CHAPTER I.

[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.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my

letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to

heaven; for nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind as a

steady purpose,—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.

This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have

read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been

made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the

seas which surround the pole. You may remember, that a history of all

the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our

good uncle Thomas’s library. My education was neglected, yet I was

passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night,

and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt, as

a child, on learning that my father’s dying injunction had forbidden my

uncle to allow me to embark in a sea-faring life.

These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets

whose effusions entranced my soul, and lifted it to heaven. I also

became a poet, and for one year lived in a Paradise of my own creation;

I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the

names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted

with my failure, and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at

that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were

turned into the channel of their earlier bent.

Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can,

even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great

enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied

the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily

endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder

than the common sailors during the day, and devoted my nights to the

study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of

physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest

practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in

a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I

felt a little proud, when my captain offered me the second dignity in

the vessel, and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness; so

valuable did he consider my services.

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great

purpose. My life might have been passed in ease and luxury; but I

preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh,

that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage

and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are

often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage;

the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not

only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own,

when their’s are failing.

This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly

quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in

my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stage-coach. The

cold is not excessive, if you are wrapt in furs, a dress which I have

already adopted; for there is a great difference between walking the

deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise

prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no

ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and

Archangel.

I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my

intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying

the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think

necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not

intend to sail until the month of June: and when shall I return? Ah,

dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many

months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail,

you will see me again soon, or never.

Farewell, my dear, excellent, Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on

you, and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for

all your love and kindness.

Your affectionate brother,

R. WALTON.

LETTER II.

_To Mrs._ SAVILLE, _England_.

Archangel, 28th March, 17—.

How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow;

yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel,

and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already

engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend, and are certainly

possessed of dauntless courage.

But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy; and the

absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil. I have

no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success,

there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by

disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I

shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium

for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who

could sympathize with me; whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem

me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I

have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as

well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve

or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your

poor brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too impatient of

difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am

self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a

common, and read nothing but our uncle Thomas’s books of voyages. At

that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own

country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive

its most important benefits from such a conviction, that I perceived the

necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my

native country. Now I am twenty-eight, and am in reality more illiterate

than many school-boys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more,

and that my day dreams are more extended and magnificent; but they want

(as the painters call it) _keeping_; and I greatly need a friend who

would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection

enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.

Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on

the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen.

Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in

these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful

courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory. He is an

Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices,

unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of

humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel:

finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to

assist in my enterprise.

The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is remarkable in

the ship for his gentleness, and the mildness of his discipline. He is,

indeed, of so amiable a nature, that he will not hunt (a favourite, and

almost the only amusement here), because he cannot endure to spill

blood. He is, moreover, heroically generous. Some years ago he loved a

young Russian lady, of moderate fortune; and having amassed a

considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the

match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she

was bathed in tears, and, throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to

spare her, confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that

he was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union. My

generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the

name of her lover instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought

a farm with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of

his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the

remains of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited

the young woman’s father to consent to her marriage with her lover. But

the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to my

friend; who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country,

nor returned until he heard that his former mistress was married

according to her inclinations. “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim.

He is so; but then he has passed all his life on board a vessel, and has

scarcely an idea beyond the rope and the shroud.

But do not suppose that, because I complain a little, or because I can

conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am

wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate; and my voyage is

only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The

winter has been dreadfully severe; but the spring promises well, and it

is considered as a remarkably early season; so that, perhaps, I may sail

sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly; you know me

sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the

safety of others is committed to my care.

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my

undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the

trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am

preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to “the land of

mist and snow;” but I shall kill no albatross, therefore do not be

alarmed for my safety.

Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas, and

returned by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I dare not

expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the

picture. Continue to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive

your letters (though the chance is very doubtful) on some occasions when

I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly.

Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.

Your affectionate brother,

ROBERT WALTON.

LETTER III.

_To Mrs._ SAVILLE, _England_.

July 7th, 17—.

MY DEAR SISTER,

I write a few lines in haste, to say that I am safe, and well advanced

on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchant-man now on

its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not

see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good

spirits: my men are bold, and apparently firm of purpose; nor do the

floating sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers

of the region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We

have already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of

summer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales,

which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire

to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not

expected.

No incidents have hitherto befallen us, that would make a figure in a

letter. One or two stiff gales, and the breaking of a mast, are

accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record; and

I shall be well content, if nothing worse happen to us during our

voyage.

Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured, that for my own sake, as well as

your’s, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering,

and prudent.

Remember me to all my English friends.

Most affectionately yours,

R. W.

LETTER IV.

_To Mrs._ SAVILLE, _England_.

August 5th, 17—.

So strange an accident has happened to us, that I cannot forbear

recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before

these papers can come into your possession.

Last Monday (July 31st), we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed

in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea room in which she

floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we were

compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that

some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.

About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out in

every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have

no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to grow

watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted

our attention, and diverted our solicitude from our own situation. We

perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on

towards the north, at the distance of half a mile: a being which had the

shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge,

and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller

with our telescopes, until he was lost among the distant inequalities of

the ice.

This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed,

many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote

that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in,

however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had

observed with the greatest attention.

About two hours after this occurrence, we heard the ground sea; and

before night the ice broke, and freed our ship. We, however, lay to

until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose

masses which float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of

this time to rest for a few hours.

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck, and

found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking

to some one in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen

before, which had drifted towards us in the night, on a large fragment

of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human being within

it, whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel. He was not, as

the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of some

undiscovered island, but an European. When I appeared on deck, the

master said, “Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish

on the open sea.”

On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a

foreign accent. “Before I come on board your vessel,” said he, “will you

have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?”

You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to

me from a man on the brink of destruction, and to whom I should have

supposed that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not

have exchanged for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I

replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the

northern pole.

Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied, and consented to come on board.

Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his

safety, your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were nearly

frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I

never saw a man in so wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him

into the cabin; but as soon as he had quitted the fresh air, he fainted.

We accordingly brought him back to the deck, and restored him to

animation by rubbing him with brandy, and forcing him to swallow a small

quantity. As soon as he shewed signs of life, we wrapped him up in

blankets, and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen-stove. By slow

degrees he recovered, and ate a little soup, which restored him

wonderfully.

Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak; and I often

feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he

had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin, and

attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more

interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of wildness,

and even madness; but there are moments when, if any one performs an act

of kindness towards him, or does him any the most trifling service, his

whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence

and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy

and despairing; and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of

the weight of woes that oppresses him.

When my guest was a little recovered, I had great trouble to keep off

the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not

allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body

and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once,

however, the lieutenant asked, Why he had come so far upon the ice in so

strange a vehicle?

His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom; and he

replied, “To seek one who fled from me.”

“And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?”

“Yes.”

“Then I fancy we have seen him; for, the day before we picked you up, we

saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice.”

This aroused the stranger’s attention; and he asked a multitude of

questions concerning the route which the dæmon, as he called him, had

pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said, “I have,

doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good people;

but you are too considerate to make inquiries.”

“Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to

trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine.”

“And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have

benevolently restored me to life.”

Soon after this he inquired, if I thought that the breaking up of the

ice had destroyed the other sledge? I replied, that I could not answer

with any degree of certainty; for the ice had not broken until near

midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety

before that time; but of this I could not judge.

From this time the stranger seemed very eager to be upon deck, to watch

for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to

remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of

the atmosphere. But I have promised that some one should watch for him,

and give him instant notice if any new object should appear in sight.

Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the

present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health, but is very

silent, and appears uneasy when any one except myself enters his cabin.

Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle, that the sailors are all

interested in him, although they have had very little communication with

him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother; and his constant

and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must have been

a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so

attractive and amiable.

I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no

friend on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit

had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as

the brother of my heart.

I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals, should

I have any fresh incidents to record.

* * * * *

August 13th, 17—.

My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my

admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noble

a creature destroyed by misery without feeling the most poignant grief?

He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated; and when he

speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they

flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.

He is now much recovered from his illness, and is continually on the

deck, apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet,

although unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery, but

that he interests himself deeply in the employments of others. He has

asked me many questions concerning my design; and I have related my

little history frankly to him. He appeared pleased with the confidence,

and suggested several alterations in my plan, which I shall find

exceedingly useful. There is no pedantry in his manner; but all he does

appears to spring solely from the interest he instinctively takes in the

welfare of those who surround him. He is often overcome by gloom, and

then he sits by himself, and tries to overcome all that is sullen or

unsocial in his humour. These paroxysms pass from him like a cloud from

before the sun, though his dejection never leaves him. I have

endeavoured to win his confidence; and I trust that I have succeeded.

