# Frankenstein (B1 edition) *Mary Shelley* ## Letter 1 *To Mrs. Saville, England.* St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—. You will be happy to hear that nothing bad has happened at the start of my enterprise. You looked at it with such fear. I arrived here yesterday. My first task is to tell my dear sister that I am well. I also feel more and more sure that my plan will succeed. I am already far north of London. As I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold wind from the north on my cheeks. It makes my nerves strong and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This wind has travelled from the lands where I am going. It gives me a first taste of those icy countries. The wind promises good things, and it fills me with hope. My daydreams become warmer and more vivid. I try to believe that the pole is a place of frost and empty desolation, but I cannot. In my imagination it is always a place of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun can always be seen. Its wide round disk just touches the edge of the sky and gives a never-ending glory of light. There—for, with your permission, my sister, I will trust the sailors who went before me—there the snow and frost are gone. We may sail over a calm sea to a land more wonderful and more beautiful than any place known on earth where people can live. Its products and its landscape may be like nothing we have ever seen. The movements of the sun, moon and stars are certainly strange, too, in those unknown and empty lands. What can we not expect in a country of eternal light? There I may find the wonderful power that makes the compass needle turn. I may settle a thousand observations of the stars. They seem strange and irregular now, and they need only this voyage to become regular for ever. I will satisfy my strong curiosity by seeing a part of the world that no one has visited before. I may walk on land where no human foot has ever left a mark. These are my attractions. They are enough to overcome all fear of danger or death. They make me begin this hard voyage with the joy of a child. That child gets into a little boat with his friends on a holiday and sets out to explore up his home river. But suppose all these guesses are false. You still cannot deny the great gift I shall give to all mankind, to the last generation. I may find a passage near the pole to countries that now take so many months to reach. Or I may find the secret of the magnet. If this is possible at all, only a voyage like mine can do it. These thoughts have driven away the worry I felt when I began this letter. My heart glows with an enthusiasm that lifts me up to heaven. Nothing calms the mind as much as a steady purpose—a point where the soul can fix its eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with great passion the accounts of the voyages to reach the North Pacific Ocean through the seas around the pole. You may remember that the whole library of our good Uncle Thomas was a history of all the voyages of discovery. My education was neglected, but I loved reading very much. I studied these books day and night. The better I knew them, the more I regretted something I had felt as a child. I had learned then that my father, as he was dying, had ordered my uncle not to let me go to sea. These visions faded when I first read the poets. Their words filled my soul with delight and lifted it up to heaven. I also became a poet, and for one year I lived in a paradise that I had made myself. I imagined that I too might win a small place of honour in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are held sacred. You know well that I failed, and how heavily the disappointment weighed on me. But just then I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts turned back to their earlier direction. Six years have passed since I decided on this plan. I can still remember the hour when I gave myself to this great enterprise. I began by making my body used to hardship. I went with the whale-fishers on several voyages to the North Sea. I chose to suffer cold, hunger, thirst and lack of sleep. In the day I often worked harder than the ordinary sailors. At night I studied mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those parts of physical science that are most useful to a sailor. Twice I hired myself as an under-mate on a Greenland whaler, and I did very well. I must admit I felt a little proud when my captain offered me the second place on the ship. He begged me very seriously to stay, because he thought my work so valuable. And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to achieve some great purpose? I could have spent my life in ease and luxury. But I preferred glory to every temptation that wealth put in my way. Oh, how I wish an encouraging voice would answer yes! My courage and my decision are firm, but my hopes go up and down, and my spirits are often low. I am about to start a long and difficult voyage. Its dangers will demand all my strength. I must not only raise the spirits of others. Sometimes I must also support my own, when theirs are failing. This is the best time of year for travelling in Russia. People fly quickly over the snow in their sledges. The movement is pleasant, and I think it is far nicer than an English stagecoach. The cold is not too bad if you are wrapped in furs. I have already started to wear this kind of dress. There is a great difference between walking on the deck and sitting still for hours. When no exercise keeps you moving, the blood can actually freeze in your veins. I have no wish to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and Archangel. I shall leave for Archangel in two or three weeks. I plan to hire a ship there, which is easy if I pay the insurance for the owner. I will also take as many sailors as I think necessary, from those who are used to whale-fishing. I do not plan 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 can meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never. Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. May heaven pour blessings on you, and keep me safe, so that I can show you again and again how grateful I am for all your love and kindness. Your affectionate brother, R. Walton ### Glossary - **enterprise**: a big, difficult plan or journey - **pole**: the very north (or south) end of the earth - **compass needle**: the small metal pointer that always turns to the north - **the magnet**: the strange force that pulls metal and makes the compass work - **passage**: a way through, here a sea route - **under-mate**: a low officer on a ship - **whaler**: a ship that hunts whales - **sledge**: a vehicle that slides over snow - **post-road**: a main road where travellers change horses - **insurance**: money paid so that the owner is not poor if the ship is lost ## Letter 2 *To Mrs. Saville, England.* Archangel, 28th March, 17—. How slowly time passes here, where I am surrounded by frost and snow! Yet I have taken a second step towards my enterprise. I have hired a ship, and I am busy collecting my sailors. The men I have already hired seem to be men I can depend on. They certainly have fearless courage. But I have one need that I have never been able to satisfy. Now I feel the lack of it as a very great evil. I have no friend, Margaret. When I glow with the excitement of success, no one will share my joy. If disappointment attacks me, no one will try to support me in my sadness. I shall write my thoughts on paper, it is true, but that is a poor way to share feelings. I want the company of a man who could feel with me, whose eyes would answer mine. You may think me romantic, my dear sister, but I feel bitterly the lack of a friend. I have no one near me who is gentle yet brave, with a cultured and wide mind, and tastes like my own, to approve or correct my plans. How such a friend would repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in action and too impatient with 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 I read nothing but our Uncle Thomas' books of voyages. At that age I got to know the famous poets of our own country. But I only saw too late that I needed to know more languages than my own. By then I could no longer gain the most important benefits from this knowledge. Now I am twenty-eight, and I am really more ignorant than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more, and that my daydreams are wider and grander. But they lack what painters call *keeping*. And I greatly need a friend. He must have enough sense not to despise me as romantic, and enough affection for me to try to guide 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 sailors. Yet some feelings, free from the low and worthless side of human nature, beat even in these rough hearts. My lieutenant, for example, is a man of wonderful courage and daring. He is madly eager for glory—or rather, to say it more exactly, for advancement in his career. He is an Englishman. He has the prejudices of his nation and his profession, and education has not softened them. Yet he keeps some of the noblest qualities of mankind. I first got to know him on a whale ship. I found that he had no work in this city, so I easily hired him to help in my enterprise. The master is a man of excellent character. On the ship he is known for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This, together with his well-known honesty and fearless courage, made me very eager to hire him. I spent my youth in solitude, and my best years under your gentle, womanly care. This has so refined the base of my character that I cannot overcome a strong dislike of the usual brutality on board ship. I have never believed it to be necessary. So when I heard of a sailor who was known both for his kind heart and for the respect and obedience his crew gave him, I felt very lucky to be able to get his services. I first heard of him in rather a romantic way, from a lady who owes the happiness of her life to him. This, in short, is his story. Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune. He had gathered a good sum of prize-money, and the girl's father agreed to the marriage. He saw his bride once before the planned ceremony. But she was bathed in tears. She threw herself at his feet and begged him to spare her. She admitted that she loved another man, but he was poor, and her father would never agree to the union. My generous friend comforted her, and when he was told the name of her lover, he at once gave up his claim. With his money he had already bought a farm, where he had planned to spend the rest of his life. But he gave all of it to his rival, together with the rest of his prize-money to buy animals for the farm. Then he himself asked the young woman's father to agree to her marriage with her lover. But the old man firmly refused. He thought himself bound by honour to my friend. When my friend found that the father would not change his mind, he left his country. He did not return until he heard that his former love was married as she wished. "What a noble fellow!" you will say. He is. But he is completely uneducated. He is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness goes with him. This makes his behaviour even more astonishing, but it takes away from the interest and sympathy that he would otherwise win. Yet do not think that I am wavering in my decision. I complain a little, and I can imagine a reward for my labours that I may never know. But my decisions are as fixed as fate. My voyage is only delayed until the weather allows me to leave. The winter has been terribly severe, but the spring looks promising. It is thought to be a remarkably early season, so perhaps I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly. You know me well enough to trust my care and good sense whenever the safety of others is in my hands. I cannot describe to you what I feel as my enterprise comes near. It is impossible to give you an idea of the trembling feeling, half pleasure and half fear, with which I prepare to leave. I am going to unexplored regions, to "the land of mist and snow." But I shall kill no albatross. So do not be afraid for my safety, or afraid that I may come back to you as "worn and woeful" as the "Ancient Mariner." You will smile at my words, but I will tell you a secret. I have often thought that my love, my passionate enthusiasm, for the dangerous mysteries of the ocean comes from that poem by the most imaginative of modern poets. Something is working in my soul that I do not understand. I am practical and hard-working—careful, a workman who finishes his tasks with patience and labour. But besides this there is a love of the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, woven into all my plans. It pulls me away from the common paths of men, even to the wild sea and the unvisited regions that I am about to explore. But let me return to dearer thoughts. Shall I meet you again, after crossing huge seas and returning by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I dare not hope for such success. Yet I cannot bear to look at the other side of the picture. For now, keep writing to me at every chance. I may receive your letters at times when I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection, if you should never hear from me again. Your affectionate brother, Robert Walton ### Glossary - **common**: open public land where anyone can walk and play - **keeping**: a painter's word for a pleasing harmony between all the parts of a picture - **lieutenant**: an officer on the ship who ranks below the captain - **master**: the officer who manages the sailing of the ship - **prize-money**: money that sailors receive when their ship captures an enemy ship - **albatross**: a very large sea bird - **Ancient Mariner**: an old sailor in a famous poem, who killed an albatross and suffered terribly - **worn and woeful**: tired out and full of sadness - **cape**: a point of land that reaches out into the sea ## Letter 3 *To Mrs. Saville, England.* July 7th, 17—. My dear Sister, I write a few lines in haste to say that I am safe and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England on a merchant ship that is now sailing home from Archangel. That ship is more fortunate than I am. I may not see my own country for many years. But I am in good spirits. My men are bold, and they seem firm in their purpose. Sheets of floating ice pass us all the time, and they show the dangers of the region where we are going. Yet they do not seem to frighten the men. We have already reached a very high latitude. But it is the middle of summer. It is not as warm as in England, but the southern winds blow us quickly towards the shores that I so ardently wish to reach. These winds bring a kind of warmth that gives new strength, and I had not expected it. Nothing has happened to us so far that is worth putting in a letter. One or two strong gales and a leak in the ship are small accidents. Experienced sailors hardly remember to write them down. I shall be well content if nothing worse happens to us during our voyage. Farewell, my dear Margaret. Be sure that I will not rashly meet danger, for my own sake as well as yours. I will be cool, patient and careful. But success *shall* crown my efforts. Why not? I have come this far, finding a safe way over the seas that have no paths. The very stars themselves are witnesses of my triumph. Why should I not go on over the sea, which is wild and yet obeys us? What can stop the determined heart and firm will of man? My swelling heart pours itself out like this, without my choosing. But I must finish. May heaven bless my beloved sister! R.W. ### Glossary - **in haste**: in a hurry, quickly - **merchant ship**: a ship that carries goods to sell - **latitude**: how far north or south a place is on the map - **gale**: a very strong wind - **leak**: a hole where water comes into a ship - **ardently**: with strong, burning feeling - **crown my efforts**: give a great reward at the end of my hard work - **swelling heart**: a heart so full of feeling that it seems to grow bigger ## Letter 4 *To Mrs. Saville, England.* August 5th, 17—. A strange accident has happened to us. I cannot help writing it down, although you will very probably see me before these pages reach you. Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice. It closed in on the ship from all sides and hardly left her any sea to float in. Our situation was rather dangerous, especially because a very thick fog was all around us. So we lay to, hoping that the air and the weather would change. About two o'clock the mist cleared. We saw vast, uneven plains of ice stretching out in every direction. They seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and I myself began to feel anxious. Then a strange sight suddenly caught our attention, and we forgot our own danger. We saw a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and pulled by dogs. It passed towards the north, half a mile away. A being sat in the sledge and guided the dogs. It had the shape of a man, but it seemed to be gigantic. We watched the fast progress of the traveller through our telescopes until he was lost among the rough places of the ice far away. This sight filled us with wonder. We believed we were many hundreds of miles from any land. But this appearance seemed to show that land was not really as far away as we had thought. We were shut in by ice, however, and could not follow his track, which we had watched very carefully. About two hours after this we heard the ground sea. Before night the ice broke and freed our ship. But we lay to until morning. We were afraid of meeting in the dark the large loose pieces that float about after the ice breaks up. I used this time to rest for a few hours. In the morning, as soon as it was light, I went on deck. I found all the sailors busy on one side of the ship, apparently talking to someone in the sea. It was in fact a sledge, like the one we had seen before. It had drifted towards us in the night on a large piece of ice. Only one dog was still alive. But there was a human being in the sledge, and the sailors were persuading him to come on board. He was not a savage from some undiscovered island, as the other traveller seemed to be. He was a European. When I appeared on deck, the master said, "Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to die on the open sea." When he saw me, the stranger spoke to me in English, although with a foreign accent. "Before I come on board your ship," he said, "will you be so kind as to tell me where you are going?" You can imagine my astonishment at hearing such a question from a man on the edge of death. I would have thought that my ship was a help he would not exchange for the greatest riches on earth. But I answered that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole. Hearing this, he seemed satisfied and agreed to come on board. Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who made such conditions for his safety, you would have been completely amazed. His arms and legs were nearly frozen. His body was terribly thin from tiredness and suffering. I never saw a man in such a miserable state. We tried to carry him into the cabin, but as soon as he left the fresh air he fainted. So we brought him back to the deck and woke him up by rubbing him with brandy and making him swallow a little. As soon as he showed signs of life, we wrapped him in blankets and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove. Slowly he recovered and ate a little soup, which gave him wonderful strength. Two days passed like this before he could speak. I often feared that his sufferings had destroyed his mind. When he had recovered a little, I moved him to my own cabin and looked after him as much as my duty allowed. I never saw a more interesting creature. His eyes usually look wild, even mad. But there are moments when someone does him a kind act, or even the smallest service. Then his whole face lights up with a beam of kindness and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is usually sad and without hope. Sometimes he grinds his teeth, as if he cannot bear the weight of the sorrows that press on him. When my guest had recovered a little, I had great trouble keeping away the men. They wished to ask him a thousand questions. But I would not allow idle curiosity to torment him. His body and mind clearly needed complete rest to get well. Once, however, the lieutenant asked why he had come so far over the ice in such a strange vehicle. His face at once became very dark with gloom, and he answered, "To seek one who fled from me." "And did the man you were following travel in the same way?" "Yes." "Then I think we have seen him. The day before we picked you up, we saw some dogs pulling a sledge with a man in it across the ice." This caught the stranger's attention. He asked a great many questions about the route that the demon, as he called him, had taken. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said, "I have no doubt excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good people. But you are too considerate to ask questions." "Certainly. It would be very rude and cruel of me to trouble you with any curiosity of mine." "And yet you rescued me from a strange and dangerous situation. You have kindly brought me back to life." Soon after this he asked if I thought that the breaking of the ice had destroyed the other sledge. I answered that I could not say with any certainty. The ice had not broken until near midnight, and the traveller might have reached a safe place before that time. But I could not judge. From this time a new spirit of life filled the weak body of the stranger. He showed the greatest eagerness to be on deck to watch for the sledge that had appeared before. But I have persuaded him to stay in the cabin, because he is far too weak to bear the raw cold of the air. I have promised that someone will watch for him and tell him at once if anything new appears in sight. Such is my journal of this strange event up to today. The stranger has slowly improved in health. But he is very silent, and he seems uneasy when anyone except me enters his cabin. Yet his manners are so winning and gentle that the sailors are all interested in him, although they have had very little to do with him. As for me, I begin to love him as a brother. His constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and pity. He must have been a noble creature in his better days, since even now, when he is so broken, he is so attractive and kind. 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 whom I should have been happy to have as the brother of my heart, before misery broke his spirit. I shall continue my journal about the stranger from time to time, if I have any new events to record. August 13th, 17—. My affection for my guest grows every day. He rouses my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see such a noble creature destroyed by misery without feeling the sharpest grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise. His mind is so cultured. When he speaks, his words are chosen with the greatest art, yet they flow quickly, with a beauty of speech I have never heard equalled. He has now recovered much from his illness and is always on deck, apparently watching for the sledge that went before his own. Yet, although he is unhappy, he is not so full of his own misery that he cannot take a deep interest in the plans of others. He has often talked with me about mine, and I have told him everything openly. He listened carefully to all my reasons for believing in my final success. He listened to every small detail of the steps I have taken to secure it. His sympathy easily led me to speak from my heart. I told him, with all the warmth I felt, how gladly I would give my fortune, my life and every hope for the progress of my enterprise. One man's life or death would be a small price to pay for the knowledge I seek. I would gain power over the natural enemies of our race, and I would hand that power down to others. As I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my listener's face. At first I saw that he tried to hold back his feelings. He put his hands in front of his eyes. My voice shook and failed me when I saw tears running fast from between his fingers. A groan burst from his heaving chest. I stopped. At last he spoke, in a broken voice: "Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you also drunk the intoxicating drink? Hear me. Let me tell my story, and you will knock the cup from your lips!" You can imagine that such words made me very curious. But a fit of grief had seized the stranger and overcome his weak strength. Many hours of rest and quiet talk were needed to make him calm again. When he had mastered his violent feelings, he seemed to despise himself for being the slave of passion. He fought down the dark power of despair, and he led me to talk about myself again. He asked me the story of my early years. It was quickly told, but it brought up many different thoughts. I spoke of my wish for a friend. I spoke of my thirst for a closer sympathy with a fellow mind than I had ever had. I said I was sure that a man could not boast of much happiness if he did not have this blessing. "I agree with you," replied the stranger. "We are unfinished creatures, only half made, if one who is wiser, better and dearer than ourselves—and a friend ought to be that—does not lend his help to improve our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble of human beings, and so I have the right to judge about friendship. You have hope, and the world before you, and no reason for despair. But I—I have lost everything, and I cannot begin life again." As he said this, his face showed a calm, settled grief that touched me to the heart. But he was silent, and soon he went to his cabin. Even though his spirit is broken, no one can feel the beauties of nature more deeply than he does. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight in these wonderful regions still seem to have the power to lift his soul from the earth. Such a man has a double life. He may suffer misery and be crushed by disappointments. Yet when he has withdrawn into himself, he is like a heavenly spirit with a halo around him. Within that circle no grief or foolishness ventures. Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express about this divine wanderer? You would not if you saw him. You have been taught and refined by books and by a quiet life away from the world, and so you are rather hard to please. But this only makes you more able to see the extraordinary qualities of this wonderful man. Sometimes I have tried to discover what quality he has that lifts him so far above any other person I ever knew. I believe it is an instinctive understanding, a quick power of judgment that never fails, and a sight into the causes of things that is unequalled for clearness and exactness. Add to this an easy way of speaking and a voice whose changing tones are music that conquers the soul. August 19th, 17—. Yesterday the stranger said to me, "You can easily see, Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unequalled misfortunes. At one time I had decided that the memory of these evils should die with me. But you have persuaded me to change my decision. You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did. And I ardently hope that getting what you wish will not be a serpent to sting you, as it has been for me. I do not know whether the story of my disasters will be useful to you. But you are following the same course. You are exposing yourself to the same dangers that have made me what I am. So I think you may draw a fitting lesson from my tale. It may guide you if you succeed in your undertaking, and comfort you if you fail. Prepare to hear of events that people usually think marvellous. If we were among the tamer scenes of nature, I might fear your disbelief, perhaps your laughter. But in these wild and mysterious regions many things will seem possible that would make people laugh if they did not know the ever-changing powers of nature. And I cannot doubt that my tale itself, in the order of its events, gives inner proof that those events are true." You can easily imagine that I was very pleased by his offer to tell me his story. Yet I could not bear that he should renew his grief by telling of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the story he promised, partly from curiosity and partly from a strong wish to improve his fate if I could. I said these things in my answer. "I thank you for your sympathy," he replied, "but it is useless. My fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait for only one event, and then I shall rest in peace. I understand your feeling," he went on, seeing that I wished to interrupt him. "But you are mistaken, my friend, if I may call you that. Nothing can change my destiny. Listen to my history, and you will see how firmly it is decided." He then told me that he would begin his story the next day, when I should be free. I thanked him warmly for this promise. I have decided that every night, when my duties do not urgently need me, I will write down what he has told me during the day. I will keep as close as I can to his own words. If I am busy, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will no doubt give you the greatest pleasure. But for me, who know him and who hear it from his own lips—with what interest and sympathy shall I read it some day in the future! Even now, as I begin my task, his full voice sounds in my ears. His shining eyes rest on me with all their sad sweetness. I see his thin hand raised as he speaks with feeling, and his face is lit up by the soul within. His story must be strange and terrible. Frightful was the storm that caught the brave ship on its course and wrecked it—thus! ### Glossary - **lay to**: to stop a ship and keep it in one place, without sailing on - **ground sea**: the heavy movement of the sea under and around the ice - **telescope**: a long tube that makes faraway things look close - **brandy**: a strong alcoholic drink, used here as a medicine - **demon**: an evil spirit - **halo**: a ring of light around a holy person's head - **serpent**: a snake - **intoxicating**: making you feel drunk or wild, so that you cannot think clearly ## Chapter 1 I was born in Geneva, so I am a Genevese. My family is one of the most important families of that republic. For many years my ancestors were counsellors and syndics. My father also held several public positions, and he did so with honour and a good name. Everyone who knew him respected him. They respected his honesty and the tireless care he gave to public business. He spent his younger years always busy with the affairs of his country. Several things stopped him from marrying early. He was already growing old when he became a husband and the father of a family. The story of his marriage shows his character, so I must tell it. One of his closest friends was a merchant. This man had once been rich, but after many pieces of bad luck he fell into poverty. His name was Beaufort. He was a proud man who would not bend. He could not bear to live poor and forgotten in the country where he had once been admired. There he had been known for his high position and splendid way of life. So he paid all his debts in the most honourable way. Then he went away with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in misery. My father loved Beaufort as a true friend, and he was deeply sad that Beaufort had hidden himself in this unhappy state. He bitterly regretted the false pride that led his friend to act in a way so unworthy of their friendship. At once he began to look for him. He hoped to persuade Beaufort to start his life again, with the help of my father's money and good name. Beaufort had done everything he could to hide himself. It was ten months before my father found where he lived. He was overjoyed and hurried to the house, which stood in a poor street near the Reuss. But when he went in, he met only misery and despair. Beaufort had saved only a very small sum from the ruin of his fortune. It was enough to feed him for some months, and meanwhile he hoped to find some respectable work in a merchant's house. So the time passed in doing nothing. His grief grew deeper and more painful when he had time to think. At last it took such a strong hold of his mind that after three months he lay sick in bed, unable to do anything. His daughter looked after him with the greatest tenderness. But she saw with despair that their small savings were quickly getting smaller and that they had no other hope of support. Caroline Beaufort, however, had an unusual mind, and her courage grew when she most needed it. She found plain work. She plaited straw, and in various ways she managed to earn a tiny sum that was hardly enough to keep them alive. Several months passed like this. Her father became worse. She spent more and more of her time looking after him, and the money they had grew less. In the tenth month her father died in her arms. He left her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow was too much for her. She was kneeling by Beaufort's coffin, crying bitterly, when my father came into the room. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, and she placed herself in his care. After he had buried his friend, he took her to Geneva and left her with a relation, who looked after her. Two years after this, Caroline became his wife. There was a big difference between the ages of my parents. Yet this seemed only to bind them closer together in a deep and devoted love. My father had a strong sense of justice. For this reason he had to approve of a person highly in order to love her strongly. Perhaps in earlier years he had been hurt when he found out too late that someone he loved was unworthy. So he may have valued proven goodness more. His love for my mother showed gratitude and a kind of worship. It was not like the foolish fondness of an old man, because it came from respect for her virtues. It also came from a wish to make up, in some small way, for the sorrows she had suffered. This gave his behaviour towards her a wonderful grace. Everything gave way to her wishes and her comfort. He tried to shelter her, as a gardener shelters a rare and beautiful foreign flower, from every rough wind. He wanted to surround her with everything that could bring pleasant feelings to her soft and kind mind. Her health had been shaken by what she had gone through, and so had the calm of her spirit, which had always been steady before. In the two years before their marriage, my father had slowly given up all his public duties. Immediately after the wedding they went to the warm climate of Italy. They hoped to make her weak body strong again. A change of scene and a tour through that land of wonders would give her new interests. From Italy they travelled to Germany and France. I was their eldest child, and I was born at Naples. As a baby I went with them on their travels. For several years I remained their only child. They loved each other very much. Yet they seemed to draw endless love from some mine of love and to give it all to me. My first memories are my mother's tender kisses and my father's kind, happy smile as he looked at me. I was their plaything and their idol, and something better. I was their child, the innocent and helpless creature that Heaven had given them. They could bring me up to be good. They could also lead me to happiness or to misery, depending on how well they did their duty. They felt deeply what they owed to the being to whom they had given life. They also had a lively spirit of tenderness. So you can imagine how I grew up. Every hour of my baby life taught me patience, kindness and self-control. Yet I was guided so gently, as if by a silk cord, that it all seemed one long happy time. For a long time I was their only care. My mother had very much wanted a daughter, but I remained their only child. When I was about five years old, they made a trip beyond the borders of Italy. They spent a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. They were kind people, and they often went into the cottages of the poor. For my mother this was more than a duty. It was a need, a passion. She remembered what she had suffered and how she had been helped, so now she wanted to be a guardian angel to people in trouble. During one of their walks, they noticed a poor little cottage in a fold of a valley. It looked especially sad, and the many half-dressed children around it showed the worst kind of poverty. One day my father had gone to Milan alone. My mother took me with her and visited this home. She found a peasant and his wife, hard-working people, bent down by worry and labour. They were giving a small meal to five hungry children. One of these children attracted my mother far more than all the others. She seemed to come from a different family. The other four were dark-eyed, sturdy little wanderers. This child was thin and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold. In spite of her poor clothes, it seemed to put a crown of honour on her head. Her forehead was clear and wide, and her blue eyes were without a cloud. Her lips and the shape of her face showed so much feeling and sweetness that nobody could look at her without wonder. She seemed a different kind of being, sent from heaven, with a heavenly mark on every feature. The peasant woman saw that my mother looked at this lovely girl with wonder and admiration. Eagerly she told the girl's story. The girl was not her child. She was the daughter of a nobleman from Milan. Her mother was German and had died when she gave birth. The baby had been given to these good people to look after, and at that time they were better off. They had not been married long, and their eldest child was only just born. The father of the girl in their care was one of those Italians who grew up remembering the old glory of Italy. He was one of the *schiavi ognor frementi*, and he worked hard to win freedom for his country. He became the victim of his country's weakness. Nobody knew whether he had died or was still living in the dungeons of Austria. His property was taken from him, and his child became an orphan and a beggar. She stayed with her foster parents. In their rough home she grew more beautiful than a garden rose among dark-leaved thorn bushes. When my father came back from Milan, he found a child playing with me in the hall of our villa. She was fairer than a painted cherub, and she seemed to shine with light. Her body and her movements were lighter than the chamois of the hills. The reason for her presence was soon explained. With my father's permission, my mother persuaded the simple country people to give the girl to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them. But they thought it would be unfair to keep her in poverty and want when Providence offered her such powerful protection. They asked their village priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza came into my parents' house. She was my more than sister, the beautiful and adored companion of everything I did and every pleasure I enjoyed. Everyone loved Elizabeth. All people felt a passionate and almost respectful love for her. I shared it, and it became my pride and my joy. On the evening before she was brought to my home, my mother had said playfully, "I have a pretty present for my Victor. Tomorrow he shall have it." The next day she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift. With a child's seriousness I took her words literally. I looked upon Elizabeth as mine, mine to protect, love and care for. I received all the praise that people gave her as if it were given to something that belonged to me. We called each other "cousin," as we always did. No word could show what kind of relation she was to me. She was my more than sister, since until death she was to be mine only. ### Glossary - **syndic**: a high public officer in the city of Geneva - **counsellor**: a member of a city council - **Genevese**: a person from Geneva - **orphan**: a child whose parents are both dead - **plaited straw**: twisted dried grass into long bands, to make hats and baskets - **schiavi ognor frementi**: Italian words for "slaves who are always shaking" (with anger) - **chamois**: a goat-like animal that jumps lightly on mountains - **cherub**: a beautiful child angel in paintings - **Providence**: God's care for people's lives ## Chapter 2 We were brought up together. There was not quite a year between our ages. I hardly need to say that we never quarrelled or argued. Harmony was the soul of our friendship. The differences between our characters even drew us closer together. Elizabeth was calmer and could keep her mind on one thing. I had more ardour, but I could work harder and was more deeply struck by the thirst for knowledge. She busied herself following the airy pictures that the poets create. Around our Swiss home there were great and wonderful scenes. There were the grand shapes of the mountains, the changing seasons, the storm and the calm, the silence of winter, and the life and noise of our Alpine summers. In all this she found plenty to admire and enjoy. My companion looked at the magnificent sights of the world with a serious and happy spirit. I loved to search for their causes. The world was to me a secret which I wanted to guess. I remember some feelings from the earliest time. There was curiosity, and a serious wish to learn the hidden laws of nature. There was also a gladness close to rapture when these laws were shown to me. A second son was born when I was seven. He was my brother Ernest. After this my parents gave up their wandering life completely and settled in their own country. We had a house in Geneva. We also had a country house, a *campagne*, at Belrive on the eastern shore of the lake. It was rather more than a league from the city. We lived mostly in the country house, and my parents lived very quietly, away from other people. By nature I avoided crowds and attached myself warmly to only a few people. So I did not care about my schoolfellows in general. But I joined myself in the closest friendship to one of them. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of unusual talent and imagination. He loved adventure, hardship and even danger for its own sake. He had read deeply in books of knights and romance. He made up heroic songs and began to write many stories of magic and brave knights. He tried to make us act in plays and join in masquerades. The characters in them came from the heroes of Roncesvalles and from the Round Table of King Arthur. They also came from the knights who shed their blood to win the holy tomb of Christ back from the unbelievers. No human being could have had a happier childhood than I had. My parents were full of kindness and spoiled us with love. We felt that they were not tyrants who ruled our lives by their moods. They were the makers and givers of all the many joys we had. When I met other families, I saw clearly how lucky I was. My gratitude helped my love for my parents to grow. My temper was sometimes violent, and my feelings were strong. But some law of my nature turned them away from childish games. They turned instead towards an eager wish to learn, and not to learn everything without choice. I admit that some subjects had no attraction for me. I did not care about the structure of languages. I did not care about the laws of governments or the politics of different states. It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I wanted to learn. Sometimes I studied the outer substance of things. Sometimes it was the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man. In every case my questions were about the secrets of the world that lie beyond what we can see. In the highest meaning, these were physical secrets. Meanwhile Clerval busied himself, so to speak, with the moral side of things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes and the actions of men were his subject. His hope and his dream was to become one of a special group of men. Their names are recorded in history as brave and adventurous benefactors of mankind. The holy soul of Elizabeth shone like a lamp in a shrine in our peaceful home. We shared her sympathy. Her smile, her soft voice and the sweet look of her heavenly eyes were always there to bless us and give us life. She was the living spirit of love, to soften and to attract. I might have become gloomy in my study. I might have become rough because of the ardour of my nature. But she was there to calm me and make me almost as gentle as she was. And Clerval? Could anything bad enter the noble spirit of Clerval? Yet he might not have been so perfectly humane. He might not have been so thoughtful in his generosity. He might not have been so full of kindness and tenderness in the middle of his passion for adventure. She had shown him the real loveliness of doing good. She made doing good the end and aim of his high ambition. I feel exquisite pleasure in remembering my childhood, before misfortune had stained my mind. Before that, my mind had bright visions of being very useful to others. Misfortune changed them into dark and narrow thoughts about myself. Besides, I am drawing the picture of my early days. In this way I also record the events that led to my later tale of misery. They led to it step by step, and I did not notice. I try to explain to myself how that passion was born which afterwards ruled my fate. I find it rising like a mountain river. It came from low and almost forgotten sources. But it grew as it went on. It became the torrent that has swept away all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the genius that has ruled my fate. So in this story I want to state the facts that led me to love that science. When I was thirteen years old, we all went on a pleasure trip to the baths near Thonon. The bad weather forced us to stay one day inside the inn. In this house I happened to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it without interest. But the theory he tries to prove and the wonderful facts he tells soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to rise in my mind. I jumped with joy and told my father about my discovery. My father looked carelessly at the title page of my book and said, "Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time on this. It is sad trash." Suppose my father had taken the trouble to explain something to me, instead of making that remark. He could have told me that the ideas of Agrippa had been proved completely false. He could have told me that a modern system of science had been introduced. This system had much greater powers than the ancient one. The powers of the old science were imaginary, while those of the new were real and practical. If he had said this, I would certainly have thrown Agrippa aside. My imagination was warm, but I would have gone back to my earlier studies with greater ardour. My train of thought might never have received the fatal push. That push led to my ruin. But my father had only glanced quickly at my book. That did not convince me that he knew what was in it. So I went on reading with the greatest eagerness. When I returned home, my first care was to get all the works of this author. Afterwards I got those of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight. They seemed to me treasures that few people besides me knew. I have told you that I was always filled with a burning wish to find out the secrets of nature. The modern philosophers worked hard and made wonderful discoveries. In spite of this, I always came away from my studies discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have admitted something. He said he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great, unexplored ocean of truth. I knew some of his followers in each branch of natural philosophy. Even to my boyish mind they seemed like beginners doing the same thing. The untaught peasant saw the elements around him and knew their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more. He had uncovered part of the face of Nature, but her immortal features were still a wonder and a mystery. He could cut open, study the parts of bodies, and give names. But he knew nothing at all of the causes of things. He did not know even the second or third causes, let alone a final cause. I had looked at the walls and obstacles that seemed to keep human beings out of the fortress of nature. Rashly and in ignorance, I had complained about them. But here were books, and here were men who had gone deeper and knew more. I took their word for everything they claimed, and I became their disciple. It may seem strange that this could happen in the eighteenth century. But I followed the ordinary lessons in the schools of Geneva. In my favourite studies I was largely self-taught. My father was not a scientist. I was left to struggle with a child's blindness and a student's thirst for knowledge. My new teachers guided me. With the greatest effort I began to search for the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life. Soon the elixir alone had all my attention. Wealth was a lesser aim. But what glory there would be in the discovery if I could drive disease out of the human body! What glory if I could make man safe from everything except a violent death! These were not my only visions. My favourite authors freely promised that one could raise ghosts or devils. I tried very eagerly to do it. My magic words never worked. But I blamed my own lack of experience and my mistakes for the failure. I did not blame a lack of skill or honesty in my teachers. So for a time I was busy with old systems that were already proved false. Like a beginner, I mixed a thousand contradicting theories together. I struggled desperately in a very swamp of many kinds of knowledge. An ardent imagination and a child's reasoning were my only guides. Then an accident again changed the direction of my ideas. When I was about fifteen years old, we had gone to our house near Belrive. There we saw a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It came forward from behind the mountains of Jura. The thunder burst at once from many parts of the sky with a frightful noise. While the storm lasted, I stayed and watched it with curiosity and delight. I was standing at the door. Suddenly I saw a stream of fire come out of an old and beautiful oak tree. It stood about twenty yards from our house. As soon as the dazzling light was gone, the oak had disappeared. Nothing remained but a burnt stump. When we went to look at it the next morning, we found the tree broken in a strange way. The shock had not split it into pieces. It was completely reduced to thin ribbons of wood. I have never seen anything so totally destroyed. Before this I knew a little about the more obvious laws of electricity. On this occasion a man who had done much research in natural philosophy was with us. The disaster excited him, and he explained a theory he had formed about electricity and galvanism. It was both new and astonishing to me. Everything he said put Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination, far into the shade. But by some strange fate, the fall of these men made me unwilling to go on with my usual studies. It seemed to me that nothing would ever be known, or could be. Everything that had held my attention for so long suddenly seemed worthless. This is one of those sudden changes of mind that happen most often in early youth. At once I gave up my old studies. I decided that natural history and all that came from it was an ugly, unfinished creation. I felt the greatest scorn for a so-called science that could never even step across the doorstep of real knowledge. In this mood I turned to mathematics and the studies that belong to it. They were built on safe foundations, so I thought them worth my attention. Our souls are made in such a strange way! We are tied to happiness or ruin by such thin threads! When I look back, I see something almost miraculous. This change of wish and will seems to me the direct suggestion of the guardian angel of my life. It was the last effort of the spirit that protects us, trying to turn away the storm. Even then the storm hung in the stars and was ready to wrap itself around me. The angel's victory was announced by an unusual calm and gladness of soul. These followed when I gave up my old studies, which had lately tormented me. In this way I was to be taught to connect evil with those studies, and happiness with leaving them. It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it did not work. Destiny was too powerful, and her unchangeable laws had decided my complete and terrible destruction. ### Glossary - **campagne**: a country house, a house outside the city - **league**: a distance of about three miles - **Roncesvalles**: a place in old stories where a famous battle of brave knights took place - **masquerade**: a party or play where people wear masks and costumes - **benefactor**: a person who helps others, often with money or gifts - **elixir of life**: a magic drink that could stop a person from dying - **philosopher's stone**: a magic stone from old stories that could make gold - **galvanism**: an early name for the study of electricity moving in living bodies ## Chapter 3 When I was seventeen years old, my parents decided that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. Until then I had gone to the schools of Geneva. But my father thought I should learn about customs other than those of my own country. He felt this was necessary to complete my education. So my departure was fixed for an early date. But before the day came, the first misfortune of my life happened. It was like a warning of my future misery. Elizabeth had caught scarlet fever. Her illness was severe, and she was in the greatest danger. During her illness many people tried to persuade my mother not to nurse her. At first my mother gave way to our pleas. But then she heard that the life of her favourite was in danger, and she could no longer control her worry. She went to Elizabeth's sickbed. Her watchful care defeated the dangerous illness, and Elizabeth was saved. But this careless act was deadly for the one who saved her. On the third day my mother fell sick. Her fever came with the most alarming signs, and the looks on the faces of her doctors told us to expect the worst. On her deathbed this best of women did not lose her courage or her kindness. