay?
My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a
resistless and almost frantic impulse urged me forward; I seemed to have lost
all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing
trance, that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural
stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I collected bones
from charnel-houses and disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets
of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the
house, and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase,
I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my 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 showed me more plainly
how well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I
appeared rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other
unwholesome trade than an artist occupied by his favourite employment. Every
night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful
degree; the fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow creatures as if
I had been guilty of a crime. Sometimes I grew alarmed at the wreck I perceived
that I had become; the energy of my purpose alone sustained me: my labours
would soon end, and I believed that exercise and amusement would then drive
away incipient disease; and I promised myself both of these when my creation
should be complete. |
5 | 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 downstairs. I
took refuge in the courtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited, where I
remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest
agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were
to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably
given life. Oh! No mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again
endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on
him while unfinished; he was ugly then, but when those muscles and joints were
rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have
conceived. I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly
that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly sank to the
ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt
the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant
rest for so long a space were now become a hell to me; and the change was so
rapid, the overthrow so complete! Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned and discovered to my sleepless and
aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, 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 drenched by the rain
which poured from a black and comfortless sky. I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring by bodily
exercise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets
without any clear conception of where I was or what I was doing. My heart
palpitated in the sickness of fear, and I hurried on with irregular steps, not
daring to look about me: Like one who, on a lonely road,
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And, having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
[Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner.”] Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the various
diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why; but I
remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me
from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer I observed that it was the
Swiss diligence; it stopped just where I was standing, and on the door being
opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. “My
dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed he, “how glad I am to see you! How fortunate that
you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!” Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back to
my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my
recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror and
misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months, calm
and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner,
and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for some time about
our mutual friends and his own good fortune in being permitted to come to
Ingolstadt. “You may easily believe,” said he, “how great was the difficulty to
persuade my father that all necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble
art of 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 by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account myself.
But, my dear Frankenstein,” continued he, stopping short and gazing full in my
face, “I did not before remark how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you
look as if you had been watching for several nights.” “You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation
that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see; but I hope, I
sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an end and that I am at
length free.” I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude
to, the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick pace, and we
soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the thought made me shiver,
that the creature whom I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive
and walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster, but I feared still more
that Henry should see him. Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes
at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was
already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused, and
a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are
accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on the
other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment was
empty, and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly
believe that so great a good fortune could have befallen me, but when I became
assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy and ran down
to Clerval. We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I
was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me; I felt my
flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was
unable to remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over the
chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my
unusual spirits to joy on his arrival, but when he observed me more
attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account, and
my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter frightened and astonished him. “My dear Victor,” cried he, “what, for God’s sake, is the matter? Do not laugh
in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?” “Do not ask me,” cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw
the dreaded spectre glide into the room; “he can tell. Oh, save me! Save
me!” I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously and fell down
in a fit. Poor Clerval! What must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he anticipated
with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of
his grief, for I was lifeless and did not recover my senses for a long, long
time. This was the commencement of a nervous fever which confined me for several
months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards learned
that, knowing my father’s advanced age and unfitness for so long a journey, and
how wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by
concealing the extent of my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind
and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery,
he did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action
that he could towards them. But I was in reality very ill, and surely nothing but the unbounded and
unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The form of
the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was 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 handwriting. They hardly know
how ill you have been and are uneasy at your long silence.” “Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first 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.” |
6 | Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from my own
Elizabeth: “My dearest Cousin, “You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear kind Henry
are not sufficient to reassure me on your account. You are forbidden to
write—to hold a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor, is necessary to calm
our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought that each post would bring
this line, and my persuasions have restrained my uncle from undertaking a
journey to Ingolstadt. I have prevented his encountering the inconveniences and
perhaps dangers of so long a journey, yet how often have I regretted not being
able to perform it myself! I figure to myself that the task of attending on
your sickbed has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could never guess
your wishes nor minister to them with the care and affection of your poor
cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes that indeed you are getting
better. I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon in your own
handwriting. “Get well—and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home and friends
who love you dearly. Your father’s health is vigorous, and he asks but to see
you, but to be assured that you are well; and not a care will ever cloud his
benevolent countenance. How pleased you would be to remark the improvement of
our Ernest! He is now sixteen and full of activity and spirit. He is desirous
to be a true Swiss and to enter into foreign service, but we cannot part with
him, at least until his elder brother returns to us. My uncle is not pleased
with the idea of a military career in a distant country, but Ernest never had
your powers of application. He looks upon study as an odious fetter; his time
is spent in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear that
he will become an idler unless we yield the point and permit him to enter on
the profession which he has selected. “Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children, has taken place
since you left us. The blue lake and snow-clad mountains—they never change; and
I think our placid home and our contented hearts are regulated by the same
immutable laws. My trifling occupations take up my time and amuse me, and I am
rewarded for any exertions by seeing none but happy, kind faces around me.
Since you left us, but one change has taken place in our little household. Do
you remember on what occasion Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably you
do not; I will relate her history, therefore in a few words. Madame Moritz, her
mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This
girl had always been the favourite of her father, but through a strange
perversity, her mother could not endure her, and after the death of M. Moritz,
treated her very ill. My aunt observed this, and when Justine was twelve years
of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at our house. The
republican institutions of our country have produced simpler and happier
manners than those which prevail in the great monarchies that surround it.