One day I mentioned to him the desire I had always felt of finding a

friend who might sympathize with me, and direct me by his counsel. I

said, I did not belong to that class of men who are offended by advice.

“I am self-educated, and perhaps I hardly rely sufficiently upon my own

powers. I wish therefore that my companion should be wiser and more

experienced than myself, to confirm and support me; nor have I believed

it impossible to find a true friend.”

“I agree with you,” replied the stranger, “in believing that friendship

is not only a desirable, but a possible acquisition. I once had a

friend, the most noble of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore,

to judge respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world before you,

and have no cause for despair. But I——I have lost every thing, and

cannot begin life anew.”

As he said this, his countenance became expressive of a calm settled

grief, that touched me to the heart. But he was silent, and presently

retired to his cabin.

Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does

the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight

afforded by these wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of

elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may

suffer misery, and be overwhelmed by disappointments; yet when he has

retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit, that has a

halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.

Will you laugh at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine

wanderer? If you do, you must have certainly lost that simplicity which

was once your characteristic charm. Yet, if you will, smile at the

warmth of my expressions, while I find every day new causes for

repeating them.

* * * * *

August 19th, 17—.

Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive, Captain

Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had

determined, once, that the memory of these evils should die with me; but

you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for knowledge and

wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the gratification of

your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has been. I do

not know that the relation of my misfortunes will be useful to you, yet,

if you are inclined, listen to my tale. I believe that the strange

incidents connected with it will afford a view of nature, which may

enlarge your faculties and understanding. You will hear of powers and

occurrences, such as you have been accustomed to believe impossible: but

I do not doubt that my tale conveys in its series internal evidence of

the truth of the events of which it is composed.”

You may easily conceive that I was much gratified by the offered

communication; yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by

a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the

promised narrative, partly from curiosity, and partly from a strong

desire to ameliorate his fate, if it were in my power. I expressed these

feelings in my answer.

“I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is useless; my

fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall

repose in peace. I understand your feeling,” continued he, perceiving

that I wished to interrupt him; “but you are mistaken, my friend, if

thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my destiny: listen

to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined.”

He then told me, that he would commence his narrative the next day when

I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I

have resolved every night, when I am not engaged, to record, as nearly

as possible in his own words, what he has related during the day. If I

should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will

doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure: but to me, who know him, and

who hear it from his own lips, with what interest and sympathy shall I

read it in some future day!

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. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who

committed herself to his care, and after the interment of his friend he

conducted her to Geneva, and placed her under the protection of a

relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.

When my father became a husband and a parent, he found his time so

occupied by the duties of his new situation, that he relinquished many

of his public employments, and devoted himself to the education of his

children. Of these I was the eldest, and the destined successor to all

his labours and utility. No creature could have more tender parents than

mine. My improvement and health were their constant care, especially as

I remained for several years their only child. But before I continue my

narrative, I must record an incident which took place when I was four

years of age.

My father had a sister, whom he tenderly loved, and who had married

early in life an Italian gentleman. Soon after her marriage, she had

accompanied her husband into her native country, and for some years my

father had very little communication with her. About the time I

mentioned she died; and a few months afterwards he received a letter

from her husband, acquainting him with his intention of marrying an

Italian lady, and requesting my father to take charge of the infant

Elizabeth, the only child of his deceased sister. “It is my wish,” he

said, “that you should consider her as your own daughter, and educate

her thus. Her mother’s fortune is secured to her, the documents of which

I will commit to your keeping. Reflect upon this proposition; and decide

whether you would prefer educating your niece yourself to her being

brought up by a stepmother.”

My father did not hesitate, and immediately went to Italy, that he

might accompany the little Elizabeth to her future home. I have often

heard my mother say, that she was at that time the most beautiful child

she had ever seen, and shewed signs even then of a gentle and

affectionate disposition. These indications, and a desire to bind as

closely as possible the ties of domestic love, determined my mother to

consider Elizabeth as my future wife; a design which she never found

reason to repent.

From this time Elizabeth Lavenza became my playfellow, and, as we grew

older, my friend. She was docile and good tempered, yet gay and playful

as a summer insect. Although she was lively and animated, her feelings

were strong and deep, and her disposition uncommonly affectionate. No

one could better enjoy liberty, yet no one could submit with more grace

than she did to constraint and caprice. Her imagination was luxuriant,

yet her capability of application was great. Her person was the image of

her mind; her hazel eyes, although as lively as a bird’s, possessed an

attractive softness. Her figure was light and airy; and, though capable

of enduring great fatigue, she appeared the most fragile creature in the

world. While I admired her understanding and fancy, I loved to tend on

her, as I should on a favourite animal; and I never saw so much grace

both of person and mind united to so little pretension.

Every one adored Elizabeth. If the servants had any request to make, it

was always through her intercession. We were strangers to any species of

disunion and dispute; for although there was a great dissimilitude in

our characters, there was an harmony in that very dissimilitude. I was

more calm and philosophical than my companion; yet my temper was not so

yielding. My application was of longer endurance; but it was not so

severe whilst it endured. I delighted in investigating the facts

relative to the actual world; she busied herself in following the aërial

creations of the poets. The world was to me a secret, which I desired to

discover; to her it was a vacancy, which she sought to people with

imaginations of her own.

My brothers were considerably younger than myself; but I had a friend

in one of my schoolfellows, who compensated for this deficiency. Henry

Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva, an intimate friend of my

father. He was a boy of singular talent and fancy. I remember, when he

was nine years old, he wrote a fairy tale, which was the delight and

amazement of all his companions. His favourite study consisted in books

of chivalry and romance; and when very young, I can remember, that we

used to act plays composed by him out of these favourite books, the

principal characters of which were Orlando, Robin Hood, Amadis, and St.

George.

No youth could have passed more happily than mine. My parents were

indulgent, and my companions amiable. Our studies were never forced; and

by some means we always had an end placed in view, which excited us to

ardour in the prosecution of them. It was by this method, and not by

emulation, that we were urged to application. Elizabeth was not incited

to apply herself to drawing, that her companions might not outstrip her;

but through the desire of pleasing her aunt, by the representation of

some favourite scene done by her own hand. We learned Latin and English,

that we might read the writings in those languages; and so far from

study being made odious to us through punishment, we loved application,

and our amusements would have been the labours of other children.

Perhaps we did not read so many books, or learn languages so quickly, as

those who are disciplined according to the ordinary methods; but what

we learned was impressed the more deeply on our memories.

In this description of our domestic circle I include Henry Clerval; for

he was constantly with us. He went to school with me, and generally

passed the afternoon at our house; for being an only child, and

destitute of companions at home, his father was well pleased that he

should find associates at our house; and we were never completely happy

when Clerval was absent.

I feel pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before

misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed its bright visions of

extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. But,

in drawing the picture of my early days, I must not omit to record those

events which led, by insensible steps to my after tale of misery: for

when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion, which

afterwards ruled my destiny, I find it arise, like a mountain river,

from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it

proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away

all my hopes and joys.

Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire

therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my

predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age, we all

went on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon: the inclemency of

the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this

house I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I

opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate, and

the wonderful facts which he relates, soon changed this feeling into

enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind; and, bounding with

joy, I communicated my discovery to my father. I cannot help remarking

here the many opportunities instructors possess of directing the

attention of their pupils to useful knowledge, which they utterly

neglect. My father looked carelessly at the title-page of my book, and

said, “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time

upon this; it is sad trash.”

If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains, to explain to

me, that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded, and that

a modern system of science had been introduced, which possessed much

greater powers than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were

chimerical, while those of the former were real and practical; under

such circumstances, I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside, and,

with my imagination warmed as it was, should probably have applied

myself to the more rational theory of chemistry which has resulted from

modern discoveries. It is even possible, that the train of my ideas

would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the

cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no means assured me

that he was acquainted with its contents; and I continued to read with

the greatest avidity.

When I returned home, my first care was to procure the whole works of

this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read

and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they

appeared to me treasures known to few beside myself; and although I

often wished to communicate these secret stores of knowledge to my

father, yet his indefinite censure of my favourite Agrippa always

withheld me. I disclosed my discoveries to Elizabeth, therefore, under a

promise of strict secrecy; but she did not interest herself in the

subject, and I was left by her to pursue my studies alone.