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and me. "My children," she said, "my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of your union. This hope will now be a comfort to your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must take my place with my younger children. Alas! I am sorry that I am taken from you. I have been happy and loved, so is it not hard to leave you all? But these are not thoughts that suit me. I will try to accept death cheerfully. I will hold on to the hope of meeting you in another world." She died calmly, and her face showed love even in death. I do not need to describe the feelings of those whose dearest bonds are torn apart by this terrible loss. I do not need to describe the emptiness that fills the soul, or the despair that shows on the face. It takes so long for the mind to believe it. We saw her every day, and her life seemed a part of our own. How can she have gone for ever? How can the brightness of a beloved eye be put out? How can a voice so familiar and dear to the ear be silent, never to be heard again? These are the thoughts of the first days. Then time goes by and proves that the loss is real. Only then does the true bitterness of grief begin. Yet who has not had some dear connection torn away by that cruel hand? And why should I describe a sorrow that everyone has felt and must feel? In the end the time comes when grief is more of an indulgence than a need. The smile that plays upon the lips is not driven away, although it may seem a sin. My mother was dead, but we still had duties to perform. We must go on with the rest of the world. We must learn to think ourselves lucky as long as one person remains whom death has not taken. My departure for Ingolstadt had been put off by these events. Now it was fixed again. I asked my father for a delay of some weeks. It seemed to me a sin to leave so soon the quiet of the house of mourning, which was like the quiet of death. I could not rush into the middle of busy life. I was new to sorrow, but it frightened me just as much. I did not want to leave the people who remained to me. Above all, I wanted to see my sweet Elizabeth comforted a little. She did hide her grief. She tried to be a comforter to us all. She looked at life steadily and took up its duties with courage and energy. She devoted herself to those whom she had been taught to call her uncle and cousins. She was never so charming as at this time. She brought back the sunshine of her smiles and spent them on us. She even forgot her own sorrow in her efforts to make us forget ours. The day of my departure came at last. Clerval spent the last evening with us. He had tried to persuade his father to let him come with me and be my fellow student, but it was no use. His father was a narrow-minded tradesman. He saw only laziness and ruin in his son's hopes and ambition. Henry felt deeply the misfortune of not having a university education. He said little. But when he spoke, I read in his burning eye and his lively look a restrained but firm decision. He was determined not to be chained to the miserable details of business. We sat up late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other. We could not make ourselves say the word "Farewell!" It was said, and we went to bed, pretending to look for rest. Each of us thought that the other was deceived. But at dawn I went down to the carriage that was to take me away, and they were all there. My father was there to bless me again. Clerval was there to press my hand once more. My Elizabeth was there to repeat her request that I write often. She also gave the last gentle attentions of a woman to her playmate and friend. I threw myself into the chaise that was to carry me away, and I gave way to the saddest thoughts. I had always been surrounded by friendly companions. We had always tried to give each other pleasure. Now I was alone. At the university I must make my own friends and be my own protector. My life until then had been very quiet and had centred on the home. Because of this I had a strong dislike of new faces. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth and Clerval. These were "old familiar faces." But I believed that I was completely unfit for the company of strangers. These were my thoughts as I began my journey. But as I went on, my spirits and hopes rose. I ardently wanted to gain knowledge. When I was at home, I had often thought it hard to stay shut up in one place during my youth. I had longed to go out into the world and take my place among other human beings. Now my wishes were granted, and it would truly have been foolish to be sorry. I had enough time for these and many other thoughts during my journey to Ingolstadt. It was long and tiring. At last the high white steeple of the town came into view. I got out of the carriage and was taken to my lonely apartment. I could spend the evening as I liked. The next morning I handed over my letters of introduction and visited some of the main professors. Chance led me first to Professor Krempe, who taught natural philosophy. Or rather, it was the evil influence, the Angel of Destruction. This angel had ruled me with total power since the moment I turned my unwilling steps away from my father's door. Krempe was a rough man, but he knew the secrets of his science deeply. He asked me several questions about my progress in the different branches of natural philosophy. I answered carelessly. I partly spoke with contempt, and I named my alchemists as the main authors I had studied. The professor stared at me. "Have you really spent your time studying such nonsense?" he said. I said yes. "Every minute," Professor Krempe went on warmly, "every moment that you have wasted on those books is completely lost. You have filled your memory with old systems that have been proved wrong, and with useless names. Good God! In what desert land have you lived, where nobody was kind enough to tell you that these fancies that you have swallowed so greedily are a thousand years old? They are as stale as they are ancient. I hardly expected, in this enlightened and scientific age, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must begin your studies completely again." Saying this, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of several books on natural philosophy. He wanted me to get them. Then he sent me away. He told me that early the following week he would start a course of lectures. They would be on natural philosophy in its general relations. He also said that Professor Waldman, another professor, would lecture on chemistry on the days when he did not. I went home. I was not disappointed, because I had long thought that the authors the professor blamed were useless. But I was not at all more willing to go back to these studies in any form. Professor Krempe was a little squat man with a gruff voice and an ugly face. So the teacher did not make me like his subject. Perhaps I have told you too much, in too thoughtful and connected a way, about the conclusions I reached in my early years. As a child I had not been satisfied with the results the modern professors of natural science promised. My ideas were confused, which can only be explained by my extreme youth and my lack of a guide. I had walked back along the paths of time to the beginnings of knowledge. I had exchanged the discoveries of recent researchers for the dreams of forgotten alchemists. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different when the masters of the science looked for immortality and power. Such aims were useless, but they were grand. Now the scene had changed. The researcher's ambition seemed to be limited to destroying the very visions that had first made me interested in science. I was asked to exchange dreams of unlimited grandeur for realities of little worth. These were my thoughts during the first two or three days of my stay at Ingolstadt. I spent them mostly in getting to know the place and the main people of my new home. But the next week began, and I thought of what Professor Krempe had told me about the lectures. I could not agree to go and hear that little conceited fellow speak from a pulpit. But I remembered what he had said about Professor Waldman. I had never seen him, because until then he had been out of town. I went into the lecture room partly from curiosity and partly from laziness. Professor Waldman came in soon after. This professor was very unlike his colleague. He looked about fifty years old, but his face showed the greatest kindness. A few grey hairs covered his temples, but those at the back of his head were nearly black. He was short, but he stood remarkably straight. His voice was the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by going over the history of chemistry. He spoke of the improvements made by different learned men, and he spoke the names of the most famous discoverers with fervour. Then he took a quick look at the present state of the science and explained many of its basic terms. He made a few experiments to prepare us. He ended with a speech in praise of modern chemistry. I shall never forget its words: "The ancient teachers of this science," he said, "promised impossible things and did nothing. The modern masters promise very little. They know that metals cannot be changed into other metals. They know that the elixir of life is only a dream. But these philosophers seem to have hands made only to play in dirt. Their eyes seem made only to look into the microscope or the crucible. Yet they have indeed performed miracles. They enter the hidden places of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places. They rise up into the heavens. They have discovered how the blood circulates, and what the air we breathe is made of. They have gained new and almost unlimited powers. They can command the thunders of heaven, copy the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows." These were the professor's words. Or rather, they were the words of fate, spoken to destroy me. As he went on, I felt as if my soul were fighting a real enemy. One by one the different keys were touched that formed the machinery of my being. Chord after chord was sounded. Soon my mind was filled with one thought, one idea, one purpose. So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein. More, far more, will I achieve. I will walk in the steps already marked out, but I will find a new way. I will explore unknown powers, and I will show the world the deepest mysteries of creation. I did not close my eyes that night. Inside me everything was in rebellion and confusion. I felt that order would come from it, but I had no power to make it. After dawn, little by little, sleep came. I woke up, and my thoughts of the night before were like a dream. Only a decision remained: to return to my ancient studies. I would give myself to a science for which I believed I had a natural talent. On the same day I paid a visit to Professor Waldman. In private his manners were even milder and more attractive than in public. During his lecture there was a certain dignity in his look. In his own house this was replaced by the greatest friendliness and kindness. I gave him almost the same account of my earlier studies that I had given to his fellow professor. He listened carefully to my little story about my studies. He smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that Professor Krempe had shown. He said, "These were men whose tireless zeal gave modern philosophers most of the foundations of their knowledge. They left us an easier task. We had only to give new names and arrange in connected groups the facts that they had largely helped to bring to light. The work of men of genius, however wrongly directed, almost never fails to turn in the end to the solid advantage of mankind." I listened to what he said. He said it without any pride or pretence. Then I added that his lecture had removed my prejudices against modern chemists. I spoke in careful words, with the modesty and respect that a young man owes his teacher. I did not let escape any of the enthusiasm that drove my planned work, because my inexperience in life would have made me ashamed. I asked for his advice about the books I should get. "I am happy," said Professor Waldman, "to have gained a disciple. If your effort equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest improvements have been made, and may still be made. That is why I have made it my special study. But at the same time I have not neglected the other branches of science. A man would be a very poor chemist if he looked at that one part of human knowledge alone. If your wish is to become a true man of science and not only a petty experimenter, I would advise you to study every branch of natural philosophy, including mathematics." Then he took me into his laboratory and explained the uses of his different machines. He told me what I should get. He promised me the use of his own machines when I had advanced far enough in the science not to spoil their mechanism. He also gave me the list of books that I had asked for, and I took my leave. So ended a day that I remember well. It decided my future destiny. ### Glossary - **scarlet fever**: a serious illness that spreads easily, with fever and a red skin - **natural philosophy**: the study of nature; the early form of science - **alchemist**: an old kind of scientist who tried to turn metals into gold - **chaise**: a light carriage with two or four wheels pulled by horses - **professor**: a senior teacher at a university - **disciple**: a student who follows a teacher's ideas - **elixir of life**: a magic drink that could stop a person from dying - **crucible**: a small pot used for heating and melting things in chemistry ## Chapter 4 From this day, natural philosophy became almost my only work. Chemistry was the most important part of it, and I studied it in the widest sense of the word. I read with great energy the books that modern thinkers had written on these subjects. They were full of genius and careful judgement. I went to the lectures and made friends with the men of science at the university. Even in Professor Krempe I found a great deal of good sense and real knowledge. It is true that his face and his manners were unpleasant. But that did not make his knowledge any less valuable. In Professor Waldman I found a true friend. His gentleness never turned into stubbornness about his own opinions. He taught in such an open and kind way. I never felt that he was showing off his learning. In a thousand ways he made the path of knowledge easier for me. He made the most difficult questions clear and simple for my mind. At first my work was uneven and uncertain. It grew stronger as I went on. Soon I worked with such eagerness that the stars often disappeared in the morning light. I was still in my laboratory then. Because I worked so hard, it is easy to understand that I made quick progress. The students were astonished at my eagerness, and the masters were astonished at my skill. Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa was getting on. Professor Waldman, however, told me warmly how happy my progress made him. Two years passed in this way. In all that time I did not visit Geneva. I was busy, heart and soul, with some discoveries that I hoped to make. Only those who have felt it can understand how attractive science is. In other studies you go as far as others have gone before you, and then there is nothing more to learn. But in science there is always something new to discover and to wonder at. A person of ordinary ability who studies one subject closely must become very skilled in that subject. I thought only about one goal and was completely wrapped up in it. So I improved very quickly. At the end of two years I made some discoveries that improved certain chemical instruments. These gave me great respect and admiration at the university. By then I knew as much about natural philosophy, in theory and in practice, as the professors could teach me. There were no more professors at Ingolstadt who could help my progress. So I thought about going back to my friends and my home town. But then something happened that made me stay longer. One thing had always attracted my attention in a special way. This was the structure of the human body, and of any animal that has life. Where, I often asked myself, did the principle of life come from? It was a bold question. People have always thought that the answer is a mystery. Yet there are so many things that we could learn, if only fear or carelessness did not stop our questions. I thought about this for a long time. Then I decided to give more attention to the parts of natural philosophy that deal with physiology. I had an almost unnatural enthusiasm. Without it, this study would have been tiring and nearly impossible to bear. To study the causes of life, we must first turn to death. I learned the science of anatomy, but that was not enough. I also had to watch how the human body naturally decays and rots. My father had taken great care in my education. He did not want my mind to be filled with horror of unnatural things. I cannot remember ever trembling at a ghost story or fearing the appearance of a spirit. Darkness had no effect on my imagination. A churchyard was to me only a place that held bodies without life. These bodies had once been full of beauty and strength, and now they were food for the worm. Now I had to study the cause and the stages of this decay. I was forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel-houses. I fixed my attention on everything that is most unbearable to delicate human feelings. I saw how the fine shape of man was spoiled and wasted. I saw death's decay follow the fresh, blooming cheek of life. I saw how the worm took over the wonders of the eye and the brain. I stopped there. I studied every small detail of the change from life to death, and from death to life. At last, out of all this darkness, a sudden light came to me. It was so bright and so wonderful, yet so simple. I became dizzy at the size of the future that it showed me. I was also surprised. So many men of genius had directed their studies to the same science. Yet I alone was chosen to discover such an astonishing secret. Remember, I am not telling you the vision of a madman. The sun does not shine in the sky more surely than what I now say is true. Perhaps some miracle produced it, but the steps of the discovery were clear and probable. After days and nights of incredible work and tiredness, I discovered the cause of birth and life. More than that, I became able to give life to matter that had none. At first I was astonished by this discovery. Soon the astonishment gave way to delight and joy. I had spent so much time in painful work. To reach the highest point of my wishes at once was the most satisfying end to all my efforts. But the discovery was so great and so overwhelming. I forgot all the steps that had led me to it. I saw only the result. What the wisest men had studied and desired since the creation of the world was now in my hands. It did not all open before me at once, like a scene of magic. What I had learned was more a guide for my efforts than a finished result. It would direct my work as soon as I turned it towards the thing I was searching for. I was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead. He found a way back to life. He was helped only by one faint light that seemed too weak to be of any use. I see your eagerness, my friend. I see the wonder and hope in your eyes. You expect me to tell you the secret that I know. That cannot be. Listen patiently to the end of my story, and you will easily understand why I say nothing on this subject. I will not lead you towards your own destruction and certain misery. I was then as careless and as eager as you are now. Learn from me, if not from my advice, then at least from my example. See how dangerous it is to gain knowledge. See how much happier is the man who believes that his home town is the whole world. The man who wants to become greater than his nature allows is far less happy. When I found such an astonishing power in my hands, I hesitated for a long time. I did not know how I should use it. I had the power to give life. But to prepare a body that could receive it, with all its fibres, muscles and veins, was still a work of enormous difficulty and labour. At first I doubted whether I should try to make a being like myself, or a simpler creature. But my first success had lifted my imagination too high. I could not doubt that I could give life to an animal as complex and wonderful as man. The materials that I had at that time hardly seemed enough for such a difficult task. But I did not doubt that I would succeed in the end. I prepared myself for many failures. My work might be stopped again and again, and in the end it might be imperfect. Still, I thought about the improvements that science and machines make every day. This encouraged me to hope that my present attempts would at least lay the base for later success. I also did not think that the size and difficulty of my plan proved it was impossible. With these feelings I began to create a human being. The parts of the body were very small, and this slowed my work a great deal. So I decided, against my first plan, to make the being gigantic. He would be about eight feet tall, and large in proportion. I made this decision and then spent some months collecting and arranging my materials. This went well. Then I began. No one can imagine the many feelings that carried me forward like a hurricane in my first enthusiasm of success. Life and death seemed to me to be imaginary borders. I would break through them first and pour a stream of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as its creator and its source. Many happy and excellent beings would owe their existence to me. No father could deserve the thanks of his child as completely as I would deserve theirs. I followed these thoughts further. I could give life to matter that had none. So in time I might even bring life back to a body that death had seemed to give over to decay. (Now I found that impossible.) These thoughts kept my spirits up while I worked on without rest. My cheek had grown pale from study, and my body had become thin from staying indoors. Sometimes I failed when I was very close to certainty. Still I held on to the hope that the next day or the next hour might make it real. I had one secret that only I possessed. It was the hope to which I had given my life. The moon watched my work at midnight. With breathless eagerness that never slowed, I followed nature to her hiding-places. Who can imagine the horrors of my secret work? I dabbled in the unholy dampness of the grave. I tortured living animals to give life to dead clay. My limbs tremble and my eyes swim now as I remember it. But then a wild and almost mad force drove me forward. It seemed that I had lost all soul and feeling, except for this one pursuit. It was only a passing trance. The unnatural force stopped working, and I went back to my old habits. Then I felt everything more sharply than before. I collected bones from charnel-houses. With unholy fingers I disturbed the terrible secrets of the human body. I had a lonely room at the top of the house, more like a cell. A gallery and a staircase separated it from all the other rooms. There I kept my workshop of filthy creation. My eyes seemed to start out of their sockets as I looked at the details of my work. The dissecting room and the slaughter-house gave me many of my materials. Often my human nature turned away from my work with loathing. But my eagerness kept growing, and it drove me on, and I brought my work close to its end. The summer months passed while I was busy with this one pursuit, heart and soul. It was a most beautiful season. The fields never gave a richer harvest, and the vines never gave more fruit. But my eyes did not see the beauty of nature. The same feelings that made me neglect the scenes around me also made me forget my friends. They were so many miles away, and I had not seen them for so long. I knew that my silence worried them. I remembered well my father's words: "I know that while you are pleased with yourself, you will think of us with affection. And we shall hear regularly from you. You must forgive me. If your letters stop, I take it as proof that your other duties are neglected too." So I knew well what my father would feel. But I could not tear my thoughts away from my work. It was horrible in itself. Yet it had taken a hold on my imagination that I could not resist. I wanted to put off everything that concerned my feelings of love until the great task was finished. This task had swallowed up every habit of my nature. At that time I thought my father would be unfair to blame my neglect on wickedness or a fault in me. But now I am sure that he was right to think that I was not completely free from blame. A perfect human being should always keep a calm and peaceful mind. He should never let passion or a passing wish disturb his peace. I do not think that the search for knowledge is an exception to this rule. Suppose the study you follow tends to weaken your affections. Suppose it destroys your taste for the simple pleasures in which nothing bad can mix. Then that study is certainly unlawful. It is not right for the human mind. If this rule were always kept, many things would have been different. Suppose no man let any pursuit disturb the peace of his family affections. Then Greece would not have been made a slave. Cæsar would have spared his country. America would have been discovered more slowly. And the empires of Mexico and Peru would not have been destroyed. But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my tale. Your looks remind me to go on. My father made no reproach in his letters. He only noticed my silence by asking about my work more closely than before. Winter, spring and summer passed during my labours. But I did not watch the blossom or the opening leaves. These sights had always given me great delight before. I was so deeply busy with my work. The leaves of that year had withered before my work came near its end. Now every day showed me more clearly how well I had succeeded. But my anxiety held back my enthusiasm. I looked less like an artist at his favourite work. I looked more like a man condemned to work as a slave in the mines, or in some other unhealthy trade. Every night a slow fever weighed on me, and I became nervous to a painful degree. The fall of a leaf made me jump. I avoided other people as if I had committed a crime. Sometimes I was alarmed at the ruin that I saw I had become. Only the strength of my purpose kept me going. My labours would soon end. I believed that exercise and amusement would then drive away the illness that was beginning. I promised myself both of these when my creation should be complete. ### Glossary - **natural philosophy**: the study of nature; the early form of science - **physiology**: the study of how living bodies work - **anatomy**: the study of the parts of the body - **charnel-houses**: buildings where the bones of the dead are kept - **vaults**: underground rooms where dead people are buried - **dissecting room**: a room where dead bodies are cut open to study them - **moralizing**: talking about right and wrong - **the Arabian**: a man in an old story who was buried alive with the dead and found a way out ## Chapter 5 It was on a dreary night of November that I saw the end of my labours. I was so anxious that it was almost agony. I gathered the instruments of life around me. I wanted to put a spark of life into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning. The rain pattered sadly against the window panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out. Then, by the faint light of the dying flame, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open. It breathed hard, and a sudden shaking movement ran through its limbs. How can I describe what I felt at this disaster? How can I describe the wretch that I had worked so hard and so carefully to make? His limbs were in proportion. I had chosen his features to be beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin hardly covered the muscles and arteries beneath it. His hair was a shining black, and it flowed down. His teeth were pearly white. But all this only made a more horrible contrast with his watery eyes. They were almost the same colour as the dull white sockets in which they sat. His skin was shrivelled, and his lips were straight and black. The accidents of life do not change as quickly as the feelings of the human heart. I had worked hard for nearly two years with one purpose only. I wanted to put life into a body that had none. For this I had given up my rest and my health. I had wanted it with a passion far beyond what is reasonable. But now that I had finished, the beauty of my dream was gone. Breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. I could not bear the sight of the being I had made. I rushed out of the room. For a long time I walked up and down in my bedroom, and I could not calm my mind enough to sleep. At last I became tired after all the excitement. I threw myself on the bed in my clothes and tried to forget everything for a few moments. But it was no use. I did sleep, but wild dreams disturbed me. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the full bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. I was delighted and surprised, and I embraced her. But as I gave her the first kiss on her lips, they turned the dead colour of death. Her face seemed to change. I thought that I was holding the body of my dead mother in my arms. A shroud was wrapped around her, and I saw grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I woke up in horror. A cold sweat covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb shook. Then, by the dim yellow light of the moon, which forced its way through the window shutters, I saw the wretch. It was the miserable monster that I had made. He held up the curtain of the bed. His eyes, if you can call them eyes, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he made some sounds that I could not understand. A grin wrinkled his cheeks. He may have spoken, but I did not hear. One hand was stretched out, as if to hold me back. But I escaped and rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the courtyard of the house where I lived. I stayed there for the rest of the night, walking up and down in great agitation. I listened carefully. I was afraid of every sound. Each one might announce the approach of the evil corpse to which I had so miserably given life. Oh! No human being could bear the horror of that face. A mummy that had been given life again could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had looked at him when he was not finished. He was ugly then. But when those muscles and joints could move, he became a thing that even Dante could not have imagined. I spent the night in misery. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and so hard that I could feel every artery. At other times I nearly fell to the ground from weakness and tiredness. With this horror I felt the bitterness of disappointment. For so long my dreams had been my food and my pleasant rest. Now they had become a hell to me. The change was so quick, and the fall was so complete! At last the morning came, dismal and wet. It showed to my sleepless, aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, with its white steeple and its clock. The clock showed the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the courtyard, which had been my shelter that night. I went out into the streets and walked fast, as if I wanted to avoid the wretch. I was afraid that he would appear at every turn of the street. I did not dare to go back to my apartment. I felt that I had to hurry on. The rain poured down from a black and comfortless sky, and I was soaked. I went on walking like this for some time. I tried to ease the weight on my mind with exercise. I walked through the streets without any clear idea of where I was or what I was doing. My heart beat sickly with fear. I hurried on with uneven steps, not daring to look around me. Like one who, on a lonely road, Doth walk in fear and dread, And, having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. \[Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner."\] I went on like this until I came to the inn where the coaches and carriages usually stopped. I stopped there, and I do not know why. For some minutes I kept my eyes on a coach. It was coming towards me from the other end of the street. As it came nearer, I saw that it was the Swiss diligence. It stopped just where I was standing. The door opened, and I saw Henry Clerval. When he saw me, he jumped out at once. "My dear Frankenstein," he cried, "how glad I am to see you! How lucky that you are here at the very moment that I get out!" Nothing could equal my delight at seeing Clerval. His presence brought back to my mind my father and Elizabeth. It brought back all the scenes of home that I remembered so dearly. I took his hand, and in a moment I forgot my horror and my misfortune. For the first time in many months I felt a calm and quiet joy. I welcomed my friend very warmly, and we walked towards my college. Clerval talked for some time about our friends at home. He also talked about his own good luck in being allowed to come to Ingolstadt. "You can easily believe," he said, "how difficult it was to persuade my father. He thought that all necessary knowledge was contained in the noble art of book-keeping. I believe that he still did not believe me when I left. I begged him again and again, and he always gave the same answer. It was the answer of the Dutch schoolmaster in *The Vicar of Wakefield*: 'I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.' But his love for me was finally stronger than his dislike of learning. He has let me go on a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge." "It gives me the greatest delight to see you," I said. "But tell me how you left my father, my brothers and Elizabeth." "Very well, and very happy," said Clerval. "They are only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By the way, I mean to lecture you a little about that myself. But, my dear Frankenstein," he went on. He stopped and looked straight into my face. "I did not see before how ill you look. You are so thin and pale. You look as if you had been awake for several nights." "You have guessed right," I answered. "Lately I have been so deeply busy with one thing. I have not given myself enough rest, as you see. But I hope, I sincerely hope, that all this work is now over and that I am free at last." I trembled very much. I could not bear to think about the events of the night before. I could not even speak of them. I walked quickly, and soon we arrived at my college. Then I remembered something, and the thought made me shiver. The creature that I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive and walking about. I was afraid to see this monster. But I was even more afraid that Henry would see him. So I asked Clerval to wait a few minutes at the bottom of the stairs, and I ran up to my own room. My hand was already on the lock of the door before I remembered myself. I stopped, and a cold shiver came over me. Then I threw the door open hard. Children do this when they expect a ghost to be waiting for them on the other side. But nothing appeared. I stepped in fearfully. The apartment was empty, and my bedroom was also free of its horrible guest. I could hardly believe that I had such great luck. But I became sure that my enemy had really gone. Then I clapped my hands for joy and ran down to Clerval. We went up to my room, and soon the servant brought breakfast. But I could not control myself. It was not joy alone that filled me. My flesh tingled with too much feeling, and my pulse beat fast. I could not stay in one place for a single moment. I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands and laughed aloud. At first Clerval thought that my unusual spirits came from joy at his arrival. But when he looked at me more carefully, he saw a wildness in my eyes that he could not explain. My loud, wild, heartless laughter frightened and astonished him. "My dear Victor," he cried, "what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not laugh like that. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?" "Do not ask me," I cried. I put my hands before my eyes, because I thought I saw the dreaded ghost glide into the room. "*He* can tell. Oh, save me! Save me!" I imagined that the monster took hold of me. I fought wildly and fell down in a fit. Poor Clerval! What must he have felt? He had expected this meeting with such joy, and it turned so strangely into bitterness. But I did not see his grief. I was like a dead man, and I did not wake for a long, long time. This was the beginning of a nervous fever. It kept me in bed for several months. All that time Henry was my only nurse. Later I learned why. He knew that my father was old and not fit for such a long journey. He knew too how unhappy my illness would make Elizabeth. So he spared them this grief by hiding how ill I really was. He knew that I could not have a kinder or more careful nurse than himself. He firmly hoped that I would recover. He did not doubt that he was doing them the kindest thing he could, and not harming them. But in truth I was very ill. Surely only the endless care of my friend could have brought me back to life. The shape of the monster to whom I had given life was always before my eyes. I raved about him without stopping. My words must have surprised Henry. At first he thought they were only the wanderings of my disturbed imagination. But I kept coming back to the same subject, and this slowly persuaded him. My illness, he decided, had its origin in some unusual and terrible event. I recovered very slowly. I often became ill again, and this alarmed and saddened my friend. I remember the first time that I could look at things outside with any pleasure. I saw that the fallen leaves had gone. Young buds were growing on the trees that shaded my window. It was a divine spring, and the season helped my recovery a great deal. I felt joy and affection come to life again in my heart. My gloom disappeared. In a short time I became as cheerful as I had been before the fatal passion took hold of me. "Dearest Clerval," I cried, "how kind, how very good you are to me. You promised yourself that you would spend this whole winter in study. Instead you have spent it in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment that I have caused you, but you will forgive me." "You will repay me completely if you do not upset yourself," said Clerval. "Just get well as fast as you can. And you seem to be in such good spirits. May I speak to you about one subject?" I trembled. One subject! What could it be? Could he mean the one thing that I did not even dare to think about? "Calm yourself," said Clerval, who saw my face change colour. "I will not mention it if it upsets you. But your father and your cousin would be very happy to receive a letter from you in your own handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been, and they are uneasy at your long silence." "Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you think that my first thought would not fly to those dear, dear friends? I love them, and they deserve my love so much." "If you feel like this now, my friend, then perhaps you will be glad to see a letter. It has been lying here for some days for you. I believe it is from your cousin." ### Glossary - **dreary**: dull, grey and sad - **creature**: a living being; here, the being that Victor made - **wretch**: a miserable person; here, an insulting word for the creature - **shroud**: a cloth that is wrapped around a dead body - **mummy**: a dead body kept for thousands of years, wrapped in cloth - **Dante**: an old Italian poet who wrote about hell - **diligence**: a public coach for travellers - **book-keeping**: the work of writing down a business's money accounts - **nervous fever**: a serious illness of the body and mind, caused by shock ## Chapter 6 Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from my own Elizabeth. "My dearest Cousin, "You have been ill, very ill. Even the constant letters of dear, kind Henry do not make me feel safe about you. You are forbidden to write, or even to hold a pen. But one word from you, dear Victor, is necessary to calm our fears. For a long time I have thought that each post would bring this line. I persuaded my uncle not to travel to Ingolstadt. I stopped him from facing the troubles and perhaps the dangers of such a long journey. But how often I have wished that I could make the journey myself! I imagine that some old nurse, who works only for money, has the task of caring for your sickbed. She could never guess your wishes or look after them with the care and love of your poor cousin. But that is over now. Clerval writes that you are really getting better. I eagerly hope that you will soon confirm this news in your own handwriting. "Get well, and come back to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home and friends who love you dearly. Your father's health is strong. He asks only to see you and to be sure that you are well. Then no care will ever cloud his kind face. How pleased you would be to see how our Ernest has improved! He is now sixteen and full of activity and spirit. He wants to be a true Swiss and to join a foreign army. But we cannot let him go, at least not until his older brother returns to us. My uncle does not like the idea of a military career in a distant country. But Ernest never had your power of hard work. He sees study as a hateful chain. He spends his time in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear that he will become an idler. This will happen unless we give way and let him follow the career that he has chosen. "Little has changed since you left us, except that our dear children have grown. The blue lake and the snow-covered mountains never change. I think that our peaceful home and our contented hearts follow the same unchanging laws. My small daily tasks fill my time and amuse me. I am rewarded for any effort by seeing only happy, kind faces around me. Since you left us, only one change has happened in our little household. Do you remember how Justine Moritz came into our family? Perhaps you do not, so I will tell you her story in a few words. "Madame Moritz, her mother, was a widow with four children. Justine was the third. This girl had always been her father's favourite. But for some strange, unkind reason, her mother could not stand her. After Monsieur Moritz died, her mother treated her very badly. My aunt saw this. When Justine was twelve years old, my aunt persuaded her mother to let her live at our house. The republican laws of our country have made manners simpler and happier than in the great monarchies around us. So there is less difference between the classes of people. The lower classes are neither so poor nor so despised, and their manners are more refined and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in France or England. So Justine came into our family and learned the duties of a servant. In our fortunate country, this does not mean ignorance. It does not mean giving up the dignity of a human being. "Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours. I remember that you once said something. If you were in a bad mood, one look from Justine could drive it away. The reason was the same as the one that Ariosto gives for the beauty of Angelica. She looked so open-hearted and happy. My aunt became very fond of her. So she gave her a better education than she had first planned. Justine fully repaid this kindness. She was the most grateful little creature in the world. I do not mean that she made speeches of thanks. I never heard one word of that kind from her lips. But you could see in her eyes that she almost adored her protector. Her character was cheerful and often thoughtless. Still, she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought my aunt was the model of everything excellent. She tried to copy her way of speaking and her manners. Even now she often reminds me of her. "When my dearest aunt died, everyone was too busy with their own grief to notice poor Justine. She had cared for my aunt during her illness with the most anxious love. Poor Justine was very ill herself. But more trials were waiting for her. "One by one, her brothers and sister died. Her mother had only her neglected daughter left. The woman's conscience was troubled. She began to think that the deaths of her favourites were a punishment from heaven for her unfair love. She was a Roman Catholic, and I believe that her confessor made her more sure of this idea. So a few months after you left for Ingolstadt, her repentant mother called Justine home. Poor girl! She wept when she left our house. She had changed a great deal since my aunt's death. Grief had given her a soft and winning gentleness. Before, she had been remarkable for her liveliness. Her mother's house was not the kind of place that could bring back her cheerfulness. The poor woman could not make up her mind about her repentance. Sometimes she begged Justine to forgive her unkindness. But much more often she accused Justine of causing the deaths of her brothers and sister. She worried all the time, and at last she became weak and ill. At first this made her more bad-tempered, but now she is at peace for ever. She died at the first cold weather, at the beginning of this last winter. Justine has just come back to us, and I assure you that I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty. As I said before, her look and her expression keep reminding me of my dear aunt. "I must also say a few words to you, my dear cousin, about little darling William. I wish you could see him. He is very tall for his age. He has sweet, laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has already had one or two little *wives*. But Louisa Biron is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years old. "Now, dear Victor, I dare say that you would like a little gossip about the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has already received visits of congratulation on her coming marriage. She will marry a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married Monsieur Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has had several misfortunes since Clerval left Geneva. But he has already recovered his spirits. People say that he is about to marry a lively, pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow and much older than Manoir. But everyone admires her, and she is a favourite with all. "I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin. But my anxiety comes back to me as I finish. Write, dearest Victor. One line, one word, will be a blessing to us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his kindness, his affection and his many letters. We are sincerely grateful. Goodbye, my cousin. Take care of yourself, and, I beg you, write! "Elizabeth Lavenza. "Geneva, March 18th, 17—." "Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I cried when I had read her letter. "I will write at once and free them from the anxiety that they must feel." I wrote, and the effort made me very tired. But my recovery had begun, and it went on steadily. After another fortnight I was able to leave my room. One of my first duties after my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the professors of the university. In doing this, I suffered a kind of rough treatment. It was not suited to the wounds that my mind had received. The fatal night was the end of my labours and the beginning of my misfortunes. Since then I had felt a violent dislike even for the name of natural philosophy. My health was otherwise quite restored. But the sight of a chemical instrument still brought back all the agony of my nervous illness. Henry saw this and had taken all my apparatus out of my sight. He had also changed my apartment. He saw that I now disliked the room that had been my laboratory. But Clerval's care was no use when I visited the professors. Professor Waldman tortured me when he praised my progress in the sciences. He did it with kindness and warmth, and he called it astonishing. Soon he saw that I disliked the subject. But he did not guess the real reason. He thought that it was modesty. So he changed the subject from my progress to the science itself. I could see clearly that he wanted to draw me out. What could I do? He meant to please me, and he tormented me. I felt as if he were placing instruments in front of me, one by one. They would later be used to put me to a slow and cruel death. I twisted in pain under his words, but I did not dare to show what I felt. Clerval's eyes and feelings were always quick to notice what others felt. He turned the conversation away from the subject. As an excuse, he said that he knew nothing about it. Then the talk became more general. I thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised. But he never tried to pull my secret out of me. I loved him with a mixture of affection and respect that had no limits. Still, I could never persuade myself to tell him about that event. It was often in my memory. But I feared that telling the details would only press it deeper into my mind. Professor Krempe was not so easy to handle. I was then almost unbearably sensitive. His harsh, blunt praise hurt me even more than Professor Waldman's kind approval. "D—n the fellow!" he cried. "Why, Monsieur Clerval, I assure you that he has gone further than all of us. Yes, stare if you like, but it is true. A youngster believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in the gospel only a few years ago. Now he has put himself at the head of the university. If he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be ashamed." Then he saw the suffering on my face, and he went on. "Yes, yes, Monsieur Frankenstein is modest. That is an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should not be too sure of themselves, you know, Monsieur Clerval. I was like that myself when I was young. But it wears off in a very short time." Professor Krempe now began to praise himself. Luckily this turned the conversation away from a subject that was so annoying to me. Clerval had never shared my taste for natural science. His reading was completely different from what had filled my mind. He came to the university with a plan. He wanted to become a complete master of the oriental languages. This would open a way to the life that he had planned for himself. He was determined to follow no career without glory. So he turned his eyes to the East, which gave room for his spirit of adventure. The Persian, Arabic and Sanskrit languages took his attention, and he easily persuaded me to start the same studies. I had always found idleness tiring. Now I wanted to run away from my thoughts, and I hated my former studies. So I felt great relief in being my friend's fellow student. I found not only teaching but also comfort in the works of the oriental writers. I did not try, as he did, to gain a scholar's knowledge of their dialects. I did not plan to use them for anything but a little amusement for a while. I read only to understand their meaning, and they paid me well for my work. Their sadness is soothing. Their joy lifts the spirit more than I ever felt with the writers of any other country. When you read their works, life seems to consist of a warm sun and a garden of roses. It seems to be made of the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy. It is also made of the fire that burns up your own heart. How different this is from the manly and heroic poetry of Greece and Rome! Summer passed in these occupations. My return to Geneva was fixed for the end of autumn. But several accidents delayed me. Then winter and snow arrived, and the roads were thought impossible to travel. So my journey was put off until the next spring. I felt this delay very bitterly, because I longed to see my home town and my dear friends. The only reason that I had put off my return so long was this. I did not want to leave Clerval in a strange place before he knew any of its people. But the winter was spent cheerfully. The spring was unusually late. But when it came, its beauty made up for its lateness. The month of May had already begun. I expected every day the letter that would fix the date of my departure. Then Henry suggested a walking tour in the country around Ingolstadt. I could then say a personal goodbye to the land where I had lived for so long. I agreed with pleasure. I was fond of exercise. Clerval had always been my favourite companion on walks of this kind among the scenes of my own country. We spent a fortnight on these walks. My health and spirits had been restored for a long time. They grew even stronger from the healthy air, from the small events of our journey and from my friend's conversation. Study had before shut me away from other people and made me unsociable. But Clerval brought out the better feelings of my heart. He taught me again to love the look of nature and the cheerful faces of children. Excellent friend! How sincerely you loved me! How you tried to lift my mind to the level of your own! A selfish pursuit had made me narrow and cramped. Your gentleness and affection warmed me and opened my senses. I became again the same happy creature that I had been a few years before. Then I was loved by all and loved all. I had no sorrow or care. When I was happy, even lifeless nature could give me the most delightful feelings. A calm sky and green fields filled me with joy. The season was truly divine. The flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges, and those of summer were already in bud. I was not troubled by the thoughts of the year before. They had pressed on me like an unbeatable burden, although I had tried to throw them off. Henry was happy at my cheerfulness and sincerely shared my feelings. He did his best to amuse me, while he told me what filled his own soul. The riches of his mind were truly astonishing on this occasion. His conversation was full of imagination. Very often he invented tales of wonderful fancy and passion, in the manner of the Persian and Arabic writers. At other times he repeated my favourite poems. Or he drew me into arguments, which he supported with great cleverness. We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon. The peasants were dancing, and everyone we met seemed gay and happy. My own spirits were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and cheerfulness. ### Glossary - **post**: the mail; letters delivered to your home - **idler**: a lazy person who does no useful work - **republican**: belonging to a country that is run by its citizens, without a king - **protector**: a person who looks after someone and takes care of them - **confessor**: a priest who hears a person's confession of wrongs - **Esq.