FRANKENSTEIN:
OR,
THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.
BY MARY W. SHELLEY.
AUTHOR OF THE LAST MAN, PERKIN WARBECK, &c. &c.
[Transcriber's Note: This text was produced from a photo-reprint of
the 1831 edition.]
REVISED, CORRECTED,
AND ILLUSTRATED WITH A NEW INTRODUCTION,
BY THE AUTHOR.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET:
BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;
AND CUMMING, DUBLIN.
1831.
INTRODUCTION.
The Publishers of the Standard Novels, in selecting "Frankenstein" for
one of their series, expressed a wish that I should furnish them with
some account of the origin of the story. I am the more willing to
comply, because I shall thus give a general answer to the question, so
very frequently asked me--"How I, when a young girl, came to think of,
and to dilate upon, so very hideous an idea?" It is true that I am very
averse to bringing myself forward in print; but as my account will only
appear as an appendage to a former production, and as it will be
confined to such topics as have connection with my authorship alone, I
can scarcely accuse myself of a personal intrusion.
It is not singular that, as the daughter of two persons of distinguished
literary celebrity, I should very early in life have thought of writing.
As a child I scribbled; and my favourite pastime, during the hours given
me for recreation, was to "write stories." Still I had a dearer pleasure
than this, which was the formation of castles in the air--the indulging
in waking dreams--the following up trains of thought, which had for
their subject the formation of a succession of imaginary incidents. My
dreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable than my writings. In
the latter I was a close imitator--rather doing as others had done,
than putting down the suggestions of my own mind. What I wrote was
intended at least for one other eye--my childhood's companion and
friend; but my dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody;
they were my refuge when annoyed--my dearest pleasure when free.
I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed a considerable
time in Scotland. I made occasional visits to the more picturesque
parts; but my habitual residence was on the blank and dreary northern
shores of the Tay, near Dundee. Blank and dreary on retrospection I call
them; they were not so to me then. They were the eyry of freedom, and
the pleasant region where unheeded I could commune with the creatures of
my fancy. I wrote then--but in a most common-place style. It was beneath
the trees of the grounds belonging to our house, or on the bleak sides
of the woodless mountains near, that my true compositions, the airy
flights of my imagination, were born and fostered. I did not make myself
the heroine of my tales. Life appeared to me too common-place an affair
as regarded myself. I could not figure to myself that romantic woes or
wonderful events would ever be my lot; but I was not confined to my own
identity, and I could people the hours with creations far more
interesting to me at that age, than my own sensations.
After this my life became busier, and reality stood in place of fiction.
My husband, however, was from the first, very anxious that I should
prove myself worthy of my parentage, and enrol myself on the page of
fame. He was for ever inciting me to obtain literary reputation, which
even on my own part I cared for then, though since I have become
infinitely indifferent to it. At this time he desired that I should
write, not so much with the idea that I could produce any thing worthy
of notice, but that he might himself judge how far I possessed the
promise of better things hereafter. Still I did nothing. Travelling, and
the cares of a family, occupied my time; and study, in the way of
reading, or improving my ideas in communication with his far more
cultivated mind, was all of literary employment that engaged my
attention.
In the summer of 1816, we visited Switzerland, and became the neighbours
of Lord Byron. At first we spent our pleasant hours on the lake, or
wandering on its shores; and Lord Byron, who was writing the third canto
of Childe Harold, was the only one among us who put his thoughts upon
paper. These, as he brought them successively to us, clothed in all the
light and harmony of poetry, seemed to stamp as divine the glories of
heaven and earth, whose influences we partook with him.
But it proved a wet, ungenial summer, and incessant rain often confined
us for days to the house. Some volumes of ghost stories, translated from
the German into French, fell into our hands. There was the History of
the Inconstant Lover, who, when he thought to clasp the bride to whom he
had pledged his vows, found himself in the arms of the pale ghost of her
whom he had deserted. There was the tale of the sinful founder of his
race, whose miserable doom it was to bestow the kiss of death on all the
younger sons of his fated house, just when they reached the age of
promise. His gigantic, shadowy form, clothed like the ghost in Hamlet,
in complete armour, but with the beaver up, was seen at midnight, by
the moon's fitful beams, to advance slowly along the gloomy avenue. The
shape was lost beneath the shadow of the castle walls; but soon a gate
swung back, a step was heard, the door of the chamber opened, and he
advanced to the couch of the blooming youths, cradled in healthy sleep.
