It was midnight. My father slept in the cabin; and I lay on the deck,

looking at the stars, and listening to the dashing of the waves. I

hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight, and my pulse beat

with a feverish joy, when I reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The

past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in

which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested shore of Ireland,

and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly that I was

deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend and dearest

companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I

repassed, in my memory, my whole life; my quiet happiness while residing

with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for

Ingolstadt. I remembered shuddering at the mad enthusiasm that hurried

me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the

night during which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of

thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.

Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the custom of taking

every night a small quantity of laudanum; for it was by means of this

drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the

preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various

misfortunes, I now took a double dose, and soon slept profoundly. But

sleep did not afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams

presented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was

possessed by a kind of night-mare; I felt the fiend’s grasp in my neck,

and could not free myself from it; groans and cries rung in my ears. My

father, who was watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me,

and pointed to the port of Holyhead, which we were now entering.

CHAPTER V.

We had resolved not to go to London, but to cross the country to

Portsmouth, and thence to embark for Havre. I preferred this plan

principally because I dreaded to see again those places in which I had

enjoyed a few moments of tranquillity with my beloved Clerval. I thought

with horror of seeing again those persons whom we had been accustomed to

visit together, and who might make inquiries concerning an event, the

very remembrance of which made me again feel the pang I endured when I

gazed on his lifeless form in the inn at ——.

As for my father, his desires and exertions were bounded to the again

seeing me restored to health and peace of mind. His tenderness and

attentions were unremitting; my grief and gloom was obstinate, but he

would not despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt deeply the

degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he

endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride.

“Alas! my father,” said I, “how little do you know me. Human beings,

their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded, if such a wretch

as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I,

and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause

of this—I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry—they all died by

my hands.”

My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same

assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an

explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as caused by

delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had

presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved

in my convalescence. I avoided explanation, and maintained a continual

silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a feeling that I

should be supposed mad, and this for ever chained my tongue, when I

would have given the whole world to have confided the fatal secret.

Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded

wonder, “What do you mean, Victor? are you mad? My dear son, I entreat

you never to make such an assertion again.”

“I am not mad,” I cried energetically; “the sun and the heavens, who

have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth. I am the

assassin of those most innocent victims; they died by my machinations. A

thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have

saved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not

sacrifice the whole human race.”

The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were

deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation, and

endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts. He wished as much as

possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken place in

Ireland, and never alluded to them, or suffered me to speak of my

misfortunes.

As time passed away I became more calm: misery had her dwelling in my

heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own

crimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness of them. By the utmost

self-violence, I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness, which

sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world; and my manners

were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey

to the sea of ice.

We arrived at Havre on the 8th of May, and instantly proceeded to Paris,

where my father had some business which detained us a few weeks. In this

city, I received the following letter from Elizabeth:—

* * * * *

“_To_ VICTOR FRANKENSTEIN.

“MY DEAREST FRIEND,

“It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle

dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable distance, and I may

hope to see you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you

must have suffered! I expect to see you looking even more ill than when

you quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured

as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in your

countenance, and to find that your heart is not totally devoid of

comfort and tranquillity.

“Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable

a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would not disturb you at

this period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you; but a conversation

that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders some

explanation necessary before we meet.

“Explanation! you may possibly say; what can Elizabeth have to explain?

If you really say this, my questions are answered, and I have no more to

do than to sign myself your affectionate cousin. But you are distant

from me, and it is possible that you may dread, and yet be pleased with

this explanation; and, in a probability of this being the case, I dare

not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I have often

wished to express to you, but have never had the courage to begin.

“You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of

your parents ever since our infancy. We were told this when young, and

taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly take

place. We were affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I

believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But as

brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each

other, without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our

case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you, by our mutual

happiness, with simple truth—Do you not love another?

“You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life at

Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last

autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude, from the society of every

creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our

connexion, and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of

your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations. But

this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my cousin, that I love you,

and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant friend

and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as well as my own, when

I declare to you, that our marriage would render me eternally miserable,

unless it were the dictate of your own free choice. Even now I weep to

think, that, borne down as you are by the cruelest misfortunes, you may

stifle, by the word _honour_, all hope of that love and happiness which

would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so interested an

affection for you, may increase your miseries ten-fold, by being an

obstacle to your wishes. Ah, Victor, be assured that your cousin and

playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this

supposition. Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me in this one

request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to

interrupt my tranquillity.

“Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer it to-morrow, or the

next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle

will send me news of your health; and if I see but one smile on your

lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I

shall need no other happiness.

“ELIZABETH LAVENZA.

“Geneva, May 18th, 17—.”

* * * * *

This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, the threat

of the fiend—“_I will be with you on your wedding-night!_” Such was my

sentence, and on that night would the dæmon employ every art to destroy

me, and tear me from the glimpse of happiness which promised partly to

console my sufferings. On that night he had determined to consummate his

crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a deadly struggle would then

assuredly take place, in which if he was victorious, I should be at

peace, and his power over me be at an end. If he were vanquished, I

should be a free man. Alas! what freedom? such as the peasant enjoys

when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his cottage burnt,

his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless, pennyless, and

alone, but free. Such would be my liberty, except that in my Elizabeth I

possessed a treasure; alas! balanced by those horrors of remorse and

guilt, which would pursue me until death.

Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and re-read her letter, and some

softened feelings stole into my heart, and dared to whisper paradisaical

dreams of love and joy; but the apple was already eaten, and the

angel’s arm bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I would die to make her

happy. If the monster executed his threat, death was inevitable; yet,

again, I considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate. My

destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner; but if my torturer

should suspect that I postponed it, influenced by his menaces, he would

surely find other, and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge. He had

vowed _to be with me on my wedding-night_, yet he did not consider that

threat as binding him to peace in the mean time; for, as if to shew me

that he was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval

immediately after the enunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore,

that if my immediate union with my cousin would conduce either to her’s

or my father’s happiness, my adversary’s designs against my life should

not retard it a single hour.

In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and

affectionate. “I fear, my beloved girl,” I said, “little happiness

remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is concentered

in you. Chase away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate my

life, and my endeavours for contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a

dreadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with

horror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only

wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this tale of

misery and terror to you the day after our marriage shall take place;

for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us. But

until then, I conjure you, do not mention or allude to it. This I most

earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply.”

In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth’s letter, we returned to

Geneva. My cousin welcomed me with warm affection; yet tears were in her

eyes, as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a

change in her also. She was thinner, and had lost much of that heavenly

vivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness, and soft looks

of compassion, made her a more fit companion for one blasted and

miserable as I was.

The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought

madness with it; and when I thought on what had passed, a real insanity

possessed me; sometimes I was furious, and burnt with rage, sometimes

low and despondent. I neither spoke or looked, but sat motionless,

bewildered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me.

Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her gentle

voice would soothe me when transported by passion, and inspire me with

human feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with me, and for me. When

reason returned, she would remonstrate, and endeavour to inspire me with

resignation. Ah! it is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for

the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury

there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief.

Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate marriage with my

cousin. I remained silent.

“Have you, then, some other attachment?”

“None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look forward to our union with

delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I will consecrate

myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my cousin.”

“My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen us;

but let us only cling closer to what remains, and transfer our love for

those whom we have lost to those who yet live. Our circle will be small,

but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune. And when

time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will

be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly deprived.”

Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance of the

threat returned: nor can you wonder, that, omnipotent as the fiend had

yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as

invincible; and that when he had pronounced the words, “_I shall be with

you on your wedding-night_,” I should regard the threatened fate as

unavoidable. But death was no evil to me, if the loss of Elizabeth were

balanced with it; and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful

countenance, agreed with my father, that if my cousin would consent, the

ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined, the

seal to my fate.

Great God! if for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish

intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself

for ever from my native country, and wandered a friendless outcast over

the earth, than have consented to this miserable marriage. But, as if

possessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real

intentions; and when I thought that I prepared only my own death, I

hastened that of a far dearer victim.

As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice

or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed

my feelings by an appearance of hilarity, that brought smiles and joy to

the countenance of my father, but hardly deceived the ever-watchful and

nicer eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid

contentment, not unmingled with a little fear, which past misfortunes

had impressed, that what now appeared certain and tangible happiness,

might soon dissipate into an airy dream, and leave no trace but deep and

everlasting regret.

Preparations were made for the event; congratulatory visits were

received; and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up, as well as I

could, in my own heart the anxiety that preyed there, and entered with

seeming earnestness into the plans of my father, although they might

only serve as the decorations of my tragedy. A house was purchased for

us near Cologny, by which we should enjoy the pleasures of the country,

and yet be so near Geneva as to see my father every day; who would

still reside within the walls, for the benefit of Ernest, that he might

follow his studies at the schools.

In the mean time I took every precaution to defend my person, in case

the fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols and a dagger

constantly about me, and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice; and

by these means gained a greater degree of tranquillity. Indeed, as the

period approached, the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be

regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for

in my marriage wore a greater appearance of certainty, as the day fixed

for its solemnization drew nearer, and I heard it continually spoken of

as an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent.

Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed greatly to

calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my

destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded her;

and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret, which I had

promised to reveal to her the following day. My father was in the mean

time overjoyed, and, in the bustle of preparation, only observed in the

melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride.

After the ceremony was performed, a large party assembled at my

father’s; but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should pass the

afternoon and night at Evian, and return to Cologny the next morning. As

the day was fair, and the wind favourable, we resolved to go by water.

Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the

feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along: the sun was hot, but we

were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy, while we enjoyed the

beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the lake, where we saw

Mont Salêve, the pleasant banks of Montalêgre, and at a distance,

surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blânc, and the assemblage of snowy

mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her; sometimes coasting the

opposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the

ambition that would quit its native country, and an almost

insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to enslave it.

I took the hand of Elizabeth: “You are sorrowful, my love. Ah! if you

knew what I have suffered, and what I may yet endure, you would

endeavour to let me taste the quiet, and freedom from despair, that this

one day at least permits me to enjoy.”