Hence there is less distinction between the several classes of its inhabitants;
and the lower orders, being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are
more refined and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a
servant in France and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned
the duties of a servant, a condition which, in our fortunate country, does not
include the idea of ignorance and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being. “Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours; and I recollect you
once remarked that if you were in an ill humour, one glance from Justine could
dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of
Angelica—she looked so frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great
attachment for her, by which she was induced to give her an education superior
to that which she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine
was the most grateful little creature in the world: I do not mean that she made
any professions I never heard one pass her lips, but you could see by her eyes
that she almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition was gay and in
many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention to every
gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all excellence and endeavoured
to imitate her phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me
of her. “When my dearest aunt died 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 judgement
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 just 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 expression continually remind me of my
dear aunt. “I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling William.
I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue
eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples
appear on each cheek, which are rosy with 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 lively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and
much older than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with
everybody. “I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety returns
upon me as I conclude. Write, dearest Victor,—one line—one word will be a
blessing to us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his kindness, his affection,
and his many letters; we are sincerely grateful. Adieu! my cousin; take care of
yourself; and, I entreat you, write! “Elizabeth Lavenza. “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 in him that event which was so often
present to my recollection, but which I feared the detail to another would only
impress more deeply. M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of almost
insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain
than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. “D—n the fellow!” cried he;
“why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us all. Ay, stare if you
please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years ago,
believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in the gospel, has now set himself
at the head of the university; and if he is not soon pulled down, we shall all
be out of countenance.—Ay, ay,” continued he, observing my face expressive of
suffering, “M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man.
Young men should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval: I was myself
when young; but that wears out in a very short time.” M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned the
conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me. Clerval had never sympathised in my tastes for natural science; and his
literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me. He came to
the university with the design of making himself complete master of the
oriental languages, and thus he should open a field for the plan of life he had
marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue no inglorious career, he turned his
eyes toward the East, as affording scope for his spirit of enterprise. The
Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit languages engaged his attention, and I was easily
induced to enter on the same studies. Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and
now that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt
great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not only
instruction but consolation in the works of the orientalists. I did not, like
him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for I did not contemplate
making any other use of them than temporary amusement. I read merely to
understand their meaning, and they well repaid my labours. Their melancholy is
soothing, and their joy elevating, to a degree I never experienced in studying
the authors of any other country. When you read their writings, life appears to
consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses,—in the smiles and frowns of a fair
enemy, and the fire that 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
ramble 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 you did love me,
and endeavour to elevate my mind until it was on a level with your own. A
selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and
affection warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature who, a
few years ago, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy,
inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful
sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstasy. The present
season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges, while
those of summer were already in bud. I was undisturbed by thoughts which during
the preceding year had pressed upon me, notwithstanding my endeavours to throw
them off, with an invincible burden. Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathised in my feelings: he
exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that filled his
soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly astonishing: his
conversation was full of imagination; and very often, in imitation of the
Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful fancy and passion.
At other times he repeated my favourite poems, or drew me out into arguments,
which he supported with great ingenuity. We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were dancing,
and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits were high, and I
bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity. |
7 | On my return, I found the following letter from my father:— “My dear Victor, “You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of your
return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few lines, merely
mentioning the day on which I should expect you. But that would be a cruel
kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise, my son, when you
expected a happy and glad welcome, to behold, on the contrary, tears and
wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate our misfortune? Absence cannot have
rendered you callous to our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on my
long absent son? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news, but I know it is
impossible; even now your eye skims over the page to seek the words which are
to convey to you the horrible tidings. “William is dead!—that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed my heart,
who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered! “I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the circumstances of
the transaction. “Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to walk in
Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged our walk farther
than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of returning; and then we
discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone on before, were not to be
found. We accordingly rested on a seat until they should return. Presently
Ernest came, and enquired if we had seen his brother; he said, that he had been
playing with him, that William had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly
sought for him, and afterwards waited for 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 murder’s finger was on his neck. “He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my countenance
betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to see the corpse. At
first I attempted to prevent her but she persisted, and entering the room where
it lay, hastily examined the neck of the victim, and clasping her hands
exclaimed, ‘O God! I have murdered my darling child!’ “She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again lived,
it was only to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same evening William had
teased her to let him wear a very valuable miniature that she possessed of your
mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless the temptation which urged the
murderer to the deed. We have no trace of him at present, although our
exertions to discover him are unremitted; but they will not restore my beloved
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 the joy I at first expressed on receiving
new 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 him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the room in
the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of Clerval, as he read
the account of my misfortune. “I can offer you no consolation, my friend,” said he; “your disaster is
irreparable. What do you intend to do?” “To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses.” During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation; he
could only express his heartfelt sympathy. “Poor William!” said he, “dear
lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who that had seen him bright
and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his untimely loss! To die so
miserably; to feel the murderer’s grasp! How much more a murdered that could
destroy radiant innocence! Poor little fellow! one only consolation have we;
his friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings
are at an end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He
can no longer be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable
survivors.” Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words impressed
themselves on my mind and I remembered them afterwards in solitude. But now, as
soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a cabriolet, and bade farewell to my
friend. My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I longed to
console and sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends; but when I drew
near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the
multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through scenes
familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six years. How
altered 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 no advance, dreading a
thousand nameless evils that made me tremble, although I was unable to define
them. I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I contemplated
the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm; and the snowy mountains,
“the palaces of nature,” were not changed. By degrees the calm and heavenly
scene restored me, and I continued my journey towards Geneva. The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I approached my
native town. I discovered more distinctly the black sides of Jura, and the
bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept like a child. “Dear mountains! my own
beautiful lake! how do you welcome your wanderer? Your summits are clear; the
sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at
my unhappiness?” I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on these
preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative happiness, and I
think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved country! who but a native
can tell the delight I took in again beholding thy streams, thy mountains, and,
more than all, thy lovely lake! Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also closed
around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt still more
gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil, and I foresaw
obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched of human beings.
Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single circumstance, that in
all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not conceive the hundredth part of
the anguish I was destined to endure. It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the gates of
the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night at Secheron, a
village at the distance of half a league from the city. The sky was serene;
and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot where my poor
William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the town, I was obliged
to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage
I saw the lightning playing on the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful
figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly, and, on landing, I ascended a
low hill, that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens were
clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its
violence quickly increased. I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm increased
every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash over my head. It was
echoed from 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 the 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 tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with a
hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my hands,
and exclaimed aloud, “William, dear angel! this is thy funeral, this thy
dirge!” As I said these words, I perceived in the gloom a figure which stole
from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing intently: I could
not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the object, and discovered
its shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect
more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the
wretch, the filthy 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 the 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
toward the creation; the appearance of the works of my own hands at my bedside;
its departure. Two years had now nearly elapsed since the night on which he
first received life; and was this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose
into the world a depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had
he not murdered my brother? No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the night,
which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not feel the
inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in scenes of evil and
despair. I considered the being whom I had cast among mankind, and endowed with
the will and power to effect purposes of horror, such as the deed which he had
now done, nearly in the light of my own vampire, my own spirit let loose from
the grave, and forced to destroy all that was dear to me. Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were open, and
I hastened to my father’s house. My first thought was to discover what I knew
of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be made. But I paused when I
reflected on the story that I had to tell. A being whom I myself had formed,
and endued with life, had met me at midnight among the precipices of an
inaccessible mountain. I remembered also the nervous fever with which I had
been seized just at the time that I dated my creation, and which would give an
air of delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that if
any other had communicated such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it
as the ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal would
elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my relatives
to commence it. And then of what use would be pursuit? Who could arrest a
creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont 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 in a dream but for one indelible trace, and I
stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before my departure
for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent! He still remained to me. I gazed
on the picture of my mother, which stood over the mantel-piece. It was an
historical subject, painted at my father’s desire, and represented Caroline
Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her
garb was rustic, and her cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and
beauty, that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a
miniature of William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was
thus engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome
me: “Welcome, my dearest Victor,” said he. “Ah! I wish you had come three
months ago, and then you would have found us all joyous and delighted. You come
to us now to share a misery which nothing can alleviate; yet your presence
will, I hope, revive our father, who seems sinking under his misfortune; and
your persuasions will induce poor Elizabeth to cease her vain and tormenting
self-accusations.—Poor William! he was our darling and our pride!” Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother’s eyes; a sense of mortal agony crept
over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the wretchedness of my desolated
home; the reality came on me as a new, and a not less terrible, disaster. I
tried to calm Ernest; I enquired more minutely concerning my father, and here I
named my cousin. “She most of all,” said Ernest, “requires consolation; she accused herself of
having caused the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched. But
since the murderer has been discovered—” “The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt to
pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the winds, or
confine a mountain-stream with a straw. I saw him too; he was free last night!” “I do not know what you mean,” replied my brother, in accents of wonder, “but
to us the discovery we have made completes our misery. No one would believe it
at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the
evidence. Indeed, who would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and
fond of all the family, could suddenly become so capable of so frightful, so
appalling a crime?” “Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is wrongfully;
every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?” “No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have almost
forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour has been so confused, as to
add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt.
But she will be tried today, and you will then hear all.” He then related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William had been
discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed for several
days. During this interval, one of the servants, happening to examine the
apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in her pocket
the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the temptation of the
murderer. The servant instantly showed it to one of the others, who, without
saying a word to any of the family, went to a magistrate; and, upon their
deposition, Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact, the poor
girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her extreme confusion of
manner. This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied
earnestly, “You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good
Justine, is innocent.” At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on his
countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, after we had
exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some other topic than
that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, “Good God, papa! Victor says
that he knows who was the murderer of poor William.” “We do also, unfortunately,” replied my father, “for indeed I had rather have
been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and ungratitude
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
today, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted.” This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that Justine, and
indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. I had no fear,
therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be brought forward strong
enough to convict her. My tale was not one to announce publicly; its astounding
horror would be looked upon as madness by the vulgar. Did any one indeed exist,
except I, the creator, who would believe, unless his senses convinced him, in
the existence of the living monument of presumption and rash ignorance which I
had let loose upon the world? We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her since I last beheld her;
it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing the beauty of her childish years.
There was the same candour, the same vivacity, but it was allied to an
expression more full of sensibility and intellect. She welcomed me with the
greatest affection. “Your arrival, my dear cousin,” said she, “fills me with
hope. You perhaps will find some means to justify my poor guiltless Justine.