Eternal sorrow sat upon his face as he bent down and kissed the forehead
of the boys, who from that hour withered like flowers snapt upon the
stalk. I have not seen these stories since then; but their incidents are
as fresh in my mind as if I had read them yesterday.
"We will each write a ghost story," said Lord Byron; and his proposition
was acceded to. There were four of us. The noble author began a tale, a
fragment of which he printed at the end of his poem of Mazeppa. Shelley,
more apt to embody ideas and sentiments in the radiance of brilliant
imagery, and in the music of the most melodious verse that adorns our
language, than to invent the machinery of a story, commenced one founded
on the experiences of his early life. Poor Polidori had some terrible
idea about a skull-headed lady, who was so punished for peeping through
a key-hole--what to see I forget--something very shocking and wrong of
course; but when she was reduced to a worse condition than the renowned
Tom of Coventry, he did not know what to do with her, and was obliged to
despatch her to the tomb of the Capulets, the only place for which she
was fitted. The illustrious poets also, annoyed by the platitude of
prose, speedily relinquished their uncongenial task.
I busied myself _to think of a story_,--a story to rival those which had
excited us to this task. One which would speak to the mysterious fears
of our nature, and awaken thrilling horror--one to make the reader dread
to look round, to curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings of the
heart. If I did not accomplish these things, my ghost story would be
unworthy of its name. I thought and pondered--vainly. I felt that blank
incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorship,
when dull Nothing replies to our anxious invocations. _Have you thought
of a story?_ I was asked each morning, and each morning I was forced to
reply with a mortifying negative.
Every thing must have a beginning, to speak in Sanchean phrase; and that
beginning must be linked to something that went before. The Hindoos give
the world an elephant to support it, but they make the elephant stand
upon a tortoise. Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist
in creating out of void, but out of chaos; the materials must, in the
first place, be afforded: it can give form to dark, shapeless
substances, but cannot bring into being the substance itself. In all
matters of discovery and invention, even of those that appertain to the
imagination, we are continually reminded of the story of Columbus and
his egg. Invention consists in the capacity of seizing on the
capabilities of a subject, and in the power of moulding and fashioning
ideas suggested to it.
Many and long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley, to
which I was a devout but nearly silent listener. During one of these,
various philosophical doctrines were discussed, and among others the
nature of the principle of life, and whether there was any probability
of its ever being discovered and communicated. They talked of the
experiments of Dr. Darwin, (I speak not of what the Doctor really did,
or said that he did, but, as more to my purpose, of what was then spoken
of as having been done by him,) who preserved a piece of vermicelli in a
glass case, till by some extraordinary means it began to move with
voluntary motion. Not thus, after all, would life be given. Perhaps a
corpse would be re-animated; galvanism had given token of such things:
perhaps the component parts of a creature might be manufactured, brought
together, and endued with vital warmth.
Night waned upon this talk, and even the witching hour had gone by,
before we retired to rest. When I placed my head on my pillow, I did not
sleep, nor could I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden, possessed
and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in my mind with
a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw--with shut
eyes, but acute mental vision,--I saw the pale student of unhallowed
arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous
phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some
powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital
motion. Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the
effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the
Creator of the world. His success would terrify the artist; he would
rush away from his odious handywork, horror-stricken. He would hope
that, left to itself, the slight spark of life which he had communicated
would fade; that this thing, which had received such imperfect
animation, would subside into dead matter; and he might sleep in the
belief that the silence of the grave would quench for ever the transient
existence of the hideous corpse which he had looked upon as the cradle
of life. He sleeps; but he is awakened; he opens his eyes; behold the
horrid thing stands at his bedside, opening his curtains, and looking on
him with yellow, watery, but speculative eyes.