“Be happy, my dear Victor,” replied Elizabeth; “there is, I hope,

nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively joy is not

painted in my face, my heart is contented. Something whispers to me not

to depend too much on the prospect that is opened before us; but I will

not listen to such a sinister voice. Observe how fast we move along, and

how the clouds which sometimes obscure, and sometimes rise above the

dome of Mont Blânc, render this scene of beauty still more interesting.

Look also at the innumerable fish that are swimming in the clear

waters, where we can distinguish every pebble that lies at the bottom.

What a divine day! how happy and serene all nature appears!”

Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from all

reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her temper was fluctuating; joy

for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually gave place to

distraction and reverie.

The sun sunk lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance, and

observed its path through the chasms of the higher, and the glens of the

lower hills. The Alps here come closer to the lake, and we approached

the amphitheatre of mountains which forms its eastern boundary. The

spire of Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it, and the range

of mountain above mountain by which it was overhung.

The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity,

sunk at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water,

and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the shore,

from which it wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and hay. The

sun sunk beneath the horizon as we landed; and as I touched the shore, I

felt those cares and fears revive, which soon were to clasp me, and

cling to me for ever.

CHAPTER VI.

It was eight o’clock when we landed; we walked for a short time on the

shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn, and

contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured

in darkness, yet still displaying their black outlines.

The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence in

the west. The moon had reached her summit in the heavens, and was

beginning to descend; the clouds swept across it swifter than the flight

of the vulture, and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the scene

of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves that

were beginning to rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended.

I had been calm during the day; but so soon as night obscured the shapes

of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I was anxious and

watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in my

bosom; every sound terrified me; but I resolved that I would sell my

life dearly, and not relax the impending conflict until my own life, or

that of my adversary, were extinguished.

Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful

silence; at length she said, “What is it that agitates you, my dear

Victor? What is it you fear?”

“Oh! peace, peace, my love,” replied I, “this night, and all will be

safe: but this night is dreadful, very dreadful.”

I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how

dreadful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife,

and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her until

I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy.

She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages

of the house, and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to

my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him, and was beginning to

conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the

execution of his menaces; when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful

scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I

heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the

motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended; I could feel the blood

trickling in my veins, and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This

state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed

into the room.

Great God! why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate the

destruction of the best hope, and the purest creature of earth. She was

there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging

down, and her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair.

Every where I turn I see the same figure—her bloodless arms and relaxed

form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this, and

live? Alas! life is obstinate, and clings closest where it is most

hated. For a moment only did I lose recollection; I fainted.

When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn;

their countenances expressed a breathless terror: but the horror of

others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that

oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room where lay the body of

Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She

had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her; and

now, as she lay, her head upon her arm, and a handkerchief thrown across

her face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards

her, and embraced her with ardour; but the deathly languor and coldness

of the limbs told me, that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be

the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark of the

fiend’s grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from

her lips.

While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look

up. The windows of the room had before been darkened; and I felt a kind

of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the

chamber. The shutters had been thrown back; and, with a sensation of

horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most

hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed

to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my

wife. I rushed towards the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom,

shot; but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and, running with the

swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake.

The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the

spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats;

nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we returned

hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been a form

conjured by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search the

country, parties going in different directions among the woods and

vines.

I did not accompany them; I was exhausted: a film covered my eyes, and

my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I lay on a

bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my eyes wandered round the

room, as if to seek something that I had lost.

At length I remembered that my father would anxiously expect the return

of Elizabeth and myself, and that I must return alone. This reflection

brought tears into my eyes, and I wept for a long time; but my thoughts

rambled to various subjects, reflecting on my misfortunes, and their

cause. I was bewildered in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of

William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of

my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining friends

were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now might be

writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This

idea made me shudder, and recalled me to action. I started up, and

resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed.

There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but

the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it

was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I

hired men to row, and took an oar myself, for I had always experienced

relief from mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing

misery I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured, rendered

me incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar; and, leaning my head

upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up,

I saw the scenes which were familiar to me in my happier time, and which

I had contemplated but the day before in the company of her who was now

but a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain

had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the waters as they

had done a few hours before; they had then been observed by Elizabeth.

Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.

The sun might shine, or the clouds might lour; but nothing could appear

to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had snatched from me every

hope of future happiness: no creature had ever been so miserable as I

was; so frightful an event is single in the history of man.

But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last

overwhelming event. Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have reached

their _acme_, and what I must now relate can but be tedious to you. Know

that, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I was left desolate. My

own strength is exhausted; and I must tell, in a few words, what remains

of my hideous narration.

I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived; but the former sunk

under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent and venerable

old man! his eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and

their delight—his niece, his more than daughter, whom he doated on with

all that affection which a man feels, who, in the decline of life,

having few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain.

Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs, and

doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors

that were accumulated around him; an apoplectic fit was brought on, and

in a few days he died in my arms.

What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and

darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed,

I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales with the

friends of my youth; but awoke, and found myself in a dungeon.

Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my

miseries and situation, and was then released from my prison. For they

had called me mad; and during many months, as I understood, a solitary

cell had been my habitation.

But liberty had been a useless gift to me had I not, as I awakened to

reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory of past

misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause—the

monster whom I had created, the miserable dæmon whom I had sent abroad

into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening rage

when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might have

him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed

head.

Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to

reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this purpose, about a

month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town, and

told him that I had an accusation to make; that I knew the destroyer of

my family; and that I required him to exert his whole authority for the

apprehension of the murderer.

The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness: “Be assured,

sir,” said he, “no pains or exertions on my part shall be spared to

discover the villain.”

“I thank you,” replied I; “listen, therefore, to the deposition that I

have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange, that I should fear you

would not credit it, were there not something in truth which, however

wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected to be mistaken

for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood.” My manner, as I thus

addressed him, was impressive, but calm; I had formed in my own heart a

resolution to pursue my destroyer to death; and this purpose quieted my

agony, and provisionally reconciled me to life. I now related my history

briefly, but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with

accuracy, and never deviating into invective or exclamation.

The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I

continued he became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes

shudder with horror, at others a lively surprise, unmingled with

disbelief, was painted on his countenance.

When I had concluded my narration, I said. “This is the being whom I

accuse, and for whose detection and punishment I call upon you to exert

your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and

hope that your feelings as a man will not revolt from the execution of

those functions on this occasion.”

This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my

auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of belief that is

given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when he was

called upon to act officially in consequence, the whole tide of his

incredulity returned. He, however, answered mildly, “I would willingly

afford you every aid in your pursuit; but the creature of whom you

speak appears to have powers which would put all my exertions to

defiance. Who can follow an animal which can traverse the sea of ice,

and inhabit caves and dens, where no man would venture to intrude?

Besides, some months have elapsed since the commission of his crimes,

and no one can conjecture to what place he has wandered, or what region

he may now inhabit.”

“I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit; and if he

has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois,

and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts: you do

not credit my narrative, and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the

punishment which is his desert.”

As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was intimidated;

“You are mistaken,” said he, “I will exert myself; and if it is in my

power to seize the monster, be assured that he shall suffer punishment

proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have yourself

described to be his properties, that this will prove impracticable, and

that, while every proper measure is pursued, you should endeavour to

make up your mind to disappointment.”

“That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail. My

revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I

confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul. My rage is

unspeakable, when I reflect that the murderer, whom I have turned loose

upon society, still exists. You refuse my just demand: I have but one

resource; and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to his

destruction.”

I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a phrenzy

in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness,

which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan

magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of

devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of

madness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child, and

reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium.

“Man,” I cried, “how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease;

you know not what it is you say.”

I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and retired to meditate on

some other mode of action.

CHAPTER VII.

My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was

swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge alone endowed

me with strength and composure; it modelled my feelings, and allowed me

to be calculating and calm, at periods when otherwise delirium or death

would have been my portion.

My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country, which, when

I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became

hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few

jewels which had belonged to my mother, and departed.

And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but with life. I have

traversed a vast portion of the earth, and have endured all the

hardships which travellers, in deserts and barbarous countries, are wont

to meet. How I have lived I hardly know; many times have I stretched my

failing limbs upon the sandy plain, and prayed for death. But revenge

kept me alive; I dared not die, and leave my adversary in being.

When I quitted Geneva, my first labour was to gain some clue by which I

might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled;

and I wandered many hours around the confines of the town, uncertain

what path I should pursue. As night approached, I found myself at the

entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father,

reposed. I entered it, and approached the tomb which marked their

graves. Every thing was silent, except the leaves of the trees, which

were gently agitated by the wind; the night was nearly dark; and the

scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested

observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around, and to cast

a shadow, which was felt but seen not, around the head of the mourner.

The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to

rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also

lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on

the grass, and kissed the earth, and with quivering lips exclaimed, “By

the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by

the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night,

and by the spirits that preside over thee, I swear to pursue the dæmon,

who caused this misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict.

For this purpose I will preserve my life: to execute this dear revenge,

will I again behold the sun, and tread the green herbage of earth, which

otherwise should vanish from my eyes for ever. And I call on you,

spirits of the dead; and on you, wandering ministers of vengeance, to

aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink

deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me.”

I had begun my adjuration with solemnity, and an awe which almost

assured me that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my

devotion; but the furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choaked

my utterance.

I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiendish

laugh. It rung on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed it,

and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter.

Surely in that moment I should have been possessed by phrenzy, and have

destroyed my miserable existence, but that my vow was heard, and that I

was reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away: when a well-known

and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an

audible whisper—“I am satisfied: miserable wretch! you have determined

to live, and I am satisfied.”

I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded; but the devil

eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose, and shone

full upon his ghastly and distorted shape, as he fled with more than

mortal speed.

I pursued him; and for many months this has been my task. Guided by a

slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The blue

Mediterranean appeared; and, by a strange chance, I saw the fiend enter

by night, and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took

my passage in the same ship; but he escaped, I know not how.

Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I

have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by this

horrid apparition, informed me of his path; sometimes he himself, who

feared that if I lost all trace I should despair and die, often left

some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw the

print of his huge step on the white plain. To you first entering on

life, to whom care is new, and agony unknown, how can you understand

what I have felt, and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue, were the least

pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed by some devil, and

carried about with me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good

followed and directed my steps, and, when I most murmured, would

suddenly extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties.