Alas! who is safe, if she be convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as
certainly as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not
only lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love,
is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never shall
know joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not; and then I shall be
happy again, even after the sad death of my little William.” “She is innocent, my Elizabeth,” said I, “and that shall be proved; fear
nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of her acquittal.” “How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt, and that
made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible: and to see every one else
prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me hopeless and despairing.” She
wept. “Dearest niece,” said my father, “dry your tears. If she is, as you believe,
innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and the activity with which I shall
prevent the slightest shadow of partiality.” |
8 | We passed a few sad hours until eleven o’clock, when the trial was to commence.
My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend as witnesses, I
accompanied them to the court. During the whole of this wretched mockery of
justice I suffered living torture. It was to be decided whether the result of
my curiosity and lawless devices would cause the death of two of my fellow
beings: one a smiling babe full of innocence and joy, the other far more
dreadfully murdered, with every aggravation of infamy that could make the
murder memorable in horror. Justine also was a girl of merit and possessed
qualities which promised to render her life happy; now all was to be
obliterated in an ignominious grave, and I the cause! A thousand times rather
would I have confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine, but I
was absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have been
considered as the ravings of a madman and would not have exculpated her who
suffered through me. The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning, and her
countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her feelings,
exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in innocence and did not
tremble, although gazed on and execrated by thousands, for all the kindness
which her beauty might otherwise have excited was obliterated in the minds of
the spectators by the imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have
committed. She was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained;
and as her confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she
worked up her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered the court she
threw her eyes round it and quickly discovered where we were seated. A tear
seemed to dim her eye when she saw us, but she quickly recovered herself, and a
look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest her utter guiltlessness. The trial began, and after the advocate against her had stated the charge,
several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined against her,
which might have staggered anyone who had not such proof of her innocence as I
had. She had been out the whole of the night on which the murder had been
committed and towards morning had been perceived by a market-woman not far from
the spot where the body of the murdered child had been afterwards found. The
woman asked her what she did there, but she looked very strangely and only
returned a confused and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about
eight o’clock, and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she
replied that she had been looking for the child and demanded earnestly if
anything had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, she fell into
violent hysterics and kept her bed for several days. The picture was then
produced which the servant had found in her pocket; and when Elizabeth, in a
faltering voice, proved that it was the same which, an hour before the child
had been missed, she had placed round his neck, a murmur of horror and
indignation filled the court. Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded, her
countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly expressed.
Sometimes she struggled with her tears, but when she was desired to plead, she
collected her powers and spoke in an audible although variable voice. “God knows,” she said, “how entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend that
my protestations should acquit me; I rest my innocence on a plain and simple
explanation of the facts which have been adduced against me, and I hope the
character I have always borne will incline my judges to a favourable
interpretation where any circumstance appears doubtful or suspicious.” She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed the
evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the house of an
aunt at 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 anything of
the child who was lost. She was alarmed by this account and passed several
hours in looking for him, when the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was
forced to remain several hours of the night in a barn belonging to a cottage,
being unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom she was well known. Most of
the night she spent here watching; towards morning she believed that she slept
for a few minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she awoke. It was dawn, and
she quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavour to find my brother. If
she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it was without her knowledge.
That she had been bewildered when questioned by the market-woman was not
surprising, since she had passed a sleepless night and the fate of poor William
was yet uncertain. Concerning the picture she could give no account. “I know,” continued the unhappy victim, “how heavily and fatally this one
circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of explaining it; and when
I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left to conjecture concerning
the probabilities by which it might have been placed in my pocket. But here
also I am checked. I believe that I have no enemy on earth, and none surely
would have been so wicked as to destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it
there? I know of no opportunity afforded him for so doing; or, if I had, why
should he have stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon? “I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for hope. I
beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my character, and if
their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed guilt, I must be condemned,
although I would pledge my salvation on my innocence.” Several witnesses were called who had known her for many years, and they spoke
well of her; but fear and hatred of the crime of which they supposed her guilty
rendered them timorous and unwilling to come forward. Elizabeth saw even this
last resource, her excellent dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to
fail the accused, when, although violently agitated, she desired permission to
address the court. “I am,” said she, “the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered, or rather
his sister, for I was educated by and have lived with his parents ever since
and even long before his birth. It may therefore be judged indecent in me to
come forward on this occasion, but when I see a fellow creature about to perish
through the cowardice of her pretended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak,
that I may say what I know of her character. I am well acquainted with the
accused. I have lived in the same house with her, at one time for five and at
another for nearly two years. During all that period she appeared to me the
most amiable and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein,
my aunt, in her last illness, with the greatest affection and care and
afterwards attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner that
excited the admiration of all who knew her, after which she again lived in my
uncle’s house, where she was beloved by all the family. She was warmly attached
to the child who is now dead and acted towards him like a most affectionate
mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to say that, notwithstanding all the
evidence produced against her, I believe and rely on her perfect innocence. She
had no temptation for such an action; as to the bauble on which the chief proof
rests, if she had earnestly desired it, I should have willingly given it to
her, so much do I esteem and value her.” A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth’s simple and powerful appeal, but it
was excited by her generous interference, and not in 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 forgo their hold. I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning I went to the court;
my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask the fatal question, but I was
known, and the officer guessed the cause of my visit. The ballots had been
thrown; they were all black, and Justine was condemned. I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before experienced
sensations of horror, and I have endeavoured to bestow upon them adequate
expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the heart-sickening despair
that I then endured. The person to whom I addressed myself added that Justine
had already confessed her guilt. “That evidence,” he observed, “was hardly
required in so glaring a case, but I am glad of it, and, indeed, none of our
judges like to condemn a criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so
decisive.” This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean? Had my eyes
deceived me? And was I really as mad as the whole world would believe me to be
if I disclosed the object of my suspicions? I hastened to return home, and
Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result. “My cousin,” replied I, “it is decided as you may have expected; all judges had
rather that ten innocent should suffer than that one guilty should escape. But
she has confessed.” This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness upon
Justine’s innocence. “Alas!” said she. “How shall I ever again believe in human
goodness? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as my sister, how could she put on
those smiles of innocence only to betray? Her mild eyes seemed incapable of any
severity or guile, and yet she has committed a murder.” Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire to see my
cousin. My father wished her not to go but said that he left it to her own
judgment and feelings to decide. “Yes,” said Elizabeth, “I will go, although
she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany me; I cannot go alone.” The
idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not refuse. We entered the gloomy prison chamber and beheld Justine sitting on some straw
at the farther end; her hands were manacled, and her head rested on her knees.