I opened mine in terror. The idea so possessed my mind, that a thrill of
fear ran through me, and I wished to exchange the ghastly image of my
fancy for the realities around. I see them still; the very room, the
dark _parquet_, the closed shutters, with the moonlight struggling
through, and the sense I had that the glassy lake and white high Alps
were beyond. I could not so easily get rid of my hideous phantom; still
it haunted me. I must try to think of something else. I recurred to my
ghost story,--my tiresome unlucky ghost story! O! if I could only
contrive one which would frighten my reader as I myself had been
frightened that night!
Swift as light and as cheering was the idea that broke in upon me. "I
have found it! What terrified me will terrify others; and I need only
describe the spectre which had haunted my midnight pillow." On the
morrow I announced that I had _thought of a story_. I began that day
with the words, _It was on a dreary night of November_, making only a
transcript of the grim terrors of my waking dream.
At first I thought but of a few pages--of a short tale; but Shelley
urged me to develope the idea at greater length. I certainly did not owe
the suggestion of one incident, nor scarcely of one train of feeling, to
my husband, and yet but for his incitement, it would never have taken
the form in which it was presented to the world. From this declaration I
must except the preface. As far as I can recollect, it was entirely
written by him.
And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. I
have an affection for it, for it was the offspring of happy days, when
death and grief were but words, which found no true echo in my heart.
Its several pages speak of many a walk, many a drive, and many a
conversation, when I was not alone; and my companion was one who, in
this world, I shall never see more. But this is for myself; my readers
have nothing to do with these associations.
I will add but one word as to the alterations I have made. They are
principally those of style. I have changed no portion of the story, nor
introduced any new ideas or circumstances. I have mended the language
where it was so bald as to interfere with the interest of the narrative;
and these changes occur almost exclusively in the beginning of the first
volume. Throughout they are entirely confined to such parts as are mere
adjuncts to the story, leaving the core and substance of it untouched.
M. W. S.
_London, October 15, 1831._
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,--Shakspeare,
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 the enervating effects of the novels of the present day, and to
the exhibition 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.
Marlow, September, 1817.
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 phenomena of
the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes.
What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there
discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle; and may regulate
a thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage to
render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate
my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before
visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man.
These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of
danger or death, and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with
the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday
mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But, supposing
all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable
benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation, by
discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which
at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret
of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an
undertaking such as mine.
These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my
letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to
heaven; for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a
steady purpose,--a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.
This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have
read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been
made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the
seas which surround the pole. You may remember, that a history of all
the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our
good uncle Thomas'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 seafaring life.
These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets
whose effusions entranced my soul, and lifted it to heaven. I also
became a poet, and for one year lived in a Paradise of my own creation;
I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the
names of Homer and Shakspeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted
with my failure, and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at
that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were
turned into the channel of their earlier bent.
Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can,
even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great
enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied
the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily
endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder
than the common sailors during the day, and devoted my nights to the
study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of
physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest
practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a
Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt
a little proud, when my captain offered me the second dignity in the
vessel, and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness; so
valuable did he consider my services.
And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great
purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury; but I
preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh,
that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage
and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are
often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage,
the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not
only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own,
when theirs are failing.
This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly
quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in
my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stage-coach. The
cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs,--a dress which I
have already adopted; for there is a great difference between walking
the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise
prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no
ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and
Archangel.
I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my
intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying
the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think
necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not
intend to sail until the month of June; and when shall I return? Ah,
dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many
months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail,
you will see me again soon, or never.
Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on
you, and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for
all your love and kindness.
Your affectionate brother,
R. WALTON.
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 sympathise with me; whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem
me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I
have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as
well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or
amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor
brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too impatient of
difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am
self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a
common, and read nothing but our uncle Thomas'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 schoolboys 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: or rather, to
word my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his
profession. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and
professional prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the
noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on
board a whale vessel: finding that he was unemployed in this city, I
easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.
The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is remarkable in
the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This
circumstance, added to his well known integrity and dauntless courage,
made me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best
years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the
groundwork of my character, that I cannot overcome an intense distaste
to the usual brutality exercised on board ship: I have never believed it
to be necessary; and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his
kindliness of heart, and the respect and obedience paid to him by his
crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to secure his
services. I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady
who owes to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story.