It may appear very strange, that a disciple of Albertus Magnus should

arise in the eighteenth century; but our family was not scientifical,

and I had not attended any of the lectures given at the schools of

Geneva. My dreams were therefore undisturbed by reality; and I entered

with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone

and the elixir of life. But the latter obtained my most undivided

attention: wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend

the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame, and

render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!

Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a

promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of

which I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always

unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather to my own inexperience and

mistake, than to a want of skill or fidelity in my instructors.

The natural phænomena that take place every day before our eyes did not

escape my examinations. Distillation, and the wonderful effects of

steam, processes of which my favourite authors were utterly ignorant,

excited my astonishment; but my utmost wonder was engaged by some

experiments on an air-pump, which I saw employed by a gentleman whom we

were in the habit of visiting.

The ignorance of the early philosophers on these and several other

points served to decrease their credit with me: but I could not entirely

throw them aside, before some other system should occupy their place in

my mind.

When I was about fifteen years old, we had retired to our house near

Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunder-storm. It

advanced from behind the mountains of Jura; and the thunder burst at

once with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I

remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity

and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of

fire issue from an old and beautiful oak, which stood about twenty yards

from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had

disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited

it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner.

It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to thin

ribbands of wood. I never beheld any thing so utterly destroyed.

The catastrophe of this tree excited my extreme astonishment; and I

eagerly inquired of my father the nature and origin of thunder and

lightning. He replied, “Electricity;” describing at the same time the

various effects of that power. He constructed a small electrical

machine, and exhibited a few experiments; he made also a kite, with a

wire and string, which drew down that fluid from the clouds.

This last stroke completed the overthrow of Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus

Magnus, and Paracelsus, who had so long reigned the lords of my

imagination. But by some fatality I did not feel inclined to commence

the study of any modern system; and this disinclination was influenced

by the following circumstance.

My father expressed a wish that I should attend a course of lectures

upon natural philosophy, to which I cheerfully consented. Some accident

prevented my attending these lectures until the course was nearly

finished. The lecture, being therefore one of the last, was entirely

incomprehensible to me. The professor discoursed with the greatest

fluency of potassium and boron, of sulphates and oxyds, terms to which I

could affix no idea; and I became disgusted with the science of natural

philosophy, although I still read Pliny and Buffon with delight,

authors, in my estimation, of nearly equal interest and utility.

My occupations at this age were principally the mathematics, and most of

the branches of study appertaining to that science. I was busily

employed in learning languages; Latin was already familiar to me, and I

began to read some of the easiest Greek authors without the help of a

lexicon. I also perfectly understood English and German. This is the

list of my accomplishments at the age of seventeen; and you may conceive

that my hours were fully employed in acquiring and maintaining a

knowledge of this various literature.

Another task also devolved upon me, when I became the instructor of my

brothers. Ernest was six years younger than myself, and was my principal

pupil. He had been afflicted with ill health from his infancy, through

which Elizabeth and I had been his constant nurses: his disposition was

gentle, but he was incapable of any severe application. William, the

youngest of our family, was yet an infant, and the most beautiful little

fellow in the world; his lively blue eyes, dimpled cheeks, and endearing

manners, inspired the tenderest affection.

Such was our domestic circle, from which care and pain seemed for ever

banished. My father directed our studies, and my mother partook of our

enjoyments. Neither of us possessed the slightest pre-eminence over the

other; the voice of command was never heard amongst us; but mutual

affection engaged us all to comply with and obey the slightest desire of

each other.

CHAPTER II.

When I had attained the age of seventeen, my parents resolved that I

should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto

attended the schools of Geneva; but my father thought it necessary, for

the completion of my education, that I should be made acquainted with

other customs than those of my native country. My departure was

therefore fixed at an early date; but, before the day resolved upon

could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred—an omen, as it

were, of my future misery.

Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; but her illness was not severe,

and she quickly recovered. During her confinement, many arguments had

been urged to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She

had, at first, yielded to our entreaties; but when she heard that her

favourite was recovering, she could no longer debar herself from her

society, and entered her chamber long before the danger of infection was

past. The consequences of this imprudence were fatal. On the third day

my mother sickened; her fever was very malignant, and the looks of her

attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her death-bed the

fortitude and benignity of this admirable woman did not desert her. She

joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself: “My children,” she said, “my

firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of your

union. This expectation will now be the consolation of your father.

Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to your younger cousins.

Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved as I

have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are not thoughts

befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to death, and

will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world.”

She died calmly; and her countenance expressed affection even in death.

I need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by

that most irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the soul,

and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long

before the mind can persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day, and

whose very existence appeared a part of our own, can have departed for

ever—that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished,

and the sound of a voice so familiar, and dear to the ear, can be

hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first

days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then

the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that

rude hand rent away some dear connexion; and why should I describe a

sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length arrives,

when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that

plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not

banished. My mother was dead, but we had still duties which we ought to

perform; we must continue our course with the rest, and learn to think

ourselves fortunate, whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not seized.

My journey to Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was

now again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of some

weeks. This period was spent sadly; my mother’s death, and my speedy

departure, depressed our spirits; but Elizabeth endeavoured to renew the

spirit of cheerfulness in our little society. Since the death of her

aunt, her mind had acquired new firmness and vigour. She determined to

fulfil her duties with the greatest exactness; and she felt that that

most imperious duty, of rendering her uncle and cousins happy, had

devolved upon her. She consoled me, amused her uncle, instructed my

brothers; and I never beheld her so enchanting as at this time, when she

was continually endeavouring to contribute to the happiness of others,

entirely forgetful of herself.

The day of my departure at length arrived. I had taken leave of all my

friends, excepting Clerval, who spent the last evening with us. He

bitterly lamented that he was unable to accompany me: but his father

could not be persuaded to part with him, intending that he should become

a partner with him in business, in compliance with his favourite theory,

that learning was superfluous in the commerce of ordinary life. Henry

had a refined mind; he had no desire to be idle, and was well pleased to

become his father’s partner, but he believed that a man might be a very

good trader, and yet possess a cultivated understanding.

We sat late, listening to his complaints, and making many little

arrangements for the future. The next morning early I departed. Tears

gushed from the eyes of Elizabeth; they proceeded partly from sorrow at

my departure, and partly because she reflected that the same journey was

to have taken place three months before, when a mother’s blessing would

have accompanied me.

I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away, and indulged

in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by

amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow

mutual pleasure, I was now alone. In the university, whither I was

going, I must form my own friends, and be my own protector. My life had

hitherto been remarkably secluded and domestic; and this had given me

invincible repugnance to new countenances. I loved my brothers,

Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were “old familiar faces;” but I believed

myself totally unfitted for the company of strangers. Such were my

reflections as I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits

and hopes rose. I ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had

often, when at home, thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up

in one place, and had longed to enter the world, and take my station

among other human beings. Now my desires were complied with, and it

would, indeed, have been folly to repent.

I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my

journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At length the high

white steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted, and was conducted to

my solitary apartment, to spend the evening as I pleased.

The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction, and paid a

visit to some of the principal professors, and among others to M.

Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He received me with politeness,

and asked me several questions concerning my progress in the different

branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I mentioned, it

is true, with fear and trembling, the only authors I had ever read upon

those subjects. The professor stared: “Have you,” he said, “really spent

your time in studying such nonsense?”

I replied in the affirmative. “Every minute,” continued M. Krempe with

warmth, “every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly

and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems,

and useless names. Good God! in what desert land have you lived, where

no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies, which you have

so greedily imbibed, are a thousand years old, and as musty as they are

ancient? I little expected in this enlightened and scientific age to

find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear Sir, you must

begin your studies entirely anew.”

So saying, he stept aside, and wrote down a list of several books

treating of natural philosophy, which he desired me to procure, and

dismissed me, after mentioning that in the beginning of the following

week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon natural

philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a

fellow-professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that

he missed.

I returned home, not disappointed, for I had long considered those

authors useless whom the professor had so strongly reprobated; but I did

not feel much inclined to study the books which I procured at his

recommendation. M. Krempe was a little squat man, with a gruff voice and

repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in

favour of his doctrine. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern

natural philosophy. It was very different, when the masters of the

science sought immortality and power; such views, although futile, were

grand: but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer

seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my

interest in science was chiefly founded. I was required to exchange

chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of little worth.

Such were my reflections during the first two or three days spent almost

in solitude. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the

information which M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures. And

although I could not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow

deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M.

Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town.