She rose on seeing us enter, and when we were left alone with her, she threw
herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My cousin wept also. “Oh, Justine!” said she. “Why did you rob me of my last consolation? I relied
on your innocence, and although I was then very wretched, I was not so
miserable as I am now.” “And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also join with
my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?” Her voice was suffocated
with sobs. “Rise, my poor girl,” said Elizabeth; “why do you kneel, if you are innocent? I
am not one of your enemies, I believed you guiltless, notwithstanding every
evidence, until I heard that you had yourself declared your guilt. That report,
you say, is false; and be assured, dear Justine, that nothing can shake my
confidence in you for a moment, but your own confession.” “I did confess, but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might obtain
absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my other
sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my confessor
has besieged me; he threatened and menaced, until I almost began to think that
I was the monster that he said I was. He threatened excommunication and hell
fire in my last moments if I continued obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to
support me; all looked on me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition. What
could I do? In an evil hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly
miserable.” She paused, weeping, and then continued, “I thought with horror, my sweet lady,
that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed aunt had so highly
honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable of a crime which none but
the devil himself could have perpetrated. Dear William! dearest blessed child!
I soon shall see you again in heaven, where we shall all be happy; and that
consoles me, going as I am to suffer ignominy and death.” “Oh, Justine! Forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you. Why did you
confess? But do not mourn, dear girl. Do not fear. I will proclaim, I will
prove your innocence. I will melt the stony hearts of your enemies by my tears
and prayers. You shall not die! You, my playfellow, my companion, my sister,
perish on the scaffold! No! No! I never could survive so horrible a
misfortune.” Justine shook her head mournfully. “I do not fear to die,” she said; “that pang
is past. God raises my weakness and gives me courage to endure the worst. I
leave a sad and bitter world; and if you remember me and think of me as of one
unjustly condemned, I am resigned to the fate awaiting me. Learn from me, dear
lady, to submit in patience to the will of heaven!” During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison room, where I
could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair! Who dared talk of
that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass the awful boundary between
life and death, felt not, as I did, such deep and bitter agony. I gnashed my
teeth and ground them together, uttering a groan that came from my inmost soul.
Justine started. When she saw who it was, she 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 hers also was the misery of innocence, which, like a
cloud that passes over the fair moon, for a while hides but cannot tarnish its
brightness. Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I
bore a hell within me which nothing could extinguish. We stayed several hours
with Justine, and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear
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.” And on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth’s heart-rending eloquence failed to
move the judges from their settled conviction in the criminality of the saintly
sufferer. My passionate and indignant appeals were lost upon them. And when I
received their cold answers and heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these
men, my purposed avowal died away on my lips. Thus I might proclaim myself a
madman, but not revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched victim. She
perished on the scaffold as a murderess! From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and
voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing! And my father’s woe,
and the desolation of that late so smiling home all was the work of my
thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones, but these are not your last
tears! Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and the sound of your
lamentations shall again and again be heard! Frankenstein, your son, your
kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he who would spend each vital drop of
blood for your sakes, who has no thought nor sense of joy except as it is
mirrored also in your dear countenances, who would fill the air with blessings
and spend his life in serving you—he bids you weep, to shed countless tears;
happy beyond his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the
destruction pause before the peace of the grave have succeeded to your sad
torments! Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair, I
beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and Justine,
the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts. |
9 | Nothing is more painful to the human mind than, after the feelings have been
worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of inaction and
certainty which follows and deprives the soul both of hope and fear. Justine
died, she rested, and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a
weight of despair and remorse pressed on my heart which nothing could remove.
Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had committed
deeds of mischief beyond description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded
myself) was yet behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and the love of
virtue. I had begun life with benevolent intentions and thirsted for the moment
when I should put them in practice and make myself useful to my fellow beings.