Sometimes, when nature, overcome by hunger, sunk under the exhaustion, a

repast was prepared for me in the desert, that restored and inspirited

me. The fare was indeed coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate;

but I may not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had

invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I

was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few

drops that revived me, and vanish.

I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the dæmon

generally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the

country chiefly collected. In other places human beings were seldom

seen; and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my

path. I had money with me, and gained the friendship of the villagers by

distributing it, or bringing with me some food that I had killed, which,

after taking a small part, I always presented to those who had provided

me with fire and utensils for cooking.

My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during

sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! often, when most

miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture.

The spirits that guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours,

of happiness, that I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage.

Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During

the day I was sustained and inspirited by the hope of night: for in

sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the

benevolent countenance of my father, heard the silver tones of my

Elizabeth’s voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often,

when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming

until night should come, and that I should then enjoy reality in the

arms of my dearest friends. What agonizing fondness did I feel for them!

how did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my

waking hours, and persuade myself that they still lived! At such

moments vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart, and I

pursued my path towards the destruction of the dæmon, more as a task

enjoined by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of some power of which I

was unconscious, than as the ardent desire of my soul.

What his feelings were whom I pursued, I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed,

he left marks in writing on the barks of the trees, or cut in stone,

that guided me, and instigated my fury. “My reign is not yet over,”

(these words were legible in one of these inscriptions); “you live, and

my power is complete. Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices of the

north, where you will feel the misery of cold and frost, to which I am

impassive. You will find near this place, if you follow not too tardily,

a dead hare; eat, and be refreshed. Come on, my enemy; we have yet to

wrestle for our lives; but many hard and miserable hours must you

endure, until that period shall arrive.”

Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee,

miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I omit my search,

until he or I perish; and then with what ecstacy shall I join my

Elizabeth, and those who even now prepare for me the reward of my

tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage.

As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened, and

the cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support. The

peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy

ventured forth to seize the animals whom starvation had forced from

their hiding places to seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice,

and no fish could be procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief

article of maintenance.

The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours. One

inscription that he left was in these words: “Prepare! your toils only

begin: wrap yourself in furs, and provide food, for we shall soon enter

upon a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting

hatred.”

My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I

resolved not to fail in my purpose; and, calling on heaven to support

me, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts, until

the ocean appeared at a distance, and formed the utmost boundary of the

horizon. Oh! how unlike it was to the blue seas of the south! Covered

with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by its superior

wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when they beheld the

Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with rapture the

boundary of their toils. I did not weep; but I knelt down, and, with a

full heart, thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in safety to the

place where I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary’s gibe, to meet and

grapple with him.

Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs, and thus

traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know not whether the

fiend possessed the same advantages; but I found that, as before I had

daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him; so much so, that

when I first saw the ocean, he was but one day’s journey in advance, and

I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach. With new

courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a wretched

hamlet on the seashore. I inquired of the inhabitants concerning the

fiend, and gained accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said,

had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols; putting

to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage, through fear of his

terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter food, and,

placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a numerous drove

of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same night, to the joy

of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his journey across the sea

in a direction that led to no land; and they conjectured that he must

speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the ice, or frozen by the

eternal frosts.

On hearing this information, I suffered a temporary access of despair.

He had escaped me; and I must commence a destructive and almost endless

journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean,—amidst cold that few

of the inhabitants could long endure, and which I, the native of a

genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea

that the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance

returned, and, like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling.

After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead hovered

round, and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my

journey.

I exchanged my land sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities of the

frozen ocean; and, purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I

departed from land.

I cannot guess how many days have passed since then; but I have endured

misery, which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution

burning within my heart could have enabled me to support. Immense and

rugged mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard

the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruction. But

again the frost came, and made the paths of the sea secure.

By the quantity of provision which I had consumed I should guess that I

had passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual protraction of

hope, returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of

despondency and grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured

her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery; when once,

after the poor animals that carried me had with incredible toil gained

the summit of a sloping ice mountain, and one sinking under his fatigue

died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when suddenly my eye

caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to

discover what it could be, and uttered a wild cry of ecstacy when I

distinguished a sledge, and the distorted proportions of a well-known

form within. Oh! with what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart!

warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might

not intercept the view I had of the dæmon; but still my sight was dimmed

by the burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that oppressed

me, I wept aloud.

But this was not the time for delay; I disencumbered the dogs of their

dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food; and, after an

hour’s rest, which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly

irksome to me, I continued my route. The sledge was still visible; nor

did I again lose sight of it, except at the moments when for a short

time some ice rock concealed it with its intervening crags. I indeed

perceptibly gained on it; and when, after nearly two days’ journey, I

beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my heart bounded within

me.

But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my enemy, my hopes were

suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I

had ever done before. A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its

progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every

moment more ominous and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind

arose; the sea roared; and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake,

it split, and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work

was soon finished: in a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me

and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered piece of ice, that

was continually lessening, and thus preparing for me a hideous death.