**: a short form of "Esquire," a polite title written after a man's name - **oriental languages**: languages of Asia, such as Persian, Arabic and Sanskrit - **Greece and Rome**: the ancient countries whose poets were famous for their strong, heroic poetry ## Chapter 7 When I came back from our walking tour, I found this letter from my father waiting for me. "My dear Victor, "You have probably been waiting impatiently for a letter that fixes the day of your return to us. At first I was tempted to write only a few lines, just naming the day when I expect you. But that would be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it. How surprised you would be, my son! You expect a happy and glad welcome, and instead you find tears and sadness. And how, Victor, can I tell you about our misfortune? Being far away cannot have made you cold to our joys and griefs. How can I cause pain to my son, who has been away so long? I want to prepare you for the terrible news, but I know that is impossible. Even now your eye runs quickly over the page to find the words that will bring you the horrible news. "William is dead! That sweet child, whose smiles delighted me and warmed my heart, who was so gentle and yet so cheerful! Victor, he has been murdered! "I will not try to comfort you. I will simply tell you what happened. "Last Thursday (May 7th), I went to walk in Plainpalais with my niece and your two brothers. The evening was warm and calm, and we walked farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of going home. Then we found that William and Ernest, who had gone on ahead, were nowhere to be seen. So we sat down on a seat to wait until they came back. After a while Ernest came and asked if we had seen his brother. He said that he had been playing with William, and that William had run away to hide. He had looked for him in vain. Then he had waited a long time, but William did not come back. "This story alarmed us a little. We went on searching for him until night fell. Then Elizabeth thought that he might have gone back to the house. He was not there. We went out again, this time with torches. I could not rest. I thought of my sweet boy lost in the damp and cold of the night. Elizabeth also suffered terribly. At about five in the morning I found my lovely boy. The night before I had seen him healthy, active and full of life. Now he lay on the grass, pale and blue and not moving. The mark of the murderer's finger was on his neck. "He was carried home. The pain on my face told Elizabeth the secret. She was very eager to see the body. At first I tried to stop her, but she insisted. She went into the room where he lay and quickly examined the neck of the dead child. Then she clasped her hands and cried, 'O God! I have murdered my darling child!' "She fainted, and we could bring her back to life only with great difficulty. When she woke again, she could only weep and sigh. She told me something about that same evening. William had teased her to let him wear a very valuable miniature of your mother, which she kept. This picture is gone. Without doubt it was the temptation that drove the murderer to do the deed. We have no trace of him so far, although we are working without rest to find him. But nothing will bring back my beloved William! "Come, dearest Victor. You alone can comfort Elizabeth. She weeps without stopping, and she wrongly blames herself for his death. Her words pierce my heart. We are all unhappy. But will that not be one more reason for you, my son, to come back and be our comforter? Your dear mother! Alas, Victor! Now I say, thank God she did not live to see the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling! "Come, Victor. Do not come with dark thoughts of revenge against the murderer. Come with feelings of peace and gentleness. They will heal the wounds of our minds instead of letting them grow worse. Enter the house of mourning, my friend, but with kindness and love for those who love you. Do not come with hatred for your enemies. "Your affectionate and afflicted father, "Alphonse Frankenstein. "Geneva, May 12th, 17—." Clerval had watched my face while I read the letter. I had shown joy at first when I received news from my friends. He was surprised to see despair come after it. I threw the letter on the table and covered my face with my hands. "My dear Frankenstein," cried Henry, when he saw me weeping bitterly, "are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend, what has happened?" I made a sign to him to pick up the letter. I walked up and down the room in the greatest distress. Tears also poured from Clerval's eyes as he read the news of my misfortune. "I can offer you no comfort, my friend," he said. "Nothing can repair this loss. What do you intend to do?" "I will go to Geneva at once. Come with me, Henry, to order the horses." During our walk Clerval tried to say a few words of comfort, but he could only show his deep sympathy. "Poor William!" he said. "Dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Anyone who had seen him bright and happy in his young beauty must weep over his early death. To die so miserably! To feel the murderer's hands on him! How much worse is a murderer who could destroy such shining innocence! Poor little fellow! We have only one comfort. His friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest. The pain is over, and his suffering has ended for ever. A piece of earth covers his gentle body, and he knows no pain. We cannot pity him any more. We must keep our pity for those who are left behind in misery." Clerval spoke like this as we hurried through the streets. His words stayed in my mind, and I remembered them later when I was alone. But now, as soon as the horses came, I hurried into a cabriolet and said goodbye to my friend. My journey was very sad. At first I wanted to hurry on. I longed to comfort my loved ones in their sorrow and to share their pain. But as I came near my native town, I went more slowly. I could hardly bear the many feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through places I knew from my youth, which I had not seen for nearly six years. How much everything might have changed in that time! One sudden and terrible change had taken place. But a thousand small things might have slowly made other changes. They might have happened more quietly, but they might be just as important. Fear overcame me. I did not dare to go on. I feared a thousand evils that I could not name. They made me tremble, although I could not say what they were. I stayed two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I looked at the lake. The water was still, and everything around me was calm. The snowy mountains, "the palaces of nature," had not changed. Little by little the calm and heavenly scene made me stronger, and I continued my journey towards Geneva. The road ran beside the lake, which became narrower as I came closer to my native town. I saw the black sides of the Jura more clearly, and the bright top of Mont Blanc. I wept like a child. "Dear mountains! My own beautiful lake! How do you welcome your wanderer? Your tops are clear. The sky and the lake are blue and calm. Does this promise peace, or does it laugh at my unhappiness?" I fear, my friend, that I will bore you by staying so long on these first moments. But they were days of fairly happy feelings, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved country! Only someone born there can know my joy. I was so happy to see again your streams and your mountains. Most of all, I was happy to see your lovely lake! Yet, as I came nearer home, grief and fear overcame me again. Night was also closing in around me. When I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt even more gloomy. The whole scene looked like a vast, dim picture of evil. I felt, without knowing clearly why, that I was destined to become the most miserable of human beings. Alas! I was right. I was wrong in only one thing. I imagined and feared great misery. But I did not imagine even the hundredth part of the pain I was destined to suffer. It was completely dark when I reached the neighbourhood of Geneva. The gates of the town were already shut, so I had to spend the night at Secheron, a village half a league from the city. The sky was calm. I could not rest, so I decided to visit the place where my poor William had been murdered. I could not pass through the town, so I had to cross the lake in a boat to reach Plainpalais. During this short trip I saw lightning playing on the top of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful shapes. The storm seemed to come quickly. When I landed, I climbed a low hill so that I could watch it come. It advanced. The sky filled with clouds. Soon I felt the rain begin slowly in large drops, but it quickly became heavy. I left my seat and walked on, although the darkness and the storm grew worse every minute. The thunder broke over my head with a terrible crash. It echoed from Salêve, the Juras and the Alps of Savoy. Bright flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes. They lit up the lake and made it look like a huge sheet of fire. Then for a moment everything seemed pitch black, until my eyes recovered from the flash. As often happens in Switzerland, the storm appeared in several parts of the sky at once. The worst storm hung exactly north of the town. It was over the part of the lake between the point of land at Belrive and the village of Copêt. Another storm lit up the Jura with weak flashes. Another storm darkened the Môle, a pointed mountain to the east of the lake, and sometimes showed it again. I watched the storm, so beautiful and so terrible, and I walked on quickly. This noble war in the sky lifted my spirits. I clasped my hands and cried aloud, "William, dear angel! This is your funeral, this is your song of mourning!" As I said these words, I saw a figure in the darkness. It stole out from behind a group of trees near me. I stood still, staring hard. I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning lit up the figure and showed its shape clearly to me. It was gigantic, and its face was twisted and more hideous than any human face. At once I knew that it was the wretch, the filthy demon, to whom I had given life. What was he doing there? Could he be the murderer of my brother? I shuddered at the thought. As soon as the idea crossed my mind, I became sure that it was true. My teeth chattered, and I had to lean against a tree to stand. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the darkness. Nothing in human shape could have destroyed the lovely child. *He* was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere idea in my mind was a proof I could not resist. I thought of chasing the devil, but it would have been useless. Another flash showed him to me, hanging among the rocks of Mont Salêve. Its slope there is nearly straight, and the hill closes Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the top and disappeared. I stayed there without moving. The thunder stopped, but the rain still fell. A darkness that nothing could pierce wrapped the whole scene. I went over in my mind the events that I had tried until now to forget. I remembered every step of my work towards the creation. I remembered the appearance of my own handiwork at my bedside, and its leaving. Nearly two years had now passed since the night when he first received life. Was this his first crime? Alas! I had let loose upon the world a wicked wretch who loved killing and misery. Had he not murdered my brother? No one can imagine the pain I suffered during the rest of the night. I spent it cold and wet in the open air. But I did not feel the bad weather. My imagination was busy with scenes of evil and despair. I thought of the being whom I had thrown among mankind. I had given him the will and the power to do horrible things. He had now done one of them. I thought of him almost as my own vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave and forced to destroy everything that was dear to me. Day came, and I turned my steps towards the town. The gates were open, and I hurried to my father's house. My first thought was to tell what I knew of the murderer and have him chased at once. But I stopped when I thought about the story I had to tell. A being whom I myself had made and brought to life had met me at midnight. We had met among the cliffs of a mountain that no one could climb. I also remembered the nervous fever that had struck me just at the time of the creation. It would make my tale sound like the talk of a man out of his mind. The tale was already very unlikely. If anyone else had told me such a story, I would have thought it was the ravings of a madman. Besides, the strange nature of the animal would make any chase useless. That would be true even if I were believed and my relatives began a chase. And what good would a chase do? Who could catch a creature that could climb the overhanging sides of Mont Salêve? These thoughts decided me, and I resolved to stay silent. It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house. I told the servants not to disturb the family. Then I went into the library to wait for their usual time of rising. Six years had passed, like a dream except for one mark that could not be erased. I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before I left for Ingolstadt. Beloved and respected parent! He was still left to me. I looked at the picture of my mother, which stood over the mantelpiece. It showed a scene from history, painted at my father's wish. It showed Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her clothes were those of a country woman, and her cheek was pale. But there was such dignity and beauty in her that one could hardly feel pity. Below this picture was a miniature of William. My tears flowed when I looked at it. While I was doing this, Ernest came in. He had heard me arrive and had hurried to welcome me. "Welcome, my dearest Victor," he said. "Ah! I wish you had come three months ago. Then you would have found us all happy and cheerful. You come to us now to share a misery that nothing can lessen. Yet I hope your presence will bring new life to our father, who seems to be sinking under his misfortune. And I hope your words will persuade poor Elizabeth to stop her useless and painful self-blame. Poor William! He was our darling and our pride!" Tears fell freely from my brother's eyes. A feeling of deadly pain crept over my body. Before, I had only imagined the misery of my ruined home. Now the reality came on me as a new disaster, and it was no less terrible. I tried to calm Ernest. I asked him for more details about my father, and then I named my cousin. "She needs comfort most of all," said Ernest. "She blamed herself for causing my brother's death, and that made her very unhappy. But since the murderer has been found—" "The murderer found! Good God! How can that be? Who could try to chase him? It is impossible. One might as well try to catch the winds, or hold back a mountain stream with a straw. I saw him too. He was free last night!" "I do not know what you mean," answered my brother in a voice full of wonder. "But for us the discovery we have made only completes our misery. No one would believe it at first. Even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, in spite of all the evidence. Indeed, who would believe that Justine Moritz could do such a frightful and terrible crime? She was so kind and so fond of all the family. And now she has suddenly done this!" "Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the one accused? But it is wrong! Everyone knows that. No one believes it, surely, Ernest?" "No one did at first. But several facts have come out that have almost forced us to believe it. And her own behaviour has been so confused that it adds a weight to the facts. I fear it leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried today, and then you will hear everything." He then told me what had happened. On the morning when William's murder was discovered, Justine had become ill. She had stayed in her bed for several days. During this time one of the servants looked at the clothes she had worn on the night of the murder. He happened to do this by chance. In her pocket he found the picture of my mother, which people thought had tempted the murderer. The servant at once showed it to one of the others. This second servant went to a magistrate without saying a word to anyone in the family. On the word of these two servants, Justine was arrested. When she was accused of the crime, the poor girl was so confused that she made the suspicion much stronger. This was a strange story, but it did not shake my faith. I answered firmly, "You are all mistaken. I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good Justine, is innocent." At that moment my father came in. I saw deep unhappiness on his face, but he tried to welcome me cheerfully. After we had exchanged our sad greetings, he would have spoken about something other than our disaster. But Ernest cried, "Good God, papa! Victor says that he knows who murdered poor William." "We know too, unfortunately," answered my father. "I would rather have stayed ignorant for ever. Now I know that someone I valued so highly could be so evil and ungrateful." "My dear father, you are mistaken. Justine is innocent." "If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as a guilty person. She is to be tried today, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be found not guilty." These words calmed me. In my own mind I was firmly sure that Justine, and indeed every human being, was innocent of this murder. So I had no fear. The evidence could prove nothing for certain, and so it could not be strong enough to convict her. My tale was not one to tell in public. Ordinary people would call its astounding horror madness. I was the creator. Was there anyone else who would believe in the living proof of my pride and foolish ignorance? I had let it loose upon the world. Only if his own eyes convinced him would anyone believe it. Soon Elizabeth joined us. Time had changed her since I last saw her. It had given her a loveliness greater than the beauty of her childhood years. She had the same openness and the same liveliness. But now there was also a look that showed deeper feeling and more intelligence. She welcomed me with the greatest affection. "Your arrival, my dear cousin," she said, "fills me with hope. Perhaps you will find some way to prove that my poor innocent Justine is not guilty. Alas! Who is safe, if she is judged guilty of a crime? I trust in her innocence as surely as I trust in my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard for us. We have lost that lovely darling boy. Now this poor girl, whom I truly love, is to be torn away by an even worse fate. If she is condemned, I shall never know joy again. But she will not be, I am sure she will not. Then I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my little William." "She is innocent, my Elizabeth," I said, "and that shall be proved. Fear nothing. Let your spirits be cheered by the promise that she will go free." "How kind and generous you are! Everyone else believes she is guilty, and that made me miserable, because I knew it was impossible. To see everyone else so deadly set against her made me hopeless and full of despair." She wept. "Dearest niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is innocent, as you believe, trust in the justice of our laws. I will act quickly and make sure that there is not the slightest unfairness against her." ### Glossary - **dusk**: the time in the evening when the light is nearly gone. - **torches**: burning sticks of wood carried to give light in the dark. - **miniature**: a very small painted portrait. - **cabriolet**: a light carriage pulled by a horse. - **palaces of nature**: a poetic name for the great snowy mountains. - **vampire**: in old stories, a dead creature that comes out of its grave to hurt the living. - **magistrate**: a local judge. - **convict**: to decide in a court that someone is guilty. - **house of mourning**: a house where people are sad because someone has died. ## Chapter 8 We passed a few sad hours until eleven o'clock, when the trial was to begin. My father and the rest of the family had to attend as witnesses, and I went with them to the court. During the whole of this terrible mockery of justice, I suffered a living torture. The court had to decide whether my curiosity and my lawless experiments would cause the death of two human beings. One was a smiling baby, full of innocence and joy. The other was killed in a far more dreadful way. Every kind of shame was added to her death, and this made the murder a thing to remember with horror. Justine was also a girl of great worth, with qualities that promised her a happy life. Now all of it was to be wiped out in a shameful grave, and I was the cause! A thousand times I would rather have said that I was guilty of the crime that was blamed on Justine. But I was not there when it was committed. Such a statement would have been taken for the ravings of a madman. It would not have saved the girl who was suffering because of me. Justine looked calm. She was dressed in mourning. Her face had always been charming, and the seriousness of her feelings made it wonderfully beautiful. Yet she seemed sure of her innocence. She did not tremble, although thousands of people stared at her and cursed her. Any kindness that her beauty might have caused had been wiped out in the minds of the crowd. They could only imagine the great crime she was thought to have done. She was quiet, but it was clear that her quiet was forced. Her confusion had been used before as a proof of her guilt, so she made herself look brave. When she came into the court, she looked all around it and quickly saw where we were sitting. A tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us, but she quickly recovered. A look of sorrowful love seemed to show that she was completely innocent. The trial began. The lawyer against her stated the charge, and then several witnesses were called. Several strange facts came together against her. They might have shaken anyone, except someone who had my proof of her innocence. She had been out the whole night on which the murder was done. Towards morning a market-woman had seen her. It was not far from the place where the body of the murdered child was found afterwards. The woman asked her what she was doing there. But Justine looked very strange and gave only a confused answer that nobody could understand. She came back to the house at about eight o'clock. When someone asked where she had spent the night, she said she had been looking for the child. She asked eagerly if anyone had heard anything about him. When she was shown the body, she fell into a violent fit of crying and shaking. She kept to her bed for several days. Then the picture was shown, which the servant had found in her pocket. Elizabeth spoke in a faltering voice and proved that it was the same picture. She had put it round William's neck an hour before the child was missed. A murmur of horror and anger filled the court. Justine was called to speak in her defence. As the trial went on, her face had changed. It showed surprise, horror and misery very strongly. Sometimes she fought against her tears. But when she was told to speak, she gathered her strength. Her voice could be heard, although it rose and fell. "God knows," she said, "how completely innocent I am. But I do not claim that my words alone should free me. I rest my innocence on a plain and simple explanation of the facts that have been brought against me. I hope that my good name will help me. I have always kept it. I hope it will lead my judges to a kind reading of anything that looks doubtful or suspicious." She then told them what she had done. She had Elizabeth's permission to spend the evening of the murder at the house of an aunt at Chêne. This is a village about a league from Geneva. On her way back, at about nine o'clock, she met a man. He asked her if she had seen anything of the child who was lost. This news alarmed her, and she spent several hours looking for him. Then the gates of Geneva were shut. She had to stay several hours of the night in a barn that belonged to a cottage. She did not want to wake the people who lived there, because they knew her well. She spent most of the night in the barn, awake. Towards morning she thought she slept for a few minutes. Some steps disturbed her, and she woke. It was dawn, and she left her shelter to try again to find my brother. If she had gone near the place where his body lay, she had done so without knowing it. It was not surprising that she was confused when the market-woman questioned her. She had spent a sleepless night, and poor William's fate was still not known. About the picture she could give no explanation. "I know," went on the unhappy victim, "how heavily and fatally this one fact weighs against me. But I have no power to explain it. I have said that I know nothing about it. So I can only guess how it might have been put in my pocket. But here too I am stopped. I believe that I have no enemy on earth. Surely no one would be so wicked as to destroy me for no reason. Did the murderer put it there? I know of no chance that he had to do so. Or if he had one, why would he have stolen the jewel only to give it up again so soon? "I put my case in the hands of my judges, yet I see no room for hope. I ask to be allowed to have a few witnesses questioned about my character. Their words may not outweigh my supposed guilt. Then I must be condemned, although I would stake my soul on my innocence." Several witnesses were called who had known her for many years, and they spoke well of her. But they were afraid, and they hated the crime they thought she had done. So they were nervous and unwilling to come forward. Elizabeth saw that even this last hope was about to fail the accused. This hope was her excellent nature and her blameless behaviour. Elizabeth was violently upset, but she asked permission to speak to the court. "I am," she said, "the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered. Or rather I am his sister. I was brought up by his parents, and I have lived with them ever since. I lived with them even long before he was born. So some may think it improper for me to come forward on this occasion. But I see a fellow human being about to die because her so-called friends are cowards. I wish to be allowed to speak, so that I can say what I know of her character. I know the accused well. I have lived in the same house with her, once for five years and another time for nearly two. During all that time she seemed to me the kindest and most generous of human beings. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my aunt, in her last illness, with the greatest love and care. Afterwards she looked after her own mother during a long illness. She did it in a way that won the admiration of all who knew her. After this she lived again in my uncle's house, where all the family loved her. She was warmly attached to the child who is now dead, and she acted towards him like a most loving mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to speak. I believe in her perfect innocence, in spite of all the evidence against her. I trust in it completely. She had no temptation to do such a thing. The main proof rests on a small ornament. If she had wanted it very much, I would gladly have given it to her. I respect and value her so highly." A murmur of approval followed Elizabeth's simple and powerful appeal. But it was caused by her generous speaking out, and not in favour of poor Justine. The anger of the crowd turned against Justine with new violence, and they said she had shown the blackest ingratitude. Justine herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My own agitation and pain were extreme during the whole trial. I believed in her innocence. I knew it. I did not doubt for a moment that the demon had murdered my brother. Could he also, in his hellish game, have betrayed an innocent girl to death and shame? I could not bear the horror of my situation. I saw that the voice of the crowd and the faces of the judges had already condemned my unhappy victim. Then I rushed out of the court in agony. The accused did not suffer as much as I did. She was supported by her innocence, but the teeth of remorse tore my chest and would not let go. I spent a night of pure misery. In the morning I went to the court. My lips and throat were dry. I did not dare to ask the fatal question, but the officer knew me and guessed why I had come. The ballots had been thrown. They were all black, and Justine was condemned. I cannot pretend to describe what I felt then. I had felt horror before, and I have tried to find the right words for it. But words cannot give any idea of the sickening despair that I suffered then. The man I spoke to added that Justine had already confessed her guilt. "That evidence," he said, "was hardly needed in such a clear case. But I am glad of it. None of our judges like to condemn a criminal on circumstantial evidence, however decisive it may be." This was strange and unexpected news. What could it mean? Had my eyes deceived me? Was I really as mad as the whole world would think me if I told what I suspected? I hurried home, and Elizabeth eagerly asked for the result. "My cousin," I answered, "it is decided, as you may have expected. All judges would rather that ten innocent people should suffer than that one guilty person should escape. But she has confessed." This was a terrible blow to poor Elizabeth, who had firmly trusted in Justine's innocence. "Alas!" she said. "How shall I ever again believe in human goodness? Justine, whom I loved and respected as my sister! How could she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray us? Her gentle eyes seemed unable to show any harshness or deceit. And yet she has committed a murder." Soon after this we heard that the poor victim had asked to see my cousin. My father did not want her to go. But he said that she should decide for herself, by her own judgment and feelings. "Yes," said Elizabeth, "I will go, although she is guilty. And you, Victor, shall come with me. I cannot go alone." The thought of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not refuse. We entered the gloomy prison room and saw Justine sitting on some straw at the far end. Her hands were chained, and her head rested on her knees. She stood up when she saw us enter. When we were left alone with her, she threw herself at Elizabeth's feet, weeping bitterly. My cousin wept also. "Oh, Justine!" said Elizabeth. "Why did you rob me of my last comfort? I trusted in your innocence. I was very unhappy then, but I was not as miserable as I am now." "And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also join my enemies to crush me and to condemn me as a murderer?" Her voice was choked with sobs. "Stand up, my poor girl," said Elizabeth. "Why do you kneel, if you are innocent? I am not one of your enemies. I believed you were guiltless, in spite of all the evidence. Then I heard that you had said yourself that you were guilty. You say that report is false. Be sure, dear Justine, that nothing can shake my trust in you for a moment, except your own confession." "I did confess, but I confessed a lie. I confessed so that I could receive forgiveness for my sins. But now that lie lies heavier on my heart than all my other sins. May the God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my confessor has pressed me hard. He threatened me and frightened me. I almost began to think that I was the monster he said I was. He threatened that I would be cast out of the Church, and that I would burn in hell fire in my last moments, if I stayed stubborn. Dear lady, I had no one to support me. All looked on me as a wretch who was doomed to shame and ruin. What could I do? In an evil hour I agreed to a lie. And only now am I truly miserable." She stopped, weeping, and then went on. "I thought with horror, my sweet lady, that you might believe something terrible. You might believe that your Justine could do a crime that only the devil himself could do. Your blessed aunt honoured me so highly, and you loved me. Dear William! Dearest blessed child! I shall soon see you again in heaven, where we shall all be happy. That comforts me, as I go to suffer shame and death." "Oh, Justine! Forgive me for distrusting you for one moment. Why did you confess? But do not mourn, dear girl. Do not be afraid. I will declare your innocence, and I will prove it. I will soften the stony hearts of your enemies with my tears and prayers. You shall not die! You, my playmate, my companion, my sister, die on the scaffold! No! No! I could never live through such a horrible misfortune." Justine shook her head sadly. "I do not fear to die," she said. "That pain is past. God lifts up my weakness and gives me courage to bear the worst. I leave a sad and bitter world. If you remember me and think of me as someone unjustly condemned, then I accept the fate that waits for me. Learn from me, dear lady, to submit in patience to the will of heaven!" During this talk I had gone into a corner of the prison room. There I could hide the horrible pain that held me. Despair! Who dared to speak of that? The poor victim would pass the awful border between life and death the next day. She did not feel such deep and bitter agony as I did. I gnashed my teeth and ground them together, and I gave a groan that came from my deepest soul. Justine started. When she saw who it was, she came towards me and said, "Dear sir, you are very kind to visit me. You, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty?" I could not answer. "No, Justine," said Elizabeth. "He is more sure of your innocence than I was. Even when he heard that you had confessed, he did not believe it." "I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the deepest gratitude to those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the love of others to a wretch like me! It takes away more than half my misfortune. Now you, dear lady, and your cousin accept that I am innocent. I feel that I can die in peace." So the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She did gain the calm acceptance that she wanted. But I, the true murderer, felt the never-dying worm alive in my chest. It allowed me no hope or comfort. Elizabeth also wept and was unhappy. But hers was the misery of innocence. It is like a cloud that passes over the fair moon. For a while it hides the moon's brightness, but it cannot spoil it. Pain and despair had gone into the centre of my heart. I carried a hell inside me that nothing could put out. We stayed several hours with Justine, and Elizabeth could hardly tear herself away. "I wish," she cried, "that I were to die with you. I cannot live in this world of misery." Justine put on a cheerful look, while she hardly held back her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth and said, in a voice full of half-hidden feeling, "Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend. May heaven in its goodness bless you and keep you. May this be the last misfortune that you ever suffer! Live, and be happy, and make others happy." And the next day Justine died. Elizabeth spoke with an eloquence that broke the heart, but it could not move the judges. They held firmly to their belief that the saintly sufferer was guilty. My own passionate and angry appeals were lost on them. I received their cold answers and heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these men. Then the confession that I had meant to make died away on my lips. I might call myself a madman, but I could not cancel the sentence passed on my wretched victim. She died on the scaffold as a murderess! I turned away from the torture of my own heart and looked at the deep, silent grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing! My father's sorrow was my doing too. So was the emptiness of that home, which had so lately been full of smiles. All of it was the work of my three times cursed hands! You weep, unhappy ones, but these are not your last tears! Again you shall raise the cry of mourning at a funeral. Again and again the sound of your sorrow shall be heard! Frankenstein is your son, your relative and your dear friend from early days. He would spend every drop of his blood for you. He has no thought of joy, except when he sees it in your dear faces. He would fill the air with blessings and spend his life serving you. Yet he tells you to weep and to shed countless tears. He will be happier than he hoped to be if cruel fate is satisfied in this way, and if the destruction stops before the peace of the grave replaces your sad suffering! So spoke my soul, which saw what was coming. I was torn by remorse, horror and despair. I watched those I loved spend their useless sorrow at the graves of William and Justine. They were the first unhappy victims of my unholy arts. ### Glossary - **mockery of justice**: something that pretends to be fair but is not. - **in mourning**: wearing black clothes because someone has died. - **ballots**: small papers or balls used to vote; here, the judges' votes. - **circumstantial evidence**: signs that point to guilt but do not prove it for certain. - **confessor**: a priest who hears a person say their sins. - **scaffold**: a raised platform where criminals are put to death. - **remorse**: deep guilt for something you have done. - **condemned**: judged guilty and given a punishment. - **chained**: held with iron rings and a chain. ## Chapter 9 Nothing is more painful to the human mind than what comes after a quick series of events. Our feelings have been stirred up, and then comes the dead calm of doing nothing and knowing the worst. This calm takes away both hope and fear. Justine was dead. She was at rest, and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in my veins. But a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my heart, and nothing could lift it. I could not sleep. I wandered like an evil spirit, because I had done terrible things, worse than words can say. I told myself that there was more, much more, still to come. Yet my heart was full of kindness and love of goodness. I had begun life with good intentions. I had longed for the moment when I could use them and be useful to other people. Now everything was ruined. Once I had a clear conscience. Then I could look back on the past with pride and find the promise of new hopes. Instead I was seized by remorse and guilt. They carried me away to a hell of terrible torture. No language can describe it. This state of mind harmed my health, which had perhaps never fully recovered from the first shock it had received. I avoided the sight of other people. Every sound of joy or contentment was torture to me. Solitude was my only comfort, a deep, dark solitude like death. My father saw with pain how my character and habits had changed. He tried to give me strength with arguments. They came from his own calm conscience and his blameless life. He wanted to wake in me the courage to drive away the dark cloud that hung over me. "Do you think, Victor," he said, "that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more than I loved your brother." Tears came into his eyes as he spoke. "But we have a duty to those who are left. We should not make their unhappiness greater by showing too much grief. It is also a duty to yourself. Too much sorrow stops you from improving yourself and enjoying life. It even stops you from doing your daily work, and without that, no man is fit to live among others." This advice was good, but it did not fit my case at all. I would have been the first to hide my grief and comfort my friends. But remorse mixed its bitterness with my other feelings, and terror mixed in its alarm. Now I could only answer my father with a look of despair and try to hide from his sight. About this time we moved to our house at Belrive. This change was especially pleasant to me. The gates of Geneva were shut every night at ten o'clock. No one could stay on the lake after that hour. This had made living inside the city walls very tiresome for me. Now I was free. Often the rest of the family went to bed. Then I took the boat and spent many hours on the water. Sometimes I put up the sails and the wind carried me. Sometimes I rowed to the middle of the lake and left the boat to go where it liked. Then I gave way to my own miserable thoughts. All around me was at peace. I was the only restless thing that wandered in such a beautiful and heavenly scene. The only other sounds came from some bat, or from the frogs. Their harsh, broken croaking was heard only when I came near the shore. Often, I say, I was tempted to jump into the silent lake. Then the waters would close over me and my troubles for ever. But I held back when I thought of the brave and suffering Elizabeth. I loved her tenderly, and her life was bound up with mine. I thought also of my father and my surviving brother. If I left them by a base desertion, they would be exposed and unprotected. The fiend whom I had let loose among them hated them. At these moments I wept bitterly. I wished that peace would come back to my mind, only so that I could give them comfort and happiness. But that could not be. Remorse destroyed every hope. I had caused evils that could never be undone. I lived in daily fear that the monster I had created would do some new wicked thing. I had a vague feeling that all was not over. I felt that he would still commit some great crime. It would be so terrible that it would almost wipe out the memory of the past. There was always reason to fear, as long as anything I loved was left. No one can imagine how much I hated this fiend. When I thought of him, I gnashed my teeth and my eyes burned. I longed to put out the life that I had so thoughtlessly given. When I thought of his crimes and his malice, my hatred and my wish for revenge broke every limit. I would have made a long journey to the highest peak of the Andes. I would have done it if I could have thrown him down to the bottom from there. I wished to see him again. Then I could pour out all my hatred on his head. I could take revenge for the deaths of William and Justine. Our house was a house of mourning. My father's health was deeply shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and without hope. She no longer took pleasure in her usual occupations. All pleasure seemed to her an insult to the dead. She thought that endless sorrow and tears were the right tribute to an innocent girl who had been destroyed. She was no longer the happy girl of earlier years. Then she had wandered with me on the banks of the lake. She had talked with delight about our future. The first of those sorrows that are sent to make us love the earth less had visited her. Its dark influence put out her dearest smiles. "When I think, my dear cousin," she said, "about the miserable death of Justine Moritz, I see the world differently. I no longer see it and its works as they looked to me before. Before, I read about vice and injustice in books, or heard of them from others. I thought they were tales of ancient days or of imaginary evils. At least they were far away, and they seemed more familiar to reason than to the imagination. But now misery has come home, and men seem to me like monsters thirsting for each other's blood. Yet I am certainly being unfair. Everybody believed that poor girl to be guilty. Suppose she could have committed the crime for which she suffered. Then she would surely have been the most wicked of human creatures. Think of it! For the sake of a few jewels, she would have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend. She had nursed him from his birth, and she seemed to love him as if he were her own! I could not agree to the death of any human being. But I should certainly have thought that such a creature was not fit to stay in the society of men. But she was innocent. I know, I feel, that she was innocent. You think the same, and that makes me surer. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so much like the truth, who can be certain of happiness? I feel as if I were walking on the edge of a cliff. Thousands of people are crowding towards it. They are trying to push me over into the deep hole below. William and Justine were murdered, and the murderer escapes. He walks about the world free, and perhaps respected. But suppose I were condemned to die on the scaffold for the same crimes. Even then I would not change places with such a wretch." I listened to this speech in the greatest agony. I was the true murderer, not in deed, but in effect. Elizabeth read my pain in my face. She kindly took my hand and said, "My dearest friend, you must calm yourself. These events have affected me, God knows how deeply. But I am not as miserable as you are. There is a look of despair in your face, and sometimes a look of revenge, that makes me tremble. Dear Victor, drive away these dark passions. Remember the friends around you, who place all their hopes in you. Have we lost the power to make you happy? Ah! We love each other, and we are true to each other. We are here in this land of peace and beauty, your native country. Here we may gather every quiet blessing. What can disturb our peace?" Could such words from her not be enough to chase away the fiend that hid in my heart? I loved her above every other gift of fortune. Even as she spoke, I moved close to her, as if in terror. I feared that at that very moment the destroyer was near and ready to rob me of her. So neither the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth or heaven, could save my soul from woe. Even the words of love had no effect. A cloud surrounded me, and no good influence could get through it. A wounded deer drags its fainting legs to some untouched thicket. There it looks at the arrow that has pierced it, and it dies. That deer was a picture of me. Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me. But sometimes the whirlwind of my passions drove me to look for relief. I wanted some relief from my unbearable feelings, by exercise and by a change of place. During a fit of this kind I suddenly left my home. I turned my steps towards the nearby Alpine valleys. I hoped that the greatness and the eternity of such scenes would help me forget myself. I wanted to forget my passing sorrows, passing because they were only human. I walked in the direction of the valley of Chamounix. I had often visited it in my boyhood. Six years had passed since then. *I* was a wreck, but nothing had changed in those wild and lasting scenes. I made the first part of my journey on horseback. Afterwards I hired a mule, because it is more sure-footed and less likely to be hurt on these rough roads. The weather was fine. It was about the middle of August, nearly two months after the death of Justine. That was the miserable moment from which I dated all my woe. The weight on my spirit grew noticeably lighter as I went deeper into the ravine of the Arve. Immense mountains and cliffs hung over me on every side. I heard the river raging among the rocks and the waterfalls crashing around me. They spoke of a power as mighty as God's. I stopped fearing any being who was less almighty than the one who had created and ruled the elements. Here the elements were shown in their most terrible form. I no longer bowed down before anyone less than he. As I climbed higher, the valley became even more magnificent and astonishing. Ruined castles hung on the cliffs of the pine-covered mountains. The rushing Arve flowed below, and cottages peeped out here and there from among the trees. Together they made a scene of unusual beauty. But the mighty Alps made it greater and more awe-inspiring. Their white, shining peaks and domes rose high above all else. They seemed to belong to another world, the homes of another race of beings. I passed the bridge of Pélissier, where the ravine formed by the river opened before me. Then I began to climb the mountain that hangs over it. Soon after, I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley is more wonderful and grand than the valley of Servox, through which I had just passed. But it is not so beautiful and picture-like. The high snowy mountains were its nearest borders, but I saw no more ruined castles or fertile fields. Immense glaciers came close to the road. I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche, and I saw the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc, rose up from the sharp peaks around it. Its tremendous dome looked down over the valley. During this journey a tingling feeling of pleasure, long lost, often came over me. Some turn in the road, some new thing that I suddenly saw and recognised, reminded me of days gone by. They were linked with the light-hearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing tones, and Mother Nature told me to weep no more. Then again the kind influence stopped working. I found myself chained again to grief and giving way to all the misery of my thoughts. Then I urged on my animal, trying in this way to forget the world, my fears and, more than all, myself. Or, in a more desperate way, I got down and threw myself on the grass. Horror and despair weighed me down. At last I arrived at the village of Chamounix. I was exhausted after the extreme tiredness of body and mind that I had suffered. For a short time I stayed at the window, watching the pale lightning that played above Mont Blanc. I listened to the rushing of the Arve, which went on its noisy way below. The same soothing sounds were like a lullaby to my too sharp feelings. When I laid my head on my pillow, sleep crept over me. I felt it as it came, and I blessed the giver of forgetting. ### Glossary - **remorse**: deep guilt for something you have done. - **solitude**: being completely alone. - **fiend**: an evil spirit, a very wicked being. - **house of mourning**: a house where people are sad because someone has died. - **scaffold**: a raised platform where criminals are put to death. - **ravine**: a deep, narrow valley with steep sides. - **glaciers**: huge rivers of ice that move slowly down mountains. - **avalanche**: a mass of snow and ice that falls down a mountain. - **lullaby**: a soft song that helps a child sleep. ## Chapter 10 I spent the next day walking about the valley. I stood beside the sources of the Arveiron. They begin in a glacier, which moves slowly down from the top of the hills to block the valley. Before me were the steep sides of huge mountains. The icy wall of the glacier hung over me. A few broken pines stood scattered around. This was the glorious royal hall of mighty Nature, and it was solemn and silent. The silence was broken only by the rushing waves, or by the fall of some huge piece of ice. Sometimes it was broken by the thunder of an avalanche. Sometimes it was broken by the cracking of the piled-up ice, which echoed along the mountains. Silent, unchanging laws were at work in that ice. Again and again they split and tore it, as if it were only a toy in their hands. These grand and wonderful scenes gave me the greatest comfort that I could receive. They lifted me above all small feelings. They did not take away my grief, but they made it quieter and calmer. To some degree they also turned my mind from the thoughts that it had dwelt on for the last month. I went to bed at night. It was as if my sleep was served and cared for by the grand shapes that I had looked at during the day. They gathered round me. I saw the clean, snowy mountain-top and the shining peak. I saw the pine woods and the rough, bare ravine. I saw the eagle flying among the clouds. They all gathered round me and told me to be at peace. Where had they gone when I woke the next morning? All that had lifted my soul had gone with my sleep. Dark sadness clouded every thought. The rain was pouring down, and thick mists hid the tops of the mountains. I could not even see the faces of those mighty friends. Still, I wanted to pass through their misty veil and look for them in their cloudy hiding places. What were rain and storm to me? My mule was brought to the door, and I decided to climb to the top of Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the huge, ever-moving glacier had on my mind when I first saw it. It had filled me with a noble ecstasy. That joy gave wings to my soul and let it fly from the dim world to light and happiness. The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had always made my mind serious. It made me forget the passing cares of life. I decided to go without a guide. I knew the path well, and another person would destroy the lonely grandeur of the scene. The climb is very steep, but the path is cut into many short turns. They help you to get up the straight, upright side of the mountain. It is a terribly bare and lonely scene. In a thousand places you can see the marks of the winter avalanche. Trees lie broken and scattered on the ground. Some are completely destroyed. Others are bent, leaning on the rocks that stick out of the mountain, or lying across other trees. Higher up, the path is crossed by ravines full of snow. Stones keep rolling down them from above. One of them is especially dangerous. The slightest sound, even speaking in a loud voice, shakes the air enough to bring destruction on the speaker's head. The pines are not tall or rich in growth, but they are dark and make the scene look severe. I looked down at the valley. Huge mists were rising from the rivers that ran through it. They curled in thick rings around the mountains opposite. The tops of those mountains were hidden in one flat cloud. Rain poured from the dark sky and added to the sad feeling that the scene gave me. Alas! Why does man boast of feelings finer than those of animals? It only makes us more dependent beings. If our desires were only hunger, thirst and wanting, we might be almost free. But now every wind that blows moves us. A chance word moves us, and so does the scene that the word brings to mind. We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep. We rise; one wand'ring thought pollutes the day. We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep, Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away; It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow, The path of its departure still is free. Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; Nought may endure but mutability! It was nearly noon when I reached the top of the climb. For some time I sat on the rock that looks over the sea of ice. A mist covered the glacier and the mountains around it. Soon a breeze blew the cloud away, and I went down onto the glacier. The surface is very uneven. It rises like the waves of a rough sea, and it sinks low. Deep cracks run across it. The field of ice is almost a league wide, but I spent nearly two hours crossing it. The mountain on the far side is a bare, upright rock. From where I now stood, Montanvert was exactly opposite, a league away. Above it rose Mont Blanc in awful majesty. I stayed in a hollow of the rock and gazed at this wonderful and huge scene. The sea, or rather the vast river of ice, wound among the mountains around it. Their airy summits hung over its hollows. Their icy, glittering peaks shone in the sunlight above the clouds. My heart had been sorrowful before. Now it swelled with something like joy. I cried out, "Wandering spirits, if you really wander and do not rest in your narrow beds, give me this faint happiness. Or take me away from the joys of life, as your companion." As I said this, I suddenly saw a figure in the distance. It was a man, coming towards me with superhuman speed. He jumped over the cracks in the ice, among which I had walked carefully. As he came closer, he seemed taller than any man. I was troubled. A mist came over my eyes and I felt faint, but the cold wind of the mountains quickly brought me back. As the shape came nearer, I saw that it was the wretch whom I had created. It was a terrible and hated sight! I trembled with rage and horror. I decided to wait for him and then fight him to the death. He came closer. His face showed bitter pain, mixed with scorn and ill will. Its unearthly ugliness made it almost too horrible for human eyes. But I hardly noticed this. At first rage and hatred took away my speech. Then I recovered, only to overwhelm him with words of furious hatred and contempt. "Devil," I cried, "how dare you come near me? Do you not fear the fierce revenge of my arm on your miserable head? Go away, vile insect! No, stay, so that I can trample you to dust! And oh! If only your death could bring back the victims you have so devilishly murdered!" "I expected this welcome," said the demon. "All men hate the wretched. How much then must I be hated, who am more miserable than any living thing! Yet you, my creator, hate me and push me away, though I am your creature. You are tied to me by bonds that only the death of one of us can break. You plan to kill me. How dare you play like this with life? Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If you accept my conditions, I will leave them and you in peace. But if you refuse, I will feed the hungry mouth of death until it is full of the blood of your remaining friends." "Hated monster! You fiend! The tortures of hell are too mild a revenge for your crimes. Wretched devil! You blame me for creating you. Then come on, so that I can put out the spark of life which I gave you so carelessly." My rage was without limit. I jumped at him, driven by all the feelings that can arm one being against the life of another. He easily avoided me and said, "Be calm! I beg you to hear me before you let out your hatred on my head. Have I not suffered enough? Do you want to add to my misery? Life may be only a heap of pain, but it is dear to me, and I will defend it. Remember, you have made me stronger than yourself. I am taller than you, and my joints bend more easily. But I will not be tempted to stand against you. I am your creature. I will even be gentle and obedient to my natural lord and king, if you will also do your part, which you owe me. Oh, Frankenstein, do not be fair to everyone else and trample on me alone. Your justice, and even your mercy and love, are most due to me. Remember that I am your creature. I ought to be your Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom you drive from joy for no wrong. Everywhere I see happiness, and I alone am shut out from it for ever. I was kind and good. Misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall be virtuous again." "Go away! I will not hear you. There can be nothing shared between you and me. We are enemies. Go away, or let us test our strength in a fight, in which one must fall." "How can I move you? Will no pleading make you look kindly on your creature, who begs for your goodness and pity? Believe me, Frankenstein, I was kind. My soul glowed with love and humanity. But am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, hate me. What hope can I get from your fellow creatures, who owe me nothing? They push me away and hate me. The empty mountains and bleak glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here for many days. The caves of ice, which I alone do not fear, are my home. They are the only home that man does not grudge me. I welcome these bleak skies, for they are kinder to me than your fellow beings. If the crowd of mankind knew that I exist, they would do as you do and arm themselves to destroy me. Should I not then hate those who hate me? I will make no terms with my enemies. I am miserable, and they shall share my misery. Yet you have the power to repay me and to save them from an evil. If you do not, that evil will grow very great. It will swallow up not only you and your family, but thousands of others. They will be lost in the whirlwinds of its rage. Let your pity be moved, and do not despise me. Listen to my tale. When you have heard it, leave me or pity me, as you decide that I deserve. But hear me. Human laws, bloody as they are, allow the guilty to speak in their own defence before they are condemned. Listen to me, Frankenstein. You accuse me of murder, and yet you would destroy your own creature with a satisfied conscience. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man! Yet I do not ask you to spare me. Listen to me, and then, if you can and if you will, destroy the work of your hands." "Why do you remind me of these things?" I replied. "I shudder to think of them. I have been their miserable origin and author. Cursed be the day, hated devil, on which you first saw light! Cursed be the hands that formed you, although I curse myself! You have made me wretched beyond words. You have left me no power to think whether I am fair to you or not. Go away! Free me from the sight of your hated form." "Thus I free you from it, my creator," he said, and put his hated hands before my eyes. I threw them away from me with violence. "Thus I take from you a sight which you hate. Still you can listen to me and give me your pity. I ask this of you by the virtues that I once had. Hear my tale. It is long and strange. The temperature of this place is not good for your delicate feelings, so come to the hut on the mountain. The sun is still high in the heavens. Before it sinks to hide behind your snowy cliffs and light another world, you will have heard my story and can decide. It rests on you whether I leave the neighbourhood of man for ever and lead a harmless life, or become the scourge of your fellow creatures and the author of your own quick ruin." As he said this, he led the way across the ice, and I followed. My heart was full and I did not answer him. But as I walked, I weighed the different arguments that he had used. I decided at least to listen to his tale. I was partly urged by curiosity, and pity made my decision firm. Until now I had supposed him to be the murderer of my brother. I eagerly wanted proof that this was true or false. For the first time I also felt what a creator owes to his creature. I felt that I ought to make him happy before I complained of his wickedness. These reasons urged me to do as he asked. So we crossed the ice and climbed the opposite rock. The air was cold, and the rain began to fall again. We entered the hut, the fiend with a look of triumph, I with a heavy heart and low spirits. But I had agreed to listen. I sat down by the fire which my hateful companion had lit, and he began his tale. ### Glossary - **glacier**: a huge, slow river of ice that moves down a mountain - **avalanche**: a mass of snow and ice that falls suddenly down a mountain - **ravine**: a deep, narrow valley with steep sides - **mule**: an animal like a small horse, used to carry people up mountain paths - **ecstasy**: a feeling of very great joy - **league**: an old measure of distance, about three miles - **demon**: an evil spirit - **fallen angel**: an angel who was thrown out of heaven for doing wrong - **scourge**: something that brings great suffering to many people ## Chapter 11 "It is very difficult for me to remember the beginning of my life. All the events of that time seem confused and unclear. A strange mixture of sensations seized me. I saw, felt, heard and smelt all at the same time. It was a long time before I learned to tell my different senses apart. Little by little, I remember, a stronger light pressed on my nerves, and I had to shut my eyes. Then darkness came over me and troubled me. But hardly had I felt this when I opened my eyes, as I now suppose, and the light poured in on me again. I walked, and I believe I went downward. But soon I found a great change in my sensations. Before, dark, solid bodies had surrounded me, and I could not touch them or see through them. Now I found that I could wander freely. There were no obstacles that I could not climb over or avoid. The light became more and more painful to me. The heat made me tired as I walked, so I looked for a place with shade. This was the forest near Ingolstadt. I lay by the side of a brook, resting from my tiredness, until hunger and thirst tormented me. This woke me from my almost sleeping state. I ate some berries that I found hanging on the trees or lying on the ground. I drank from the brook to stop my thirst. Then I lay down, and sleep overcame me. "It was dark when I woke. I felt cold, and half frightened, as if by instinct, because I was so alone. Before I left your apartment, I had felt cold and had covered myself with some clothes. But these were not enough to protect me from the damp of the night. I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch. I knew nothing and could tell nothing apart. But I felt pain invading me on all sides, so I sat down and wept. "Soon a gentle light stole across the sky, and it gave me a feeling of pleasure. I jumped up and saw a shining shape rise from among the trees. \[The moon\] I gazed at it with a kind of wonder. It moved slowly, but it lit my path, and I went out again to look for berries. I was still cold. Under one of the trees I found a huge cloak, and I covered myself with it and sat down on the ground. No clear ideas filled my mind. Everything was confused. I felt light, and hunger, and thirst, and darkness. Countless sounds rang in my ears, and on all sides different smells met me. The only thing I could tell apart from the rest was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes on it with pleasure. "Several days and nights passed, and the moon had grown much smaller, when I began to tell my sensations apart. Little by little I saw clearly the stream that gave me drink and the trees that shaded me with their leaves. I was delighted when I first found out where a pleasant sound came from, which often reached my ears. It came from the throats of the little winged animals, which had often blocked the light from my eyes. I also began to see more exactly the shapes around me. I saw the edges of the bright sky that covered me like a roof. Sometimes I tried to copy the pleasant songs of the birds, but I could not. Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in my own way. But the rough sounds without clear words that broke from me frightened me into silence again. "The moon disappeared from the night, and then showed itself again, smaller, while I still stayed in the forest. By this time my sensations had become clear, and every day my mind received more ideas. My eyes became used to the light and saw objects in their right shapes. I could tell an insect from a plant, and little by little one plant from another. I found that the sparrow made only harsh notes, while those of the blackbird and the thrush were sweet and attractive. "One day, when I was suffering from cold, I found a fire which some wandering beggars had left. I was overcome with delight at the warmth it gave me. In my joy I pushed my hand into the live embers, but I quickly pulled it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought, that the same cause should have such opposite effects! I examined the materials of the fire, and to my joy I found that it was made of wood. I quickly collected some branches, but they were wet and would not burn. This pained me, and I sat still, watching how the fire worked. The wet wood that I had placed near the heat dried and began to burn itself. I thought about this, and by touching the different branches I found the cause. I busied myself collecting a great quantity of wood, so that I could dry it and have plenty of fire. When night came and brought sleep with it, I was in great fear that my fire would go out. I covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves and put wet branches on top. Then I spread my cloak, lay on the ground and sank into sleep. "It was morning when I woke, and my first care was to visit the fire. I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame. I noticed this too, and I made a fan out of branches. It woke the embers when they were nearly dead. When night came again, I found with pleasure that the fire gave light as well as heat. I also found that this discovery was useful for my food. Some of the scraps that the travellers had left had been roasted, and they tasted much better than the berries I picked from the trees. So I tried to cook my food in the same way, by placing it on the live embers. I found that the berries were spoiled by this, but the nuts and roots were much improved. "Food, however, became scarce. I often spent the whole day searching in vain for a few acorns to ease the pains of hunger. When I found this, I decided to leave the place where I had lived until then. I wanted to find a place where my few needs would be more easily satisfied. On this move I deeply regretted losing the fire. I had got it by accident and did not know how to make it again. I spent several hours thinking seriously about this problem, but I had to give up trying to solve it. I wrapped myself in my cloak and went across the wood towards the setting sun. I spent three days on these wanderings, and at last I found the open country. A great fall of snow had come the night before, and the fields were all one white. The sight was cheerless, and I found my feet chilled by the cold, damp stuff that covered the ground. "It was about seven in the morning. I longed to find food and shelter. At last I saw a small hut on a rising ground, which had surely been built for some shepherd. This was a new sight to me, and I examined the building with great curiosity. I found the door open and went in. An old man sat there, near a fire, over which he was preparing his breakfast. He turned when he heard a noise. When he saw me, he shrieked loudly, left the hut and ran across the fields. His weak body hardly seemed capable of such speed. His appearance was different from any I had seen before, and his flight surprised me a little. But the hut delighted me. Here the snow and rain could not get in, and the ground was dry. It seemed to me as lovely and divine a refuge as Pandæmonium seemed to the demons of hell after their sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily ate what was left of the shepherd's breakfast. It was bread, cheese, milk and wine, but I did not like the wine. Then, overcome by tiredness, I lay down among some straw and fell asleep. "It was noon when I woke. The warmth of the sun, which shone brightly on the white ground, tempted me, and I decided to start my travels again. I put the remains of the peasant's breakfast into a wallet that I found. Then I went across the fields for several hours, until at sunset I arrived at a village. How wonderful this seemed! The huts, the neater cottages and the fine houses won my admiration in turn. The vegetables in the gardens attracted my appetite. So did the milk and cheese that I saw placed at the windows of some of the cottages. I entered one of the best of these. But I had hardly put my foot inside the door when the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted. The whole village was roused. Some people fled, and some attacked me. Stones and many other kinds of missiles bruised me badly. At last I escaped to the open country, and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel. It was quite bare and looked wretched after the palaces that I had seen in the village. This hovel was joined to a cottage that looked neat and pleasant. But after my recent, dearly bought experience, I did not dare to enter it. My place of refuge was made of wood, but it was so low that I could hardly sit upright in it. There were no boards on the earth that formed the floor, but it was dry. The wind came in by countless chinks, but I found it a pleasant shelter from the snow and rain. "Here, then, I retreated, and I lay down, happy to have found a shelter, however miserable, from the harsh season, and even more from the cruelty of man. As soon as morning dawned, I crept out of my kennel. I wanted to look at the cottage next to it and find out if I could stay in the home I had found. It stood against the back of the cottage. On its open sides it was surrounded by a pig sty and a clear pool of water. One part was open, and I had crept in by that. Now I covered every crack where I might be seen, with stones and wood. But I did it so that I could move them when I needed to go out. All the light I had came through the sty, and that was enough for me. "When I had arranged my home like this and carpeted it with clean straw, I went inside. I saw the figure of a man in the distance, and I remembered too well how they had treated me the night before. I did not dare to trust myself in his power. First, however, I had provided for my food for that day. I had stolen a loaf of coarse bread. I had also taken a cup, so that I could drink the pure water that flowed by my shelter more easily than from my hand. The floor was a little raised, so it was kept perfectly dry. It was fairly warm, because it was near the chimney of the cottage. "Now that I had all this, I decided to live in this hovel until something should happen to change my mind. It was truly a paradise compared with the bleak forest where I had lived before, with its dripping branches and damp earth. I ate my breakfast with pleasure. I was about to move a plank to get a little water when I heard a step. I looked through a small chink and saw a young creature passing in front of my hovel, with a pail on her head. The girl was young and gentle in her manner. She was not like the cottagers and farmhouse servants whom I have found since. Yet she was poorly dressed. She wore only a coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket. Her fair hair was in a braid but had no decoration. She looked patient but sad. I lost sight of her. In about a quarter of an hour she came back, carrying the pail, which was now partly filled with milk. As she walked along, troubled by the weight, a young man met her. His face showed an even deeper sadness. He said a few sounds in a melancholy way, took the pail from her head and carried it to the cottage himself. She followed, and they disappeared. Soon I saw the young man again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field behind the cottage. The girl was also busy, sometimes in the house and sometimes in the yard. "When I looked at my home, I found that one of the cottage windows had once been in the wall of my hovel. The panes had been filled in with wood. In one of these there was a small chink, almost impossible to see, through which the eye could just look. Through this crack I could see a small room. It was whitewashed and clean, but it had very little furniture. In one corner, near a small fire, sat an old man. He was leaning his head on his hands and looked deeply sad. The young girl was busy arranging the cottage. Soon she took something out of a drawer which kept her hands busy, and she sat down beside the old man. He took up an instrument and began to play. It made sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale. It was a lovely sight, even to me, a poor wretch who had never seen anything beautiful before. The silver hair and kind face of the old cottager won my respect, and the gentle manners of the girl won my love. He played a sweet, sad tune. I saw that it drew tears from the eyes of his lovable companion. The old man took no notice, until she sobbed so that he could hear. Then he said a few sounds, and the fair creature left her work and knelt at his feet. He raised her up and smiled with such kindness and love that I felt strange and overpowering sensations. They were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never felt before from hunger or cold, warmth or food. I withdrew from the window, unable to bear these feelings. "Soon after this the young man came back, carrying a load of wood on his shoulders. The girl met him at the door. She helped to take the load from him, carried some of the wood into the cottage and put it on the fire. Then she and the youth went apart into a corner of the cottage, and he showed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased and went into the garden for some roots and plants. She put them in water, and then on the fire. After that she went on with her work, while the young man went into the garden and seemed busy digging and pulling up roots. He worked like this for about an hour. Then the young woman joined him, and they went into the cottage together. "In the meantime the old man had been deep in thought. But when his companions appeared, he put on a more cheerful look, and they sat down to eat. The meal was quickly finished. The young woman was again busy arranging the cottage. The old man walked in front of the cottage in the sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth. Nothing could be more beautiful than the contrast between these two excellent creatures. One was old, with silver hair and a face shining with kindness and love. The younger was slight and graceful, and his features were shaped in the most perfect proportion. Yet his eyes and attitude showed the deepest sadness and despair. The old man went back into the cottage. The youth took tools different from those that he had used in the morning and went off across the fields. "Night quickly closed in. To my great wonder, I found that the cottagers had a way of making light last longer by using tapers. I was delighted to find that the setting of the sun did not end the pleasure of watching my human neighbours. In the evening the young girl and her companion were busy with various tasks that I did not understand. The old man again took up the instrument which made the divine sounds that had enchanted me in the morning. As soon as he had finished, the youth began, not to play, but to make sounds that were all the same tone. They were like neither the harmony of the old man's instrument nor the songs of the birds. I found out later that he was reading aloud, but at that time I knew nothing about words or letters. "After the family had been busy like this for a short time, they put out their lights and went, as I guessed, to rest." ### Glossary - **embers**: pieces of burning wood or coal that are still red and hot - **cloak**: a long, loose coat without sleeves - **Pandæmonium**: in the poem *Paradise Lost*, the palace of the demons in hell - **wallet**: a small bag for carrying food or things on a journey - **hovel**: a poor, dirty small hut - **kennel**: a small shelter, usually for a dog - **pig sty**: a small building where pigs are kept - **chink**: a very narrow crack or opening - **tapers**: thin candles ## Chapter 12 "I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought about what had happened that day. What struck me most was the gentle manners of these people. I longed to join them, but I did not dare. I remembered too well the treatment I had suffered the night before from the cruel villagers. Whatever I might decide to do later, I resolved to stay quietly in my hovel for now. I would watch, and try to discover the reasons for their actions. "The cottagers got up the next morning before the sun. The young woman arranged the cottage and prepared the food. The youth went out after the first meal. "This day went by in the same routine as the one before. The young man was always busy outdoors, and the girl did various hard jobs inside. The old man, whom I soon saw to be blind, spent his free hours on his instrument or in thought. Nothing could be greater than the love and respect that the younger cottagers showed to their old companion. They did every little service of love and duty for him gently, and he rewarded them with his kind smiles. "They were not completely happy. The young man and his companion often went apart and seemed to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappiness, but it affected me deeply. If such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and lonely being, should be wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy? They had a delightful house (for in my eyes it was one) and every luxury. They had a fire to warm them when cold and delicious food when hungry. They wore excellent clothes. Even more, they enjoyed each other's company and talk, and every day they exchanged looks of love and kindness. What did their tears mean? Did they really show pain? At first I could not answer these questions. But constant attention and time explained to me many things which at first I could not understand. "A long time passed before I discovered one of the causes of this loving family's unhappiness. It was poverty, and they suffered from it very badly. Their food was only the vegetables of their garden and the milk of one cow. The cow gave very little during the winter, when its owners could hardly find food to keep it alive. I believe they often suffered the pains of hunger very sharply, especially the two younger cottagers. Several times they put food before the old man and kept none for themselves. "This kindness moved me deeply. At night I had been used to stealing part of their store for myself. But when I found that this caused the cottagers pain, I stopped. I satisfied myself with berries, nuts and roots that I gathered from a nearby wood. "I also discovered another way to help their work. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day collecting wood for the family fire. During the night I often took his tools, and I quickly learned how to use them. I brought home enough firewood for several days. "I remember the first time that I did this. In the morning the young woman opened the door and seemed greatly astonished to see a great pile of wood outside. She said some words in a loud voice, and the youth joined her. He also showed surprise. I saw with pleasure that he did not go to the forest that day. He spent it repairing the cottage and working in the garden. "Little by little I made a discovery of still greater importance. I found that these people had a way of telling each other their experiences and feelings by clear sounds. I saw that the words they spoke sometimes brought pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, to the minds and faces of the people who heard them. This was truly a godlike science, and I desired very much to learn it. But every attempt I made was defeated. They spoke quickly. The words did not seem to be connected with things that I could see, so I could find no clue to solve the mystery of what they meant. But I worked very hard, and I stayed in my hovel for several turns of the moon. Then I discovered the names of some of the most familiar things that they talked about. I learned and used the words *fire, milk, bread* and *wood.* I also learned the names of the cottagers themselves. The youth and his companion each had several names, but the old man had only one, which was *father.* The girl was called *sister* or *Agatha.* The youth was called *Felix, brother,* or *son.* I cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas that belonged to each of these sounds and could say them. I noticed several other words without being able yet to understand or use them, such as *good, dearest, unhappy.* "I spent the winter in this way. The gentle manners and beauty of the cottagers made me love them greatly. When they were unhappy, I felt low. When they were glad, I shared their joys. I saw few human beings besides them. If anyone else happened to enter the cottage, their harsh manners and rude walk only made my friends' fine qualities seem greater to me. I could see that the old man often tried to encourage his children, as I learned that he sometimes called them, to throw off their sadness. He talked in a cheerful voice, with a look of goodness that gave pleasure even to me. Agatha listened with respect. Her eyes sometimes filled with tears, which she tried to wipe away without being seen. But I generally found that her face and voice were more cheerful after she had listened to her father's words. It was not like this with Felix. He was always the saddest of the group. Even to my untrained senses, he seemed to have suffered more deeply than his friends. But if his face was more sorrowful, his voice was more cheerful than his sister's, especially when he spoke to the old man. "I could mention countless examples which, although small, showed the characters of these loving cottagers. In the middle of poverty and want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first little white flower that peeped out from under the snowy ground. Early in the morning, before she had risen, he cleared away the snow that blocked her path to the milk-house. He drew water from the well and brought the wood from the outhouse. There, to his constant astonishment, he found his store always filled again by an invisible hand. During the day, I believe, he sometimes worked for a neighbouring farmer. He often went out and did not return until dinner, yet he brought no wood with him. At other times he worked in the garden. But there was little to do in the frosty season, so he read to the old man and Agatha. "At first this reading puzzled me very much. But little by little I discovered that he made many of the same sounds when he read as when he talked. So I guessed that he found on the paper signs for speech which he understood. I longed very much to understand these too. But how was that possible when I did not even understand the sounds that they stood for? I did improve noticeably in this science, but not enough to follow any kind of conversation, although I gave my whole mind to the effort. I longed to show myself to the cottagers. But I saw that I should not try until I had first mastered their language. That knowledge might help me make them overlook the deformity of my figure. I had learned about this too, because I always had the contrast before my eyes. "I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers: their grace, beauty and delicate skin. But how terrified I was when I saw myself in a clear pool! At first I started back. I could not believe that it was really I who was reflected in the mirror. When I became fully sure that I was in truth the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest feelings of despair and shame. Alas! I did not yet fully know the fatal effects of this miserable deformity. "As the sun became warmer and the days longer, the snow vanished, and I saw the bare trees and the black earth. From this time Felix was busier, and the heart-moving signs of coming famine disappeared. Their food, as I found out later, was coarse, but it was healthy, and they got enough of it. Several new kinds of plants sprang up in the garden, and they looked after them. These signs of comfort increased every day as the season advanced. "The old man, leaning on his son, walked every day at noon, when it did not rain. I found that this was the name for when the heavens poured out their water. This often happened, but a high wind quickly dried the earth, and the season became far more pleasant than it had been. "My way of life in my hovel was always the same. During the morning I followed the movements of the cottagers. When they went off to their various jobs, I slept. I spent the rest of the day watching my friends. When they had gone to rest, I went into the woods if there was any moon or if the night was starlit. I collected my own food, and fuel for the cottage. When I returned, as often as was needed, I cleared their path of snow and did the jobs that I had seen Felix do. I found out later that these labours, done by an invisible hand, greatly astonished them. Once or twice I heard them say the words *good spirit, wonderful* on these occasions. But I did not then understand the meaning of these words. "My thoughts now became more active. I longed to discover the reasons and feelings of these lovely creatures. I was curious to know why Felix seemed so miserable and Agatha so sad. I thought (foolish wretch!) that it might be in my power to give happiness back to these deserving people. When I slept or was away, the forms of the old blind father, the gentle Agatha and the excellent Felix floated before me. I looked on them as superior beings who would decide my future destiny. In my imagination I made a thousand pictures of showing myself to them, and of how they would receive me. I imagined that they would be disgusted at first. But then, by my gentle manner and kind words, I would win their favour first and their love afterwards. "These thoughts cheered me and led me to work with new energy at learning language. My throat was harsh, but it bent easily to new sounds. My voice was very unlike the soft music of their tones, yet I said the words that I understood with fair ease. It was like the ass and the lap-dog. Yet surely the gentle ass, whose intentions were loving although his manners were rude, deserved better treatment than blows and curses. "The pleasant showers and warm sun of spring greatly changed the look of the earth. Men who before this change seemed to have been hidden in caves now spread out and were busy with various kinds of farm work. The birds sang in more cheerful notes, and the leaves began to bud on the trees. Happy, happy earth! A fit home for gods, which so short a time before was bleak, damp and unhealthy. The enchanting look of nature raised my spirits. The past was wiped from my memory, the present was calm, and the future was touched with gold by bright rays of hope and expectations of joy." ### Glossary - **hovel**: a poor, dirty small hut - **famine**: a time when there is not enough food and people starve - **milk-house**: a small building where milk is kept cool - **outhouse**: a small building next to a house, used for storing things - **ass**: a donkey - **lap-dog**: a small pet dog that sits on people's knees - **deformity**: a body that is not shaped in the normal way - **starlit**: lit by the stars - **bud**: to start to grow new leaves or flowers ## Chapter 13 "I now hurry on to the more moving part of my story. I will tell you about events that filled me with new feelings. These feelings have changed me from what I was into what I am. "Spring came quickly. The weather became fine and the sky had no clouds. I was surprised that the place that had been bare and gloomy now bloomed with the most beautiful flowers and fresh green leaves. A thousand sweet scents and a thousand lovely sights pleased and refreshed my senses. "It was on one of these days. My cottagers were resting from their work, as they did from time to time. The old man played on his guitar, and the children listened to him. I saw that Felix looked sad beyond words. He sighed often. Once his father stopped playing, and I guessed from his manner that he was asking why his son was sorrowful. Felix answered in a cheerful voice. The old man was starting to play again when someone knocked at the door. "It was a lady on horseback, with a man from the country as her guide. The lady wore a dark suit and a thick black veil over her face. Agatha asked her a question. The stranger only answered by saying the name of Felix, in a sweet accent. Her voice was musical, but not like the voice of either of my friends. When Felix heard this word, he came quickly to the lady. When she saw him, she threw back her veil, and I saw a face of angelic beauty. Her hair was shining raven black and was braided in a curious way. Her eyes were dark but gentle, although full of life. Her features were regular, and her skin was wonderfully fair, with a lovely pink colour in each cheek. "Felix seemed carried away with delight when he saw her. Every sign of sorrow left his face. At once it showed a wild joy, which I could hardly have believed he was capable of. His eyes sparkled and his cheeks were flushed with pleasure. At that moment I thought him as beautiful as the stranger. She seemed moved by different feelings. She wiped a few tears from her lovely eyes and held out her hand to Felix. He kissed it with great joy and called her, as well as I could make out, his sweet Arabian. She did not seem to understand him, but she smiled. He helped her down from her horse, sent her guide away, and led her into the cottage. He and his father spoke together for a while. Then the young stranger knelt at the old man's feet and wanted to kiss his hand. But he raised her up and embraced her warmly. "I soon saw that the stranger made clear sounds and seemed to have a language of her own. But the cottagers did not understand her, and she did not understand them. They made many signs that I could not follow. But I saw that her presence brought gladness into the cottage. It drove away their sorrow, as the sun drives away the morning mist. Felix seemed especially happy, and he welcomed his Arabian with smiles of delight. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands of the lovely stranger. She pointed to her brother and made signs that seemed to me to mean that he had been sad until she came. Some hours passed like this. By their faces, they showed a joy that I did not understand. Then I noticed that one sound came back often and that the stranger repeated it after them. I saw that she was trying to learn their language. At once the idea came to me that I could use the same lessons for the same purpose. The stranger learned about twenty words at the first lesson. Most of them were words I had understood before, but I learned something from the others. "When night came, Agatha and the Arabian went to bed early. When they parted, Felix kissed the stranger's hand and said, 'Good night, sweet Safie.' He stayed up much longer, talking with his father. They said her name again and again, so I guessed that their lovely guest was what they were talking about. I wanted very much to understand them and I used all my strength to try. But I found it quite impossible. "The next morning Felix went out to his work. When Agatha had finished her usual jobs, the Arabian sat at the old man's feet. She took his guitar and played some tunes so wonderfully beautiful that they brought tears to my eyes. They were tears of sorrow and of delight. She sang, and her voice flowed with a rich rise and fall. It grew louder and softer like a nightingale in the woods. "When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first refused it. Then Agatha played a simple tune, and her voice went with it in sweet tones. But it was not like the wonderful song of the stranger. The old man seemed delighted. He said some words, and Agatha tried to explain them to Safie. By them he seemed to say that her music gave him the greatest joy. "The days now passed as peacefully as before. The only change was that joy had taken the place of sadness on the faces of my friends. Safie was always gay and happy. She and I improved quickly in our knowledge of language. After two months I began to understand most of the words my protectors said. "In the meantime the black ground was covered with grass. The green banks were scattered with countless flowers. They were sweet to smell and sweet to see, like stars of pale light among the moonlit woods. The sun became warmer, and the nights were clear and mild. My walks at night gave me great pleasure. But the sun set late and rose early, so my walks were much shorter. I never went out in daylight. I was afraid of meeting the same treatment that I had suffered in the first village I entered. "I spent my days paying close attention, so that I could master the language more quickly. I may boast that I improved faster than the Arabian. She understood very little and spoke in broken words. I understood and could copy almost every word that was spoken. "As I improved in speech, I also learned the art of letters, as it was taught to the stranger. This opened a wide field of wonder and delight to me. "The book that Felix used to teach Safie was Volney's *Ruins of Empires*. I would not have understood this book without Felix. While he read, he gave very full explanations. He said he had chosen this work because its grand, speech-like style was made in imitation of Eastern writers. Through this work I gained a rough knowledge of history. I saw the many empires that exist in the world today. It gave me an understanding of the manners, governments and religions of the different nations of the earth. I heard of the lazy Asiatics. I heard of the amazing genius and mental energy of the Greeks. I heard of the wars and the wonderful virtue of the early Romans. I heard how they later grew worse, and how that mighty empire fell. I heard of chivalry, Christianity and kings. I heard of the discovery of America, and I wept with Safie over the sad fate of the people who first lived there. "These wonderful stories filled me with strange feelings. Was man really so powerful, so good and so grand, and yet so cruel and low? At one time he seemed only a child of the principle of evil. At another time he seemed everything noble and godlike that one can imagine. To be a great and good man seemed the highest honour that can come to a feeling being. To be low and cruel, as many people in history have been, seemed the lowest shame. It seemed a state worse than that of the blind mole or the harmless worm. For a long time I could not understand how one man could go out to murder another. I could not even understand why there were laws and governments. But I heard the details of crime and bloodshed. Then my wonder stopped, and I turned away in disgust and hatred. "Every conversation of the cottagers now showed me new wonders. I listened while Felix taught the Arabian, and so the strange system of human society was explained to me. I heard about the division of property, about huge wealth and miserable poverty, and about rank, family descent and noble blood. "These words made me turn my thoughts to myself. I learned that the things your fellow creatures value most are a high and spotless family descent together with riches. A man might be respected if he had only one of these advantages. But without either, he was thought of, except in very rare cases, as a vagabond (a worthless wanderer) and a slave. He was doomed to waste his powers for the profit of a chosen few! And what was I? I knew nothing about my creation or my creator. But I knew that I had no money, no friends and no kind of property. I also had a shape that was horribly deformed and disgusting. I was not even of the same nature as man. I was quicker than they were, and I could live on coarser food. I could bear heat and cold with less harm to my body. I was much taller than they were. When I looked around me, I saw and heard of nobody like me. Was I, then, a monster, a stain upon the earth, from which all men ran away and whom all men refused to own? "I cannot describe to you the pain that these thoughts gave me. I tried to drive them away, but my sorrow only grew as my knowledge grew. Oh, if only I had stayed for ever in my native wood! If only I had known and felt nothing beyond hunger, thirst and heat! "What a strange thing knowledge is! When it has once taken hold of the mind, it clings there like lichen on a rock. Sometimes I wished to shake off all thought and feeling. But I learned that there was only one way to end the feeling of pain, and that was death. I feared death, yet I did not understand it. I admired virtue and good feelings. I loved the gentle manners and kind qualities of my cottagers. But I was shut out from talking with them. I had only the means that I got by stealth, when I was unseen and unknown. These means made my wish to become one of my fellows grow stronger rather than satisfying it. The gentle words of Agatha and the lively smiles of the charming Arabian were not for me. The mild advice of the old man and the lively talk of the loved Felix were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch! "Other lessons stayed with me even more deeply. I heard about the difference between the sexes, and about the birth and growth of children. I heard how the father loved the smiles of the baby and the lively jokes of the older child. I heard how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapped up in her precious child. I heard how the mind of a young person opens and gains knowledge. I heard of brother, sister and all the different relationships that bind one human being to another. "But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched over my baby days. No mother had blessed me with smiles and kisses. Or if they had, all my past life was now a blank. It was an empty darkness in which I could see nothing. As far back as I could remember, I had been as I then was, in height and shape. I had never yet seen a being like me, or one who wanted to have anything to do with me. What was I? The question came again, and could be answered only with groans. "I will soon explain where these feelings led me. But allow me now to return to the cottagers. Their story filled me with many different feelings: anger, delight and wonder. But all of them ended in more love and respect for my protectors. (This was what I liked to call them, in an innocent, half-painful kind of self-deceit.)" ### Glossary - **veil**: a thin cloth that covers a woman's face - **raven black**: shining black, like the feathers of a raven (a large black bird) - **braided**: twisted together in a pattern, like a plait - **Arabian**: a person from Arabia; Felix's name for Safie - **protectors**: people who look after others; the monster's word for the cottagers - **chivalry**: the code of brave and noble behaviour of knights - **lichen**: a small plant that grows flat on rocks and clings to them - **by stealth**: secretly, so that nobody sees or knows ## Chapter 14 "Some time passed before I learned the history of my friends. It was a story that could not fail to make a deep mark on my mind. It told of many events. Each one was interesting and wonderful to someone as inexperienced as I was. "The old man's name was De Lacey. He came from a good family in France. There he had lived for many years with plenty of money. Those above him respected him, and his equals loved him. His son had been brought up to serve his country. Agatha had been counted among ladies of the highest distinction. A few months before I came, they had lived in a large and beautiful city called Paris. They were surrounded by friends. They had every pleasure that goodness, a refined mind and good taste could give, together with a moderate fortune. "Safie's father had been the cause of their ruin. He was a Turkish merchant, and he had lived in Paris for many years. Then, for some reason that I could not learn, the government turned against him. He was seized and thrown into prison on the very day that Safie arrived from Constantinople to join him. He was tried and condemned to death. His sentence was very clearly unjust. All Paris was angry about it. People judged that the real cause was his religion and his wealth. They did not think it was the crime he was accused of. "Felix had been present at the trial by chance. When he heard the decision of the court, his horror and anger could not be controlled. At that moment he made a solemn vow to free the man. Then he looked around for a way to do it. He tried many times to get into the prison, but without success. Then he found a window with strong iron bars in a part of the building that nobody guarded. It lit the dungeon of the unfortunate Muhammadan. The man lay there loaded with chains and waited in despair for his cruel sentence to be carried out. Felix visited the window at night and told the prisoner what he meant to do for him. The Turk was amazed and delighted. He tried to make his rescuer eager by promising him rewards and wealth. Felix refused his offers with contempt. But then he saw the lovely Safie. She was allowed to visit her father, and she showed her warm thanks by her gestures. The young man could not help admitting to himself that the prisoner owned a treasure. It would fully repay his work and danger. "The Turk quickly saw the effect that his daughter had had on Felix's heart. He wanted to tie Felix more closely to his cause. So he promised him her hand in marriage as soon as he was taken to a safe place. Felix was too delicate in his feelings to accept this offer. But he looked forward to it as likely to happen, and as the fulfilment of his happiness. "In the days that followed, the escape of the merchant was being prepared. During this time Felix was warmed in his eagerness by several letters from this lovely girl. She found a way to write her thoughts in the language of her lover. An old man helped her. He was a servant of her father, and he understood French. She thanked Felix in the warmest words for the help he planned to give her father. At the same time she gently mourned her own fate. "I have copies of these letters. During my stay in the hovel I found a way to get writing materials. The letters were often in the hands of Felix or Agatha. Before I go, I will give them to you. They will prove that my tale is true. But now the sun is already low. I will only have time to tell you what was in them. "Safie wrote that her mother was a Christian Arab. The Turks had seized her and made her a slave. Her beauty made people speak well of her, and she won the heart of Safie's father, who married her. The young girl spoke of her mother in high and enthusiastic words. Her mother had been born free, and she hated the slavery to which she was now reduced. She taught her daughter the beliefs of her religion. She taught her to hope for a higher power of mind. She also taught her an independence of spirit that women who follow Muhammad are not allowed. This lady died, but her lessons stayed in Safie's mind for ever. Safie felt sick at the thought of going back to Asia. She did not want to be shut up within the walls of a harem. There she would be allowed only childish amusements, which did not suit her soul. Her soul was now used to grand ideas and to a noble wish to be virtuous. The thought of marrying a Christian was enchanting to her. She wanted to stay in a country where women could have a rank in society. "The day for the Turk's execution was fixed. But on the night before it, he left his prison, and by morning he was many leagues from Paris. Felix had got passports in the names of his father, his sister and himself. He had told his plan to his father beforehand. His father helped with the trick. He left his house, pretending to go on a journey. He hid with his daughter in a quiet part of Paris. "Felix led the fugitives through France to Lyons, and across Mont Cenis to Leghorn. There the merchant had decided to wait for a good chance to pass into some part of the Turkish lands. "Safie decided to stay with her father until the moment he left. Before that time, the Turk renewed his promise that she would be married to his rescuer. Felix stayed with them, waiting for that to happen. In the meantime he enjoyed the company of the Arabian, who showed him the simplest and tenderest love. They talked to each other through an interpreter, and sometimes just with looks. Safie sang to him the beautiful songs of her native country. "The Turk allowed this closeness and encouraged the hopes of the young lovers. But in his heart he had made very different plans. He hated the idea that his daughter should marry a Christian. But he feared Felix's anger if he seemed cold. He knew that he was still in the power of his rescuer. Felix could betray him to the Italian state where they were living. The Turk thought of a thousand plans to keep up the lie until it was no longer needed. Then he would take his daughter with him in secret when he left. News that came from Paris made his plans easier. "The government of France was very angry that its victim had escaped. They spared no effort to find and punish the man who had freed him. Felix's plot was soon discovered, and De Lacey and Agatha were thrown into prison. The news reached Felix and woke him from his dream of pleasure. His blind and aged father and his gentle sister lay in a filthy dungeon. Meanwhile he enjoyed the free air and the company of the woman he loved. This thought was torture to him. He quickly arranged with the Turk that Safie would stay as a boarder at a convent at Leghorn. This would happen if the Turk found a good chance to escape before Felix could return to Italy. Then he left the lovely Arabian and hurried to Paris. He gave himself up to the anger of the law, hoping this would free De Lacey and Agatha. "He did not succeed. They stayed locked up for five months before the trial took place. The result of it took away their fortune and condemned them to live for ever outside their native country. "They found a miserable shelter in the cottage in Germany, where I discovered them. Soon Felix learned that the Turk had betrayed them. Felix and his family had suffered terrible and unheard-of cruelty for the Turk's sake. But when the Turk found that his rescuer was now poor and ruined, he betrayed all good feeling and honour. He left Italy with his daughter. He even insulted Felix by sending him a small sum of money. The Turk said it was to help Felix make some plan for his future living. "These were the events that weighed on Felix's heart. They made him, when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family. He could have borne poverty. While this trouble was the reward of his virtue, he was proud of it. But the Turk's ingratitude and the loss of his beloved Safie were more bitter and could never be put right. Now the arrival of the Arabian gave new life to his soul. "News reached Leghorn that Felix had lost his wealth and rank. When the merchant heard it, he ordered his daughter to think no more of her lover. She was to get ready to return to her native country. Safie's generous nature was outraged by this order. She tried to argue with her father, but he left her in anger and repeated his tyrannical command. "A few days later the Turk came into his daughter's room. He told her in a hurry that people had probably found out where he lived at Leghorn. He thought he would soon be handed over to the French government. So he had hired a ship to carry him to Constantinople, and he would sail for that city in a few hours. He meant to leave his daughter in the care of a trusted servant. She would follow later, when she wished, with most of his property, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn. "When she was alone, Safie thought carefully about how she should act in this emergency. To live in Turkey was hateful to her. Her religion and her feelings were both against it. Some papers of her father's fell into her hands. From them she heard of her lover's exile and learned the name of the place where he now lived. She hesitated for some time, but at last she made up her mind. She took some jewels that belonged to her and a sum of money. She left Italy with an attendant. This woman was a native of Leghorn, but she understood the common language of Turkey. They set out for Germany. "She arrived safely at a town about twenty leagues from De Lacey's cottage. There her attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie nursed her with the most devoted love, but the poor girl died. The Arabian was left alone. She did not know the language of the country, and she knew nothing of the customs of the world. But she fell into good hands. The Italian had mentioned the name of the place where they were going. After her death, the woman of the house where they had lived took care of Safie. She made sure that Safie arrived safely at the cottage of her lover." ### Glossary - **merchant**: a person who buys and sells goods for a living - **condemned**: judged guilty and given a punishment, here death - **dungeon**: a dark prison room under the ground - **Muhammadan**: a follower of Muhammad, that is, a Muslim; the word the narrator uses - **harem**: in some places, the part of a house where the women live - **passports**: papers that allow a person to travel to other countries - **fugitives**: people who are running away to escape - **convent**: a house where religious women live together ## Chapter 15 "That was the history of my beloved cottagers. It made a deep impression on me. The picture of social life that it showed me taught me something. I learned to admire their virtues and to hate the vices of mankind. "Until now I had looked on crime as a distant evil. Kindness and generosity were always before my eyes. They made me want to take part in the busy scene of life. So many admirable qualities were called forth and shown there. But I am telling you how my mind developed. So I must not leave out something that happened at the beginning of August in that same year. "One night I made my usual visit to the nearby wood. There I collected my own food and gathered firewood for my protectors. On the ground I found a leather portmanteau. It held several pieces of clothing and some books. I eagerly seized my prize and took it back to my hovel. By good luck the books were written in the language whose first rules I had learned at the cottage. They were *Paradise Lost*, a volume of *Plutarch's Lives*, and the *Sorrows of Werter*. Having these treasures gave me great delight. From then on I studied them all the time and exercised my mind on these stories. My friends were busy with their ordinary work. "I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They gave me countless new pictures and feelings. Sometimes these lifted me to great joy, but more often they sank me into the deepest sadness. The *Sorrows of Werter* has a simple and moving story. But it also discusses so many opinions. It throws light on so many subjects that had been dark to me until then. I found in it a never-ending source of thought and wonder. It described gentle family life, together with noble ideas and feelings that looked beyond oneself. This agreed well with what I had seen among my protectors. It also agreed with the needs that were always alive in my own heart. But I thought Werter himself more divine than any being I had ever seen or imagined. His character had no show in it, yet it went deep. The discussions about death and suicide filled me with wonder. I did not try to judge who was right. But I leaned towards the opinions of the hero, and I wept at his death without exactly understanding it. "As I read, however, I applied a great deal of it to my own feelings and condition. I found that I was like the people I read about, and yet strangely unlike them. I was a listener to their conversation. I felt for them and partly understood them, but my mind was unformed. I depended on nobody and I was related to nobody. 'The path of my departure was free,' and nobody would mourn my destruction. My body was hideous and my height was gigantic. What did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Where did I come from? Where was I going? These questions came back again and again, but I could not answer them. "The volume of *Plutarch's Lives* that I had contained the histories of the first founders of the ancient republics. This book had a very different effect on me from the *Sorrows of Werter*. From Werter's imaginings I learned sadness and gloom. But Plutarch taught me high thoughts. He lifted me above the miserable circle of my own reflections, to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many things I read were beyond my understanding and experience. I had a very confused knowledge of kingdoms, wide stretches of country, mighty rivers and endless seas. But I knew nothing at all about towns and large crowds of men. The cottage of my protectors had been the only school where I had studied human nature. But this book showed me new and greater scenes of action. I read of men who took part in public affairs. Some ruled their fellow men, and some killed them in great numbers. I felt a great warmth for virtue rise within me, and hatred for vice. I understood these words only as far as I could, because I applied them only to pleasure and pain. These feelings led me, of course, to admire the peaceful lawgivers Numa, Solon and Lycurgus, more than Romulus and Theseus. The peaceful, fatherly lives of my protectors made these impressions take firm hold on my mind. Perhaps I would have felt differently if a young soldier had been my first meeting with mankind. He would have been burning for glory and killing. "But *Paradise Lost* raised different and far deeper feelings. I read it as I had read the other volumes that had fallen into my hands, as a true history. It moved every feeling of wonder and awe. The picture of an all-powerful God at war with his creatures could raise such feelings. I often compared the different situations in it with my own, when I noticed a likeness. Like Adam, I seemed to be joined by no link to any other being in existence. But his state was very different from mine in every other way. He had come from the hands of God as a perfect creature. He was happy and prosperous, guarded by the special care of his Creator. He was allowed to talk with beings of a higher nature and to learn from them. But I was miserable, helpless and alone. Many times I thought Satan was a better emblem of my condition. Often, like him, I felt the bitter gall of envy rise within me. This happened when I saw the happiness of my protectors. "Something else made these feelings stronger and surer. Soon after I came to the hovel, I found some papers. They were in the pocket of the dress that I had taken from your laboratory. At first I had ignored them. But now I could read the letters in which they were written, and I began to study them carefully. It was your journal of the four months before my creation. In these papers you described very exactly every step you took in your work. This history was mixed with accounts of things that happened at home. You surely remember these papers. Here they are. Everything about my accursed beginning is told in them. The whole detail of that series of disgusting events that produced me is set in view. There is the smallest description of my hateful and horrible body. Your words showed your own horror, and they made mine impossible to forget. I felt sick as I read. 'Hateful day when I received life!' I cried in agony. 'Accursed creator! Why did you make a monster so hideous that even *you* turned from me in disgust? God, in pity, made man beautiful and attractive, in his own image. But my form is a filthy copy of yours, and more horrible because it is so like. Satan had his companions, fellow devils, to admire and encourage him. But I am alone and hated.' "These were my thoughts in my hours of sadness and loneliness. But then I thought about the virtues of the cottagers, and their kind and loving natures. I persuaded myself that they would pity me when they learned how I admired their virtues. I thought they would overlook my deformity. Could they turn from their door someone who asked for their pity and friendship, however monstrous he was? I decided at least not to despair. I would prepare myself in every way for a meeting with them that would decide my fate. I put off this attempt for some more months. The great importance of success made me afraid that I would fail. Besides, my understanding grew so much with every day's experience. So I did not want to begin until a few more months had made me wiser. "In the meantime, several changes took place in the cottage. Safie's presence spread happiness among the people there. I also saw that they now had more plenty. Felix and Agatha spent more time in amusement and conversation, and servants helped them in their labours. They did not seem rich, but they were content and happy. Their feelings were calm and peaceful, while mine grew more stormy every day. More knowledge only showed me more clearly what a miserable outcast I was. It is true that I held on to hope. But it vanished when I saw my body reflected in water, or my shadow in the moonlight. My hope was as weak as that reflection and as shifting as that shadow. "I tried to crush these fears. I tried to make myself strong for the test that I had decided to face in a few months. Sometimes I let my thoughts wander freely, without reason to guide them, in the fields of Paradise. I dared to imagine lovely, kind creatures who felt with me and cheered my gloom. Their angelic faces smiled with comfort. But it was all a dream. No Eve soothed my sorrows or shared my thoughts. I was alone. I remembered Adam's prayer to his Creator. But where was mine? He had abandoned me, and in the bitterness of my heart I cursed him. "So autumn passed. With surprise and grief I saw the leaves wither and fall. Nature again took on the bare and bleak look. It was the look it had worn when I first saw the woods and the lovely moon. But I did not mind the bleak weather. My body was better made to bear cold than heat. My greatest joys were the sight of the flowers, the birds and all the gay dress of summer. When those left me, I turned my attention more to the cottagers. Their happiness was no less because summer had gone. They loved each other and felt for each other. Their joys depended on each other, so the accidents that happened around them did not interrupt them. The more I saw of them, the greater my wish grew to ask for their protection and kindness. My heart longed to be known and loved by these kind creatures. To see their sweet looks turned towards me with affection was the greatest thing I hoped for. I dared not think that they would turn those looks away from me with scorn and horror. The poor who stopped at their door were never driven away. It is true that I asked for greater treasures than a little food or rest. I needed kindness and sympathy. But I did not believe that I was completely unworthy of it. "Winter went on, and a whole turn of the seasons had passed since I woke into life. My attention at this time was fixed only on my plan to introduce myself into my protectors' cottage. I turned over many plans. The one I finally chose was to go in when the blind old man was alone. I was clever enough to see something important. The unnatural ugliness of my body was what horrified those who had seen me before. My voice was harsh, but it had nothing terrible in it. So I thought that if his children were away, I could win the good will of old De Lacey and his help. Through him I might then be accepted by my younger protectors. "One day the sun shone on the red leaves that covered the ground. It spread cheerfulness, although it gave no warmth. Safie, Agatha and Felix went away on a long walk in the country. The old man, at his own wish, was left alone in the cottage. When his children had gone, he took up his guitar and played several sad but sweet tunes. They were sweeter and sadder than any I had heard him play before. At first his face was lit up with pleasure. But as he went on playing, thoughtfulness and sadness followed. At last he put the instrument aside and sat lost in thought. "My heart beat fast. This was the hour and moment of trial, which would decide my hopes or make my fears real. The servants had gone to a nearby fair. All was silent in and around the cottage. It was an excellent chance. Yet when I began to carry out my plan, my legs failed me and I sank to the ground. Again I rose. I used all the firmness I had. I removed the planks that I had put in front of my hovel to hide my retreat. The fresh air revived me, and with new determination I walked up to the door of their cottage. "I knocked. 'Who is there?' said the old man. 'Come in.' "I entered. 'Pardon this intrusion,' I said. 'I am a traveller who needs a little rest. You would greatly oblige me if you would let me stay a few minutes by the fire.' "'Come in,' said De Lacey, 'and I will try in whatever way I can to help you. But unfortunately my children are away from home. As I am blind, I am afraid it will be difficult for me to find food for you.' "'Do not trouble yourself, my kind host. I have food. It is only warmth and rest that I need.' "I sat down, and there was a silence. I knew that every minute was precious to me. Yet I did not know how to begin the conversation. Then the old man spoke to me. "'By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman. Are you French?' "'No. But I was brought up by a French family, and I understand only that language. I am now going to ask for the protection of some friends whom I sincerely love. I have some hope of their favour.' "'Are they Germans?' "'No, they are French. But let us change the subject. I am an unfortunate and deserted creature. I look around and I have no relation or friend on earth. These kind people to whom I am going have never seen me and know little about me. I am full of fears. If I fail there, I am an outcast in the world for ever.' "'Do not despair. To be friendless is truly to be unfortunate. But men's hearts are full of brotherly love and charity. This is true when no clear self-interest makes them unfair. So rely on your hopes. If these friends are good and kind, do not despair.' "'They are kind. They are the most excellent creatures in the world. But unfortunately they are prejudiced against me. I have a good nature. My life until now has been harmless and in some ways useful. But a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes. Where they ought to see a feeling and kind friend, they see only a hateful monster.' "'That is indeed unfortunate. But if you are really blameless, can you not show them they are wrong?' "'I am about to try that. It is because of this that I feel so many overwhelming terrors. I love these friends tenderly. Without their knowing it, I have shown them kindness every day for many months. But they believe that I wish to harm them. It is that prejudice that I wish to overcome.' "'Where do these friends live?' "'Near this spot.' "The old man paused and then went on. 'If you will tell me freely all the details of your tale, perhaps I can help to show them they are wrong. I am blind and cannot judge your face. But there is something in your words that persuades me that you are sincere. I am poor and an exile. But it will give me true pleasure to be of any use to a human creature.' "'Excellent man! I thank you and accept your generous offer. By this kindness you lift me up from the dust. I trust that I shall not be driven away from the company of your fellow creatures. With your help I shall keep their sympathy.' "'Heaven forbid! Even if you were really a criminal, you should not be driven away, for that can only drive you to desperation. It cannot lead you to virtue. I also am unfortunate. I and my family have been condemned, although we are innocent. So judge for yourself whether I feel for your misfortunes.' "'How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? From your lips I have heard, for the first time, the voice of kindness turned towards me. I shall be grateful for ever. Your kindness now makes me sure of success with those friends whom I am about to meet.' "'May I know the names and home of those friends?' "I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision. It would take happiness from me for ever, or give it to me for ever. I struggled in vain to find enough firmness to answer him. But the effort destroyed all the strength I had left. I sank on the chair and sobbed aloud. At that moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had not a moment to lose. I seized the old man's hand and cried, 'Now is the time! Save and protect me! You and your family are the friends whom I seek. Do not desert me in the hour of trial!' "'Great God!' cried the old man. 'Who are you?' "At that instant the cottage door opened, and Felix, Safie and Agatha came in. Who can describe their horror and shock when they saw me? Agatha fainted. Safie could not help her friend, and she rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward. With superhuman force he tore me from his father, to whose knees I clung. In a wild rage he threw me to the ground and struck me violently with a stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion tears the antelope. But my heart sank within me with bitter sickness, and I held back. I saw him about to strike again. Then, overcome by pain and anguish, I left the cottage. In the general confusion I escaped unseen to my hovel." ### Glossary - **portmanteau**: a leather bag for travelling - **republics**: countries ruled by elected leaders, not by kings - **lawgivers**: wise men who made the laws for a country - **emblem**: a symbol; something that stands for an idea - **journal**: a written record of what a person does each day - **outcast**: a person whom everyone refuses to accept - **prejudiced**: having a fixed bad opinion about someone without good reason - **benefactor**: a person who does good things for you ## Chapter 16 “Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why did I not, in that moment, put out the spark of life that you had given me so carelessly? I do not know. Despair had not yet taken hold of me. I felt rage and a wish for revenge. I could gladly have destroyed the cottage and everyone in it. I could have feasted on their screams and their misery. “When night came, I left my hiding place and wandered in the wood. Now I no longer feared that someone would find me, so I let my pain out in terrible howls. I was like a wild beast that had broken free from the traps. I destroyed everything that stood in my way, and I ran through the wood as fast as a stag. Oh, what a miserable night I spent! The cold stars shone as if they were laughing at me. The bare trees waved their branches above me. Now and then the sweet voice of a bird broke the stillness. Everyone except me was resting or enjoying life. Like the chief of the fiends, I carried a hell inside me. Nobody shared my feelings. I wished to tear up the trees and spread ruin all around me. Then I wished to sit down and enjoy the wreck. “But this wild pleasure could not last. I became tired from too much movement. I sank down on the wet grass, sick and helpless with despair. Among all the millions of men alive, there was not one who would pity or help me. Should I then feel kindness towards my enemies? No. From that moment I declared everlasting war against the human race. Most of all I declared it against him who had made me and sent me out into this unbearable misery. “The sun rose. I heard the voices of men and knew that I could not go back to my hiding place that day. So I hid in some thick bushes and decided to spend the coming hours thinking about my situation. “The pleasant sunshine and the fresh air of the day made me a little calmer. I thought about what had happened at the cottage. I could not help feeling that I had been too hasty in my conclusions. I had certainly acted without thought. It was clear that my conversation had interested the father in my favour. I had been a fool to show myself to the horror of his children. I should have made old De Lacey used to me first. Then, little by little, I should have shown myself to the rest of his family. They would have been ready for me by then. But I did not believe that my mistakes could not be mended. After much thought I decided to return to the cottage. I would find the old man and win him over to my side by my words. “These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I fell into a deep sleep. But the fever in my blood did not allow me peaceful dreams. The terrible scene of the day before kept playing before my eyes. The women were running away, and the furious Felix was tearing me from his father’s feet. I woke up exhausted. It was already night. I crept out of my hiding place and went to look for food. “When my hunger was satisfied, I walked towards the well-known path that led to the cottage. Everything there was peaceful. I crept into my hovel and waited silently for the usual hour when the family got up. That hour passed. The sun climbed high in the sky, but the cottagers did not appear. I trembled all over, afraid that some terrible misfortune had happened. The inside of the cottage was dark, and I heard no movement. I cannot describe the agony of not knowing. “Soon two countrymen passed by. They stopped near the cottage and began to talk, making violent movements with their hands. I did not understand what they said. They spoke the language of the country, which was different from that of my protectors. Soon after, however, Felix came up with another man. I was surprised, because I knew that he had not left the cottage that morning. I waited anxiously to learn from his words what these strange events meant. “‘You will have to pay three months’ rent,’ said his companion to him. ‘You will also lose everything that your garden produces. Do you understand that? I do not wish to take any unfair advantage. So I ask you to take some days to think it over.’ “‘It is completely useless,’ answered Felix. ‘We can never live in your cottage again. My father’s life is in the greatest danger because of the terrible event that I have told you about. My wife and my sister will never get over their horror. I beg you not to argue with me any more. Take back your house and let me run away from this place.’ “Felix trembled all over as he said this. He and his companion went into the cottage. They stayed there for a few minutes and then left. I never saw any of the family of De Lacey again. “I stayed in my hovel for the rest of the day, in a state of complete, dull despair. My protectors had gone, and they had broken the only link that held me to the world. For the first time, feelings of revenge and hatred filled my heart. I did not try to control them. I let the stream carry me away. I turned my mind towards injury and death. I thought of my friends. I thought of De Lacey’s mild voice, of Agatha’s gentle eyes, and of the wonderful beauty of the Arabian. These thoughts left me, and a rush of tears calmed me a little. But then I remembered that they had pushed me away and left me. My anger came back, a rage of anger. I could not hurt any human being, so I turned my fury against things that had no life. As the night went on, I put a great many things that burn easily around the cottage. I destroyed every sign of work in the garden. Then I waited, forcing myself to be patient, until the moon had gone down and I could begin. “As the night went on, a fierce wind rose from the woods. It quickly blew away the clouds that had lingered in the sky. The wind tore along like a mighty avalanche. It filled my mind with a kind of madness that broke all limits of reason and thought. I lit a dry branch from a tree. I danced with fury around the doomed cottage. My eyes were still fixed on the western horizon, and the moon almost touched its edge. A part of the moon’s round shape was hidden at last, and I waved my brand. The moon sank, and with a loud scream I set fire to the straw. I set fire to the heath and the bushes that I had collected. The wind fanned the fire, and the flames quickly wrapped around the cottage. They clung to it and licked it with their forked tongues of destruction. “I was sure that no help could save any part of the house. Then I left the scene and looked for shelter in the woods. “And now, with the whole world before me, where should I go? I decided to run far from the place of my misfortunes. But to me, hated and despised, every country must be equally horrible. At last the thought of you came into my mind. I had learned from your papers that you were my father, my creator. To whom could I go more rightly than to him who had given me life? Felix had taught Safie many things, and geography was one of them. From these lessons I had learned where the different countries of the earth lay. You had named Geneva as your native town, and I decided to go there. “But how could I find my way? I knew that I must travel towards the south-west to reach my goal. But the sun was my only guide. I did not know the names of the towns that I would pass through. I could not ask a single human being for information. But I did not despair. I could hope for help only from you, although I felt nothing for you but hatred. Unfeeling, heartless creator! You gave me senses and passions. Then you threw me out into the world, to be scorned and feared by mankind. But only from you could I ask for pity and justice. From you I decided to seek the justice that I had tried in vain to win from any other being. I had tried to win it from every being that wore the human form. “My journey was long, and I suffered terribly. It was late in autumn when I left the district where I had lived for so long. I travelled only at night, afraid to meet the face of a human being. Nature was dying around me, and the sun gave no heat. Rain and snow poured down on me. The mighty rivers were frozen. The surface of the earth was hard, cold and bare, and I found no shelter. Oh, earth! How often I called down curses on the cause of my being! The mildness of my nature had gone, and everything inside me had turned to bitterness. The nearer I came to your home, the more strongly the spirit of revenge burned in my heart. Snow fell, and the waters turned hard, but I did not rest. A few small events now and then gave me direction. I had a map of the country, but I often wandered far from my path. My pain gave me no rest. Every event fed my rage and misery. But one thing happened when I reached the edge of Switzerland. By then the sun had got its warmth back, and the earth began to look green again. It made my bitterness and horror stronger than ever. “I usually rested during the day and travelled only when the night hid me from the sight of men. One morning, however, I found that my path went through a deep wood. I dared to go on after the sun had risen. It was one of the first days of spring, and its lovely sunshine and soft air cheered even me. I felt gentle and pleasant feelings that had seemed dead for a long time. They came alive again inside me. I was half surprised by these new feelings, and I let them carry me away. Forgetting my loneliness and my ugliness, I dared to be happy. Soft tears wet my cheeks again. I even raised my wet eyes with thankfulness towards the blessed sun, which gave me such joy. “I went on, winding along the paths of the wood, until I came to its edge. Beside it ran a deep, fast river. Many of the trees bent their branches over it, and the branches were now budding with fresh spring leaves. Here I stopped, not quite sure which path to take. Then I heard the sound of voices, and I hid myself in the shade of a cypress tree. I was hardly hidden when a young girl came running towards the place where I was. She was laughing, as if she were running away from someone in play. She ran along the steep sides of the river. Suddenly her foot slipped, and she fell into the rushing water. I rushed out of my hiding place. The current was so strong that it took great effort. But I saved her and dragged her to the shore. She was unconscious, and I tried everything I could to bring her back to life. Then a rustic suddenly came up and interrupted me. He was probably the person from whom she had run away in play. When he saw me, he darted towards me. He tore the girl from my arms and hurried towards the deeper parts of the wood. I followed him quickly, I hardly knew why. But the man saw me come near. He aimed a gun that he was carrying at my body and fired. I sank to the ground, and the man who had hurt me ran into the wood even faster. “This was then the reward for my kindness! I had saved a human being from death. As payment I now writhed in the miserable pain of a wound that had broken my flesh and bone. A few moments before, I had felt kindness and gentleness. Now they gave way to hellish rage and grinding of teeth. Burning with pain, I vowed eternal hatred and revenge against all mankind. But the agony of my wound overcame me. My pulse stopped, and I fainted. “For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, trying to heal the wound that I had received. The ball had entered my shoulder. I did not know whether it had stayed there or passed through. In any case I had no way to take it out. My suffering was made worse by the heavy feeling that it had been given to me unjustly and without gratitude. Every day I vowed revenge. I wanted a deep and deadly revenge. Only that could make up for the injuries and pain that I had suffered. “After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey. The bright sun and the gentle breezes of spring could no longer ease my labours. All joy was only a mockery. It insulted my lonely state and made me feel more painfully that I was not made to enjoy pleasure. “But my toils were now coming to an end, and two months later I reached the neighbourhood of Geneva. “It was evening when I arrived, and I hid in the fields that surround the city. I wanted to think about how I should come to you. I was weighed down by tiredness and hunger. I was far too unhappy to enjoy the gentle evening breezes. I was too unhappy to enjoy the sight of the sun setting behind the huge mountains of the Jura. “At this time a light sleep freed me from the pain of thinking. Then a beautiful child came running into the hiding place that I had chosen. He played as young children do, and he woke me. Suddenly, as I looked at him, an idea seized me. This little creature had no prejudices. He had lived too short a time to have learned to be horrified by ugliness. If I could seize him and bring him up as my companion and friend, I would not be so lonely on this crowded earth. “Driven by this impulse, I seized the boy as he passed and pulled him towards me. He saw my form and put his hands in front of his eyes. He gave a shrill scream. I pulled his hand away from his face by force and said, ‘Child, what does this mean? I do not intend to hurt you. Listen to me.’ “He struggled hard. ‘Let me go,’ he cried. ‘Monster! Ugly wretch! You want to eat me and tear me to pieces. You are an ogre. Let me go, or I will tell my papa.’ “‘Boy, you will never see your father again. You must come with me.’ “‘Horrible monster! Let me go. My papa is a syndic. He is Monsieur Frankenstein. He will punish you. You dare not keep me.’ “‘Frankenstein! Then you belong to my enemy, to the one against whom I have sworn eternal revenge. You shall be my first victim.’ “The child still struggled, and he threw names at me that carried despair to my heart. I grasped his throat to make him quiet, and in a moment he lay dead at my feet. “I looked at my victim, and my heart swelled with joy and hellish triumph. I clapped my hands and cried, ‘I too can create desolation! My enemy is not safe from harm. This death will bring despair to him, and a thousand other miseries will torment and destroy him.’ “As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something shining on his chest. I took it. It was a portrait of a most lovely woman. In spite of my evil mood, it softened me and drew me in. For a few moments I gazed with delight at her dark eyes, with their deep lashes, and her lovely lips. But soon my rage returned. I remembered that I was for ever robbed of the joys that such beautiful beings could give. I remembered something else. The woman whose likeness I held would look at me and change her look of divine kindness. It would become a look of disgust and fear. “Can you wonder that such thoughts carried me away with rage? I only wonder that at that moment I let out my feelings in cries and agony, instead of rushing among mankind and dying in the attempt to destroy them. “While these feelings overcame me, I left the place where I had done the murder. I looked for a more hidden place. I entered a barn that had seemed to me to be empty. A woman was sleeping on some straw. She was young. She was not so beautiful as the woman whose portrait I held. But she looked pleasant and was blooming with the loveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought, is one of those whose joy-giving smiles are given to all but me. Then I bent over her and whispered, ‘Awake, fairest, your lover is near. He would give his life only to get one look of love from your eyes. My beloved, awake!’ “The sleeper stirred, and a thrill of terror ran through me. What if she really woke up, and saw me, and cursed me, and named me as the murderer? She would certainly do so if her darkened eyes opened and she saw me. The thought was madness. It stirred the fiend inside me. Not I, but she, would suffer. I had committed the murder because I was for ever robbed of all that she could give me. She would pay for it. The crime had its source in her. Let the punishment be hers! Thanks to the lessons of Felix and the bloody laws of man, I had now learned how to work mischief. I bent over her and placed the portrait carefully in one of the folds of her dress. She moved again, and I fled. “For some days I haunted the place where these scenes had happened. Sometimes I wished to see you. Sometimes I was determined to leave the world and its miseries for ever. At last I wandered towards these mountains, and I have roamed through their huge hidden places. A burning passion eats me up, and only you can satisfy it. We may not part until you have promised to do what I ask. I am alone and miserable. Man will not keep company with me. But one as deformed and horrible as myself would not refuse herself to me. My companion must be of the same kind and have the same faults. You must create this being.” ### Glossary - **stag**: a large male deer that can run very fast. - **hovel**: a poor, dirty, very small hut. - **brand**: a piece of burning wood. - **heath**: wild land with small bushes and dry plants. - **avalanche**: a huge mass of snow and ice that falls down a mountain. - **rustic**: a simple man who lives in the countryside. - **ogre**: a cruel giant in children's stories who eats people. - **syndic**: a high public officer in Geneva. - **portrait**: a painted picture of a person. ## Chapter 17 The being finished speaking and fixed his eyes on me, waiting for a reply. But I was bewildered and confused. I could not put my ideas in order enough to understand all that he was asking. He continued, “You must create a female for me, with whom I can live and share the feelings that I need to live. Only you can do this, and I demand it of you as a right. You must not refuse it.” The last part of his tale had lit again the anger that had died away while he told of his peaceful life among the cottagers. As he said this, I could no longer hold back the rage that burned inside me. “I do refuse it,” I replied, “and no torture will ever force me to agree. You may make me the most miserable of men, but you will never make me base in my own eyes. Should I create another being like you, so that your wickedness and hers together might lay the world waste? Go away! I have answered you. You may torture me, but I will never agree.” “You are wrong,” replied the fiend. “Instead of threatening you, I am willing to reason with you. I am cruel because I am miserable. Does not all mankind avoid and hate me? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces and be glad. Remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me. You would not call it murder if you could throw me into one of those cracks in the ice and destroy my body, the work of your own hands. Should I respect man when he condemns me? Let him live with me, giving kindness for kindness. Then, instead of harm, I would give him every good thing, and I would thank him with tears for accepting it. But that cannot be. Human senses are a wall that we cannot climb, and it keeps us apart. Yet I will not submit like a poor slave. I will take revenge for my injuries. If I cannot make people love me, I will make them afraid. Most of all I will make you afraid, my greatest enemy. Because you are my creator, I swear a hatred that nothing can put out. Take care. I will work at your destruction. I will not stop until I have left your heart empty and desolate. Then you will curse the hour of your birth.” A fiendish rage filled him as he said this. His face twisted into shapes too horrible for human eyes to look at. But soon he calmed himself and went on. “I meant to reason with you. This passion harms me, but you do not think that *you* are the cause of it. If any being showed kindness to me, I would return it a hundred times, and a hundred times more. For the sake of that one creature, I would make peace with the whole human race! But now I am dreaming of a happiness that cannot come true. What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate. I demand a creature of the other sex, but as hideous as myself. The pleasure is small, but it is all that I can receive, and it will content me. It is true that we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world. But for that reason we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy. But they will do no harm, and they will be free from the misery that I feel now. Oh, my creator, make me happy! Let me feel thankful to you for one good thing! Let me see that I can win the sympathy of some living thing. Do not refuse my request!” I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of what might follow if I agreed. But I felt that there was some justice in his argument. His tale and the feelings that he now showed proved that he was a creature of fine feelings. As his maker, did I not owe him all the happiness that I had the power to give? He saw that my feelings had changed, and he continued, “If you agree, neither you nor any other human being will ever see us again. I will go to the vast wild lands of South America. My food is not the food of man. I do not kill the lamb and the kid to feed my hunger. Acorns and berries give me enough to eat. My companion will be the same kind of creature as I am. She will be happy with the same food. We shall make our bed of dry leaves. The sun will shine on us as it shines on man, and it will ripen our food. The picture that I show you is peaceful and human. You must feel that you could refuse it only out of a cruel love of power. You have been without pity towards me, but now I see compassion in your eyes. Let me use this good moment and persuade you to promise what I so passionately desire.” “You propose,” I replied, “to run away from the homes of men. You want to live in those wild places where the animals of the field will be your only companions. How can you do this, you who long for the love and sympathy of man? How can you keep up this exile? You will return and again look for their kindness, and you will meet only their hatred. Your evil passions will wake again. Then you will have a companion to help you in your work of destruction. This cannot be. Stop arguing, for I cannot agree.” “How changeable your feelings are! A moment ago you were moved by my words. Why do you harden yourself again against my complaints? I swear to you, by the earth on which I live, that I will leave the neighbourhood of man. I swear it by you who made me. With the companion that you give me, I will live in the wildest places, wherever I may find them. My evil passions will have gone, for I shall meet with sympathy! My life will flow quietly away, and in my dying moments I shall not curse my maker.” His words had a strange effect on me. I pitied him, and sometimes I wished to comfort him. But when I looked at him, I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked. Then my heart sickened, and my feelings turned to horror and hatred. I tried to push these feelings down. I could not share his feelings. But I thought that I had no right to keep from him the small happiness that I could still give. “You swear,” I said, “to do no harm. But you have already shown a malice that gives me good reason not to trust you. Perhaps even this is only a trick, which will make your triumph greater by giving you more room for revenge.” “What is this? I must not be played with, and I demand an answer. If I have no ties and no loves, hatred and vice must be my share. The love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall become a thing whose existence everyone will be ignorant of. My vices are the children of a lonely life that I was forced into and that I hate. My virtues will rise of themselves when I live together with an equal. I shall feel the love of a sensitive being. I shall be joined to the chain of life and events from which I am shut out now.” I paused for some time. I thought about all that he had told me and about the different arguments that he had used. I thought of the promise of goodness that he had shown at the beginning of his life. I thought of how all his kind feelings had withered when his protectors showed him disgust and scorn. I did not forget his power and his threats. A creature could live in the ice caves of the glaciers. He could hide from pursuit among cliffs that nobody could climb. Such a creature had powers that it would be useless to fight. After a long pause for thought, I made my decision. Justice, both to him and to my fellow creatures, demanded that I do what he asked. I turned to him and said, “I agree to your demand, but only on one condition. You must make a solemn oath to leave Europe for ever. You must also leave every other place near man. This must happen as soon as I put into your hands a female who will go with you into exile.” “I swear,” he cried, “by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, and by the fire of love that burns in my heart. If you grant my prayer, you will never see me again as long as they exist. Go home and begin your labours. I shall watch their progress with an anxiety that I cannot describe. Do not fear that I will not come when you are ready.” Saying this, he suddenly left me, perhaps afraid that I might change my mind. I saw him go down the mountain faster than an eagle flies, and he was soon lost among the rolling waves of the sea of ice. His tale had taken the whole day. The sun was at the edge of the horizon when he went away. I knew that I should hurry down towards the valley, because darkness would soon surround me. But my heart was heavy, and my steps were slow. I was full of the feelings that the events of the day had caused. It was hard to wind my way among the little paths of the mountain. It was hard to put my feet down firmly as I went. Night was far advanced when I came to the halfway resting place, and I sat down beside the fountain. The stars shone from time to time as the clouds passed over them. The dark pines rose before me, and here and there a broken tree lay on the ground. It was a scene of wonderful solemnity, and it stirred strange thoughts in me. I wept bitterly. I clasped my hands in agony. “Oh, stars and clouds and winds, you are all about to mock me! If you really pity me, destroy my feeling and my memory. Let me become nothing. But if not, go away, go away, and leave me in darkness.” These were wild and miserable thoughts. But I cannot describe to you how heavily the endless twinkling of the stars weighed on me. I listened to every blast of wind as if it were a dull, ugly siroc coming to burn me up. Morning came before I arrived at the village of Chamounix. I took no rest, but returned at once to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could give no words to my feelings. They weighed on me like a mountain, and their very excess destroyed my agony beneath them. So I returned home, and I went into the house and showed myself to the family. My haggard and wild appearance alarmed them greatly, but I answered no question. I hardly spoke. I felt as if I were under a ban. I felt as if I had no right to ask for their sympathy. I felt as if I could never again enjoy their company. Yet even so I loved them with all my heart. To save them, I decided to give myself to my most hated task. The thought of this work made every other part of life pass before me like a dream. Only that thought was real life to me. ### Glossary - **fiend**: an evil spirit or devil; here an insult for the monster. - **kid**: a young goat. - **acorns**: the nuts of the oak tree. - **exile**: a life far from your home or country, forced on you. - **oath**: a very serious promise. - **glaciers**: huge rivers of ice on mountains. - **siroc**: a hot, dry, unpleasant wind from the desert. - **haggard**: looking thin, tired and ill. - **ban**: an official order that keeps someone out of a group. ## Chapter 18 Day after day and week after week went by after my return to Geneva. I could not find the courage to begin my work again. I feared the revenge of the disappointed fiend. Yet I could not overcome my dislike of the task that was laid on me. I found that I could not make a female without again giving several months to deep study and hard research. I had heard of some discoveries made by an English philosopher. I needed this knowledge to succeed. Sometimes I thought of asking my father to let me visit England for this purpose. But I held on to every excuse for delay. I shrank from taking the first step in a task that began to seem less urgent to me. A change had indeed taken place in me. My health, which had been getting worse, was now much better. My spirits rose too, when the memory of my unhappy promise did not hold them down. My father saw this change with pleasure. He began to think about the best way to get rid of the rest of my melancholy. Every now and then it came back in fits. It covered the coming sunshine with a devouring blackness. At these moments I took refuge in complete solitude. I spent whole days alone on the lake in a little boat. I watched the clouds and listened to the small waves, silent and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun seldom failed to give me some calm. When I returned, I met my friends’ greetings with a readier smile and a more cheerful heart. I came back from one of these trips, and my father called me aside. He spoke to me like this. “I am happy to see, my dear son, that you have taken up your old pleasures again. You seem to be returning to yourself. And yet you are still unhappy, and you still avoid our company. For some time I could only guess at the reason. Yesterday an idea struck me. If it is right, I beg you to admit it. To keep silent on such a point would be useless. It would also bring even more misery on us all.” I trembled violently when he began like this. My father continued, “I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your marriage with our dear Elizabeth. I saw it as the tie of our family comfort and the support of my old age. You loved each other from your earliest childhood. You studied together, and your characters and tastes seemed perfectly suited to each other. But the experience of man is so blind. What I thought were the best helpers of my plan may have destroyed it completely. Perhaps you think of her as your sister, with no wish that she should become your wife. Or you may have met another woman whom you could love. You may think that you are bound in honour to Elizabeth. This struggle may cause the sharp misery that you seem to feel.” “My dear father, do not worry. I love my cousin tenderly and sincerely. I never saw any woman who gave me, as Elizabeth does, such warm admiration and love. All my hopes for the future are bound up in the expectation of our union.” “What you say on this subject, my dear Victor, gives me more pleasure than I have felt for some time. If you feel like this, we shall certainly be happy, however much present events may make us sad. But it is this sadness that seems to have such a strong hold on your mind. I wish to drive it away. So tell me whether you object to marrying at once. We have been unfortunate. Recent events have taken us away from the everyday peace that suits my age and weakness. You are younger. You have a good fortune. An early marriage would not, I think, interfere with any plans for honour and usefulness that you may have made. But do not think that I wish to order your happiness. A delay on your part would not cause me any serious worry. Take my words in an honest spirit. Answer me with confidence and sincerity, I beg you.” I listened to my father in silence. For some time I could not give any answer. I turned a crowd of thoughts quickly over in my mind and tried to reach some conclusion. Alas! To me the idea of an immediate union with my Elizabeth was one of horror and dismay. I was bound by a solemn promise that I had not yet fulfilled and dared not break. If I broke it, what many miseries might fall on me and my devoted family! Could I join in a wedding feast while this deadly weight still hung around my neck and bent me to the ground? I must keep my promise and let the monster go away with his mate. Only then could I allow myself to enjoy a union from which I expected peace. I remembered something else. I had to travel to England, or else write long letters to those English philosophers. Their knowledge and discoveries were of great use to me in my present task. The second way of getting the knowledge I needed was slow and unsatisfactory. Besides, I had a deep dislike of the idea of doing my loathsome work in my father’s house. I would be living in close daily contact with those I loved. I knew that a thousand fearful accidents might happen. The smallest of them would reveal a tale that would fill everyone connected with me with horror. I also knew that I would often lose all self-control. I would not be able to hide the terrible feelings that would take hold of me during my unearthly work. I must keep away from all I loved while I was doing it. Once it was begun, it would soon be done, and I might return to my family in peace and happiness. When I had kept my promise, the monster would leave for ever. Or perhaps (so my foolish hope imagined) some accident would meanwhile destroy him and end my slavery for ever. These feelings decided my answer to my father. I said that I wished to visit England. I hid the true reasons for this request. I dressed up my wish so that it caused no suspicion. I spoke so earnestly that my father easily agreed. For so long I had been lost in a deep melancholy, which was like madness in its force and effects. So he was glad to find that I could take pleasure in the idea of such a journey. He hoped that a change of scene and different amusements would make me fully myself again before I returned. I was left to choose how long I would be away. A few months, or at most a year, was the time that we had in mind. My father had taken one kind, fatherly precaution to be sure that I had a companion. He had not told me first. Together with Elizabeth, he had arranged that Clerval should join me at Strasburgh. This interfered with the solitude that I wanted for my task. Yet at the start of my journey my friend’s company could not get in my way. Truly I was glad that I would be saved many hours of lonely, maddening thought. Indeed, Henry might stand between me and my enemy. If I were alone, would he not sometimes force his hated presence on me? He might come to remind me of my task or to see how it was going. So I was bound for England, and it was understood that my union with Elizabeth would take place immediately on my return. My father’s age made him very unwilling to wait. I promised myself one reward for my hated toils. It was one comfort for my unequalled sufferings. It was the thought of that day when I would be free from my miserable slavery. Then I could claim Elizabeth and forget the past in my union with her. I now made my arrangements for the journey. But one feeling haunted me and filled me with fear and worry. During my absence I would leave my friends unaware of the existence of their enemy. They would have no protection from his attacks. He might be angry because I was going away. But he had promised to follow me wherever I went. Would he not go with me to England? This thought was dreadful in itself. Yet it was comforting in one way, because it meant that my friends were safe. I was in agony at the idea that the opposite might happen. But all the time that I was the slave of my creature, I let myself be ruled by the feelings of the moment. My present feelings strongly told me that the fiend would follow me. They told me that my family would be spared the danger of his plots. It was in the latter end of September that I again left my native country. The journey had been my own idea, so Elizabeth agreed to it. But she was full of worry. She thought of me suffering misery and grief, away from her. She had taken care to give me a companion in Clerval. And yet a man is blind to a thousand small things that call for a woman’s careful attention. She longed to tell me to hurry back. A thousand conflicting feelings made her silent as she said goodbye to me in tears. I threw myself into the carriage that was to carry me away. I hardly knew where I was going, and I did not care what was passing around me. I remembered only one thing, and I thought of it with bitter anguish. I remembered to order that my chemical instruments should be packed to go with me. My head was full of dreary thoughts. I passed through many beautiful and majestic scenes, but my eyes were fixed and saw nothing. I could only think of where my travels would end and of the work that would fill my time there. I spent some days in listless idleness, and I travelled many leagues. Then I arrived at Strasburgh, where I waited two days for Clerval. He came. Alas, how great was the difference between us! He was alive to every new scene. He was joyful when he saw the beauty of the setting sun. He was happier still when he saw it rise and begin a new day. He pointed out to me the changing colours of the landscape and the shapes in the sky. “This is what it is to live,” he cried. “Now I enjoy existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein, why are you so low and sorrowful?” In truth my mind was full of gloomy thoughts. I did not see the evening star go down. I did not see the golden sunrise reflected in the Rhine. And you, my friend, would be far more amused by the journal of Clerval than by my reflections. He looked at the scenery with an eye full of feeling and delight. I was a miserable wretch, haunted by a curse that shut every road to enjoyment. We had agreed to go down the Rhine in a boat from Strasburgh to Rotterdam. From there we could take a ship to London. During this voyage we passed many islands covered with willows, and we saw several beautiful towns. We stayed a day at Mannheim. On the fifth day after we left Strasburgh, we arrived at Mainz. Below Mainz the Rhine becomes much more picturesque. The river runs down fast and winds between hills. They are not high, but they are steep, and they have beautiful shapes. We saw many ruined castles standing on the edges of cliffs, surrounded by black woods, high and impossible to reach. This part of the Rhine has a landscape of strangely mixed kinds. In one place you see rough hills and ruined castles. They look down on terrible precipices, with the dark Rhine rushing below. Then you turn a corner round a headland. Suddenly the scene is filled with flourishing vineyards, green sloping banks, a winding river and busy towns. We travelled at the time of the vintage. We heard the song of the labourers as we glided down the stream. Even I was pleased, although my mind was low and my spirits were always disturbed by gloomy feelings. I lay at the bottom of the boat and looked up at the cloudless blue sky. I seemed to drink in a peace that had long been a stranger to me. If these were my feelings, who can describe those of Henry? He felt as if he had been carried to fairyland. He enjoyed a happiness that few men taste. “I have seen,” he said, “the most beautiful scenes of my own country. I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri. There the snowy mountains go down almost straight to the water. They throw black shadows that nothing can pass through. They would make the lakes look gloomy and sad, if it were not for the green islands. Those islands rest the eye by their gay look. I have seen this lake stirred up by a storm. The wind tore up whirlwinds of water. It gave you an idea of what the water-spout must be on the great ocean. The waves beat with fury at the foot of the mountain. There the priest and his mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche. People say that their dying voices can still be heard in the pauses of the night wind. I have seen the mountains of La Valais and the Pays de Vaud. But this country, Victor, pleases me more than all those wonders. The mountains of Switzerland are more majestic and strange. But there is a charm in the banks of this divine river that I never saw equalled. Look at that castle that hangs over that cliff. Look at that one on the island, almost hidden among the leaves of those lovely trees. Now look at that group of labourers coming from among their vines. See that village half hidden in a hollow of the mountain. Oh, surely the spirit that lives in this place and guards it has a soul more in harmony with man. The spirits of our own country are different. They pile up the glacier or retire to the peaks of the mountains, where no one can reach them.” Clerval! Beloved friend! Even now it delights me to write down your words. It delights me to dwell on the praise that you so well deserve. He was a being formed in the “very poetry of nature.” His wild and enthusiastic imagination was made gentler by the feeling of his heart. His soul overflowed with warm affections. His friendship was so devoted and so wonderful. Worldly people teach us to look for such friendship only in the imagination. But even human sympathies were not enough to satisfy his eager mind. Others look at the scenery of outer nature only with admiration. He loved it with passion. The sounding cataract Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colours and their forms, were then to him An appetite; a feeling, and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrow’d from the eye. \[Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey”.\] And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost for ever? His mind was full of ideas and of rich, magnificent imaginings. They made a world whose existence depended on the life of its creator. Has this mind perished? Does it now only exist in my memory? No, it is not so. Your form, so divinely made and shining with beauty, has decayed. But your spirit still visits and comforts your unhappy friend. Forgive this rush of sorrow. These useless words are only a small tribute to the unequalled worth of Henry. But they soothe my heart, which overflows with the anguish that his memory brings. I will go on with my tale. Beyond Cologne we went down to the plains of Holland. We decided to travel the rest of our way by post. The wind was against us, and the stream of the river was too gentle to help us. Here our journey lost the interest of beautiful scenery. But in a few days we arrived at Rotterdam, and from there we went by sea to England. It was on a clear morning that I first saw the white cliffs of Britain. It was in the latter days of December. The banks of the Thames showed a new scene. They were flat but fertile. Almost every town was marked by the memory of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort and remembered the Spanish Armada. We saw Gravesend, Woolwich and Greenwich. I had heard of these places even in my own country. At last we saw the many steeples of London. St. Paul’s towered above them all, and so did the Tower, famous in English history. ### Glossary - **melancholy**: deep, lasting sadness. - **listless**: without energy or interest in anything. - **precipices**: very steep cliffs. - **headland**: a point of high land that sticks out into the water. - **vintage**: the time of year when grapes are picked. - **avalanche**: a mass of snow and ice that falls down a mountain. - **mistress**: here, a woman whom a man loves but is not married to. - **cataract**: a large waterfall. - **post**: a system of coaches and horses that carry travellers from station to station. ## Chapter 19 London was the place where we stopped to rest. We decided to stay several months in this wonderful and famous city. Clerval wanted to meet the men of genius and talent who lived there at that time. For me this was less important. My main concern was to get the knowledge I needed to keep my promise. So I quickly used the letters of introduction that I had brought with me. They were addressed to the most famous natural philosophers. If this journey had come in my days of study and happiness, it would have given me pleasure beyond words. But a blight had come over my life. I visited these people only for the information they might give me. It was about the subject in which my interest was so terribly deep. Company tired me. When I was alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth. The voice of Henry calmed me, and so I could fool myself into a short peace. But busy, dull, cheerful faces brought despair back to my heart. I saw a wall between me and other people, and I could not pass it. This wall was sealed with the blood of William and Justine. To think about the events connected with those names filled my soul with pain. But in Clerval I saw the picture of my former self. He was curious and eager to gain experience and to learn. The differences in manners that he saw gave him endless lessons and fun. He was also working on a plan that he had had for a long time. He wanted to visit India. He believed that he knew its many languages and had studied its society. With this knowledge he could greatly help the progress of European colonization and trade. Only in Britain could he carry out his plan. He was always busy. The only thing that spoiled his pleasure was my sad and low mood. I tried to hide this as much as I could. I did not want to take away the pleasures that are natural to a man starting a new part of his life. He had no worry or bitter memory to disturb him. I often refused to go out with him, saying that I had another appointment, so that I could stay alone. I now also began to collect the materials for my new creation. This was to me like the torture of single drops of water falling again and again on the head. Every thought about it was extreme pain. Every word I said about it made my lips shake and my heart beat fast. After some months in London, we received a letter from a man in Scotland. He had once visited us at Geneva. He wrote about the beauties of his native country. He asked whether these were not reason enough to make us continue our journey as far north as Perth, where he lived. Clerval wanted very much to accept this invitation. And I, although I hated company, wished to see mountains and streams again. I wished to see all the wonderful works with which Nature decorates her favourite places to live. We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now February. So we decided to begin our journey north after another month. On this trip we did not plan to take the great road to Edinburgh. We would visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock and the Cumberland lakes. We decided to finish this tour about the end of July. I packed my chemical instruments and the materials I had collected. I planned to finish my work in some hidden corner of the northern highlands of Scotland. We left London on the 27th of March. We stayed a few days at Windsor, walking in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene to us, who came from the mountains. The great oaks, the many wild animals and the herds of stately deer were all new to us. From there we went to Oxford. Our minds were full of memories as we entered this city. Great events had happened there more than a century and a half before. Here Charles I. had gathered his army. The city had stayed loyal to him. By then the whole nation had left his cause to join the banner of Parliament and liberty. We remembered that unlucky king and his companions. This gave a special interest to every part of the city where they might have lived. His companions were the kind Falkland, the rude Goring, his queen and his son. The spirit of older days lived here, and we enjoyed following its footsteps. Even if these feelings had found no pleasure in our imagination, the city itself was beautiful enough to win our admiration. The colleges are old and picturesque. The streets are almost magnificent. The lovely Isis flows beside the city through meadows of rich green. It spreads out into a calm stretch of water. This water reflects the grand group of towers, spires and domes, set among old trees. I enjoyed this scene, and yet my enjoyment was made bitter by the memory of the past and the fear of the future. I was made for peaceful happiness. In my young days I was never discontented. If boredom ever overcame me, I could always find interest in the beauty of nature. The study of what is excellent and noble in the works of man could also lift my spirits. But I am a blasted tree. The lightning bolt has entered my soul. I felt then that I would live on to show what I will soon cease to be. I would be a miserable sight of ruined humanity, pitiful to others and unbearable to myself. We spent a long time at Oxford. We walked around its surroundings and tried to find every place connected with the most exciting time in English history. Our little voyages of discovery were often made longer by the new things that we met one after another. We visited the tomb of the famous Hampden and the field where that patriot fell. For a moment my soul was lifted out of its low and miserable fears. I thought about the divine ideas of liberty and self-sacrifice. These sights were monuments to those ideas and reminders of them. For an instant I dared to shake off my chains and look around me with a free and noble spirit. But the iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self. We left Oxford with regret and went on to Matlock, our next place of rest. The country near this village looked more like Switzerland. But everything is on a smaller scale. The green hills lack the crown of far-off white Alps that always stands behind the pine mountains of my native country. We visited the wonderful cave and the little cabinets of natural history. The curiosities there are arranged in the same way as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix. The last name made me tremble when Henry said it. I hurried to leave Matlock, which was linked in this way with that terrible scene. From Derby, still travelling north, we spent two months in Cumberland and Westmorland. Now I could almost imagine myself among the Swiss mountains. Small patches of snow still lay on the northern sides of the mountains. I saw the lakes and heard the rush of the rocky streams. All these were familiar and dear sights to me. Here we also made some acquaintances, who almost managed to fool me into happiness. Clerval's delight was greater than mine. His mind grew in the company of talented men. He found greater abilities and resources in his own nature. He had not imagined that he had them while he mixed with people less gifted than himself. "I could pass my life here," he said to me. "Among these mountains I would hardly miss Switzerland and the Rhine." But he found that a traveller's life holds much pain among its pleasures. His feelings are always stretched. When he begins to sink into rest, he has to leave what he enjoys for something new. That new thing takes his attention, and then he leaves it too for other novelties. We had hardly visited the various lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland. We had hardly grown fond of some of the people. Then the time of our appointment with our Scotch friend came near, and we left them to travel on. For my part I was not sorry. I had neglected my promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the demon's disappointment. He might stay in Switzerland and take his revenge on my relatives. This idea followed me and tormented me at every moment. At those moments I might otherwise have found rest and peace. I waited for my letters with feverish impatience. If they were late, I was miserable and overcome by a thousand fears. When they came, I saw the handwriting of Elizabeth or my father on the outside. Then I hardly dared to read it and learn my fate. Sometimes I thought that the fiend followed me. I thought he might hurry my slowness by murdering my companion. When these thoughts took hold of me, I would not leave Henry for a moment. I followed him like his shadow, to protect him from the imagined rage of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great crime, and the knowledge of it haunted me. I was guiltless. But I had truly brought a horrible curse on my head, and it was as deadly as a crime. I visited Edinburgh with tired eyes and a tired mind. And yet that city might have interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it as much as Oxford, because he liked the great age of Oxford better. But the new town of Edinburgh has beauty and order. It has a romantic castle and surroundings that are the most delightful in the world. There are Arthur's Seat, St. Bernard's Well and the Pentland Hills. These made up for the change and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration. But I was impatient to arrive at the end of my journey. We left Edinburgh in a week. We passed through Coupar and St. Andrew's, and along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers. I could not enter into their feelings and plans with the good humour that a guest should show. So I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland alone. "You," I said, "enjoy yourself, and let this be our meeting place. I may be away for a month or two. But do not interfere with my movements, I beg you. Leave me to peace and solitude for a short time. When I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more like your own." Henry wished to talk me out of it. But he saw that I was set on this plan, and he stopped arguing. He begged me to write often. "I would rather be with you," he said, "on your lonely walks, than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know. So hurry back, my dear friend. Then I can feel somewhat at home again, which I cannot do when you are away." After I left my friend, I decided to visit some remote place in Scotland and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt that the monster followed me. I thought he would show himself to me when I had finished, so that he could receive his companion. With this decision I crossed the northern highlands. I chose one of the farthest of the Orkneys as the place for my work. It was a place fit for such work. It was hardly more than a rock, and the waves beat all the time on its high sides. The soil was barren. It hardly gave grass for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for the people who lived there. They were five persons, and their thin, bony limbs showed their miserable food. Vegetables and bread, when they allowed themselves such luxuries, had to be fetched from the mainland. Even fresh water had to be fetched from there. The mainland was about five miles away. On the whole island there were only three miserable huts, and one of them was empty when I arrived. I hired this one. It had only two rooms, and these showed all the dirt of the deepest poverty. The thatch had fallen in, the walls had no plaster, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture and moved in. This would surely have caused some surprise. But the feelings of the cottagers were made dull by hunger and dirty poverty. So I lived without being stared at or disturbed. They hardly thanked me for the small amount of food and clothes that I gave. So much does suffering dull even the coarsest feelings of men. In this hiding place I spent the morning working. In the evening, when the weather allowed, I walked on the stony beach of the sea. I listened to the waves as they roared and crashed at my feet. It was a scene that never changed in its nature, yet was always changing. I thought of Switzerland. It was very different from this empty and frightening landscape. Its hills are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly over the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky. The winds sometimes trouble them. Even then their noise is only like the play of a lively baby, compared to the roaring of the giant ocean. I divided my time like this when I first arrived. But as my work went on, it became every day more horrible and tiresome to me. Sometimes I could not make myself enter my laboratory for several days. At other times I worked day and night to finish my work. It was truly a filthy process. During my first experiment, a kind of wild, enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my work. My mind was fixed on finishing it, and my eyes were closed to the horror of what I did. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often turned sick at the work of my hands. I was busy with the most hateful work. I lived in a solitude where nothing could for a moment turn my attention away from my work. My spirits became uneven, and I grew restless and nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground. I was afraid to raise them, in case they met the thing that I so much dreaded to see. I feared to go away from the sight of other people. When I was alone, he might come to claim his companion. Meanwhile I worked on, and my work was already well advanced. I looked towards its end with a trembling and eager hope. I did not dare to question this hope. But it was mixed with vague fears of evil that made my heart sick in my chest. ### Glossary - **letters of introduction**: letters that a person carries to be introduced to important people in another place - **natural philosophers**: the scientists of that time - **blight**: a disease that kills a plant - **colonization**: the settling of a foreign land by people from another country - **blasted tree**: a tree destroyed by lightning - **thatch**: a roof made of dry straw - **highlands**: the mountain area in the north of Scotland - **oatmeal**: a simple food made from crushed oats - **in cold blood**: calmly, without the strong feelings I had at first - **frenzy**: wild, uncontrolled excitement ## Chapter 20 One evening I sat in my laboratory. The sun had set, and the moon was just rising from the sea. I did not have enough light for my work, and I sat idle. I was thinking about whether to leave my work for the night. Or should I hurry to finish it, by working without a pause? As I sat there, a line of thoughts came to me. It made me think about the effects of what I was now doing. Three years before, I had been busy in the same way, and I had created a fiend. His unequalled cruelty had laid waste my heart and filled it for ever with the bitterest remorse. Now I was about to make another being. I knew nothing about her character, just as I had known nothing about his. She might become ten thousand times more evil than her mate. She might enjoy murder and misery for their own sake. He had sworn to leave the neighbourhood of man and hide in deserts. But she had not sworn this. She would probably become a thinking animal that could reason. She might refuse to keep an agreement made before she was created. They might even hate each other. The creature who already lived hated his own ugly body. Might he not hate it even more when he saw it before his eyes in the form of a female? She might also turn away from him in disgust, to the greater beauty of man. She might leave him, and he would again be alone. He would be furious at this new insult, being deserted by one of his own kind. Even if they were to leave Europe and live in the deserts of the new world, there would be a result. One of the first results of the sympathy that the demon thirsted for would be children. A race of devils would spread over the earth. They might make the very existence of the human species uncertain and full of terror. Did I have the right to put this curse on all future generations, just for my own benefit? Before, I had been moved by the clever false arguments of the being I had created. I had been struck senseless by his fiendish threats. But now, for the first time, I saw the wickedness of my promise. It burst upon me. I shuddered to think that future ages might curse me as their plague. My selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace. The price might be the existence of the whole human race. I trembled and my heart failed me. I looked up and saw the demon at the window, by the light of the moon. A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he looked at me. I sat there doing the task that he had given me. Yes, he had followed me on my travels. He had loitered in forests, hidden in caves, or taken refuge in wide, empty heaths. And now he had come to see my progress and to claim that I keep my promise. As I looked at him, his face showed the greatest malice and treachery. I thought, with a feeling of madness, of my promise to make another like him. Trembling with passion, I tore to pieces the thing I was working on. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for happiness. With a howl of devilish despair and revenge, he withdrew. I left the room. I locked the door and made a solemn vow in my own heart never to begin my work again. Then, with trembling steps, I went to my own room. I was alone. No one was near me to drive away the gloom and free me from the sickening weight of the most terrible dark thoughts. Several hours passed, and I stayed near my window, looking at the sea. It was almost motionless, for the winds were quiet, and all nature rested under the eye of the quiet moon. Only a few fishing vessels dotted the water. Now and then the gentle breeze carried the sound of voices as the fishermen called to one another. I felt the silence, although I was hardly aware how deep it was. Then my ear was suddenly caught by the sound of oars paddling near the shore. A person landed close to my house. A few minutes later I heard my door creak, as if someone tried to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot. I had a feeling of who it was. I wished to wake one of the peasants who lived in a cottage not far from mine. But I was overcome by the feeling of helplessness that we often feel in frightening dreams. In such dreams you try in vain to flee from a coming danger. I was rooted to the spot. Soon I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage. The door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. He shut the door and came near me. He said in a muffled voice, "You have destroyed the work that you began. What do you intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have suffered hard work and misery. I left Switzerland with you. I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among its willow islands and over the tops of its hills. I have lived many months in the heaths of England and among the deserts of Scotland. I have suffered endless tiredness, and cold, and hunger. Do you dare to destroy my hopes?" "Go away! I do break my promise. Never will I create another like you, equal in ugliness and wickedness." "Slave, I reasoned with you before, but you have shown that you do not deserve my kindness. Remember that I have power. You believe you are miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your master. Obey!" "The hour of my doubt is past, and the time of your power has come to its end. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness. But they make me more sure that I will not create a companion for you in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set loose on the earth a demon whose delight is in death and misery? Go away! I am firm, and your words will only make my rage worse." The monster saw my determination in my face and gnashed his teeth in helpless anger. "Shall each man," he cried, "find a wife to hold, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were paid back with hatred and scorn. Man! You may hate, but beware! Your hours will pass in fear and misery. Soon the blow will fall that will tear your happiness from you for ever. Are you to be happy while I crawl in the depth of my misery? You can destroy my other passions, but revenge remains. Revenge is from now on dearer to me than light or food! I may die, but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that looks on your misery. Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful. I will watch with the cunning of a snake, so that I may sting with its poison. Man, you shall be sorry for the injuries you cause." "Devil, stop! Do not poison the air with these sounds of malice. I have told you my decision, and I am no coward to bend beneath words. Leave me. I will never change my mind." "It is well. I go. But remember, I shall be with you on your wedding-night." I started forward and cried, "Villain! Before you sign my death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe." I would have seized him, but he escaped me and left the house in great haste. A few moments later I saw him in his boat. It shot across the water as fast as an arrow and was soon lost among the waves. All was silent again, but his words rang in my ears. I burned with rage to chase him, the murderer of my peace, and throw him into the ocean. I walked up and down my room, hurried and disturbed. My imagination called up a thousand pictures to torment and sting me. Why had I not followed him and fought him to the death? But I had let him go, and he had gone towards the mainland. I shuddered to think who might be his next victim, sacrificed to his endless revenge. And then I thought again of his words: "*I will be with you on your wedding-night.