Some years ago, he loved a young Russian lady, of moderate fortune; and
having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl
consented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined
ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and, throwing herself at his
feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same time that she
loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father would never
consent to the union. My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on
being informed of the name of her lover, instantly abandoned his
pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had
designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on
his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase
stock, and then himself solicited the young woman's father to consent to
her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking
himself bound in honour to my friend; who, when he found the father
inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his
former mistress was married according to her inclinations. "What a noble
fellow!" you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is wholly uneducated:
he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends
him, which, while it renders his conduct the more astonishing, detracts
from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would command.
Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little, or because I can
conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am
wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate; and my voyage is
only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The
winter has been dreadfully severe; but the spring promises well, and it
is considered as a remarkably early season; so that perhaps I may sail
sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly: you know me
sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness, whenever the
safety of others is committed to my care.
I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my
undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the
trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am
preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to "the land of
mist and snow"; but I shall kill no albatross, therefore do not be
alarmed for my safety, or if I should come back to you as worn and woful
as the "Ancient Mariner"? You will smile at my allusion; but I will
disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to, my
passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean, to that
production of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something
at work in my soul, which I do not understand. I am practically
industrious--pains-taking;--a workman to execute with perseverance and
labour:--but besides this, there is a love for the marvellous, a belief
in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out
of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited
regions I am about to explore.
But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after
having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of
Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to
look on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to
me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions
when I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly.
Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.
Your affectionate brother,
ROBERT WALTON.
LETTER III.
_To Mrs. Saville, England._
MY DEAR SISTER, July 7th, 17--.
I write a few lines in haste, to say that I am safe, and well advanced
on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on its
homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see
my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits:
my men are bold, and apparently firm of purpose; nor do the floating
sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the
region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We have
already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of summer,
and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales, which blow
us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire to attain,
breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not expected.
No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a
letter. One or two stiff gales, and the springing of a leak, are
accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record; and
I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.
Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured, that for my own sake, as well as
yours, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering,
and prudent.
But success _shall_ crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have
gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas: the very stars
themselves being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still
proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the
determined heart and resolved will of man?
My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must
finish. Heaven bless my beloved sister!
R. W.
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 showed signs of life we wrapped him up in
blankets, and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow
degrees he recovered, and ate a little soup, which restored him
wonderfully.
Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak; and I often
feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he
had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin, and
attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more
interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of wildness,
and even madness; but there are moments when, if 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 enquiries."
"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 enquired if I thought that the breaking up of the ice
had destroyed the other sledge? I replied, that I could not answer with
any degree of certainty; for the ice had not broken until near midnight,
and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety before that
time; but of this I could not judge.
From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the
stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck, to watch
for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to
remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of
the atmosphere. I have promised that 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 projects of others. He has
frequently conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him
without disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour
of my eventual success, and into every minute detail of the measures I
had taken to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he
evinced, to use the language of my heart; to give utterance to the
burning ardour of my soul; and to say, with all the fervour that warmed
me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every
hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man's life or death were
but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I
sought; for the dominion I should acquire and transmit over the
elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my
listener's countenance. At first I perceived that he tried to suppress
his emotion; he placed his hands before his eyes; and my voice quivered
and failed me, as I beheld tears trickle fast from between his
fingers,--a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused;--at length he
spoke, in broken accents:--"Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have
you drank also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me,--let me reveal my
tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!"
Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the
paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened
powers, and many hours of repose and tranquil conversation were
necessary to restore his composure.
Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise
himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of
despair, he led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He
asked me the history of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told:
but it awakened various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of
finding a friend--of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a
fellow mind than had ever fallen to my lot; and expressed my conviction
that a man could boast of little happiness, who did not enjoy this
blessing.
"I agree with you," replied the stranger; "we are unfashioned creatures,
but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves--such a
friend ought to be--do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and
faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble of human creatures,
and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting friendship. You have
hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for despair. But I--I
have lost 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 smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine
wanderer? You would not, if you saw him. You have been tutored and
refined by books and retirement from the world, and you are, therefore,
somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit to
appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I
have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses, that
elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I
believe it to be an intuitive discernment; a quick but never-failing
power of judgment; a penetration into the causes of things, unequalled
for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression, and a
voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.
August 19. 17--.