Partly from curiosity, and partly from idleness, I went into the

lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor

was very unlike his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but

with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence; a few gray hairs

covered his temples, but those at the back of his head were nearly

black. His person was short, but remarkably erect; and his voice the

sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of

the history of chemistry and the various improvements made by different

men of learning, pronouncing with fervour the names of the most

distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory view of the present

state of the science, and explained many of its elementary terms. After

having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric

upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget:—

“The ancient teachers of this science,” said he, “promised

impossibilities, and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very

little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted, and that the elixir

of life is a chimera. But these philosophers, whose hands seem only made

to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pour over the microscope or

crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the

recesses of nature, and shew how she works in her hiding places. They

ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates,

and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost

unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the

earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows.”

I departed highly pleased with the professor and his lecture, and paid

him a visit the same evening. His manners in private were even more mild

and attractive than in public; for there was a certain dignity in his

mien during his lecture, which in his own house was replaced by the

greatest affability and kindness. He heard with attention my little

narration concerning my studies, and smiled at the names of Cornelius

Agrippa, and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had

exhibited. He said, that “these were men to whose indefatigable zeal

modern philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their

knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names,

and arrange in connected classifications, the facts which they in a

great degree had been the instruments of bringing to light. The labours

of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in

ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind.” I listened to his

statement, which was delivered without any presumption or affectation;

and then added, that his lecture had removed my prejudices against

modern chemists; and I, at the same time, requested his advice

concerning the books I ought to procure.

“I am happy,” said M. Waldman, “to have gained a disciple; and if your

application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success.

Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest

improvements have been and may be made; it is on that account that I

have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time I have not

neglected the other branches of science. A man would make but a very

sorry chemist, if he attended to that department of human knowledge

alone. If your wish is to become really a man of science, and not merely

a petty experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch of

natural philosophy, including mathematics.”

He then took me into his laboratory, and explained to me the uses of

his various machines; instructing me as to what I ought to procure, and

promising me the use of his own, when I should have advanced far enough

in the science not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list

of books which I had requested; and I took my leave.

Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny.

CHAPTER III.

From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the

most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation.

I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination,

which modern inquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the

lectures, and cultivated the acquaintance, of the men of science of the

university; and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense

and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy

and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I

found a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism; and

his instructions were given with an air of frankness and good nature,

that banished every idea of pedantry. It was, perhaps, the amiable

character of this man that inclined me more to that branch of natural

philosophy which he professed, than an intrinsic love for the science

itself. But this state of mind had place only in the first steps towards

knowledge: the more fully I entered into the science, the more

exclusively I pursued it for its own sake. That application, which at

first had been a matter of duty and resolution, now became so ardent and

eager, that the stars often disappeared in the light of morning whilst

I was yet engaged in my laboratory.

As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that I improved

rapidly. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students; and my

proficiency, that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with

a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on? whilst M. Waldman expressed

the most heart-felt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this

manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart

and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries, which I hoped to make.

None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements

of science. In other studies you go as far as others have gone before

you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit

there is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate

capacity, which closely pursues one study, must infallibly arrive at

great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the

attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely wrapt up in this,

improved so rapidly, that, at the end of two years, I made some

discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which

procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had

arrived at this point, and had become as well acquainted with the theory

and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of

the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer

conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning to my friends and

my native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay.

One of the phænonema which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the

structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life.

Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was

a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery;

yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted,

if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved

these circumstances in my mind, and determined thenceforth to apply

myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which

relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost

supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been

irksome, and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must

first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of

anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural

decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had

taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no

supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale

of superstition, or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness

had no effect upon my fancy; and a church-yard was to me merely the

receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of

beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to

examine the cause and progress of this decay, and forced to spend days

and nights in vaults and charnel houses. My attention was fixed upon

every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human

feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I

beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I

saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused,

examining and analysing all the minutiæ of causation, as exemplified in

the change from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst

of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me—a light so brilliant

and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the

immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that

among so many men of genius, who had directed their inquiries towards

the same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so

astonishing a secret.

Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not

more certainly shine in the heavens, than that which I now affirm is

true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the

discovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of

incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of

generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing

animation upon lifeless matter.

The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon

gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful

labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires, was the most

gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so great

and overwhelming, that all the steps by which I had been progressively

led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been

the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation of the world,

was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened

upon me at once: the information I had obtained was of a nature rather

to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them towards the

object of my search, than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I

was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead, and found a

passage to life aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly ineffectual

light.

I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which your eyes

express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with

which I am acquainted; that cannot be: listen patiently until the end of

my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that

subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to

your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my

precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of

knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town

to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature

will allow.

When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated

a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although

I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame

for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles,

and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour.

I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like

myself or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was too much

exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give

life to an animal as complex and wonderful as man. The materials at

present within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an

undertaking; but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I

prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be

incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect: yet, when I

considered the improvement which every day takes place in science and

mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least

lay the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider the

magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argument of its

impracticability. It was with these feelings that I began the creation

of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a great

hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to

make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, about eight feet

in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this

determination, and having spent some months in successfully collecting

and arranging my materials, I began.

No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like

a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared

to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a

torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as

its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their

being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so

completely as I should deserve their’s. Pursuing these reflections, I

thought, that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might

in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where

death had apparently devoted the body to corruption.

These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with

unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person

had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of

certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or

the next hour might realize. One secret which I alone possessed was the

hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight

labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued

nature to her hiding places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret

toil, as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured

the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble,

and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless, and almost

frantic impulse, urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or

sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance,

that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural

stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I

collected bones from charnel houses; and disturbed, with profane

fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary

chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all

the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of

filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in

attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the

slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my human

nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by

an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a

conclusion.

The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in

one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow

a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage:

but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same

feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to

forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not

seen for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them; and I well

remembered the words of my father: “I know that while you are pleased

with yourself, you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear

regularly from you. You must pardon me, if I regard any interruption in

your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are equally

neglected.”

I knew well therefore what would be my father’s feelings; but I could

not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which

had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it were,

to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection until the

great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be

completed.

I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect

to vice, or faultiness on my part; but I am now convinced that he was

justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from blame.

A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful

mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his

tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an

exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself has a

tendency to weaken your affections, and to destroy your taste for those

simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is

certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If

this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit

whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic

affections, Greece had not been enslaved; Cæsar would have spared his

country; America would have been discovered more gradually; and the

empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.

But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my

tale; and your looks remind me to proceed.

My father made no reproach in his letters; and only took notice of my

silence by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before.

Winter, spring, and summer, passed away during my labours; but I did not

watch the blossom or the expanding leaves—sights which before always

yielded me supreme delight, so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation.

The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near to a

close; and now every day shewed me more plainly how well I had

succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared

rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other

unwholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his favourite employment.

Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a

most painful degree; a disease that I regretted the more because I had

hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and had always boasted of the

firmness of my nerves. But I believed that exercise and amusement would

soon drive away such symptoms; and I promised myself both of these, when

my creation should be complete.

CHAPTER IV.

It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment

of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected

the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being

into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the

morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was

nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I

saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a

convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the

wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form?

His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as

beautiful. Beautiful!—Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the

work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black,

and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only

formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost

of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his

shrivelled complexion, and straight black lips.

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of

human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole

purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived

myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far

exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the

dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.

Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of

the room, and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable

to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the

tumult I had before endured; and I threw myself on the bed in my

clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was

in vain: I slept indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I

thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets

of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I

imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of

death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the

corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I

saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from

my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth

chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow

light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window-shutters, I

beheld the wretch—the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up

the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were

fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds,

while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not

hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped,

and rushed down stairs. I took refuge in the court-yard belonging to the

house which I inhabited; where I remained during the rest of the night,

walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively,

catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach

of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life.

Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy

again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I

had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then; but when those

muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing

such as even Dante could not have conceived.

I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and

hardly, that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly

sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with

this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment: dreams that had

been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space, were now become a

hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!

Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered to my

sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple

and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates

of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the

streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the

wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my

view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt

impelled to hurry on, although wetted by the rain, which poured from a

black and comfortless sky.

I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring, by

bodily exercise, to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I

traversed the streets, without any clear conception of where I was, or

what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear; and I

hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:

Like one who, on a lonely road,

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And, having once turn’d round, walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the

various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew

not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that

was coming towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew

nearer, I observed that it was the Swiss diligence: it stopped just

where I was standing; and, on the door being opened, I perceived Henry

Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. “My dear

Frankenstein,” exclaimed he, “how glad I am to see you! how fortunate

that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!”