Now all was blasted; instead of that serenity of conscience which allowed me to
look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather
promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which
hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures such as no language can describe. This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never entirely
recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man; all
sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude was my only
consolation—deep, dark, deathlike solitude. My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition and
habits and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the feelings of his serene
conscience and guiltless life to inspire me with fortitude and awaken in me the
courage to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me. “Do you think, Victor,”
said he, “that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more than I
loved your brother”—tears came into his eyes as he spoke—“but is it not a duty
to the survivors that we should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by an
appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed to yourself, for
excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge of
daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society.” This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I should have
been the first to hide my grief and console my friends if remorse had not
mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm, with my other sensations. Now I
could only answer my father with a look of despair and endeavour to hide myself
from his view. About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was
particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten
o’clock and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that hour had
rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I was now
free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired for the night, I took the
boat and passed many hours upon the water. Sometimes, with my sails set, I was
carried by the wind; and sometimes, after rowing into the middle of the lake, I
left the boat to pursue its own course and gave way to my own miserable
reflections. I was often tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the
only unquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and
heavenly—if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted
croaking was heard only when I approached the shore—often, I say, I was tempted
to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me and my
calamities for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic and
suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was bound up in
mine. I thought also of my father and surviving brother; should I by my base
desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the malice of the fiend whom I
had let loose among them? At these moments I wept bitterly and wished that peace would revisit my mind
only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that could not be.
Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of unalterable evils,
and I lived in daily fear lest the monster whom I had created should perpetrate
some new wickedness. I had an obscure feeling that all was not over and that he
would still commit some signal crime, which by its enormity should almost
efface the recollection of the past. There was always scope for fear so long as
anything I loved remained behind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be
conceived. When I thought of him I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became inflamed,
and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I had so thoughtlessly
bestowed. When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge
burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to the highest
peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have precipitated him to their base. I
wished to see him again, that I might wreak the utmost extent of abhorrence on
his head and avenge the deaths of William and Justine. Our house was the house of mourning. My father’s health was deeply shaken by
the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and desponding; she no
longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all pleasure seemed to her
sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears she then thought was the just
tribute she should pay to innocence so blasted and destroyed. She was no longer
that happy creature who in earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the
lake and talked with ecstasy of our future prospects. The first of those
sorrows which are sent to wean us from the earth had visited her, and its
dimming influence quenched her dearest smiles. “When I reflect, my dear cousin,” said she, “on the miserable death of Justine
Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before appeared to me.
Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and injustice that I read in books
or heard from others as tales of ancient days or imaginary evils; at least they
were remote and more familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery
has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other’s
blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Everybody believed that poor girl to be
guilty; and if she could have committed the crime for which she suffered,
assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human creatures. For the
sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend, a
child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared to love as if it had
been her own! I could not consent to the death of any human being, but
certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit to remain in the society
of men. But she was innocent. I know, I feel she was innocent; you are of the
same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so
like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel 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 friend, you must calm yourself. These
events have affected me, God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched as you
are. There is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge, in your
countenance that makes me tremble. Dear Victor, banish these dark passions.
Remember the friends around you, who centre all their hopes in you. Have we
lost the power of rendering you happy? Ah! While we love, while we are true to
each other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native country, we may
reap every tranquil blessing—what can disturb our peace?” And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every other gift
of fortune suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart? Even as she
spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror, lest at that very moment the
destroyer had been near to rob me of her. Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of heaven,
could redeem my soul from woe; the very accents of love were ineffectual. I was
encompassed by a cloud which no beneficial influence could penetrate. The
wounded deer dragging its fainting limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze
upon the arrow which had pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me. Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me, but
sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by bodily
exercise and by change of place, some relief from my intolerable sensations. It
was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left my home, and bending my
steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought in the magnificence, the eternity
of such scenes, to forget myself and my ephemeral, because human, sorrows. My
wanderings were directed towards the valley of Chamounix. I had visited it
frequently during my boyhood. Six years had passed since then: I was a
wreck, but nought had changed in those savage and enduring scenes. I performed the first part of my journey on horseback. I afterwards hired a
mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable to receive injury on these
rugged roads. The weather was fine; it was about the middle of the month of
August, nearly two months after the death of Justine, that miserable epoch from
which I dated all my woe. The weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I
plunged yet deeper in the ravine of Arve. The immense mountains and precipices
that overhung me on every side, the sound of the river raging among the rocks,
and the dashing of the waterfalls around spoke of a power mighty as
Omnipotence—and I ceased to fear or to bend before any being less almighty than
that which had created and ruled the elements, here displayed in their most
terrific guise. Still, as I ascended higher, the valley assumed a more
magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on the precipices
of piny mountains, the impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there
peeping forth from among the trees formed a scene of singular beauty. But it
was augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining
pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the
habitations of another race of beings. I passed the bridge of Pélissier, where the ravine, which the river forms,
opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that overhangs it. Soon
after, I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley is more wonderful and
sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as that of Servox, through which
I had just passed. The high and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries,
but I saw no more ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers
approached the road; I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche and
marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont
Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and its tremendous
dôme overlooked the valley. A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this
journey. Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and
recognised, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the
lighthearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing accents,
and maternal Nature bade me weep no more. Then again the kindly influence
ceased to act—I found myself fettered again to grief and indulging in all the
misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal, striving so to forget the
world, my fears, and more than all, myself—or, in a more desperate fashion, I
alighted and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and despair. At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded to the
extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured. For a short space
of time I remained at the window watching the pallid lightnings that played
above Mont Blanc and listening to the rushing of the Arve, which pursued its
noisy way beneath. The same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to my too keen
sensations; when I placed my head upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt
it as it came and blessed the giver of oblivion. |
10 | I spent the following day roaming through the valley. I stood beside the
sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacier, that with slow
pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills to barricade the valley.