In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs died; and

I myself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress, when I

saw your vessel riding at anchor, and holding forth to me hopes of

succour and life. I had no conception that vessels ever came so far

north, and was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my

sledge to construct oars; and by these means was enabled, with infinite

fatigue, to move my ice-raft in the direction of your ship. I had

determined, if you were going southward, still to trust myself to the

mercy of the seas, rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you

to grant me a boat with which I could still pursue my enemy. But your

direction was northward. You took me on board when my vigour was

exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships

into a death, which I still dread,—for my task is unfulfilled.

Oh! when will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the dæmon, allow me

the rest I so much desire; or must I die, and he yet live? If I do,

swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape; that you will seek him,

and satisfy my vengeance in his death. Yet, do I dare ask you to

undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone?

No; I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear; if

the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he

shall not live—swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated

woes, and live to make another such a wretch as I am. He is eloquent

and persuasive; and once his words had even power over my heart: but

trust him not. His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and

fiend-like malice. Hear him not; call on the manes of William, Justine,

Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and thrust

your sword into his heart. I will hover near, and direct the steel

aright.

* * * * *

WALTON, _in continuation_.

August 26th, 17—.

You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not

feel your blood congealed with horror, like that which even now curdles

mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his

tale; at others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with difficulty

the words so replete with agony. His fine and lovely eyes were now

lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow, and

quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his

countenance and tones, and related the most horrible incidents with a

tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a

volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression

of the wildest rage, as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor.

His tale is connected, and told with an appearance of the simplest

truth; yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he

shewed me, and the apparition of the monster, seen from our ship,

brought to me a greater conviction of the truth of his narrative than

his asseverations, however earnest and connected. Such a monster has

then really existence; I cannot doubt it; yet I am lost in surprise and

admiration. Sometimes I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the

particulars of his creature’s formation; but on this point he was

impenetrable.

“Are you mad, my friend?” said he, “or whither does your senseless

curiosity lead you? Would you also create for yourself and the world a

demoniacal enemy? Or to what do your questions tend? Peace, peace! learn

my miseries, and do not seek to increase your own.”

Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history: he

asked to see them, and then himself corrected and augmented them in many

places; but principally in giving the life and spirit to the

conversations he held with his enemy. “Since you have preserved my

narration,” said he, “I would not that a mutilated one should go down to

posterity.”

Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest tale

that ever imagination formed. My thoughts, and every feeling of my soul,

have been drunk up by the interest for my guest, which this tale, and

his own elevated and gentle manners have created. I wish to soothe him;

yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of every

hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no! the only joy that he can now know

will be when he composes his shattered feelings to peace and death. Yet

he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude and delirium: he

believes, that, when in dreams he holds converse with his friends, and

derives from that communion consolation for his miseries, or excitements

to his vengeance, that they are not the creations of his fancy, but the

real beings who visit him from the regions of a remote world. This faith

gives a solemnity to his reveries that render them to me almost as

imposing and interesting as truth.

Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and

misfortunes. On every point of general literature he displays unbounded

knowledge, and a quick and piercing apprehension. His eloquence is

forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when he relates a pathetic

incident, or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love, without

tears. What a glorious creature must he have been in the days of his

prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin. He seems to feel

his own worth, and the greatness of his fall.

“When younger,” said he, “I felt as if I were destined for some great

enterprise. My feelings are profound; but I possessed a coolness of

judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of

the worth of my nature supported me, when others would have been

oppressed; for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those

talents that might be useful to my fellow-creatures. When I reflected on

the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation of a

sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the herd of

common projectors. But this feeling, which supported me in the

commencement of my career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the

dust. All my speculations and hopes are as nothing; and, like the

archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell.

My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were

intense; by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea, and

executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot recollect, without

passion, my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my

thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their

effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty

ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! my friend, if you had known me as I

once was, you would not recognize me in this state of degradation.

Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me

on, until I fell, never, never again to rise.”

Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I

have sought one who would sympathize with and love me. Behold, on these

desert seas I have found such a one; but, I fear, I have gained him only

to know his value, and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he

repulses the idea.

“I thank you, Walton,” he said, “for your kind intentions towards so

miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties, and fresh

affections, think you that any can replace those who are gone? Can any

man be to me as Clerval was; or any woman another Elizabeth? Even where

the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence, the

companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our

minds, which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our infantine

dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified, are never

eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more certain

conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A sister or a brother

can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shewn early, suspect

the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however

strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be invaded with

suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit and

association, but from their own merits; and, wherever I am, the soothing

voice of my Elizabeth, and the conversation of Clerval, will be ever

whispered in my ear. They are dead; and but one feeling in such a

solitude can persuade me to preserve my life. If I were engaged in any

high undertaking or design, fraught with extensive utility to my

fellow-creatures, then could I live to fulfil it. But such is not my

destiny; I must pursue and destroy the being to whom I gave existence;

then my lot on earth will be fulfilled, and I may die.”

* * * * *

September 2d.

MY BELOVED SISTER,

I write to you, encompassed by peril, and ignorant whether I am ever

doomed to see again dear England, and the dearer friends that inhabit

it. I am surrounded by mountains of ice, which admit of no escape, and

threaten every moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows, whom I have

persuaded to be my companions, look towards me for aid; but I have none

to bestow. There is something terribly appalling in our situation, yet

my courage and hopes do not desert me. We may survive; and if we do not,

I will repeat the lessons of my Seneca, and die with a good heart.