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought

back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home

so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot

my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during

many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in

the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval

continued talking for some time about our mutual friends, and his own

good fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. “You may easily

believe,” said he, “how great was the difficulty to persuade my father

that it was not absolutely necessary for a merchant not to understand

any thing except book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him

incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied

entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in the Vicar

of Wakefield: ‘I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat

heartily without Greek.’ But his affection for me at length overcame his

dislike of learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of

discovery to the land of knowledge.”

“It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left

my father, brothers, and Elizabeth.”

“Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you

so seldom. By the bye, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account

myself.—But, my dear Frankenstein,” continued he, stopping short, and

gazing full in my face, “I did not before remark how very ill you

appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for

several nights.”

“You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one

occupation, that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see:

but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an

end, and that I am at length free.”

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to

allude to the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick

pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the

thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my

apartment might still be there, alive, and walking about. I dreaded to

behold this monster; but I feared still more that Henry should see him.

Entreating him therefore to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the

stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock

of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused; and a cold

shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are

accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them

on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the

apartment was empty; and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous

guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good-fortune could have

befallen me; but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I

clapped my hands for joy, and ran down to Clerval.

We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast;

but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed

me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse

beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same

place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud.

Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival;

but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes

for which he could not account; and my loud, unrestrained, heartless

laughter, frightened and astonished him.

“My dear Victor,” cried he, “what, for God’s sake, is the matter? Do not

laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?”

“Do not ask me,” cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought

I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; “_he_ can tell.—Oh, save

me! save me!” I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled

furiously, and fell down in a fit.

Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he

anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was

not the witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and did not recover my

senses for a long, long time.

This was the commencement of a nervous fever, which confined me for

several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I

afterwards learned that, knowing my father’s advanced age, and unfitness

for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make

Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my

disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse

than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not

doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that

he could towards them.

But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the unbounded and

unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The

form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before

my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words

surprised Henry: he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my

disturbed imagination; but the pertinacity with which I continually

recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed

its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.

By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses, that alarmed and

grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became

capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I

perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared, and that the young

buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a

divine spring; and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I

felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my gloom

disappeared, and in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was

attacked by the fatal passion.

“Dearest Clerval,” exclaimed I, “how kind, how very good you are to me.

This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised

yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay

you? I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have

been the occasion; but you will forgive me.”

“You will repay me entirely, if you do not discompose yourself, but get

well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I

may speak to you on one subject, may I not?”

I trembled. One subject! what could it be? Could he allude to an object

on whom I dared not even think?

“Compose yourself,” said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, “I

will not mention it, if it agitates you; but your father and cousin

would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your own

hand-writing. They hardly know how ill you have been, and are uneasy at

your long silence.”

“Is that all? my dear Henry. How could you suppose that my first thought

would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love, and who are

so deserving of my love.”

“If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to

see a letter that has been lying here some days for you: it is from your

cousin, I believe.”

CHAPTER V.

Clerval then put the following letter into my hands.

* * * * *

“_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN.

“MY DEAR COUSIN,

“I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all felt concerning

your health. We cannot help imagining that your friend Clerval conceals

the extent of your disorder: for it is now several months since we have

seen your hand-writing; and all this time you have been obliged to

dictate your letters to Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have been

exceedingly ill; and this makes us all very wretched, as much so nearly

as after the death of your dear mother. My uncle was almost persuaded

that you were indeed dangerously ill, and could hardly be restrained

from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. Clerval always writes that you

are getting better; I eagerly hope that you will confirm this

intelligence soon in your own hand-writing; for indeed, indeed, Victor,

we are all very miserable on this account. Relieve us from this fear,

and we shall be the happiest creatures in the world. Your father’s

health is now so vigorous, that he appears ten years younger since last

winter. Ernest also is so much improved, that you would hardly know him:

he is now nearly sixteen, and has lost that sickly appearance which he

had some years ago; he is grown quite robust and active.

“My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about what profession

Ernest should follow. His constant illness when young has deprived him

of the habits of application; and now that he enjoys good health, he is

continually in the open air, climbing the hills, or rowing on the lake.

I therefore proposed that he should be a farmer; which you know, Cousin,

is a favourite scheme of mine. A farmer’s is a very healthy happy life;

and the least hurtful, or rather the most beneficial profession of any.

My uncle had an idea of his being educated as an advocate, that through

his interest he might become a judge. But, besides that he is not at all

fitted for such an occupation, it is certainly more creditable to

cultivate the earth for the sustenance of man, than to be the confidant,

and sometimes the accomplice, of his vices; which is the profession of a

lawyer. I said, that the employments of a prosperous farmer, if they

were not a more honourable, they were at least a happier species of

occupation than that of a judge, whose misfortune it was always to

meddle with the dark side of human nature. My uncle smiled, and said,

that I ought to be an advocate myself, which put an end to the

conversation on that subject.

“And now I must tell you a little story that will please, and perhaps

amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz? Probably you do not; I

will relate her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz, her

mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third.

This girl had always been the favourite of her father; but, through a

strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and, after the

death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this; and,

when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow

her to live at her house. The republican institutions of our country

have produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in

the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction

between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders

being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined

and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant

in France and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the

duties of a servant; a condition which, in our fortunate country, does

not include the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a

human being.

“After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the heroine of my

little tale: for Justine was a great favourite of your’s; and I

recollect you once remarked, that if you were in an ill-humour, one

glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto

gives concerning the beauty of Angelica—she looked so frank-hearted and

happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which she was

induced to give her an education superior to that which she had at

first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was the most

grateful little creature in the world: I do not mean that she made any

professions, I never heard one pass her lips; but you could see by her

eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition

was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest

attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all

excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so

that even now she often reminds me of her.

“When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much occupied in their own

grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness

with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other

trials were reserved for her.

“One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the

exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience

of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her

favourites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her partiality. She

was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea

which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure

for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor

girl! she wept when she quitted our house: she was much altered since

the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to

her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her

residence at her mother’s house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The

poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged

Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of

having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting

at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased

her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the

first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this last winter.

Justine has returned to us; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is

very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her

mien and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt.

“I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling

William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with

sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eye-lashes, and curling hair. When he

smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with

health. He has already had one or two little _wives_, but Louisa Biron

is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.

“Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip

concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has

already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage

with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon,

married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite

schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the

departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his

spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a very lively

pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older

than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with every

body.

“I have written myself into good spirits, dear cousin; yet I cannot

conclude without again anxiously inquiring concerning your health. Dear

Victor, if you are not very ill, write yourself, and make your father

and all of us happy; or——I cannot bear to think of the other side of

the question; my tears already flow. Adieu, my dearest cousin.”

“ELIZABETH LAVENZA.

“Geneva, March 18th, 17—.”

* * * * *

“Dear, dear Elizabeth!” I exclaimed when I had read her letter, “I will

write instantly, and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel.” I

wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had

commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to

leave my chamber.

One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the

several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a kind

of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained.

Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of

my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of

natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the

sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous

symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view.

He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired a

dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these

cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M.

Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the

astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that

I disliked the subject; but, not guessing the real cause, he attributed

my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement to

the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me

out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as

if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments

which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel

death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt.

Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the

sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his

total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I

thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that

he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and

although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew

no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him that

event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared

the detail to another would only impress more deeply.

M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of

almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me

even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. “D—n the

fellow!” cried he; “why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us

all. Aye, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster

who, but a few years ago, believed Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as the

gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he is

not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.—Aye, aye,”

continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, “M.

Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men

should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval; I was myself

when young: but that wears out in a very short time.”

M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned

the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.

Clerval was no natural philosopher. His imagination was too vivid for

the minutiæ of science. Languages were his principal study; and he

sought, by acquiring their elements, to open a field for

self-instruction on his return to Geneva. Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew,

gained his attention, after he had made himself perfectly master of

Greek and Latin. For my own part, idleness had ever been irksome to me;

and now that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former

studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend,

and found not only instruction but consolation in the works of the

orientalists. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating to a

degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country.

When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and

garden of roses,—in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire

that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical

poetry of Greece and Rome.

Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was

fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several

accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable,

and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay

very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town, and my beloved

friends. My return had only been delayed so long from an unwillingness

to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted

with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully;

and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came, its beauty

compensated for its dilatoriness.

The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily

which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a

pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt that I might bid a

personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded

with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval

had always been my favourite companion in the rambles of this nature

that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.

We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits had

long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the

salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and

the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the

intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but

Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught me

to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children.