The abrupt sides of vast mountains were before me; the icy wall of the glacier
overhung me; a few shattered pines were scattered around; and the solemn
silence of this glorious presence-chamber of imperial Nature was broken only by
the brawling waves or the fall of some vast fragment, the thunder sound of the
avalanche or the cracking, reverberated along the mountains, of the accumulated
ice, which, through the silent working of immutable laws, was ever and anon
rent and torn, as if it had been but a plaything in their hands. These sublime
and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that I was capable
of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling, and although
they did not remove my grief, they subdued and tranquillised it. In some
degree, also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded
for the last month. I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it were, waited
on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes which I had
contemplated during the day. They congregated round me; the unstained snowy
mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods, and ragged bare ravine,
the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds—they all gathered round me and bade me be
at peace. Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke? All of soul-inspiriting fled
with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every thought. The rain was pouring in
torrents, and thick mists hid the summits of the mountains, so that I even saw
not the faces of those mighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil
and seek them in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me? My mule
was brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of Montanvert.
I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous and ever-moving glacier
had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It had then filled me with a
sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the soul and allowed it to soar from the
obscure world to light and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in nature
had indeed always the effect of solemnising my mind and causing me to forget
the passing cares of life. I determined to go without a guide, for I was well
acquainted with the path, and the presence of another would destroy the
solitary grandeur of the scene. The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short
windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the mountain. It
is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots the traces of the winter
avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on the ground,
some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning upon the jutting rocks of the
mountain or transversely upon other trees. The path, as you ascend higher, is
intersected by ravines of snow, down which stones continually roll from above;
one of them is particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, such as even
speaking in a loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient to draw
destruction upon the head of the speaker. The pines are not tall or luxuriant,
but they are sombre and add an air of severity to the scene. I looked on the
valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the rivers which ran through it and
curling in thick wreaths around the opposite mountains, whose summits were hid
in the uniform clouds, while rain poured from the dark sky and added to the
melancholy impression I received from the objects around me. Alas! Why does man
boast of sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders
them more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger, thirst,
and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by every wind that
blows and a chance word or scene that that word may convey to us. We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.
We rise; one 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 Blanc, in awful majesty. I remained in a recess of the
rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea, or rather the
vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains, whose aerial summits
hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering peaks shone in the sunlight
over the clouds. My heart, which was before sorrowful, now swelled with
something like joy; I exclaimed, “Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and
do not rest in your narrow beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me, as
your companion, away from the joys of life.” As I said this I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance,
advancing towards me with superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices in the
ice, among which I had walked with caution; his stature, also, as he
approached, seemed to exceed that of man. I was troubled; a mist came over my
eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me, but I was quickly restored by the cold
gale of the mountains. I perceived, as the shape came nearer (sight tremendous
and abhorred!) that it was the wretch whom I had created. I trembled with rage
and horror, resolving to wait his approach and then close with him in mortal
combat. He approached; his countenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with
disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too
horrible for human eyes. But I scarcely observed this; rage and hatred had at
first deprived me of utterance, and I recovered only to overwhelm him with
words expressive of furious detestation and contempt. “Devil,” I exclaimed, “do you dare approach me? And do not you fear the fierce
vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head? Begone, vile insect! Or
rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust! And, oh! That I could, with the
extinction of your miserable existence, restore those victims whom you have so
diabolically murdered!” “I expected this reception,” said the 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. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I
was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall
again be virtuous.” “Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community between you and me; we
are enemies. Begone, or let us try our strength in a fight, in which one must
fall.” “How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a favourable eye
upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and compassion? Believe me,
Frankenstein, I was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity; but am I
not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather
from your fellow creatures, who owe me nothing? They spurn and hate me. The
desert mountains and dreary glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here many
days; the caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the
only one which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I 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 are, to speak in their own
defence before they are condemned. Listen to me, Frankenstein. You accuse me of
murder, and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience, destroy your own
creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man! Yet I ask you not to spare me;
listen to me, and then, if you can, and if you will, destroy the work of your
hands.” “Why do you call to my remembrance,” I rejoined, “circumstances of which I
shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable origin and author? Cursed be
the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw light! Cursed (although I curse
myself) be the hands that formed you! You have made me wretched beyond
expression. You have left me no power to consider whether I am just to you or
not. Begone! Relieve me from the sight of your detested form.” “Thus I relieve thee, my creator,” he said, and placed his hated hands before
my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; “thus I take from thee a sight
which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me and grant me thy compassion. By
the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this from you. Hear my tale; it is
long and strange, and the temperature of this place is not fitting to your fine
sensations; come to the hut upon the mountain. The sun is yet high in the
heavens; before it descends to hide itself behind your 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. |
11 | “It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of my
being; all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct. A strange
multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard, and smelt at the
same time; and it was, indeed, a long time before I learned to 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.