Yet what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of

my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass,

and you will have visitings of despair, and yet be tortured by hope. Oh!

my beloved sister, the sickening failings of your heart-felt

expectations are, in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death.

But you have a husband, and lovely children; you may be happy: heaven

bless you, and make you so!

My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He

endeavours to fill me with hope; and talks as if life were a possession

which he valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents have

happened to other navigators, who have attempted this sea, and, in spite

of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the

power of his eloquence: when he speaks, they no longer despair: he

rouses their energies, and, while they hear his voice, they believe

these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills, which will vanish before the

resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day’s

expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny

caused by this despair.

* * * * *

September 5th.

A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest, that although it is

highly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot

forbear recording it.

We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of

being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of my

unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of

desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in health: a feverish fire

still glimmers in his eyes; but he is exhausted, and, when suddenly

roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent

lifelessness.

I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. This

morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend—his eyes

half closed, and his limbs hanging listlessly,—I was roused by half a

dozen of the sailors, who desired admission into the cabin. They

entered; and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his

companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation to

me, to make me a demand, which, in justice, I could not refuse. We were

immured in ice, and should probably never escape; but they feared that

if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate, and a free passage be

opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage, and lead them

into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They

desired, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise, that if

the vessel should be freed, I would instantly direct my coarse

southward.

This speech troubled me. I had not despaired; nor had I yet conceived

the idea of returning, if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in

possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered; when

Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and, indeed, appeared hardly

to have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled,

and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men,

he said—

“What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you then so

easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious

expedition? and wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was

smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers

and terror; because, at every new incident, your fortitude was to be

called forth, and your courage exhibited; because danger and death

surrounded, and these dangers you were to brave and overcome. For this

was it a glorious, for this was it an honourable undertaking. You were

hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species; your name

adored, as belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour and

the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first imagination of

danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific trial of your

courage, you shrink away, and are content to be handed down as men who

had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls,

they were chilly, and returned to their warm fire-sides. Why, that

requires not this preparation; ye need not have come thus far, and

dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat, merely to prove

yourselves cowards. Oh! be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your

purposes, and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your

hearts might be; it is mutable, cannot withstand you, if you say that it

shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace

marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered,

and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe.”

He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings

expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and

heroism, that can you wonder that these men were moved. They looked at

one another, and were unable to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire,

and consider of what had been said: that I would not lead them further

north, if they strenuously desired the contrary; but that I hoped that,

with reflection, their courage would return.

They retired, and I turned towards my friend; but he was sunk in

languor, and almost deprived of life.

How all this will terminate, I know not; but I had rather die, than

return shamefully,—my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my

fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never

willingly continue to endure their present hardships.

* * * * *

September 7th.

The die is cast; I have consented to return, if we are not destroyed.

Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back

ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess,

to bear this injustice with patience.

* * * * *

September 12th.

It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility

and glory;—I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these

bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and, while I am wafted

towards England, and towards you, I will not despond.

September 19th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were

heard at a distance, as the islands split and cracked in every

direction. We were in the most imminent peril; but, as we could only

remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest,

whose illness increased in such a degree, that he was entirely confined

to his bed. The ice cracked behind us, and was driven with force towards

the north; a breeze sprung from the west, and on the 11th the passage

towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw this, and

that their return to their native country was apparently assured, a

shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and long-continued.

Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke, and asked the cause of the tumult.

“They shout,” I said, “because they will soon return to England.”

“Do you then really return?”

“Alas! yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them

unwillingly to danger, and I must return.”

“Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose; but

mine is assigned to me by heaven, and I dare not. I am weak; but surely

the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with sufficient

strength.” Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the

exertion was too great for him; he fell back, and fainted.

It was long before he was restored; and I often thought that life was

entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes, but he breathed with

difficulty, and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing

draught, and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the mean time he

told me, that my friend had certainly not many hours to live.

His sentence was pronounced; and I could only grieve, and be patient. I

sat by his bed watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he

slept; but presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and, bidding me

come near, said—“Alas! the strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I

shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being.

Think not, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I feel that

burning hatred, and ardent desire of revenge, I once expressed, but I

feel myself justified in desiring the death of my adversary. During

these last days I have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor

do I find it blameable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a

rational creature, and was bound towards him, to assure, as far as was

in my power, his happiness and well-being. This was my duty; but there

was another still paramount to that. My duties towards my

fellow-creatures had greater claims to my attention, because they

included a greater proportion of happiness or misery. Urged by this

view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to create a companion for

the first creature. He shewed unparalleled malignity and selfishness, in

evil: he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction beings who

possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know

where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself, that he may

render no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction

was mine, but I have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious

motives, I asked you to undertake my unfinished work; and I renew this

request now, when I am only induced by reason and virtue.

“Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends, to fulfil

this task; and now, that you are returning to England, you will have

little chance of meeting with him. But the consideration of these

points, and the well-balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I

leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the near

approach of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I

may still be misled by passion.