Excellent friend! how sincerely did you love me, and endeavour to

elevate my mind, until it was on a level with your own. A selfish

pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and affection

warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature who, a few

years ago, loving and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy,

inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful

sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstacy. The

present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the

hedges, while those of summer were already in bud: I was undisturbed by

thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me,

notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible

burden.

Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathized in my feelings:

he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that

filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly

astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often,

in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of

wonderful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite

poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he supported with great

ingenuity.

We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were

dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits

were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and

hilarity.

CHAPTER VI.

On my return, I found the following letter from my father:—

* * * * *

“_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN.

“MY DEAR VICTOR,

“You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of

your return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few lines,

merely mentioning the day on which I should expect you. But that would

be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise,

my son, when you expected a happy and gay welcome, to behold, on the

contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate our

misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to our joys and

griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on an absent child? I wish to

prepare you for the woeful news, but I know it is impossible; even now

your eye skims over the page, to seek the words which are to convey to

you the horrible tidings.

“William is dead!—that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed

my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered!

“I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the

circumstances of the transaction.

“Last Thursday (May 7th) I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to

walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged

our walk farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of

returning; and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone

on before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until

they should return. Presently Ernest came, and inquired if we had seen

his brother: he said, that they had been playing together, that William

had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and

afterwards waited for him a long time, but that he did not return.

“This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him

until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have returned

to the house. He was not there. We returned again, with torches; for I

could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, and

was exposed to all the damps and dews of night: Elizabeth also suffered

extreme anguish. About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy,

whom the night before I had seen blooming and active in health,

stretched on the grass livid and motionless: the print of the murderer’s

finger was on his neck.

“He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my

countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to

see the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent her; but she persisted,

and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the

victim, and clasping her hands exclaimed, ‘O God! I have murdered my

darling infant!’

“She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again

lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same evening

William had teazed her to let him wear a very valuable miniature that

she possessed of your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless

the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We have no trace of

him at present, although our exertions to discover him are unremitted;

but they will not restore my beloved William.

“Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth. She weeps

continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his death; her

words pierce my heart. We are all unhappy; but will not that be an

additional motive for you, my son, to return and be our comforter? Your

dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live to

witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!

“Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin,

but with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of

festering the wounds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my

friend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not

with hatred for your enemies.

“Your affectionate and afflicted father,

“ALPHONSE FRANKENSTEIN.

“Geneva, May 12th, 17—.”

* * * * *

Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was

surprised to observe the despair that succeeded to the joy I at first

expressed on receiving news from my friends. I threw the letter on the

table, and covered my face with my hands.

“My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep with

bitterness, “are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend, what has

happened?”

I motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the

room in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of

Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune.

“I can offer you no consolation, my friend,” said he; “your disaster is

irreparable. What do you intend to do?”

“To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses.”

During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to raise my spirits. He did not do

this by common topics of consolation, but by exhibiting the truest

sympathy. “Poor William!” said he, “that dear child; he now sleeps with

his angel mother. His friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest: he does

not now feel the murderer’s grasp; a sod covers his gentle form, and he

knows no pain. He can no longer be a fit subject for pity; the survivors

are the greatest sufferers, and for them time is the only consolation.

Those maxims of the Stoics, that death was no evil, and that the mind of

man ought to be superior to despair on the eternal absence of a beloved

object, ought not to be urged. Even Cato wept over the dead body of his

brother.”

Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words

impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered them afterwards in

solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a

cabriole, and bade farewell to my friend.

My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I

longed to console and sympathize with my loved and sorrowing friends;

but when I drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could

hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I

passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for

nearly six years. How altered every thing might be during that time? One

sudden and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand little

circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations which,

although they were done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive.

Fear overcame me; I dared not advance, dreading a thousand nameless

evils that made me tremble, although I was unable to define them.

I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I

contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm, and

the snowy mountains, “the palaces of nature,” were not changed. By

degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my

journey towards Geneva.

The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I

approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the black sides

of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blânc; I wept like a child: “Dear

mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your wanderer? Your

summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to

prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?”

I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on

these preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative

happiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved

country! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again beholding

thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake.

Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also

closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt

still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil,

and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched

of human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single

circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not

conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.

It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the

gates of the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night

at Secheron, a village half a league to the east of the city. The sky

was serene; and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot

where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the

town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at

Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the lightnings playing on

the summit of Mont Blânc in the most beautiful figures. The storm

appeared to approach rapidly; and, on landing, I ascended a low hill,

that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens were

clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its

violence quickly increased.

I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm

increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash

over my head. It was echoed from Salêve, the Juras, and the Alps of

Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the

lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant

every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself

from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in

Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most

violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over that part of the lake

which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copêt.

Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened

and sometimes disclosed the Môle, a peaked mountain to the east of the

lake.

While I watched the storm, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with

a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped

my hands, and exclaimed aloud, “William, dear angel! this is thy

funeral, this thy dirge!” As I said these words, I perceived in the

gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood

fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning

illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its

gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than

belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the

filthy dæmon to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be (I

shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did

that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth; my

teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for support.

The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in

human shape could have destroyed that fair child. _He_ was the murderer!

I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible

proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have

been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me hanging among the

rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Salêve, a hill that

bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit, and

disappeared.

I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still continued,

and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I revolved in

my mind the events which I had until now sought to forget: the whole

train of my progress towards the creation; the appearance of the work of

my own hands alive at my bed side; its departure. Two years had now

nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and was

this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a depraved

wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not murdered my

brother?

No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the

night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not feel

the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in scenes of

evil and despair. I considered the being whom I had cast among mankind,

and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes of horror, such

as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light of my own

vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to destroy

all that was dear to me.

Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were

open; and I hastened to my father’s house. My first thought was to

discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be

made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A

being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at

midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered

also the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at the time

that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of delirium to a

tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that if any other had

communicated such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it as the

ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal would

elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my

relatives to commence it. Besides, of what use would be pursuit? Who

could arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont

Salêve? These reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain

silent.

It was about five in the morning when I entered my father’s house. I

told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library

to attend their usual hour of rising.

Six years had elapsed, passed as a dream but for one indelible trace,

and I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before

my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and respectable parent! He still

remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over

the mantle-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father’s

desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair,

kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her

cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly

permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of

William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus

engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome

me. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me: “Welcome, my dearest

Victor,” said he. “Ah! I wish you had come three months ago, and then

you would have found us all joyous and delighted. But we are now

unhappy; and, I am afraid, tears instead of smiles will be your welcome.

Our father looks so sorrowful: this dreadful event seems to have revived

in his mind his grief on the death of Mamma. Poor Elizabeth also is

quite inconsolable.” Ernest began to weep as he said these words.

“Do not,” said I, “welcome me thus; try to be more calm, that I may not

be absolutely miserable the moment I enter my father’s house after so

long an absence. But, tell me, how does my father support his

misfortunes? and how is my poor Elizabeth?”

“She indeed requires consolation; she accused herself of having caused

the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched. But since the

murderer has been discovered——”

“The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt

to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the

winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw.”

“I do not know what you mean; but we were all very unhappy when she was

discovered. No one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth

will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who

would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all

the family, could all at once become so extremely wicked?”

“Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is

wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?”

“No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have

almost forced conviction upon us: and her own behaviour has been so

confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear,

leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried to-day, and you will

then hear all.”

He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William had

been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed;

and, after several days, one of the servants, happening to examine the

apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in her

pocket the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the

temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly shewed it to one of

the others, who, without saying a word to any of the family, went to a

magistrate; and, upon their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On

being charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a

great measure by her extreme confusion of manner.

This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied

earnestly, “You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor,

good Justine, is innocent.”

At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on

his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, after

we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some other

topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, “Good God,

Papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of poor William.”

“We do also, unfortunately,” replied my father; “for indeed I had rather

have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and

ingratitude in one I valued so highly.”

“My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent.”

“If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She is to be

tried to-day, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted.”

This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that

Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. I

had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be

brought forward strong enough to convict her; and, in this assurance, I

calmed myself, expecting the trial with eagerness, but without

prognosticating an evil result.