*" That, then, was the time fixed for the end of my life. In that hour I would die, and at once satisfy and end his malice. This did not make me afraid. But I thought of my beloved Elizabeth, of her tears and endless sorrow, when she would find her lover so cruelly torn from her. Then tears streamed from my eyes, the first I had shed for many months. And I decided not to fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle. The night passed, and the sun rose from the ocean. My feelings became calmer, if it can be called calmness when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrible scene of the last night's fight. I walked on the beach of the sea. I almost thought of it as a barrier between me and other people that nobody could cross. In fact, I began to wish that it would prove to be so. I wished I could spend my life on that barren rock. It would be tiring, it is true, but no sudden shock of misery would interrupt it. If I returned, I would be sacrificed. Or I would see those I loved most die in the grip of a demon. I had created that demon myself. I walked around the island like a restless ghost, separated from all that it loved and miserable in the separation. When it became noon and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass. A deep sleep overpowered me. I had been awake the whole of the night before. My nerves were disturbed, and my eyes were sore from watching and misery. The sleep I now sank into refreshed me. When I woke, I again felt that I belonged to a race of human beings like myself. I began to think about what had happened with greater calm. Yet the words of the fiend still rang in my ears like the bell for the dead. They seemed like a dream, yet they were clear and heavy like reality. The sun had gone far down, and I still sat on the shore. I was satisfying my hunger, which had become very great, with an oaten cake. Then I saw a fishing-boat land close to me. One of the men brought me a packet. It contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval begging me to join him. He said that he was wasting his time where he was. He had made friends in London. Their letters asked him to return. They wanted to finish the talks they had started for his Indian enterprise. He could not delay his departure any longer. But his journey to London might be followed, even sooner than he now guessed, by his longer voyage. So he begged me to give him as much of my company as I could spare. He asked me, therefore, to leave my lonely isle and meet him at Perth, so that we could go south together. This letter in some way called me back to life. I decided to leave my island after two days. Yet, before I left, there was a task to do, and I shuddered to think of it. I had to pack my chemical instruments. For that I had to enter the room that had been the scene of my hateful work. I had to handle those tools, and the sight of them made me sick. The next morning, at daybreak, I found enough courage and unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished creature that I had destroyed lay scattered on the floor. I almost felt as if I had torn the living flesh of a human being. I paused to collect myself and then entered the room. With a trembling hand I carried the instruments out. But I thought I should not leave the remains of my work for the peasants to find. They would feel horror and suspicion. So I put the remains into a basket, with a great quantity of stones. I put it away, deciding to throw it into the sea that very night. In the meantime I sat on the beach, busy cleaning and arranging my chemical apparatus. Nothing could be more complete than the change in my feelings since the night the demon appeared. Before, I had looked on my promise with gloomy despair, as something that must be kept, whatever the consequences. But now I felt as if a film had been taken from before my eyes, and for the first time I saw clearly. The idea of starting my work again did not occur to me for one moment. The threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts. But I did not think that an act of my own free will could prevent it. I had decided that to create another like the first fiend would be the lowest and most terrible selfishness. I banished from my mind every thought that could lead to a different conclusion. Between two and three in the morning the moon rose. I put my basket aboard a little boat and sailed out about four miles from the shore. The scene was perfectly solitary. A few boats were returning towards land, but I sailed away from them. I felt as if I was about to commit a dreadful crime. I avoided, with shuddering fear, any meeting with other people. At one time the moon, which had been clear, was suddenly covered by a thick cloud. I used the moment of darkness and threw my basket into the sea. I listened to the gurgling sound as it sank, and then I sailed away from the spot. The sky became cloudy, but the air was pure, although chilled by the northeast breeze that was then rising. But it refreshed me and filled me with such pleasant feelings that I decided to stay longer on the water. I fixed the rudder straight and stretched myself out at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the moon, and everything was dark. I heard only the sound of the boat as it cut through the waves. The murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly. I do not know how long I stayed like this. When I woke, the sun had already risen high. The wind was strong, and the waves kept threatening the safety of my little boat. I found that the wind was from the northeast. It must have driven me far from the coast I had left. I tried to change my course. But I quickly found that if I tried again, the boat would at once fill with water. In this situation my only choice was to drive before the wind. I confess that I felt some terror. I had no compass with me. I knew very little about the geography of this part of the world. So the sun was of little use to me. I might be driven into the wide Atlantic and feel all the tortures of starvation. Or I might be swallowed up in the endless waters that roared and beat around me. I had already been out many hours. I felt the torment of a burning thirst, the beginning of my other sufferings. I looked at the heavens, which were covered by clouds. They flew before the wind, only to be replaced by others. I looked at the sea. It was to be my grave. "Fiend," I cried, "your task is already done!" I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval, all left behind. The monster might satisfy his bloody and merciless passions on them. This idea plunged me into a dream so despairing and frightful that I shudder to think of it even now. Now the scene is about to close before me for ever. Some hours passed like this. But little by little, as the sun went down towards the horizon, the wind died into a gentle breeze. The sea became free from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell. I felt sick and could hardly hold the rudder. Then suddenly I saw a line of high land towards the south. I was almost worn out by tiredness and the dreadful uncertainty that I had suffered for several hours. This sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes. How changeable our feelings are, and how strange is the clinging love of life that we have, even in the worst misery! I made another sail with a part of my clothes and eagerly steered my course towards the land. It looked wild and rocky. But as I came nearer, I easily saw signs of farming. I saw ships near the shore. I found myself suddenly carried back to the neighbourhood of civilised man. I carefully followed the windings of the land. At last I greeted a steeple that I saw coming out from behind a small point of land. I was extremely weak. So I decided to sail straight towards the town, as the place where I could most easily get food. Fortunately I had money with me. As I turned the point, I saw a small neat town and a good harbour. I entered it, my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected escape. As I was busy fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several people crowded towards the spot. They seemed very surprised at my appearance. But instead of offering me help, they whispered together and made gestures. At any other time these might have alarmed me slightly. As it was, I only noticed that they spoke English, and so I spoke to them in that language. "My good friends," I said, "will you be so kind as to tell me the name of this town and tell me where I am?" "You will know that soon enough," replied a man with a hoarse voice. "Maybe you have come to a place that you will not much like. But you will not be asked about your lodgings, I promise you." I was very surprised to receive such a rude answer from a stranger. I was also upset to see the frowning and angry faces of his companions. "Why do you answer me so roughly?" I replied. "Surely it is not the custom of Englishmen to receive strangers so unkindly." "I do not know," said the man, "what the custom of the English may be. But it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains." While this strange talk went on, I saw the crowd quickly grow. Their faces showed a mixture of curiosity and anger. This annoyed me and alarmed me a little. I asked the way to the inn, but no one answered. Then I moved forward. A murmuring sound rose from the crowd as they followed me and surrounded me. An ill-looking man came up, tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Come, sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kirwin's to give an account of yourself." "Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why must I give an account of myself? Is this not a free country?" "Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate. You are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was found murdered here last night." This answer startled me, but I soon recovered. I was innocent. That could easily be proved. So I followed my guide in silence and was led to one of the best houses in the town. I was ready to sink from tiredness and hunger. But the crowd surrounded me, and I thought it wise to gather all my strength. No bodily weakness should be taken for fear or a feeling of guilt. Little did I expect the disaster that in a few moments would overwhelm me. It would destroy in horror and despair all fear of shame or death. I must pause here. It needs all my courage to call to mind the frightful events that I am about to tell in proper detail. ### Glossary - **fiend**: an evil spirit; here, the monster - **heaths**: wide, wild open lands with few trees - **vow**: a very serious promise - **tyrant**: a cruel ruler who has power over others - **death-warrant**: an official paper that orders someone's death - **rudder**: the part at the back of a boat that is used to steer it - **breakers**: big waves that break into white foam - **swell**: long, heavy waves that rise and fall on the sea - **apparatus**: the set of tools and machines used for an experiment - **magistrate**: a local judge ## Chapter 21 Soon I was brought before the magistrate. He was an old, kind man with calm and gentle manners. But he looked at me with some severity. Then he turned to the men who had brought me and asked who would speak as witnesses on this occasion. About half a dozen men came forward. The magistrate chose one of them, and he gave his evidence. He said that he had been out fishing the night before with his son and his brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent. At about ten o'clock they saw that a strong north wind was rising, and so they went back towards port. It was a very dark night, because the moon had not yet risen. They did not land at the harbour. As usual, they landed at a creek about two miles below it. He walked on first, carrying some of the fishing gear. His companions followed him at some distance. As he was walking along the sand, his foot hit something, and he fell full length on the ground. His companions came up to help him. By the light of their lantern they saw that he had fallen on the body of a man. The man seemed to be dead. At first they thought it was the body of some drowned person, thrown on the shore by the waves. But when they looked closer, they found that the clothes were not wet. They found even that the body was not yet cold. They carried it at once to the cottage of an old woman near the spot. They tried to bring it back to life, but in vain. It seemed to be a handsome young man, about twenty-five years old. He had apparently been strangled. There was no sign of any violence except the black mark of fingers on his neck. The first part of this evidence did not interest me at all. But when the mark of fingers was mentioned, I remembered the murder of my brother. I felt extremely disturbed. My limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes. I had to lean on a chair for support. The magistrate watched me with a sharp eye. Of course he took my manner as a bad sign. The son agreed with his father's account. But when Daniel Nugent was called, he swore firmly that he had seen a boat just before his companion fell. There was a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore. As far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was the same boat in which I had just landed. A woman said that she lived near the beach. She was standing at the door of her cottage, waiting for the fishermen to return. This was about an hour before she heard about the finding of the body. She saw a boat with only one man in it push off from that part of the shore where the corpse was found afterwards. Another woman agreed that the fishermen had brought the body into her house. It was not cold. They put it into a bed and rubbed it. Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite gone. Several other men were questioned about my landing. They agreed that a strong north wind had risen during the night. So it was very likely that I had been tossed about for many hours. I had been forced to return nearly to the same spot I had left. Besides, they said it seemed that I had brought the body from another place. I did not seem to know the shore. So I might have come into the harbour without knowing how far the town of —— was from the place where I had left the corpse. Mr. Kirwin heard this evidence. Then he asked that I be taken into the room where the body lay waiting for burial. He wanted to see what effect the sight would have on me. This idea probably came from the great agitation I had shown when the way of the murder was described. So the magistrate and several other persons took me to the inn. I could not help being struck by the strange coincidences of this eventful night. But at about the time the body was found, I had been talking with several persons on the island where I lived. So I was perfectly calm about the result of the affair. I entered the room where the corpse lay, and I was led up to the coffin. How can I describe my feelings when I saw it? My mouth is still dry with horror. I cannot think about that terrible moment without shuddering and pain. The examination, the magistrate and the witnesses, all passed from my memory like a dream. I saw the lifeless body of Henry Clerval stretched out before me. I gasped for breath. I threw myself on the body and cried, "Have my murderous plots taken your life too, my dearest Henry? I have already destroyed two. Other victims wait for their fate. But you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor—" The human body could no longer bear the pain I suffered, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions. A fever followed. I lay for two months at the point of death. My ravings, as I heard afterwards, were frightful. I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine and of Clerval. Sometimes I begged those who looked after me to help me destroy the fiend who tormented me. At other times I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and I screamed aloud with pain and terror. Fortunately I spoke my native language, and only Mr. Kirwin understood me. But my gestures and bitter cries were enough to frighten the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than any man ever was, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their loving parents. How many brides and young lovers are in the bloom of health and hope one day! The next day they are a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! What was I made of, that I could resist so many shocks? They continually renewed the torture, like the turning of a wheel. But I was doomed to live. In two months I found myself, as if waking from a dream, in a prison. I was stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by jailers, turnkeys, bolts and all the miserable equipment of a dungeon. I remember it was morning when I woke to understanding. I had forgotten the details of what had happened. I only felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me. But I looked around and saw the barred windows and the dirt of the room where I was. Then all flashed across my memory, and I groaned bitterly. This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys. Her face showed all those bad qualities that often mark that kind of person. The lines of her face were hard and rude. They were like those of people who are used to seeing misery without pity. Her tone showed that she did not care at all. She spoke to me in English, and her voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings. "Are you better now, sir?" she said. I answered in the same language, in a weak voice. "I believe I am. But if it is all true, if I really did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror." "For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe it would be better for you if you were dead. I fancy it will go hard with you! However, that's none of my business. I am sent to nurse you and get you well. I do my duty with a safe conscience. It would be good if everybody did the same." I turned away with disgust from the woman who could say such an unfeeling thing to a person just saved from the edge of death. But I felt weak and unable to think about all that had passed. My whole life seemed to me like a dream. Sometimes I doubted if it was all true. It never came to my mind with the force of reality. As the images that floated before me became clearer, I grew feverish. A darkness pressed around me. No one was near me to soothe me with the gentle voice of love. No dear hand held me up. The physician came and ordered medicines, and the old woman prepared them for me. But I could see complete carelessness in the first, and a look of cruelty in the face of the second. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer, except the hangman who would earn his fee? These were my first thoughts. But I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had shown me great kindness. He had had the best room in the prison prepared for me. (The best was wretched indeed.) It was he who had provided a physician and a nurse. It is true that he seldom came to see me. He ardently wished to relieve the suffering of every human creature. But he did not wish to be present at the agony and miserable ravings of a murderer. So he sometimes came to see that I was not neglected. But his visits were short, with long gaps between. One day, while I was slowly recovering, I sat in a chair. My eyes were half open, and my cheeks were livid like those in death. I was overcome by gloom and misery. I often thought that I had better seek death. I did not want to stay in a world so full of misery for me. At one time I thought about whether I should declare myself guilty and suffer the punishment of the law. I would be less innocent than poor Justine had been. These were my thoughts when the door of my room opened and Mr. Kirwin came in. His face showed sympathy and pity. He drew a chair close to mine and spoke to me in French. "I fear that this place is very shocking to you. Can I do anything to make you more comfortable?" "I thank you, but all that you mention is nothing to me. On the whole earth there is no comfort that I am able to receive." "I know that the sympathy of a stranger gives little relief. You are weighed down by such a strange misfortune. But I hope you will soon leave this sad place. Surely evidence can easily be found to free you from the criminal charge." "That is my least concern. By a course of strange events I have become the most miserable of men. I am persecuted and tortured, as I am and have been. Can death be any evil to me?" "Nothing could be more unfortunate and painful than the strange chances that have lately happened. By some surprising accident you were thrown on this shore, which is famous for its hospitality. You were seized at once and charged with murder. The first thing you saw was the body of your friend. He had been murdered in such an unexplained way. It was placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path." As Mr. Kirwin said this, I felt great pain as I looked back on my sufferings. But I also felt considerable surprise at what he seemed to know about me. I suppose some astonishment showed on my face, for Mr. Kirwin hurried to say, "As soon as you were taken ill, all the papers that were on you were brought to me. I looked at them to find some trace of your relations. I wanted to tell them about your misfortune and illness. I found several letters. Among them was one that I saw, from its beginning, was from your father. I wrote at once to Geneva. Nearly two months have passed since my letter left. But you are ill. Even now you tremble. You are not fit for any kind of excitement." "This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event. Tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I must now mourn?" "Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin gently. "And someone, a friend, has come to visit you." I do not know by what chain of thought the idea came to me. But it flashed into my mind at once that the murderer had come to mock at my misery. He wanted to taunt me with the death of Clerval. It was a new push for me to give in to his hellish wishes. I put my hand before my eyes and cried out in pain, "Oh! Take him away! I cannot see him. For God's sake, do not let him enter!" Mr. Kirwin looked at me with a troubled face. He could not help taking my cry as a sign of my guilt. He said in rather a severe tone, "I should have thought, young man, that you would be glad to have your father here. Instead you show such violent dislike." "My father!" I cried, while every feature and every muscle relaxed from pain to pleasure. "Is my father really come? How kind, how very kind! But where is he? Why does he not hurry to me?" My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate. Perhaps he thought that my first cry was a short return of delirium. Now he at once became kind again. He rose and left the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father came in. Nothing at this moment could have given me greater pleasure than my father's arrival. I stretched out my hand to him and cried, "Are you safe then? And Elizabeth? And Ernest?" My father calmed me with news that they were well. He tried to raise my low spirits by talking of these subjects so dear to my heart. But he soon felt that a prison cannot be a place of cheerfulness. "What a place this is that you live in, my son!" he said, looking sadly at the barred windows and the wretched look of the room. "You travelled to seek happiness, but some fate seems to follow you. And poor Clerval—" The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was too much for me to bear in my weak state. I shed tears. "Alas! Yes, my father," I replied. "Some destiny of the most horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it. Otherwise I would surely have died on the coffin of Henry." We were not allowed to talk for long. My health was uncertain, and every care was needed to keep me calm. Mr. Kirwin came in and insisted that my strength should not be used up by too much effort. But my father's presence was to me like a good angel, and little by little I recovered my health. As my sickness left me, I was filled with a gloomy and black sadness that nothing could drive away. The image of Clerval was for ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation caused by these thoughts made my friends fear a dangerous relapse. Alas! Why did they keep alive so miserable and hated a life? It was surely so that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now coming to an end. Soon, oh, very soon, death will put out these throbbings. It will free me from the mighty weight of pain that bears me down to the dust. And in carrying out the sentence of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then death seemed far away, although the wish for it was always in my thoughts. I often sat for hours motionless and silent. I wished for some mighty revolution that might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins. The season of the assizes drew near. I had already been three months in prison. I was still weak and in constant danger of a relapse. But I had to travel nearly a hundred miles to the county town where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin took on himself all the care of collecting witnesses and arranging my defence. I was spared the shame of appearing in public as a criminal. The case was not brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand jury rejected the bill. It was proved that I was on the Orkney Islands at the hour my friend's body was found. A fortnight after I was moved, I was freed from prison. My father was overjoyed to find me free from the troubles of a criminal charge. I could breathe the fresh air again and return to my native country. I did not share these feelings. To me the walls of a dungeon or a palace were equally hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever. The sun shone on me, as on the happy and gay of heart. But I saw around me only a thick and frightful darkness. No light pierced it except the glimmer of two eyes that glared at me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry, fading in death. His dark eyes were nearly covered by the lids and the long black lashes around them. Sometimes they were the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw them in my room at Ingolstadt. My father tried to awaken feelings of affection in me. He talked of Geneva, which I would soon visit, and of Elizabeth and Ernest. But these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish for happiness. I thought with sad delight of my beloved cousin. Or I longed, with a devouring *maladie du pays*, to see once more the blue lake and the rapid Rhone. They had been so dear to me in early childhood. But my general state of feeling was a numbness. In it a prison was as welcome a home as the most divine scene in nature. These fits were seldom interrupted except by attacks of pain and despair. At these moments I often tried to put an end to the life I hated. It needed constant attendance and watching to stop me from committing some dreadful act of violence. Yet one duty remained to me. The memory of it finally won over my selfish despair. I had to return without delay to Geneva. There I must watch over the lives of those I loved so dearly. I must also lie in wait for the murderer. If any chance led me to his hiding place, or if he dared again to blast me by his presence, I could act. I might, with sure aim, put an end to the monstrous image that I had made. I had given it the mockery of a soul, which was still more monstrous. My father still wished to delay our departure. He feared that I could not bear the tiredness of a journey, for I was a shattered wreck, the shadow of a human being. My strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton, and fever night and day fed on my wasted body. Still, I urged our leaving Ireland with such anxiety and impatience that my father thought it best to give way. We took our passage on a ship bound for Havre-de-Grace and sailed with a fair wind from the Irish shores. It was midnight. I lay on the deck looking at the stars and listening to the dashing of the waves. I welcomed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight. My pulse beat with a feverish joy when I thought that I would soon see Geneva. The past seemed to me like a frightful dream. Yet the ship I was in told me the truth too strongly. So did the wind that blew me from the hated shore of Ireland, and the sea around me. It was no vision. Clerval, my friend and dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I went over my whole life again in my memory. I remembered my quiet happiness while living with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to the creation of my hideous enemy. I called to mind the night in which he first lived. I was unable to follow this train of thought. A thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly. Ever since I recovered from the fever, I had been in the habit of taking a small quantity of laudanum every night. It was only by means of this drug that I could gain the rest necessary to keep me alive. I was weighed down by the memory of my various misfortunes. Now I swallowed double my usual quantity and soon slept deeply. But sleep did not give me rest from thought and misery. My dreams showed me a thousand things that scared me. Towards morning a kind of nightmare took hold of me. I felt the fiend's grasp on my neck and could not free myself from it. Groans and cries rang in my ears. My father was watching over me. He saw that I was restless and woke me. The dashing waves were around me, the cloudy sky above. The fiend was not here. I felt a sense of safety. It was a feeling that a truce had been made between the present hour and the unavoidable, disastrous future. This gave me a kind of calm forgetfulness. The human mind is by its nature especially open to it. ### Glossary - **magistrate**: a local judge - **apothecary**: a person who makes and sells medicines, like a doctor - **benefactor**: a person who helps and gives support to others - **convulsions**: sudden, strong shaking of the body that you cannot control - **turnkeys**: prison guards who keep the keys - **assizes**: the travelling court sessions in England and Ireland - **grand jury**: a group of people who decide if there is enough evidence for a trial - **relapse**: becoming ill again after getting better - **maladie du pays**: a French phrase for the sad longing for one's home - **laudanum**: a strong medicine made with opium, used for sleep ## Chapter 22 The voyage came to an end. We landed and went on to Paris. I soon found that I had used up my strength too much. I must rest before I could continue my journey. My father took endless care of me. But he did not know the cause of my suffering. He tried the wrong cures for an illness that could not be cured. He wanted me to look for amusement in society. I hated the sight of other people. Oh, not hated! They were my brothers and my fellow beings. I felt drawn even to the most ugly of them. To me they seemed creatures with an angel's nature and a heavenly body. But I felt that I had no right to share their company. I had set free an enemy among them. His joy was to shed their blood and to delight in their groans. How they would all hate me and hunt me from the world! That would happen if they knew my unholy acts and the crimes that began with me. At last my father accepted my wish to avoid society. He tried by many arguments to drive away my despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt deeply the shame of having to answer a charge of murder. He tried to show me that pride was useless. "Alas! My father," I said, "you hardly know me. Human beings, with their feelings and passions, would truly be shamed if a wretch like me felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I. She faced the same charge, and she died for it. I am the cause of this. I murdered her. William, Justine and Henry—they all died by my hands." During my time in prison, my father had often heard me say the same thing. When I accused myself like this, he sometimes seemed to want an explanation. At other times he seemed to think it came from delirium. He thought that some idea of this kind had come into my mind during my illness. He thought I kept the memory of it as I got better. I avoided any explanation. I stayed completely silent about the wretch I had created. I was sure that people would think me mad. This alone would have chained my tongue for ever. But there was more. I could not bring myself to tell a secret that would fill my listener with fear. It would put fear and unnatural horror in his heart. So I held back my eager need for sympathy. I stayed silent when I would have given the world to share the fatal secret. Yet words like those I have written would still burst out of me. I could not explain them. But the part of truth in them eased the weight of my mysterious sorrow. On this occasion my father said, with great wonder, "My dearest Victor, what strange idea is this? My dear son, I beg you never to say such a thing again." "I am not mad," I cried with energy. "The sun and the heavens have seen what I did. They can bear witness that I speak the truth. I am the murderer of those most innocent victims. They died because of my schemes. A thousand times I would have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to save their lives. But I could not, my father, indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race." The end of this speech convinced my father that my mind was disturbed. He at once changed the subject of our talk and tried to turn my thoughts in another direction. He wished, as far as possible, to wipe out the memory of the scenes in Ireland. He never mentioned them, and he did not let me speak of my misfortunes. As time passed I became calmer. Misery lived in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same confused way about my own crimes. It was enough for me to know them. With the greatest force on myself, I held back the commanding voice of wretchedness. Sometimes it wanted to declare itself to the whole world. My manner was calmer and more controlled than it had been at any time since my journey to the sea of ice. A few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland, I received this letter from Elizabeth: "My dear Friend, "It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle, written in Paris. You are no longer at a terrible 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 left Geneva. I have spent this winter most miserably, tortured by anxious waiting. Yet I hope to see peace in your face. I hope to find that your heart is not completely empty of comfort and calm. "Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable a year ago. Perhaps time has made them even stronger. I would not disturb you now, when so many misfortunes weigh on you. But I had a conversation with my uncle before he left. It makes some explanation necessary before we meet. "Explanation! You may say, 'What can Elizabeth have to explain?' If you really say this, my questions are answered and all my doubts are gone. But you are far from me. It is possible that you may fear this explanation and yet be pleased by it. If that is so, I dare not delay any longer. I must write what I have often wished to tell you while you were away. I never had the courage to begin. "You know well, Victor, that our union was the favourite plan of your parents from our infancy. We were told this when we were young, and taught to look forward to it as something that would certainly happen. We were loving playmates as children. I believe we were dear and valued friends to each other as we grew older. But brothers and sisters often feel a warm love for each other without wanting a closer union. May this not be our case too? Tell me, dearest Victor. I beg you, by our shared happiness, answer me with simple truth: Do you not love another? "You have travelled. You have spent several years of your life at Ingolstadt. I confess, my friend, that when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, you were running to be alone, away from every living person. I could not help thinking that you might regret our connection. I thought you might feel bound by honour to fulfil your parents' wishes. That would be so even if it went against your own feelings. But this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my friend, that I love you. In my airy dreams of the future you have always been my friend and companion. But I want your happiness as well as my own. So I tell you this: our marriage would make me miserable for ever unless you chose it freely. Even now I weep to think of it. You are weighed down by the cruellest misfortunes. You may kill, with the word *honour*, all hope of love and happiness. Only that love and happiness could restore you to yourself. I have a love for you that asks nothing for itself. I may make your miseries ten times worse by standing in the way of your wishes. Ah! Victor, be sure of this. Your cousin and playmate loves you too sincerely not to be made miserable by such a thought. Be happy, my friend. If you obey me in this one request, be sure that nothing on earth can disturb my peace. "Do not let this letter disturb you. Do not answer tomorrow, or the next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle will send me news of your health. If I see even one smile on your lips when we meet, I shall need no other happiness. It does not matter if this letter or some other effort of mine caused it. "Elizabeth Lavenza. "Geneva, May 18th, 17—" This letter brought back to my memory something I had forgotten: the fiend's threat. "*I will be with you on your wedding-night!*" That was my sentence. On that night the demon would use every trick to destroy me. He would tear me away from the glimpse of happiness that promised to comfort me in part. On that night he had decided to complete his crimes by my death. Well, so be it. A deadly struggle would then surely take place. If he won, I would be at peace, and his power over me would end. If he lost, I would be a free man. Alas! What freedom? It would be the freedom of a peasant whose family has been killed before his eyes. His cottage is burnt, and his land is laid waste. He is turned out, homeless, without money and alone, but free. Such would be my freedom, except for one thing. In my Elizabeth I had a treasure. But, alas, it was balanced by the horrors of remorse and guilt. They would follow me until death. Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and reread her letter. Softer feelings stole into my heart and dared to whisper dreams of love and joy, like those of paradise. But the apple had already been eaten, and the angel's arm was already bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster carried out his threat, death could not be avoided. Yet again I wondered whether my marriage would hurry my fate. My destruction might indeed come a few months sooner. If my tormentor suspected that I was delaying it because of his threats, he would surely find other ways of revenge. They might be even more dreadful. He had vowed *to be with me on my wedding-night*. Yet he did not think this threat bound him to keep the peace until then. It was as if he wanted to show me that he was not yet satisfied with blood. So he had murdered Clerval right after making his threats. So I decided one thing. If an immediate marriage would make her or my father happier, I would not wait. My enemy's plans against my life would not delay it by a single hour. In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and loving. "I fear, my beloved girl," I said, "that little happiness is left for us on earth. Yet all that I may one day enjoy is found only in you. Drive away your idle fears. I give my life and my efforts for contentment to you alone. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one. When it is told to you, it will chill your body with horror. Then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only wonder that I survive what I have suffered. I will tell you this tale of misery and terror the day after our marriage. For, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect trust between us. But until then, I beg you, do not mention it or hint at it. I ask this most earnestly, and I know you will agree." About a week after Elizabeth's letter arrived, we returned to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm love. Yet there were tears in her eyes when she saw my thin body and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her too. She was thinner and had lost much of the heavenly liveliness that had charmed me before. But her gentleness and soft looks of pity made her a better companion for me. I was so ruined and miserable. The calm I now enjoyed did not last. Memory brought madness with it. When I thought of what had happened, a real insanity took hold of me. Sometimes I was furious and burnt with rage. Sometimes I was low and without hope. I neither spoke nor looked at anyone. I sat without moving, bewildered by the many miseries that overcame me. Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me out of these fits. Her gentle voice would calm me when passion carried me away. It gave me human feelings when I had sunk into a dull stillness. She wept with me and for me. When my reason returned, she would argue with me gently and try to make me accept my fate. Ah! It is good for the unfortunate to accept their fate, but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the pleasure that can sometimes be found in giving way to too much grief. Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my marrying Elizabeth at once. I remained silent. Then he asked, "Do you, then, love someone else?" "None on earth," I answered. "I love Elizabeth, and I look forward to our union with delight. Let the day be fixed. On that day I will give myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my cousin." "My dear Victor, do not speak like that," said my father. "Heavy misfortunes have fallen on us. But let us hold closer to what remains. Let us give the love we had for those we have lost to those who still live. Our circle will be small, but it will be bound close by love and shared misfortune. And when time has softened your despair, new people to care for will be born. They will be dear to us and will replace those who were so cruelly taken from us." Such were my father's lessons. But to me the memory of the threat returned. You cannot wonder at what I felt. The fiend had been all-powerful in his deeds of blood. So I almost thought him unbeatable. He had spoken the words "*I shall be with you on your wedding-night*." So I thought the fate he threatened could not be avoided. But death was no evil to me, if the loss of Elizabeth was weighed against it. So, with a contented and even cheerful face, I agreed with my father. If my cousin agreed, the ceremony would take place in ten days. And so, as I imagined, I put the seal on my fate. Great God! If I had thought for one instant of my fiendish enemy's hellish intention, I would rather have banished myself from my native country for ever. I would have wandered over the earth, a friendless outcast, rather than agree to this miserable marriage. But the monster seemed to have magic powers, and he had blinded me to his real plans. I thought I had prepared only my own death. In fact I hurried the death of a far dearer victim. As the time fixed for our marriage came nearer, my heart sank within me. It was from cowardice or perhaps a feeling of what was to come. But I hid my feelings behind a show of cheerfulness. It brought smiles and joy to my father's face. But it hardly deceived Elizabeth, whose eye was always watchful and sharper. She looked forward to our union with quiet contentment, mixed with a little fear. Past misfortunes had put this fear in her. She feared that what now seemed certain, real happiness might soon vanish like a dream in the air. It might leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret. Preparations were made for the event. Visits of congratulation were received, and everyone looked cheerful. I shut up in my own heart, as well as I could, the anxiety that tormented me there. I took part in my father's plans with seeming eagerness. They might only be the decorations of my tragedy. Through my father's efforts the Austrian government had given back a part of Elizabeth's inheritance to her. A small property on the shores of Como belonged to her. It was agreed that immediately after our union we should go to Villa Lavenza. We would spend our first days of happiness beside the beautiful lake near which it stood. In the meantime I took every care to defend myself in case the fiend should attack me openly. I carried pistols and a dagger with me all the time. I was always watching to prevent tricks. In this way I gained greater calm. Indeed, as the time came near, the threat seemed more like something I had imagined. It was not worth disturbing my peace. The happiness I hoped for in my marriage seemed more certain as the wedding day came closer. I heard it spoken of all the time as something that no accident could possibly prevent. Elizabeth seemed happy. My calm manner helped greatly to quiet her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my destiny, she was sad. A feeling that something evil would happen filled her. Perhaps she also thought of the dreadful secret that I had promised to tell her on the following day. In the meantime my father was overjoyed. In the bustle of preparation he saw in his niece's sadness only the shyness of a bride. After the ceremony a large party gathered at my father's house. But it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should begin our journey by water. We would sleep that night at Evian and continue our voyage on the following day. The day was fair and the wind was favourable. Everything smiled on our wedding voyage. Those were the last moments of my life in which I enjoyed the feeling of happiness. We passed quickly along. The sun was hot, but a kind of canopy sheltered us from its rays, while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene. Sometimes we were on one side of the lake. There we saw Mont Salêve, the pleasant banks of Montalègre, and, far away above all, the beautiful Mont Blanc. The group of snowy mountains that try in vain to rival her stood around her. Sometimes we sailed along the opposite banks. There we saw the mighty Jura. It turned its dark side to any ambition that wished to leave its native country. To an invader who wished to enslave that country, it was an almost impassable barrier. I took the hand of Elizabeth. "You are sorrowful, my love. Ah! If you knew what I have suffered and what I may still suffer, you would try to let me taste the quiet and the freedom from despair. This one day, at least, lets me enjoy them." "Be happy, my dear Victor," replied Elizabeth. "I hope there is nothing to distress you. Be sure that if my face does not show lively joy, my heart is still content. Something whispers to me not to depend too much on the future that is opening before us. But I will not listen to such a sinister voice. See how fast we move along. See how the clouds, which sometimes hide the dome of Mont Blanc and sometimes rise above it, make this beautiful scene even more interesting. Look also at the countless fish swimming in the clear water, where we can see every pebble on the bottom. What a heavenly day! How happy and peaceful all nature looks!" So Elizabeth tried to turn her thoughts and mine away from sad subjects. But her mood kept changing. Joy shone in her eyes for a few moments, but it always gave way to distraction and daydreaming. The sun sank lower in the sky. We passed the river Drance. We could follow its path through the deep gaps of the higher hills and the narrow valleys of the lower ones. Here the Alps come closer to the lake. We came near the great half-circle of mountains that forms its eastern boundary. The spire of Evian shone beneath the woods that surrounded it. Above it rose range after range of mountains. The wind had carried us along with amazing speed until now. At sunset it sank to a light breeze. The soft air just ruffled the water. As we came near the shore, it made a pleasant movement among the trees. From the shore it brought the most delightful scent of flowers and hay. The sun sank below the horizon as we landed. As I touched the shore I felt my cares and fears come back. Soon they were to grip me and cling to me for ever. ### Glossary - **delirium**: a confused, feverish state of mind in which a person says strange things - **remorse**: deep guilt for something you did - **fiend**: an evil spirit; here, the monster - **dagger**: a short knife used as a weapon - **inheritance**: money or property that comes to you from your family - **canopy**: a cloth roof that gives shade - **invader**: a person or army that comes into a country to take it by force - **spire**: the tall pointed top of a church tower ## Chapter 23 It was eight o'clock when we landed. We walked for a short time on the shore and enjoyed the fading light. Then we went back to the inn and looked at the lovely scene of waters, woods and mountains. It was hidden in darkness, yet it still showed its black outlines. The wind had died down in the south. Now it rose with great violence in the west. The moon had reached her highest point in the sky and was beginning to go down. The clouds swept across it faster than the flight of a vulture and dimmed her light. The lake reflected the busy sky, and the restless waves that were beginning to rise made it busier still. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain came down. I had been calm during the day. But as soon as night hid the shapes of things, a thousand fears rose in my mind. I was anxious and watchful. My right hand held a pistol, which was hidden inside my clothes, against my chest. Every sound terrified me. But I resolved that I would sell my life dearly. I would not shrink from the fight until my own life or my enemy's was ended. Elizabeth watched my agitation for some time in timid and fearful silence. But there was something in my look that filled her with terror. Trembling, she asked, "What is it that troubles you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear?" "Oh! Peace, peace, my love," I replied. "This night, and all will be safe. But this night is dreadful, very dreadful." I spent an hour in this state of mind. Then I suddenly thought how fearful the fight would be for my wife. I expected it at any moment. I begged her earnestly to go to her room. I decided not to join her until I knew something about where my enemy was. She left me. For some time I walked up and down the passages of the house. I looked into every corner where my enemy could hide. But I found no trace of him. I was beginning to guess that some lucky chance had stopped him from carrying out his threats. Then suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the room where Elizabeth had gone. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind. My arms dropped. The movement of every muscle and fibre stopped. I could feel the blood trickling in my veins and tingling in my fingers and toes. This lasted only an instant. The scream came again, and I rushed into the room. Great God! Why did I not die then! Why am I here to tell of the destruction of the best hope and the purest creature on earth? She was there, lifeless, thrown across the bed. Her head hung down, and her pale, twisted face was half covered by her hair. Everywhere I turn I see the same figure. I see her bloodless arms and limp body, flung by the murderer onto her bridal bier. Could I see this and live? Alas! Life is stubborn. It clings closest where it is most hated. Only for a moment did I lose my memory. I fell to the ground without feeling. When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn. Their faces showed breathless terror. But the horror of the others seemed only a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that crushed me. I escaped from them to the room where Elizabeth's body lay: Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the position in which I first saw her. Now she lay with her head upon her arm and a handkerchief thrown across her face and neck. I might have thought her asleep. I rushed towards her and embraced her with passion. But the deadly weakness and coldness of her limbs told me the truth. What I now held in my arms was no longer the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark of the fiend's grasp was on her neck. The breath no longer came 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 been dark before. I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon fill the room. The shutters had been thrown back. With a feeling of horror I cannot describe, I saw a most hideous and hated figure at the open window. There was a grin on the monster's face. He seemed to jeer as he pointed with his fiendish finger towards the body of my wife. I rushed towards the window. I drew a pistol from inside my clothes and fired. But he escaped me. He leaped from where he stood and ran with the speed of lightning. He plunged into the lake. The sound of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed his track with boats. Nets were cast, but it was no use. After spending several hours, we returned without hope. Most of my companions believed that I had seen a shape my imagination had conjured up. After we had landed, they began to search the country. They went in different directions among the woods and vines. I tried to go with them, and I went a short distance from the house. But my head whirled round. My steps were like those of a drunk man. At last I fell down, completely exhausted. A film covered my eyes, and my skin was dry and burning with fever. In this state I was carried back and put on a bed. I was hardly conscious of what had happened. My eyes wandered round the room as if looking for something I had lost. After a while I got up, and as if by instinct I crawled into the room where my beloved's body lay. Women were weeping around it. I hung over it and joined my sad tears to theirs. All this time no clear idea came to my mind. My thoughts wandered to various subjects. I thought confusedly about my misfortunes and their cause. I was bewildered, in a cloud of wonder and horror. I thought of the death of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly the murder of my wife. Even at that moment I did not know that my only remaining friends were safe from the fiend's malice. My father might even now be struggling in pain in his grip. Ernest might be dead at his feet. This idea made me shudder and brought me back to action. I jumped up and decided to return to Geneva as fast as possible. No horses could be found, so I had to return by the lake. But the wind was against us, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was hardly morning, and I could reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row, and I took an oar myself. I had always found that hard physical work eased my mental torment. But the overflowing misery I now felt and the great agitation I suffered made me unable to do anything. I threw down the oar. I leaned my head on my hands and gave way to every gloomy idea that came. If I looked up, I saw scenes that were familiar to me from my happier time. I had looked at them the day before. I had been with her, who was now only a shadow and a memory. Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain had stopped for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the water as they had done a few hours before. Elizabeth had watched them then. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine or the clouds might hang low, but nothing could look to me as it had the day before. A fiend had snatched every hope of future happiness from me. No creature had ever been so miserable as I was. So frightful an event has no equal in the history of man. But why should I spend time on what happened after this last overwhelming event? Mine has been a tale of horrors. I have reached their highest point, and what I must now tell can only be boring to you. Know that, one by one, my friends were snatched away, and I was left desolate. My own strength is exhausted, and I must tell in a few words what remains of my hideous story. I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest still lived. But my father sank under the news I brought. I see him now, excellent and honoured old man! His eyes wandered in emptiness. They had lost their charm and their delight, his Elizabeth, his more than daughter. He loved her with all the love of a man who, in old age, has few affections. Such a man clings more closely to those that remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs and doomed him to waste away in wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors piled up around him. The source of his life suddenly gave way. He could not rise from his bed, and in a few days he died in my arms. What then became of me? I do not know. I lost all feeling. Chains and darkness were the only things that pressed upon me. Sometimes I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant valleys with the friends of my youth. But I woke and found myself in a dungeon. Then a deep sadness followed. By degrees I gained a clear understanding of my miseries and my situation. Then I was released from my prison. For they had called me mad, and during many months, as I understood, a solitary cell had been my home. Freedom would have been a useless gift, if I had not also woken to revenge as I woke to reason. As the memory of past misfortunes pressed on me, I began to think about their cause. It was the monster I had created, the miserable demon whom I had sent into the world for my destruction. A maddening rage took hold of me when I thought of him. I wished and eagerly prayed that I might have him in my grasp. Then I could take a great and terrible revenge on his cursed head. Nor did my hate stay long in useless wishes. I began to think about the best way to catch him. For this purpose, about a month after my release, I went to a criminal judge in the town. I told him that I had an accusation to make. I told him that I knew the destroyer of my family. I required him to use his whole authority to arrest the murderer. The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness. "Be sure, sir," he said, "that I will spare no pains or effort to find the villain." "I thank you," I replied. "Listen, then, to the statement that I have to make. It is a tale so strange. I would fear you would not believe it, if truth did not have something that forces belief, however wonderful. The story is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no reason to lie." My manner as I spoke to him was impressive but calm. I had made up my mind to pursue my destroyer to death. This purpose quieted my agony and for a time made me accept life. I now told my history briefly but with firmness and exactness. I gave the dates carefully and never turned to angry words or cries. At first the magistrate seemed completely unbelieving. But as I went on, he became more attentive and interested. Sometimes I saw him shudder with horror. At other times a lively surprise, without disbelief, showed on his face. When I had finished my story, I said, "This is the being whom I accuse. I call on you to use your whole power to seize and punish him. It is your duty as a magistrate. I believe and hope that your feelings as a man will not turn away from doing this duty on this occasion." This speech caused a great change in the face of my listener. He had heard my story with the half-belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events. But when he was called on to act officially because of it, all his disbelief returned. However, he answered mildly, "I would gladly give you every help in your pursuit. But the creature you speak of seems to have powers that would defeat all my efforts. Who can follow an animal that can cross the sea of ice? Who can follow it into caves and dens where no man would dare to enter? Besides, some months have passed since he committed his crimes. No one can guess to what place he has wandered or what region he may now live in." "I do not doubt that he hovers near the place where I live," I said. "If he has really taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I see your thoughts. You do not believe my story, and you do not intend to pursue my enemy with the punishment he deserves." As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes, and the magistrate was frightened. "You are mistaken," he said. "I will do my best. If it is in my power to seize the monster, be sure that he will suffer a punishment matching his crimes. But I fear, from what you yourself say about his powers, that this will prove impossible. So, while every proper step is taken, you should prepare yourself for disappointment." "That cannot be. But all that I can say will be of little use," I answered. "My revenge is of no importance to you. Yet, while I admit that it is a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul. My rage is beyond words when I think that the murderer, whom I have let loose on society, still lives. You refuse my just demand. I have only one thing left to do, and I devote myself, in life or in death, to his destruction." I trembled with great agitation as I said this. There was a frenzy in my manner. There was something, I do not doubt, of the proud fierceness that the martyrs of old are said to have had. But the magistrate of Geneva had a mind full of ideas very different from devotion and heroism. To him this height of feeling looked very much like madness. He tried to calm me as a nurse calms a child, and he spoke of my tale as an effect of delirium. "Man," I cried, "how ignorant you are in your pride of wisdom! Stop! You do not know what you are saying." I broke away from the house, angry and disturbed. I went away to think about some other way to act. ### Glossary - **vulture**: a large bird that eats dead animals - **bridal bier**: the place where a dead bride lies, like a stand for a coffin - **jeer**: to laugh at someone in a cruel way - **conjured up**: made appear, as if by magic - **desolate**: alone and very sad, with nothing left - **dungeon**: a dark prison cell, often underground - **chamois**: a mountain animal like a small goat - **frenzy**: wild, uncontrolled excitement or anger - **martyrs**: people who suffer or die for what they believe ## Chapter 24 My situation was now one in which every free thought was swallowed up and lost. Fury carried me away. Only revenge gave me strength and calm. It shaped my feelings. It allowed me to be careful and cool at times when otherwise I would have fallen into madness or death. My first decision was to leave Geneva for ever. My country had been dear to me when I was happy and loved. Now, in my misfortune, it became hateful to me. I took a sum of money and a few jewels that had belonged to my mother, and I left. And now my wanderings began, and they will end only with my life. I have crossed a large part of the earth. I have suffered all the hardships that travellers usually meet in deserts and wild countries. I hardly know how I have lived. Many times I have stretched my failing body on the sandy plain and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive. I did not dare to die and leave my enemy alive. When I left Geneva, my first task was to find some clue that would help me follow the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was not settled. I wandered many hours around the edge of the town, not sure which path to take. As night came, I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth and my father rested. I went in and came to the tomb that marked their graves. Everything was silent except the leaves of the trees, which the wind moved gently. The night was nearly dark. The scene would have been solemn and moving even to a person who did not care. The spirits of the dead seemed to fly around me. They seemed to cast a shadow around the head of the mourner. This shadow could be felt but not seen. The deep grief that this scene first woke in me quickly gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived. Their murderer also lived, and to destroy him I had to drag on my weary life. I knelt on the grass and kissed the earth. With trembling lips I cried out, “I swear by the sacred earth on which I kneel. I swear by the spirits that wander near me, and by the deep and eternal grief that I feel. And I swear by you, O Night, and the spirits that rule over you. I will hunt the demon who caused this misery, until he or I die in deadly struggle. For this purpose I will keep my life. I want to carry out this dear revenge. For that I will again look at the sun and walk on the green grass of the earth. Otherwise they would vanish from my eyes for ever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead. I call on you, wandering servants of vengeance. Help me and guide me in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of agony. Let him feel the despair that torments me now.” I had begun my solemn promise with great seriousness and awe. I almost believed that the spirits of my murdered friends heard it and approved my devotion. But as I finished, the furies took hold of me, and rage choked my voice. A loud and fiendish laugh answered me through the stillness of the night. It rang in my ears long and heavily. The mountains echoed it back, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter. In that moment I would surely have been seized by madness and have destroyed my miserable life. But my vow had been heard, and I was kept for vengeance. The laughter died away. Then a well-known and hated voice spoke to me in a whisper that I could hear clearly. It seemed to be close to my ear. “I am satisfied, miserable wretch! You have decided to live, and I am satisfied.” I rushed towards the place where the sound came from, but the devil escaped my grasp. Suddenly the wide disk of the moon rose. It shone full upon his ghastly, twisted shape as he fled with more than human speed. I chased him, and for many months this has been my task. I had only a slight clue, and I followed the windings of the Rhone, but in vain. The blue Mediterranean appeared. By a strange chance, I saw the fiend go on board at night and hide in a ship bound for the Black Sea. I took a place on the same ship, but he escaped, I do not know how. Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still escaped me, I have always followed his track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by this horrible apparition, told me which way he had gone. Sometimes he himself left some mark to guide me. He feared that if I lost all trace of him, I would despair and die. The snow fell on my head, and I saw the print of his huge foot on the white plain. You are just beginning life. Care is new to you, and agony is unknown. How can you understand what I have felt and still feel? Cold, hunger and tiredness were the least of the pains that I was fated to bear. I was cursed by some devil, and I carried my eternal hell about with me. Yet still a spirit of good followed me and guided my steps. When I complained most, it would suddenly free me from difficulties that seemed impossible to overcome. Sometimes my body, beaten down by hunger, sank under the weariness. Then a meal was prepared for me in the desert that gave me back my strength and spirit. The food was indeed coarse, like the food that the peasants of the country ate. But I will not doubt that the spirits I had called to help me put it there. Often all was dry, the sky was cloudless, and thirst burned me. Then a slight cloud would darken the sky. It shed the few drops that revived me, and then it vanished. I followed the courses of the rivers when I could. But the demon usually avoided these, because most of the people of the country lived there. In other places I seldom saw human beings, and I mostly lived on the wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with me, and I gained the friendship of the villagers by giving it away. Or I brought some food that I had killed. I took a small part and always gave the rest to those who had given me fire and pots to cook with. My life like this was hateful to me, and only in sleep could I taste joy. O blessed sleep! Often, when I was most miserable, I sank to rest, and my dreams lulled me even to great joy. The spirits that guarded me had given me these moments, or rather hours, of happiness. They wanted me to keep my strength to finish my pilgrimage. Without this rest I would have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was held up and encouraged by the hope of night. For in sleep I saw my friends, my wife and my beloved country. Again I saw the kind face of my father. I heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth’s voice, and I saw Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often I was tired by a hard march. Then I told myself that I was dreaming until night should come. I said that I would then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest friends. What painful love I felt for them! Sometimes they haunted even my waking hours. How I clung to their dear forms, and told myself that they still lived! At such moments the vengeance that burned in me died in my heart. I followed my path towards the destruction of the demon more as a task ordered by heaven. It was less the ardent desire of my soul. It was like the mechanical push of some power of which I was not aware. I cannot know what the feelings were of the one I chased. Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the bark of trees or cut in stone. These guided me and fed my fury. “My reign is not yet over”—these words could be read 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, which I do not feel. You will find near this place, if you do not follow too slowly, a dead hare. Eat and be refreshed. Come on, my enemy. We still have to wrestle for our lives, but you must endure many hard and miserable hours until that time comes.” Mocking devil! Again I vow vengeance. Again I give you up, miserable fiend, to torture and death. I will never give up my search until he or I die. And then with what joy will I join my Elizabeth and my departed friends! Even now they prepare for me the reward of my long labour and horrible pilgrimage! I still went on north, and the snows grew thicker. The cold increased until I could hardly bear it. The peasants were shut up in their hovels. Only a few of the hardiest went out. They went to catch the animals that hunger had driven from their hiding places. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be had. So I was cut off from my main food. The triumph of my enemy grew with the difficulty of my labours. One inscription that he left said, “Prepare! Your toils are only beginning. Wrap yourself in furs and provide food, for we shall soon enter on a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred.” These mocking words made my courage and perseverance stronger. I decided not to fail in my purpose. I called on Heaven to support me, and I went on with unchanged fervour across huge deserts. At last the ocean appeared in the distance and formed the farthest edge of the horizon. Oh! How unlike it was to the blue seas of the south! It was covered with ice. It could be told from land only by its greater wildness and roughness. The Greeks wept for joy when they saw the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia. They welcomed with delight the end of their toils. I did not weep, but I knelt down. With a full heart I thanked my guiding spirit for leading me safely to this place. I hoped to meet my enemy here and fight with him, in spite of his mockery. Some weeks before this, I had got a sledge and dogs, and so I crossed the snows with incredible speed. I do not know whether the fiend had the same advantages. But I found that I was gaining on him. Before this I had lost ground every day in the chase. When I first saw the ocean, he was only one day’s journey ahead of me. I hoped to stop him before he reached the beach. With new courage I hurried on, and in two days I arrived at a wretched hamlet on the seashore. I asked the inhabitants about the fiend and got exact information. A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the night before. He was armed with a gun and many pistols. He had put to flight the people of a lonely cottage, because they feared his terrible appearance. He had carried off their store of winter food and put it in a sledge. To pull it, he had seized a large group of trained dogs and harnessed them. The same night he had gone on his journey across the sea, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers. He had gone in a direction that led to no land. They guessed that he would soon be destroyed by the breaking of the ice, or frozen by the eternal frosts. Hearing this, I suffered a moment of despair. He had escaped me. Now I had to begin a destructive and almost endless journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean. The cold there was a cold that few of the inhabitants could long bear. I was a native of a mild and sunny climate, and I could not hope to survive it. Yet at the thought that the fiend should live and triumph, my rage and vengeance returned. Like a mighty tide, they overwhelmed every other feeling. I rested for a short time. During that rest the spirits of the dead hovered round me and urged me to toil and revenge. Then I prepared for my journey. I exchanged my land-sledge for one made for the rough surface of the Frozen Ocean. I bought a plentiful stock of provisions and left the land. I cannot guess how many days have passed since then. But I have suffered misery that I could have borne only because of one feeling. It was the eternal feeling of just punishment burning in my heart. Immense, rough mountains of ice often blocked my way. I often heard the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened to destroy me. But then the frost came again and made the paths of the sea safe. From the amount of food I had used, I guess that I spent three weeks on this journey. Hope was always put off, and it came back upon my heart again and again. It often wrung bitter tears of despondency and grief from my eyes. Despair had almost won its prey, and I would soon have sunk under this misery. Once, the poor animals that pulled me had with incredible toil reached the top of a sloping ice mountain. One of them, sinking under his tiredness, died. I looked at the wide space before me in anguish. Suddenly my eye caught a dark speck on the dusky plain. I strained my sight to see what it could be. Then I made out a sledge, and inside it the twisted shape of a well-known form. I cried out wildly with joy. Oh! With what a burning rush did hope come back to my heart! Warm tears filled my eyes. I wiped them quickly away, so that they would not block my view of the demon. But still my sight was dimmed by the burning drops. At last I gave way to the feelings that pressed on me, and I wept aloud. But this was no time for delay. I freed the dogs from their dead companion and gave them plenty of food. I rested for an hour, which was absolutely necessary and yet bitterly annoying to me. Then I went on. The sledge was still visible. I did not lose sight of it again. Only for a short time an ice-rock hid it with the rough peaks in between. I could really see that I was gaining on it. And when, after nearly two days’ journey, I saw my enemy no more than a mile away, my heart leaped. But now, when I seemed almost within reach of my foe, my hopes were suddenly put out. I lost all trace of him more completely than ever before. A ground sea was heard. The thunder of its progress came as the waters rolled and swelled beneath me. It became more threatening and terrible every moment. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind rose, and the sea roared. The ice split and cracked with a tremendous, overwhelming sound. It was like the mighty shock of an earthquake. The work was soon done. In a few minutes a wild sea rolled between me and my enemy. I was left drifting on a broken piece of ice. It was always getting smaller, and so it was preparing for me a hideous death. In this way many terrible hours passed. Several of my dogs died. I myself was about to sink under the weight of distress. Then I saw your ship lying at anchor and offering me hope of help and life. I had no idea that ships ever came so far north, and I was astonished at the sight. I quickly broke up part of my sledge to make oars. With these I was able, with endless effort, to move my ice raft towards your ship. I had decided that, if you were going south, I would still trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than give up my purpose. I hoped to persuade you to give me a boat with which I could chase my enemy. But your direction was north. You took me on board when my strength was gone. I would soon have sunk under my many hardships. I would have died a death which I still fear, for my task is not finished. Oh! When will my guiding spirit, who leads me to the demon, allow me the rest I so much desire? Or must I die, and he still live? If I must die, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape. Swear that you will seek him and satisfy my vengeance with his death. And do I dare to ask you to take up my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have suffered? No; I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, he may appear. The servants of vengeance may lead him to you. If he does, swear that he shall not live. Swear that he shall not triumph over my heaped-up woes and live to add to the list of his dark crimes. He is eloquent and persuasive, and once his words even had power over my heart. But do not trust him. His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and fiend-like malice. Do not listen to him. Call on the names of William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and thrust your sword into his heart. I will hover near and guide the steel right. Walton, *in continuation.* August 26th, 17—. You have read this strange and terrible story, Margaret. Do you not feel your blood freeze with horror, as mine does even now? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not go on with his tale. At other times his voice was broken, yet piercing, as he forced out the words so full of anguish. His fine and lovely eyes were now lit up with anger. Then they were lowered in sorrow and put out in endless misery. Sometimes he controlled his face and voice. He told the most horrible events in a calm voice and hid every sign of agitation. Then, like a volcano bursting out, his face would suddenly change. It took on an expression of the wildest rage as he screamed curses at his persecutor. His tale is connected and told with the look of the simplest truth. Yet I admit to you that two things gave me a greater belief in its truth. One was the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me. The other was the sight of the monster from our ship. His words did not do this, however earnest and connected they were. Such a monster really exists, then! I cannot doubt it, yet I am lost in surprise and admiration. Sometimes I tried to get details from Frankenstein about how his creature was formed. But on this point he would say nothing. “Are you mad, my friend?” he said. “Or where does your senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create an enemy like a demon for yourself and the world? Peace, peace! Learn my miseries and do not seek to increase your own.” Frankenstein discovered that I made notes about his history. He asked to see them. Then he corrected them himself and added to them in many places. Mainly he gave life and spirit to the conversations that he had with his enemy. “Since you have kept my story,” he said, “I do not want a cut and spoiled one to go down to future generations.” So a week has passed while I have listened to the strangest tale that imagination ever formed. My thoughts and every feeling of my soul are filled with interest in my guest. This tale and his own noble, gentle manners have created it. I wish to comfort him. Yet can I advise one so infinitely miserable to live? He is so without any hope of consolation. Oh, no! The only joy he can now know will come when his shattered spirit finds peace and death. Yet he has one comfort, born of loneliness and delirium. In dreams he talks with his friends. He gets from this meeting comfort for his miseries or encouragement for his revenge. He believes that these are not creations of his imagination. He believes they are the beings themselves, who visit him from a distant world. This faith gives a solemnity to his daydreams. It makes them almost as impressive and interesting to me as truth. Our conversations are not always limited to his own history and misfortunes. On every point of general literature he shows unlimited knowledge and a quick, sharp understanding. His eloquence is powerful and touching. I cannot hear him tell a sad event or try to move the feelings of pity or love without tears. What a glorious creature he must have been in the days of his good fortune! He is so noble and godlike even in ruin. He seems to feel his own worth and the greatness of his fall. “When I was younger,” he said, “I believed myself destined for some great enterprise. My feelings are deep, but I had a coolness of judgment that fitted me for famous achievements. This belief in the worth of my nature supported me when others would have been crushed. I thought it a crime to throw away my talents in useless grief. They might be useful to my fellow creatures. I thought about the work I had finished, which was no less than the creation of a sensitive and thinking animal. I could not rank myself with the crowd of common schemers. But this thought supported me at the start of my career. Now it only pushes me lower into the dust. All my speculations and hopes are nothing. Like the archangel who wanted to have all power, I am chained in an eternal hell. My imagination was lively, yet my powers of analysis and hard work were strong. By joining these qualities I conceived the idea and carried out the creation of a man. Even now I cannot remember without passion my daydreams while the work was unfinished. In my thoughts I walked in heaven, now delighting in my powers, now burning at the thought of their effects. From my childhood I was filled with high hopes and a lofty ambition. But how low I have sunk! Oh! My friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would not know me now. You would not recognise me in this state of shame. Sadness rarely visited my heart. A high destiny seemed to carry me on, until I fell, never, never to rise again.” Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend. I have looked for one who would sympathise with me and love me. Look, on these desert seas I have found such a one. But I fear I have gained him only to learn his value and lose him. I would make him accept life again, but he refuses the idea. “I thank you, Walton,” he said, “for your kind intentions towards so miserable a wretch. But you speak of new ties and fresh affections. Do you think that any can replace those who are gone? Can any man be to me what Clerval was, or any woman another Elizabeth? Our feelings are not always strongly moved by some special excellence. Even so, the companions of our childhood always have a certain power over our minds. Hardly any later friend can gain it. They know our childish characters, which, however they may change afterwards, are never rooted out. And they can judge our actions with more certain conclusions about the honesty of our motives. A sister or a brother can never suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, unless signs of it were shown early. Another friend, however strongly he is attached, may in spite of himself be looked on with suspicion. But I had friends who were dear not only through habit and association, but for their own merits. Wherever I am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth will always be whispered in my ear. So will the conversation of Clerval. They are dead. Only one feeling can persuade me, in such loneliness, to keep my life. If I were engaged in any high undertaking or plan, full of great use to my fellow creatures, then I could live to carry it out. But that is not my destiny. I must chase and destroy the being to whom I gave existence. Then my lot on earth will be fulfilled, and I may die.” My beloved Sister, September 2d. I write to you surrounded by danger. I do not know whether I am ever fated to see dear England again. I do not know if I will see the dearer friends who live there. I am surrounded by mountains of ice. There is no way out, and every moment they threaten to crush my ship. The brave men whom I persuaded to join me look to me for help, but I have none to give. There is something terribly frightening in our situation, yet my courage and hopes do not leave me. Still, it is terrible to think that the lives of all these men are in danger because of me. If we are lost, my mad plans are the cause. And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of my death, and you will wait anxiously for my return. Years will pass. You will have times of despair, and yet you will be tortured by hope. Oh! My beloved sister, the sickening failure of your heartfelt hopes is, as I imagine it, more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a husband and lovely children. You may be happy. May Heaven bless you and make you so! My unfortunate guest looks at me with the tenderest compassion. He tries to fill me with hope. He talks as if life were a treasure that he valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents have happened to other sailors who tried this sea. In spite of myself, he fills me with cheerful hopes for the future. Even the sailors feel the power of his eloquence. When he speaks, they no longer despair. He wakes their energy. They hear his voice, and they believe these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills. They believe the ice will vanish before the will of man. These feelings do not last. Each day of waiting makes them more afraid, and I almost fear a mutiny caused by this despair. September 5th. A scene has just taken place of such unusual interest that I cannot help writing it down. It is very likely that these papers will never reach you. We are still surrounded by mountains of ice. We are still in immediate danger of being crushed in their struggle. The cold is extreme, and many of my unfortunate comrades have already found a grave in this scene of desolation. Frankenstein has grown weaker every day. A feverish fire still glimmers in his eyes, but he is exhausted. When he is suddenly woken to any effort, he quickly sinks again into what seems like lifelessness. I mentioned in my last letter my fears of a mutiny. This morning I sat watching the pale face of my friend. His eyes were half closed, and his arms and legs hung limply. Then half a dozen of the sailors interrupted me. They asked to come into the cabin. They came in, and their leader spoke to me. He told me that he and his companions had been chosen by the other sailors. They came as a deputation to make a demand of me, which in justice I could not refuse. We were shut in by ice and would probably never escape. But they feared something. The ice might break up, as was possible, and a free passage might open. Then I would be rash enough to continue my voyage. I would lead them into new dangers, after they had perhaps luckily survived this one. So they insisted that I make a solemn promise. If the ship was freed, I would at once turn south. This speech troubled me. I had not despaired, and I had not yet thought of returning if we were set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in practice, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered. Then Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, roused himself. He had seemed to have hardly enough strength to listen. Now his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed with a moment’s strength. Turning towards the men, he said, “What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you so easily turned from your plan? Did you not call this a glorious expedition? And why was it glorious? Not because the way was smooth and calm like a southern sea. It was glorious because it was full of dangers and terror. At every new event your strength would be called on and your courage shown. Danger and death surrounded it, and these you were to face and overcome. For this it was a glorious, for this an honourable undertaking. In the future you were to be praised as people who did great good for mankind. Your names were to be honoured as brave men. They were men who met death for honour and for the good of mankind. And now, look, at the first thought of danger you shrink away. Or, if you like, at the first mighty and terrible test of your courage you shrink away. You are content to be remembered as men who did not have strength enough to bear cold and danger. And so, poor souls, they were chilly and went back to their warm firesides. Why, that does not need all this preparation. You need not have come so far. You need not have dragged your captain to the shame of defeat just 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 the same stuff as your hearts may be. It can change, and it cannot stand against you if you say that it shall not. Do not go back to your families with the mark of disgrace on your foreheads. Return as heroes who have fought and won. Return as men who do not know what it is to turn their backs on the enemy.” He spoke with a voice that changed to fit each feeling in his speech. His eye was so full of high purpose and heroism. Can you wonder that these men were moved? They looked at one another and could not reply. I spoke. I told them to retire and think about what had been said. I said that I would not lead them farther north if they strongly wished the opposite. But I hoped that, after thinking, their courage would return. They went out, and I turned towards my friend. But he was sunk in weakness and almost without life. How all this will end, I do not know. But I would rather die than return in shame, with my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear this will be my fate. The men have no ideas of glory and honour to support them. They can never willingly go on bearing their present hardships. September 7th. The die is cast. I have agreed to return if we are not destroyed. So my hopes are ruined by cowardice and indecision. I come back ignorant and disappointed. It takes more philosophy than I have to bear this injustice patiently. September 12th. It is over. I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of usefulness and glory. I have lost my friend. But I will try to tell you these bitter events in detail, my dear sister. And while I am carried towards England and towards you, I will not lose heart. On September 9th the ice began to move. Roars like thunder were heard in the distance as the islands split and cracked in every direction. We were in the greatest danger, but we could only stay still. So my main attention was on my unfortunate guest. His illness grew so much worse that he was kept entirely in bed. The ice cracked behind us and was driven with force towards the north. A breeze sprang up from the west, and on the 11th the passage towards the south became completely free. The sailors saw this, and they saw that their return to their native country seemed certain. A shout of wild joy broke from them, loud and long. Frankenstein, who was dozing, woke and asked the cause of the noise. “They shout,” I said, “because they will soon return to England.” “Do you, then, really return?” he asked. “Alas! Yes,” I answered. “I cannot resist their demands. I cannot lead them unwillingly into danger, and I must return.” “Do so, if you will,” he said. “But I will not. You may give up your purpose, but mine is given to me by Heaven, and I dare not. I am weak, but surely the spirits who help my vengeance will give me enough strength.” Saying this, he tried to spring from the bed, but the effort was too much for him. He fell back and fainted. It was a long time before he came back to life, and I often thought that life was entirely gone. At last he opened his eyes. He breathed with difficulty and could not speak. The surgeon gave him a calming drink and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the meantime he told me that my friend certainly had 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 soon he called to me in a weak voice. He told me to come near and 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 alive. Do not think, Walton, that I still feel the burning hatred I once showed. I do not feel that strong desire for revenge in the last moments of my life. But I feel that I am justified in wanting the death of my enemy. During these last days I have been examining my past conduct, and I do not find it blameworthy. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a thinking creature. I was bound to him to ensure, as far as was in my power, his happiness and well-being. This was my duty, but there was another duty that was greater. My duties towards the beings of my own kind had greater claims on my attention. They included a greater share of happiness or misery. Urged by this view, I refused to create a companion for the first creature, and I did right in refusing. He showed unequalled malice and selfishness in evil. He destroyed my friends. He gave to destruction beings who had delicate feelings, happiness and wisdom. And I do not know where this thirst for vengeance may end. He is miserable himself. So that he may make no one else wretched, he ought to die. The task of destroying him was mine, but I have failed. I was moved by selfish and wicked motives when I asked you to take up my unfinished work. I renew this request now, when I am led only by reason and virtue. “Yet I cannot ask you to give up your country and friends to do this task. And now that you are returning to England, you will have little chance of meeting him. But I leave these points to you. I leave you to weigh what you may think your duties. 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 a tool of mischief troubles me. In other respects, this hour is the only happy one that I have had for several years. I expect my release every moment. The forms of the beloved dead flit before me, and I hurry to their arms. Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in peace and avoid ambition. Avoid even the apparently innocent ambition of making a name for yourself in science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been ruined in these hopes, yet another may succeed.” His voice grew fainter as he spoke. At last, exhausted by the effort, he sank into silence. About half an hour later he tried again to speak but could not. He pressed my hand weakly, and his eyes closed for ever. The glow of a gentle smile passed away from his lips. Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely end of this glorious spirit? What can I say that will make you understand the depth of my sorrow? All that I could say would be weak and not enough. My tears flow. My mind is overshadowed by a cloud of disappointment. But I journey towards England, and there I may find consolation. I am interrupted. What do these sounds mean? It is midnight. The breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck hardly moves. Again there is a sound like a human voice, but hoarser. It comes from the cabin where the body of Frankenstein still lies. I must get up and look. Good night, my sister. Great God! What a scene has just taken place! I am still dizzy with the memory of it. I hardly know whether I will have the power to tell it. Yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete without this final and wonderful catastrophe. I entered the cabin where lay the body of my ill-fated and admirable friend. Over him hung a form that I cannot find words to describe. It was gigantic in height, yet rough and twisted in its proportions. He hung over the coffin, and his face was hidden by long locks of ragged hair. But one vast hand was stretched out. In colour and apparent texture it was like the hand of a mummy. He heard the sound of my approach. He stopped crying out in grief and horror and sprang towards the window. Never did I see a sight so horrible as his face. It was so loathsome and yet so terrifying in its ugliness. I shut my eyes without meaning to. I tried to remember what my duties were towards this destroyer. I called on him to stay. He paused, looking at me with wonder. Then he turned again towards the lifeless body of his creator and seemed to forget that I was there. Every feature and movement seemed driven by the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion. “That is also my victim!” he cried. “In his murder my crimes are complete. The miserable chain of my life is wound to its end! Oh, Frankenstein! Generous and self-sacrificing being! What good does it do that I now ask you to forgive me? I destroyed you beyond repair by destroying everything you loved. Alas! He is cold; he cannot answer me.” His voice seemed choked. My first impulse had been to obey the dying request of my friend and destroy his enemy. Now that impulse was held back by a mixture of curiosity and pity. I approached this tremendous being. I dared not raise my eyes again to his face. There was something so frightening and unearthly in his ugliness. I tried to speak, but the words died on my lips. The monster went on uttering wild, confused self-reproaches. At last I found the courage to speak to him in a pause of the storm of his passion. “Your repentance,” I said, “is now useless. If you had listened to the voice of conscience, Frankenstein would still have lived. You should have heeded the stings of remorse before you pushed your devilish vengeance to this extreme.” “And do you dream?” said the demon. “Do you think that I was then dead to agony and remorse? He,” he went on, pointing to the body, “he did not suffer in the carrying out of the deed. Oh! Not the ten-thousandth part of the anguish that was mine during the slow detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me on, while my heart was poisoned with remorse. Do you think the groans of Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was made to be open to love and sympathy. Misery wrenched it into vice and hatred. The change was violent. I did not bear it without a torture that you cannot even imagine. “After the murder of Clerval I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein. My pity became horror. I hated myself. But then I discovered something. He was the author both of my existence and of its unspeakable torments. And he dared to hope for happiness. He piled wretchedness and despair on me. At the same time he looked for his own enjoyment in feelings and passions that I was for ever shut out from. Then powerless envy and bitter anger filled me with an endless thirst for vengeance. I remembered my threat and decided that it should be carried out. I knew that I was preparing a deadly torture for myself. But I was the slave, not the master, of an impulse that I hated yet could not disobey. Yet when she died! No, then I was not miserable. I had thrown off all feeling and put down all anguish, to run wild in the excess of my despair. Evil from then on became my good. I had been pushed this far. I had no choice but to fit my nature to a way of life that I had willingly chosen. The completing of my demonic plan became an endless passion. And now it is ended. There is my last victim!” At first I was touched by the expressions of his misery. Yet then I remembered what Frankenstein had said about his powers of eloquence and persuasion. And I looked again at the lifeless body of my friend. Anger was lit again in me. “Wretch!” I said. “It is well that you come here to cry and complain over the ruin that you have made. You throw a torch into a pile of buildings. When they are burnt down, you sit among the ruins and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend! If the man you mourn were still alive, he would still be the target of your cursed vengeance. He would again become your prey. It is not pity that you feel. You lament only because the victim of your malice has been taken out of your power.” “Oh, it is not so—not so,” interrupted the being. “Yet that must be the impression that my actions seem to give you. But I do not look for fellow feeling in my misery. I can never find sympathy. When I first looked for it, I wished to share the love of virtue. I wished to share the feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being overflowed. But now virtue has become a shadow to me. Happiness and affection have turned into bitter and hateful despair. So where should I look for sympathy? I am content to suffer alone as long as my sufferings last. When I die, I am quite satisfied that hatred and shame should weigh down my memory. Once my imagination was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame and of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet beings who would forgive my outward form. I hoped they would love me for the excellent qualities that I was able to show. I was fed with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But now crime has lowered me beneath the meanest animal. No guilt, no mischief, no malice, no misery can be found to compare with mine. I run over the frightful list of my sins. I cannot believe that I am the same creature as before. Once my thoughts were filled with noble and lofty visions. They were visions of the beauty and majesty of goodness. But it is so. The fallen angel becomes an evil devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and companions in his loneliness. I am alone. “You call Frankenstein your friend. You seem to know about my crimes and his misfortunes. But in the account that he gave you he could not add up the hours and months of misery that I endured. I wasted myself in powerless passions. For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever burning and hungry. Still I wanted love and friendship, and I was still rejected. Was there no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all mankind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend from his door with insults? Why do you not curse the countryman who tried to destroy the saviour of his child? No, these are virtuous and spotless beings! I, the miserable and abandoned, am a monstrous failure, to be scorned, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my blood boils at the memory 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. I have squeezed to death the throat of a man who never hurt me or any other living thing. I have given my creator to misery. He was the best example of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men. I have chased him to that ruin which cannot be repaired. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me, but your hatred cannot equal the hatred with which I look at myself. I look at the hands that did the deed. I think of the heart in which the idea of it was conceived. And I long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when that idea will haunt my thoughts no more. “Do not fear that I shall do more harm in the future. My work is nearly done. Neither your death nor any man’s is needed to finish the chain of my life. It needs only my own. Do not think that I will be slow to make this sacrifice. I shall leave your ship on the ice raft that brought me here. I shall look for the most northern end of the world. I shall gather my funeral pile and burn this miserable body to ashes. Then its remains may give no light to any curious and unholy wretch who would create another like me. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the agonies that now consume me. I shall no longer be the prey of feelings unsatisfied yet not put out. He who called me into being is dead. And when I am no more, the very memory of both of us will soon 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 I must find my happiness. Some years ago the images of this world first opened to me. I felt the cheering warmth of summer and heard the rustling of the leaves and the singing of the birds. These were all to me, and I would have wept to die. Now it is my only consolation. Stained 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 mankind whom these eyes will ever see. Farewell, Frankenstein! If you were still alive and still wished for revenge against me, it would be better satisfied by my life than by my destruction. But it was not so. You looked for my death so that I would not cause greater wretchedness. And if, in some way unknown to me, you had not stopped thinking and feeling, you would not want a greater vengeance against me than the one that I feel. Ruined as you were, my agony was still greater than yours. For the bitter sting of remorse will not stop festering in my wounds until death closes them for ever. “But soon,” he cried with sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I shall die, and what I now feel will be felt no more. Soon these burning miseries will be gone. I shall climb my funeral pile in triumph and exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that fire 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 surely will not think like this. Farewell.” He sprang from the cabin window as he said this, onto the ice raft that lay close to the ship. Soon the waves carried him away, and he was lost in darkness and distance. ### Glossary - **tomb**: a stone structure over a grave, where dead people are buried - **the furies**: in old stories, spirits of revenge; here, wild feelings of rage - **pilgrimage**: a long, hard journey made for a serious purpose - **inscriptions**: words written or cut into bark or stone - **hovels**: poor, small, dirty huts - **hamlet**: a very small village - **the ground sea**: the heavy movement of the sea under the ice, which breaks the ice with a roar - **ice raft**: a floating piece of ice big enough to carry a person - **archangel**: a very high angel - **mutiny**: when a ship's crew refuses to obey the captain - **deputation**: a small group chosen to speak for a larger group - **mole-hills**: very small hills of earth made by moles - **The die is cast**: the decision is made and cannot be changed - **surgeon**: a doctor, here the ship's doctor - **mummy**: a dead body kept dry and preserved for thousands of years - **funeral pile**: a stack of wood on which a dead body is burned - **Hypocritical**: pretending to feel something that you do not really feel