
[Transcriber’s Note: This text was produced from a photo-reprint of the
1818 edition.] FRANKENSTEIN;

                                  OR,

                         THE MODERN PROMETHEUS. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I.

    London:

    _PRINTED FOR_
    LACKINGTON, HUGHES, HARDING, MAVOR, & JONES,
    FINSBURY SQUARE. 1818. *       *       *       *       *

    Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
    To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
    From darkness to promote me?——

                                  Paradise Lost. *       *       *       *       *

                          _TO_
                     WILLIAM GODWIN,
    _AUTHOR OF POLITICAL JUSTICE, CALEB WILLIAMS, &c._
                      THESE VOLUMES
               _Are respectfully inscribed_
                           BY
                       THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. The event on which this fiction is founded has been supposed, by Dr.
Darwin, and some of the physiological writers of Germany, as not of
impossible occurrence. I shall not be supposed as according the remotest
degree of serious faith to such an imagination; yet, in assuming it as
the basis of a work of fancy, I have not considered myself as merely
weaving a series of supernatural terrors. The event on which the
interest of the story depends is exempt from the disadvantages of a mere
tale of spectres or enchantment. It was recommended by the novelty of
the situations which it developes; and, however impossible as a physical
fact, affords a point of view to the imagination for the delineating of
human passions more comprehensive and commanding than any which the
ordinary relations of existing events can yield. I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the elementary
principles of human nature, while I have not scrupled to innovate
upon their combinations. The _Iliad_, the tragic poetry of
Greece,—Shakespeare, in the _Tempest_ and _Midsummer Night’s
Dream_,—and most especially Milton, in _Paradise Lost_, conform to this
rule; and the most humble novelist, who seeks to confer or receive
amusement from his labours, may, without presumption, apply to prose
fiction a licence, or rather a rule, from the adoption of which so many
exquisite combinations of human feeling have resulted in the highest
specimens of poetry. The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested in casual
conversation. It was commenced, partly as a source of amusement, and
partly as an expedient for exercising any untried resources of mind. Other motives were mingled with these, as the work proceeded. I am by no
means indifferent to the manner in which whatever moral tendencies exist
in the sentiments or characters it contains shall affect the reader; yet
my chief concern in this respect has been limited to the avoiding of the
enervating effects of the novels of the present day, and to the
exhibitions of the amiableness of domestic affection, and the excellence
of universal virtue. The opinions which naturally spring from the
character and situation of the hero are by no means to be conceived as
existing always in my own conviction; nor is any inference justly to be
drawn from the following pages as prejudicing any philosophical doctrine
of whatever kind. It is a subject also of additional interest to the author, that this
story was begun in the majestic region where the scene is principally
laid, and in society which cannot cease to be regretted. I passed the
summer of 1816 in the environs of Geneva. The season was cold and rainy,
and in the evenings we crowded around a blazing wood fire, and
occasionally amused ourselves with some German stories of ghosts, which
happened to fall into our hands. These tales excited in us a playful
desire of imitation. Two other friends (a tale from the pen of one of
whom would be far more acceptable to the public than any thing I can
ever hope to produce) and myself agreed to write each a story, founded
on some supernatural occurrence. The weather, however, suddenly became serene; and my two friends left me
on a journey among the Alps, and lost, in the magnificent scenes which
they present, all memory of their ghostly visions. The following tale is
the only one which has been completed. FRANKENSTEIN;

OR, THE

_MODERN PROMETHEUS._




LETTER I. _To Mrs._ SAVILLE, _England_. St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—. You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the
commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil
forebodings. I arrived here yesterday; and my first task is to assure my
dear sister of my welfare, and increasing confidence in the success of
my undertaking. I am already far north of London; and as I walk in the streets of
Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which
braces my nerves, and fills me with delight. Do you understand this
feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which
I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by
this wind of promise, my day dreams become more fervent and vivid. I try
in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and
desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of
beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible; its
broad disk just skirting the horizon, and diffusing a perpetual
splendour. There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust
in preceding navigators—there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing
over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in
beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its
productions and features may be without example, as the phænomena of the
heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What
may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover
the wondrous power which attracts the needle; and may regulate a
thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage to render
their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my
ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before
visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of
danger or death, and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with
the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday
mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But, supposing
all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable
benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation, by
discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which
at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret
of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an
undertaking such as mine.