We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had made great alterations in her

form since I had last beheld her. Six years before she had been a

pretty, good-humoured girl, whom every one loved and caressed. She was

now a woman in stature and expression of countenance, which was

uncommonly lovely. An open and capacious forehead gave indications of a

good understanding, joined to great frankness of disposition. Her eyes

were hazel, and expressive of mildness, now through recent affliction

allied to sadness. Her hair was of a rich, dark auburn, her complexion

fair, and her figure slight and graceful. She welcomed me with the

greatest affection. “Your arrival, my dear cousin,” said she, “fills me

with hope. You perhaps will find some means to justify my poor guiltless

Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be convicted of crime? I rely on her

innocence as certainly as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly

hard to us; we have not only lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor

girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If

she is condemned, I never shall know joy more. But she will not, I am

sure she will not; and then I shall be happy again, even after the sad

death of my little William.”

“She is innocent, my Elizabeth,” said I, “and that shall be proved;

fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of her

acquittal.”

“How kind you are! every one else believes in her guilt, and that made

me wretched; for I knew that it was impossible: and to see every one

else prejudiced in so deadly a manner, rendered me hopeless and

despairing.” She wept.

“Sweet niece,” said my father, “dry your tears. If she is, as you

believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our judges, and the activity

with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality.”

CHAPTER VII.

We passed a few sad hours, until eleven o’clock, when the trial was to

commence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend

as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of this

wretched mockery of justice, I suffered living torture. It was to be

decided, whether the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would

cause the death of two of my fellow-beings: one a smiling babe, full of

innocence and joy; the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every

aggravation of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror.

Justine also was a girl of merit, and possessed qualities which promised

to render her life happy: now all was to be obliterated in an

ignominious grave; and I the cause! A thousand times rather would I have

confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine; but I was

absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have been

considered as the ravings of a madman, and would not have exculpated her

who suffered through me.

The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning; and her

countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her

feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in

innocence, and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated by

thousands; for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have

excited, was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the

imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed. She was

tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as her

confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she worked up

her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered the court, she

threw her eyes round it, and quickly discovered where we were seated. A

tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us; but she quickly recovered

herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest her utter

guiltlessness.

The trial began; and after the advocate against her had stated the

charge, several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined

against her, which might have staggered any one who had not such proof

of her innocence as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on

which the murder had been committed, and towards morning had been

perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where the body of the

murdered child had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she

did there; but she looked very strangely, and only returned a confused

and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight

o’clock; and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she

replied, that she had been looking for the child, and demanded

earnestly, if any thing had been heard concerning him. When shewn the

body, she fell into violent hysterics, and kept her bed for several

days. The picture was then produced, which the servant had found in her

pocket; and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the

same which, an hour before the child had been missed, she had placed

round his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation filled the court.

Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded, her

countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery, were strongly

expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears; but when she was

desired to plead, she collected her powers, and spoke in an audible

although variable voice:—

“God knows,” she said, “how entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend

that my protestations should acquit me: I rest my innocence on a plain

and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced against me;

and I hope the character I have always borne will incline my judges to a

favourable interpretation, where any circumstance appears doubtful or

suspicious.”

She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed

the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed, at the

house of an aunt at Chêne, a village situated at about a league from

Geneva. On her return, at about nine o’clock, she met a man, who asked

her if she had seen any thing of the child who was lost. She was alarmed

by this account, and passed several hours in looking for him, when the

gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced to remain several hours of

the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being unwilling to call up

the inhabitants, to whom she was well known. Unable to rest or sleep,

she quitted her asylum early, that she might again endeavour to find my

brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it was

without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered when questioned by

the market-woman, was not surprising, since she had passed a sleepless

night, and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain. Concerning the

picture she could give no account.

“I know,” continued the unhappy victim, “how heavily and fatally this

one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of explaining

it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left to

conjecture concerning the probabilities by which it might have been

placed in my pocket. But here also I am checked. I believe that I have

no enemy on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to

destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I know of no

opportunity afforded him for so doing; or if I had, why should he have

stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon?

“I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for

hope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my

character; and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed guilt,

I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my

innocence.”

Several witnesses were called, who had known her for many years, and

they spoke well of her; but fear, and hatred of the crime of which they

supposed her guilty, rendered them timorous, and unwilling to come

forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource, her excellent

dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused,

when, although violently agitated, she desired permission to address the

court.

“I am,” said she, “the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered, or

rather his sister, for I was educated by and have lived with his parents

ever since and even long before his birth. It may therefore be judged

indecent in me to come forward on this occasion; but when I see a

fellow-creature about to perish through the cowardice of her pretended

friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I know of

her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have lived in

the same house with her, at one time for five, and at another for nearly

two years. During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable

and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my

aunt, in her last illness with the greatest affection and care; and

afterwards attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner

that excited the admiration of all who knew her. After which she again

lived in my uncle’s house, where she was beloved by all the family. She

was warmly attached to the child who is now dead, and acted towards him

like a most affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to

say, that, notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I

believe and rely on her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for

such an action: as to the bauble on which the chief proof rests, if she

had earnestly desired it, I should have willingly given it to her; so

much do I esteem and value her.”

Excellent Elizabeth! A murmur of approbation was heard; but it was

excited by her generous interference, and not in favour of poor Justine,

on whom the public indignation was turned with renewed violence,

charging her with the blackest ingratitude. She herself wept as

Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My own agitation and anguish

was extreme during the whole trial. I believed in her innocence; I knew

it. Could the dæmon, who had (I did not for a minute doubt) murdered my

brother, also in his hellish sport have betrayed the innocent to death

and ignominy. I could not sustain the horror of my situation; and when I

perceived that the popular voice, and the countenances of the judges,

had already condemned my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court in

agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal mine; she was sustained

by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore my bosom, and would not

forego their hold.

I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning I went to the

court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask the fatal

question; but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause of my

visit. The ballots had been thrown; they were all black, and Justine was

condemned.

I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before experienced

sensations of horror; and I have endeavoured to bestow upon them

adequate expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the

heart-sickening despair that I then endured. The person to whom I

addressed myself added, that Justine had already confessed her guilt.

“That evidence,” he observed, “was hardly required in so glaring a case,

but I am glad of it; and, indeed, none of our judges like to condemn a

criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so decisive.”

When I returned home, Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.

“My cousin,” replied I, “it is decided as you may have expected; all

judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer, than that one guilty

should escape. But she has confessed.”

This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness

upon Justine’s innocence. “Alas!” said she, “how shall I ever again

believe in human benevolence? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as my

sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray;

her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or ill-humour, and yet

she has committed a murder.”

Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a wish to see my

cousin. My father wished her not to go; but said, that he left it to her

own judgment and feelings to decide. “Yes,” said Elizabeth, “I will go,

although she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany me: I cannot go

alone.” The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not

refuse.

We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and beheld Justine sitting on some

straw at the further end; her hands were manacled, and her head rested

on her knees. She rose on seeing us enter; and when we were left alone

with her, she threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly.

My cousin wept also.

“Oh, Justine!” said she, “why did you rob me of my last consolation. I

relied on your innocence; and although I was then very wretched, I was

not so miserable as I am now.”

“And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also

join with my enemies to crush me?” Her voice was suffocated with sobs.

“Rise, my poor girl,” said Elizabeth, “why do you kneel, if you are

innocent? I am not one of your enemies; I believed you guiltless,

notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard that you had yourself

declared your guilt. That report, you say, is false; and be assured,

dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a moment,

but your own confession.”

“I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might obtain

absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my

other sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my

confessor has besieged me; he threatened and menaced, until I almost

began to think that I was the monster that he said I was. He threatened

excommunication and hell fire in my last moments, if I continued

obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to support me; all looked on me as a

wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition. What could I do? In an evil

hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly miserable.”

She paused, weeping, and then continued—“I thought with horror, my

sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed aunt

had so highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable of a

crime which none but the devil himself could have perpetrated. Dear

William! dearest blessed child! I soon shall see you again in heaven,

where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me, going as I am to

suffer ignominy and death.”

“Oh, Justine! forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you. Why

did you confess? But do not mourn, my dear girl; I will every where

proclaim your innocence, and force belief. Yet you must die; you, my

playfellow, my companion, my more than sister. I never can survive so

horrible a misfortune.”

“Dear, sweet Elizabeth, do not weep. You ought to raise me with thoughts

of a better life, and elevate me from the petty cares of this world of

injustice and strife. Do not you, excellent friend, drive me to

despair.”

“I will try to comfort you; but this, I fear, is an evil too deep and

poignant to admit of consolation, for there is no hope. Yet heaven

bless thee, my dearest Justine, with resignation, and a confidence

elevated beyond this world. Oh! how I hate its shews and mockeries! when

one creature is murdered, another is immediately deprived of life in a

slow torturing manner; then the executioners, their hands yet reeking

with the blood of innocence, believe that they have done a great deed.