Yesterday the stranger said to me, "You may easily perceive, Captain
Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had
determined, at one time, that the memory of these evils should die with
me; but you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for
knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the
gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine
has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be useful
to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same course,
exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am,
I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale; one that may
direct you if you succeed in your undertaking, and console you in case
of failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed
marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature, I might fear to
encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will
appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions, which would
provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers
of nature:--nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series
internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed."
You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered
communication; yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by
a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the
promised narrative, partly from curiosity, and partly from a strong
desire to ameliorate his fate, if it were in my power. I expressed these
feelings in my answer.
"I thank you," he replied, "for your sympathy, but it is useless; my
fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall
repose in peace. I understand your feeling," continued he, perceiving
that I wished to interrupt him; "but you are mistaken, my friend, if
thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my destiny: listen
to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined."
He then told me, that he would commence his narrative the next day when
I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I
have resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my
duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has
related during the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make
notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure:
but to me, who know him, and who hear it from his own lips, with what
interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I
commence my task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous
eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin
hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are
irradiated by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story;
frightful the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course, and
wrecked it--thus!
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; a variety of
circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the
decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family.
As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot
refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a
merchant, who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous
mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a
proud and unbending disposition, and could not bear to live in poverty
and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been
distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts,
therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter
to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My
father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship, and was deeply grieved
by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored
the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little worthy of
the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring to seek
him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin the world again
through his credit and assistance.
Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself; and it was ten
months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this
discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean
street, near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone
welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the
wreck of his fortunes; but it was sufficient to provide him with
sustenance for some months, and in the 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.
There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but
this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted
affection. There was a sense of justice in my father's upright mind,
which rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love
strongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the
late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved, and so was disposed to set
a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and
worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the
doating fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her
virtues, and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing
her for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace
to his behaviour to her. Every thing was made to yield to her wishes and
her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered
by the gardener, from every rougher wind, and to surround her with all
that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and benevolent
mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto constant
spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During the two
years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had
gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after
their union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of
scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders, as
a restorative for her weakened frame.
From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was
born at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I
remained for several years their only child. Much as they were attached
to each other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection
from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother's tender
caresses, and my father's smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding
me, are my first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol,
and something better--their child, the innocent and helpless creature
bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future
lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as
they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of
what they owed towards the being to which they had given life, added to
the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined
that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of
patience, of charity, and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken
cord, that all seemed but one train of enjoyment to me.
For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to
have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was
about five years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of
Italy, they passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their
benevolent disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor.
This, to my mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a
passion,--remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been
relieved,--for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the
afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a
vale attracted their notice, as being singularly disconsolate, while the
number of half-clothed children gathered about it, spoke of penury in
its worst shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan,
my mother, accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant
and his wife, hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a
scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which
attracted my mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different
stock. The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child
was thin, and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold, and,
despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of
distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes
cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of
sensibility and sweetness, that none could behold her without looking on
her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a
celestial stamp in all her features.
The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and
admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She
was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother
was a German, and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been
placed with these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They
had not been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The
father of their charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of
the antique glory of Italy,--one among the _schiavi ognor frementi_, who
exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the
victim of its weakness. Whether he had died, or still lingered in the
dungeons of Austria, was not known. His property was confiscated, his
child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her foster
parents, and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose
among dark-leaved brambles.
When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall
of our villa, a child fairer than pictured cherub--a creature who seemed
to shed radiance from her looks, and whose form and motions were lighter
than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With
his permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield
their charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence
had seemed a blessing to them; but it would be unfair to her to keep her
in poverty and want, when Providence afforded her such powerful
protection. They consulted their village priest, and the result was,
that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents' house--my more
than sister--the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations
and my pleasures.
Every one loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential
attachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my
pride and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my
home, my mother had said playfully,--"I have a pretty present for my
Victor--to-morrow he shall have it." And when, on the morrow, she
presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish
seriousness, interpreted her words literally, and looked upon Elizabeth
as mine--mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on
her, I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other
familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body
forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me--my more than
sister, since till death she was to be mine only.