“That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in

other respects this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the

only happy one which I have enjoyed for several years. The forms of the

beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell,

Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity, and avoid ambition, even if it

be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in

science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been

blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed.”

His voice became fainter as he spoke; and at length, exhausted by his

effort, he sunk into silence. About half an hour afterwards he attempted

again to speak, but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes

closed for ever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away

from his lips.

Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this

glorious spirit? What can I say, that will enable you to understand the

depth of my sorrow? All that I should express would be inadequate and

feeble. My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of

disappointment. But I journey towards England, and I may there find

consolation.

I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is midnight; the

breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again; there

is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin

where the remains of Frankenstein still lie. I must arise, and examine.

Good night, my sister.

Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy with the

remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power to

detail it; yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete

without this final and wonderful catastrophe.

I entered the cabin, where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable

friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to describe;

gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its proportions. As he

hung over the coffin, his face was concealed by long locks of ragged

hair; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture

like that of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my approach, he ceased

to utter exclamations of grief and horror, and sprung towards the

window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such

loathsome, yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily, and

endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to this

destroyer. I called on him to stay.

He paused, looking on me with wonder; and, again turning towards the

lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and every

feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some

uncontrollable passion.

“That is also my victim!” he exclaimed; “in his murder my crimes are

consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its close! Oh,

Frankenstein! generous and self-devoted being! what does it avail that I

now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by

destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! he is cold; he may not answer me.”

His voice seemed suffocated; and my first impulses, which had suggested

to me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend, in destroying

his enemy, were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion.

I approached this tremendous being; I dared not again raise my looks

upon his face, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his

ugliness. I attempted to speak, but the words died away on my lips. The

monster continued to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches. At

length I gathered resolution to address him, in a pause of the tempest

of his passion: “Your repentance,” I said, “is now superfluous. If you

had listened to the voice of conscience, and heeded the stings of

remorse, before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this

extremity, Frankenstein would yet have lived.”

“And do you dream?” said the dæmon; “do you think that I was then dead

to agony and remorse?—He,” he continued, pointing to the corpse, “he

suffered not more in the consummation of the deed;—oh! not the

ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine during the lingering

detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me on, while

my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think ye that the groans of Clerval

were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love

and sympathy; and, when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did

not endure the violence of the change without torture such as you cannot

even imagine.

“After the murder of Clerval, I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken

and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror: I

abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he, the author at once of my

existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness;

that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me, he sought

his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence of which

I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter indignation filled

me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat, and

resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for

myself a deadly torture; but I was the slave, not the master of an

impulse, which I detested, yet could not disobey. Yet when she

died!—nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all feeling,

subdued all anguish to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil

thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt

my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The completion of

my demoniacal design became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended;

there is my last victim!”

I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet when I

called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence and

persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my

friend, indignation was re-kindled within me. “Wretch!” I said, “it is

well that you come here to whine over the desolation that you have made.

You throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they are consumed

you sit among the ruins, and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend! if he

whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would he

become the prey of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you

feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn

from your power.”

“Oh, it is not thus—not thus,” interrupted the being; “yet such must be

the impression conveyed to you by what appears to be the purport of my

actions. Yet I seek not a fellow-feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I

ever find. When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the

feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being

overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now, that virtue has

become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into

bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am

content to suffer alone, while my sufferings shall endure: when I die, I

am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory.

Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of

enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings, who, pardoning my

outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was

capable of bringing forth. I was nourished with high thoughts of honour

and devotion. But now vice has degraded me beneath the meanest animal.

No crime, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable

to mine. When I call over the frightful catalogue of my deeds, I cannot

believe that I am he whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and

transcendant visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it

is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that

enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am

quite alone.

“You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my

crimes and his misfortunes. But, in the detail which he gave you of

them, he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I

endured, wasting in impotent passions. For whilst I destroyed his hopes,

I did not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and craving;

still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there

no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all

human kind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his

friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic

who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous

and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an

abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my

blood boils at the recollection of this injustice.

“But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the

helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to

death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have

devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love

and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that

irremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me;

but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look

on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the

imagination of it was conceived, and long for the moment when they will

meet my eyes, when it will haunt my thoughts, no more.

“Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is

nearly complete. Neither your’s nor any man’s death is needed to

consummate the series of my being, and accomplish that which must be

done; but it requires my own. Do not think that I shall be slow to

perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft which

brought me hither, and shall seek the most northern extremity of the

globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this

miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and

unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have been. I shall

die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the

prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me

into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both

will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel

the winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and sense, will pass away;

and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, when the

images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the

cheering warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of the leaves and the

chirping of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to

die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes, and torn by the

bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death?

“Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of human kind whom these

eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive,

and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better

satiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not so; thou

didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness;

and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hast not yet ceased to

think and feel, thou desirest not my life for my own misery. Blasted as

thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine; for the bitter sting of

remorse may not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close

them for ever.

“But soon,” he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I shall die, and

what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be

extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly, and exult in the

agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade

away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will

sleep in peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus.

Farewell.”

He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the ice-raft

which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves, and

lost in darkness and distance.

THE END.