They call this _retribution_. Hateful name! When that word is

pronounced, I know greater and more horrid punishments are going to be

inflicted than the gloomiest tyrant has ever invented to satiate his

utmost revenge. Yet this is not consolation for you, my Justine, unless

indeed that you may glory in escaping from so miserable a den. Alas! I

would I were in peace with my aunt and my lovely William, escaped from a

world which is hateful to me, and the visages of men which I abhor.”

Justine smiled languidly. “This, dear lady, is despair, and not

resignation. I must not learn the lesson that you would teach me. Talk

of something else, something that will bring peace, and not increase of

misery.”

During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison-room,

where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair! Who

dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass the

dreary boundary between life and death, felt not as I did, such deep and

bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth, and ground them together, uttering a

groan that came from my inmost soul. Justine started. When she saw who

it was, she approached me, and said, “Dear Sir, you are very kind to

visit me; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty.”

I could not answer. “No, Justine,” said Elizabeth; “he is more convinced

of your innocence than I was; for even when he heard that you had

confessed, he did not credit it.”

“I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest gratitude

towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the affection

of others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than half my

misfortune; and I feel as if I could die in peace, now that my innocence

is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin.”

Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed

gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the

never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or

consolation. Elizabeth also wept, and was unhappy; but her’s also was

the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair

moon, for a while hides, but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and

despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within

me, which nothing could extinguish. We staid several hours with Justine;

and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear herself away.

“I wish,” cried she, “that I were to die with you; I cannot live in this

world of misery.”

Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty

repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth, and said, in a voice

of half-suppressed emotion, “Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my

beloved and only friend; may heaven in its bounty bless and preserve

you; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever suffer. Live,

and be happy, and make others so.”

As we returned, Elizabeth said, “You know not, my dear Victor, how much

I am relieved, now that I trust in the innocence of this unfortunate

girl. I never could again have known peace, if I had been deceived in my

reliance on her. For the moment that I did believe her guilty, I felt an

anguish that I could not have long sustained. Now my heart is lightened.

The innocent suffers; but she whom I thought amiable and good has not

betrayed the trust I reposed in her, and I am consoled.”

Amiable cousin! such were your thoughts, mild and gentle as your own

dear eyes and voice. But I—I was a wretch, and none ever conceived of

the misery that I then endured.

END OF VOL. I.

FRANKENSTEIN;

OR,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

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.

CHAPTER I.

Nothing is more painful to the human mind, than, after the feelings have

been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of

inaction and certainty which follows, and deprives the soul both of hope

and fear. Justine died; she rested; and I was alive. The blood flowed

freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my

heart, which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered

like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond

description horrible, and more, much more, (I persuaded myself) was yet

behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness, and the love of virtue. I

had begun life with benevolent intentions, and thirsted for the moment

when I should put them in practice, and make myself useful to my

fellow-beings. Now all was blasted: instead of that serenity of

conscience, which allowed me to look back upon the past with

self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I

was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to

a hell of intense tortures, such as no language can describe.

This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had entirely recovered

from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man; all

sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude was my only

consolation—deep, dark, death-like solitude.

My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my

disposition and habits, and endeavoured to reason with me on the folly

of giving way to immoderate grief. “Do you think, Victor,” said he,

“that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more than I loved

your brother;” (tears came into his eyes as he spoke); “but is it not a

duty to the survivors, that we should refrain from augmenting their

unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed

to yourself; for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or

even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for

society.”

This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I

should have been the first to hide my grief, and console my friends, if

remorse had not mingled its bitterness with my other sensations. Now I

could only answer my father with a look of despair, and endeavour to

hide myself from his view.

About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was

particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten

o’clock, and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that

hour, had rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome

to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired

for the night, I took the boat, and passed many hours upon the water.

Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes,

after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to pursue its

own course, and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I was often

tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing

that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly, if I except

some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard

only when I approached the shore—often, I say, I was tempted to plunge

into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me and my

calamities for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic

and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was

bound up in mine. I thought also of my father, and surviving brother:

should I by my base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the

malice of the fiend whom I had let loose among them?

At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that peace would revisit my

mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that

could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of

unalterable evils; and I lived in daily fear, lest the monster whom I

had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure

feeling that all was not over, and that he would still commit some

signal crime, which by its enormity should almost efface the

recollection of the past. There was always scope for fear, so long as

any thing I loved remained behind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be

conceived. When I thought of him, I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became

inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I had so

thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my

hatred and revenge burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a

pilgrimage to the highest peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have

precipitated him to their base. I wished to see him again, that I might

wreak the utmost extent of anger on his head, and avenge the deaths of

William and Justine.

Our house was the house of mourning. My father’s health was deeply

shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and

desponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all

pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears

she then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so

blasted and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature, who in

earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake, and talked with

ecstacy of our future prospects. She had become grave, and often

conversed of the inconstancy of fortune, and the instability of human

life.

“When I reflect, my dear cousin,” said she, “on the miserable death of

Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before

appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and

injustice, that I read in books or heard from others, as tales of

ancient days, or imaginary evils; at least they were remote, and more

familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come

home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other’s blood.

Yet I am certainly unjust. Every body believed that poor girl to be

guilty; and if she could have committed the crime for which she

suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human

creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her

benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and

appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent to the

death of any human being; but certainly I should have thought such a

creature unfit to remain in the society of men. Yet she was innocent. I

know, I feel she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that

confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth,

who can assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were

walking on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are

crowding, and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss. William and

Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the

world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to

suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places

with such a wretch.”

I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed,

but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my

countenance, and kindly taking my hand said, “My dearest cousin, you

must calm yourself. These events have affected me, God knows how deeply;

but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair,

and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance, that makes me tremble. Be

calm, my dear Victor; I would sacrifice my life to your peace. We surely

shall be happy: quiet in our native country, and not mingling in the

world, what can disturb our tranquillity?”

She shed tears as she said this, distrusting the very solace that she

gave; but at the same time she smiled, that she might chase away the

fiend that lurked in my heart. My father, who saw in the unhappiness

that was painted in my face only an exaggeration of that sorrow which I

might naturally feel, thought that an amusement suited to my taste would

be the best means of restoring to me my wonted serenity. It was from

this cause that he had removed to the country; and, induced by the same

motive, he now proposed that we should all make an excursion to the

valley of Chamounix. I had been there before, but Elizabeth and Ernest

never had; and both had often expressed an earnest desire to see the

scenery of this place, which had been described to them as so wonderful

and sublime. Accordingly we departed from Geneva on this tour about the

middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of

Justine.

The weather was uncommonly fine; and if mine had been a sorrow to be

chased away by any fleeting circumstance, this excursion would certainly

have had the effect intended by my father. As it was, I was somewhat

interested in the scene; it sometimes lulled, although it could not

extinguish my grief. During the first day we travelled in a carriage. In

the morning we had seen the mountains at a distance, towards which we

gradually advanced. We perceived that the valley through which we wound,

and which was formed by the river Arve, whose course we followed, closed

in upon us by degrees; and when the sun had set, we beheld immense

mountains and precipices overhanging us on every side, and heard the

sound of the river raging among rocks, and the dashing of water-falls

around.

The next day we pursued our journey upon mules; and as we ascended still

higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character.

Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains; the

impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from

among the trees, formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented

and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining

pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the

habitations of another race of beings.

We passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river

forms, opened before us, and we began to ascend the mountain that

overhangs it. Soon after we entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley

is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as

that of Servox, through which we had just passed. The high and snowy

mountains were its immediate boundaries; but we saw no more ruined

castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road; we

heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche, and marked the

smoke of its passage. Mont Blânc, the supreme and magnificent Mont

Blânc, raised itself from the surrounding _aiguilles_, and its

tremendous _dome_ overlooked the valley.

During this journey, I sometimes joined Elizabeth, and exerted myself to

point out to her the various beauties of the scene. I often suffered my

mule to lag behind, and indulged in the misery of reflection. At other

times I spurred on the animal before my companions, that I might forget

them, the world, and, more than all, myself. When at a distance, I

alighted, and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and

despair. At eight in the evening I arrived at Chamounix. My father and

Elizabeth were very much fatigued; Ernest, who accompanied us, was

delighted, and in high spirits: the only circumstance that detracted

from his pleasure was the south wind, and the rain it seemed to promise

for the next day.

We retired early to our apartments, but not to sleep; at least I did

not. I remained many hours at the window, watching the pallid lightning

that played above Mont Blânc, and listening to the rushing of the Arve,

which ran below my window.