[The moon] 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 rang in my
ears, and on all sides various scents saluted me; the only object that I could
distinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes on that 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,
showed itself, while I still remained in the forest. My sensations had by this
time become distinct, and my mind received every day additional ideas. My eyes
became accustomed to the light and to perceive objects in their right forms; I
distinguished the insect from the herb, and by degrees, one herb from another.
I found that the sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those of the
blackbird and thrush were sweet and enticing. “One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been left by
some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the warmth I
experienced from it. In my joy I thrust my hand into the live embers, but
quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought, that the
same cause should produce such opposite effects! I examined the materials of
the fire, and to my joy found it to be composed of wood. I quickly collected
some branches, but they were wet and would not burn. I was pained at this and
sat still watching the operation of the fire. The wet wood which I had placed
near the heat dried and itself became inflamed. I reflected on this, and by
touching the various branches, I discovered the cause and busied myself in
collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it and have a plentiful
supply of fire. When night came on and brought sleep with it, I was in the
greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I covered it carefully with
dry wood and leaves and placed wet branches upon it; and then, spreading my
cloak, I lay on the ground and sank into sleep. “It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire. I
uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame. I observed
this also and contrived a fan of branches, which roused the embers when they
were nearly extinguished. When night came again I found, with pleasure, that
the fire gave light as well as heat and that the discovery of this element was
useful to me in my food, for I found some of the offals that the travellers had
left had been roasted, and tasted much more savoury than the berries I gathered
from the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress my food in the same manner,
placing it on the live embers. I found that the berries were spoiled by this
operation, and the nuts and roots much improved. “Food, however, became scarce, and I often spent the whole day searching in
vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. When I found this, I
resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto inhabited, to seek for one where
the few wants I experienced would be more easily satisfied. In this emigration
I exceedingly lamented the loss of the fire which I had obtained through
accident and knew not how to reproduce it. I gave several hours to the serious
consideration of this difficulty, but I was obliged to relinquish all attempt
to supply it, and wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across the wood
towards the setting sun. I passed three days in these rambles and at length
discovered the open country. A great fall of snow had taken place the night
before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the appearance was
disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold damp substance that
covered the ground. “It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and shelter; at
length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which had doubtless been
built for the convenience of some shepherd. This was a new sight to me, and I
examined the structure with great curiosity. Finding the door open, I entered.
An old man sat in it, near a fire, over which he was preparing his breakfast.
He turned on hearing a noise, and perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and quitting
the hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form
hardly appeared capable. His appearance, different from any I had ever before
seen, and his flight somewhat surprised me. But I was enchanted by the
appearance of the hut; here the snow and rain could not penetrate; the ground
was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite and divine a retreat as
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 sty and a clear pool of water. One part was open,
and by that I had crept in; but now I covered every crevice by which I might be
perceived with stones and wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them on
occasion to pass out; all the light I enjoyed came through the sty, and that
was sufficient for me. “Having thus arranged my dwelling and carpeted it with clean straw, I retired,
for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered too well my
treatment the night before to trust myself in his power. I had first, however,
provided for my sustenance for that day by a loaf of 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 farmhouse servants to be. Yet she was meanly dressed, a
coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her only garb; her fair hair was
plaited but not adorned: she looked patient yet sad. I lost sight of her, and
in about a quarter of an hour she returned bearing the pail, which was now
partly filled with milk. As she walked along, seemingly incommoded by the
burden, a young man met her, whose countenance expressed a deeper despondence.
Uttering a few sounds with an air of melancholy, he took the pail from her head
and bore it to the cottage himself. She followed, and they disappeared.
Presently I saw the young man again, with some tools in his hand, cross the
field behind the cottage; and the girl was also busied, sometimes in the house
and sometimes in the yard. “On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the windows of the cottage had
formerly occupied a part of it, but the panes had been filled up with wood. In
one of these was a small and almost imperceptible chink through which the eye
could just penetrate. Through this crevice a small room was visible,
whitewashed and clean but very bare of furniture. In one corner, near a small
fire, sat an old man, leaning his head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude.
The young girl was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently she took
something out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat down beside
the old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play and to produce sounds
sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale. It was a lovely sight,
even to me, poor wretch who had never beheld aught beautiful before. The silver
hair and benevolent countenance of the aged cottager won my reverence, while
the gentle manners of the girl enticed my love. He played a sweet mournful air
which I perceived drew tears from the eyes of his amiable companion, of which
the old man took no notice, until she sobbed audibly; he then pronounced a few
sounds, and the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt at his feet. He raised
her and smiled with such kindness and affection that I felt sensations of a
peculiar and overpowering nature; they were a mixture of pain and pleasure,
such as I had never before experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or
food; and I withdrew from the window, unable to bear these emotions. “Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his shoulders a load of
wood. The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him of his burden, and
taking some of the fuel into the cottage, placed it on the fire; then she and
the youth went apart into a nook of the cottage, and he showed her a large loaf
and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased and went into the garden for some
roots and plants, which she placed in water, and then upon the fire. She
afterwards continued her work, whilst the young man went into the garden and
appeared busily employed in digging and pulling up roots. After he had been
employed thus about an hour, the young woman joined him and they entered the
cottage together. “The old man had, in the meantime, been pensive, but on the appearance of his
companions he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to eat. The meal
was quickly 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 nor the songs of the birds; I since found
that he read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of the science of words or
letters. “The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time, extinguished
their lights and retired, as I conjectured, to rest.” |
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