I wish therefore that my companion should be wiser and more
experienced than myself, to confirm and support me; nor have I believed
it impossible to find a true friend.”

“I agree with you,” replied the stranger, “in believing that friendship
is not only a desirable, but a possible acquisition. I once had a
friend, the most noble of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore,
to judge respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world before you,
and have no cause for despair. But I——I have lost every thing, and
cannot begin life anew.”

As he said this, his countenance became expressive of a calm settled
grief, that touched me to the heart. But he was silent, and presently
retired to his cabin. Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does
the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight
afforded by these wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of
elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may
suffer misery, and be overwhelmed by disappointments; yet when he has
retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit, that has a
halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures. Will you laugh at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine
wanderer? If you do, you must have certainly lost that simplicity which
was once your characteristic charm. Yet, if you will, smile at the
warmth of my expressions, while I find every day new causes for
repeating them. *       *       *       *       *

August 19th, 17—. Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive, Captain
Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had
determined, once, that the memory of these evils should die with me; but
you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for knowledge and
wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the gratification of
your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has been. I do
not know that the relation of my misfortunes will be useful to you, yet,
if you are inclined, listen to my tale. I believe that the strange
incidents connected with it will afford a view of nature, which may
enlarge your faculties and understanding. You will hear of powers and
occurrences, such as you have been accustomed to believe impossible: but
I do not doubt that my tale conveys in its series internal evidence of
the truth of the events of which it is composed.”

You may easily conceive that I was much gratified by the offered
communication; yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by
a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the
promised narrative, partly from curiosity, and partly from a strong
desire to ameliorate his fate, if it were in my power. I expressed these
feelings in my answer. “I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is useless; my
fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall
repose in peace. I understand your feeling,” continued he, perceiving
that I wished to interrupt him; “but you are mistaken, my friend, if
thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my destiny: listen
to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined.”

He then told me, that he would commence his narrative the next day when
I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I
have resolved every night, when I am not engaged, to record, as nearly
as possible in his own words, what he has related during the day. If I
should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will
doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure: but to me, who know him, and
who hear it from his own lips, with what interest and sympathy shall I
read it in some future day! FRANKENSTEIN;

OR,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. CHAPTER I.


I am by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most distinguished
of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and
syndics; and my father had filled several public situations with honour
and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity
and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger
days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; and it was not
until the decline of life that he thought of marrying, and bestowing on
the state sons who might carry his virtues and his name down to
posterity. As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot
refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a
merchant, who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous
mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a
proud and unbending disposition, and could not bear to live in poverty
and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been
distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts,
therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter
to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My
father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship, and was deeply grieved
by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He grieved also for
the loss of his society, and resolved to seek him out and endeavour to
persuade him to begin the world again through his credit and assistance. Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself; and it was ten
months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this
discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean
street, near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone
welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the
wreck of his fortunes; but it was sufficient to provide him with
sustenance for some months, and in the mean time he hoped to procure
some respectable employment in a merchant’s house. The interval was
consequently spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and
rankling, when he had leisure for reflection; and at length it took so
fast hold of his mind, that at the end of three months he lay on a bed
of sickness, incapable of any exertion. His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness; but she saw with
despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing, and that there
was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind
of an uncommon mould; and her courage rose to support her in her
adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw; and by various
means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life. Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time
was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence
decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving
her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her; and she knelt
by Beaufort’s coffin, weeping bitterly, when my father entered the
chamber.