7844 lines
431 KiB
Plaintext
7844 lines
431 KiB
Plaintext
|
# Frankenstein, or, the Modern Prometheus
|
||
|
## by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
|
||
|
|
||
|
**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
|
||
|
|
||
|
*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*
|
||
|
|
||
|
Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and
|
||
|
further information is included below. We need your donations.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
**The Project Gutenberg Etext of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley**
|
||
|
*****This file should be named frank10a.txt or frank10a.zip****
|
||
|
|
||
|
Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, frank11.txt
|
||
|
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, frank10a.txt
|
||
|
|
||
|
October 31, 1993
|
||
|
|
||
|
Title Author [filename.ext] ##
|
||
|
|
||
|
Frankenstein/Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley [frank10x.xxx] 84
|
||
|
Frankenstein/Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley [frank10a.xxx] 84a
|
||
|
|
||
|
[Two separate editions were prepared from the same sources]
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus
|
||
|
by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley
|
||
|
|
||
|
[Chapters 1-6: mostly scanned by David Meltzer,
|
||
|
Meltzer@cat.syr.edu, proofread, partially typed and submitted by
|
||
|
Christy Phillips, Caphilli@hawk.syr.edu, submitted on 9/24/93.
|
||
|
Proofread by Lynn Hanninen, submitted 10/93.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Frankenstein, continued (Chapters 20-24)
|
||
|
Scanned by Judy Boss (boss@cwis.unomaha.edu)
|
||
|
Proofread by Christy Phillips (caphilli@hawk.syr.edu)
|
||
|
Reproofed by Lynn Hanninen (leh1@lehigh.edu)
|
||
|
Margination and last proofing by THE GAR
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)
|
||
|
|
||
|
We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The
|
||
|
fifty hours is one conservative estimate for how long it we take
|
||
|
to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
|
||
|
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. This
|
||
|
projected audience is one hundred million readers. If our value
|
||
|
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar, then we produce 2
|
||
|
million dollars per hour this year we will have to do four text
|
||
|
files per month: thus upping our productivity from one million.
|
||
|
The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
|
||
|
Files by the December 31, 2001. [10,000 x 100,000,000=Trillion]
|
||
|
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
|
||
|
which is 10% of the expected number of computer users by the end
|
||
|
of the year 2001.
|
||
|
|
||
|
We need your donations more than ever!
|
||
|
|
||
|
All donations should be made to "Project Gutenberg/IBC", and are
|
||
|
tax deductible to the extent allowable by law ("IBC" is Illinois
|
||
|
Benedictine College). (Subscriptions to our paper newsletter go
|
||
|
to IBC, too)
|
||
|
|
||
|
For these and other matters, please mail to:
|
||
|
|
||
|
Project Gutenberg
|
||
|
P. O. Box 2782
|
||
|
Champaign, IL 61825
|
||
|
|
||
|
When all other email fails try our Michael S. Hart, Executive Director:
|
||
|
hart@vmd.cso.uiuc.edu (internet) hart@uiucvmd (bitnet)
|
||
|
|
||
|
We would prefer to send you this information by email
|
||
|
(Internet, Bitnet, Compuserve, ATTMAIL or MCImail).
|
||
|
|
||
|
******
|
||
|
If you have an FTP program (or emulator), please
|
||
|
FTP directly to the Project Gutenberg archives:
|
||
|
[Mac users, do NOT point and click. . .type]
|
||
|
|
||
|
ftp mrcnext.cso.uiuc.edu
|
||
|
login: anonymous
|
||
|
password: your@login
|
||
|
cd etext/etext91
|
||
|
or cd etext92
|
||
|
or cd etext93 [for new books] [now also in cd etext/etext93]
|
||
|
or cd etext/articles [get suggest.gut for more information]
|
||
|
dir [to see files]
|
||
|
get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]
|
||
|
GET gutmon.yr [where mon is abr for the month and yr is year]
|
||
|
for a list of books included in our Newsletter
|
||
|
and
|
||
|
GET NEW GUT for general information
|
||
|
and
|
||
|
MGET GUT* for newsletters.
|
||
|
|
||
|
**Information prepared by the Project Gutenberg legal advisor**
|
||
|
(Three Pages)
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
|
||
|
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
|
||
|
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
|
||
|
your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
|
||
|
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
|
||
|
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
|
||
|
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
|
||
|
you can distribute copies of this etext if you want to.
|
||
|
|
||
|
*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT
|
||
|
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
|
||
|
etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
|
||
|
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
|
||
|
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by
|
||
|
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
|
||
|
you got it from. If you received this etext on a physical
|
||
|
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.
|
||
|
|
||
|
ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS
|
||
|
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-
|
||
|
tm etexts, is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor
|
||
|
Michael S. Hart through the Project Gutenberg Association at
|
||
|
Illinois Benedictine College (the "Project"). Among other
|
||
|
things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
|
||
|
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
|
||
|
distribute it in the United States without permission and
|
||
|
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
|
||
|
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext
|
||
|
under the Project's "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.
|
||
|
|
||
|
To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable
|
||
|
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
|
||
|
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any
|
||
|
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
|
||
|
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
|
||
|
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
|
||
|
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
|
||
|
disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer
|
||
|
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.
|
||
|
|
||
|
LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
|
||
|
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
|
||
|
[1] the Project (and any other party you may receive this
|
||
|
etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims all
|
||
|
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
|
||
|
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
|
||
|
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
|
||
|
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
|
||
|
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
|
||
|
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.
|
||
|
|
||
|
If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of
|
||
|
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
|
||
|
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
|
||
|
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
|
||
|
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
|
||
|
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
|
||
|
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
|
||
|
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
|
||
|
receive it electronically.
|
||
|
|
||
|
THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
|
||
|
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
|
||
|
TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
|
||
|
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
|
||
|
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
|
||
|
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
|
||
|
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
|
||
|
may have other legal rights.
|
||
|
|
||
|
INDEMNITY
|
||
|
You will indemnify and hold the Project, its directors,
|
||
|
officers, members and agents harmless from all liability, cost
|
||
|
and expense, including legal fees, that arise directly or
|
||
|
indirectly from any of the following that you do or cause:
|
||
|
[1] distribution of this etext, [2] alteration, modification,
|
||
|
or addition to the etext, or [3] any Defect.
|
||
|
|
||
|
DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
|
||
|
You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by
|
||
|
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
|
||
|
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
|
||
|
or:
|
||
|
|
||
|
[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this
|
||
|
requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
|
||
|
etext or this "small print!" statement. You may however,
|
||
|
if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable
|
||
|
binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
|
||
|
including any form resulting from conversion by word pro-
|
||
|
cessing or hypertext software, but only so long as
|
||
|
*EITHER*:
|
||
|
|
||
|
[*] The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
|
||
|
does *not* contain characters other than those
|
||
|
intended by the author of the work, although tilde
|
||
|
(~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
|
||
|
be used to convey punctuation intended by the
|
||
|
author, and additional characters may be used to
|
||
|
indicate hypertext links; OR
|
||
|
|
||
|
[*] The etext may be readily converted by the reader at
|
||
|
no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
|
||
|
form by the program that displays the etext (as is
|
||
|
the case, for instance, with most word processors);
|
||
|
OR
|
||
|
|
||
|
[*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
|
||
|
no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
|
||
|
etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
|
||
|
or other equivalent proprietary form).
|
||
|
|
||
|
[2] Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this
|
||
|
"Small Print!" statement.
|
||
|
|
||
|
[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Project of 20% of the
|
||
|
net profits you derive calculated using the method you
|
||
|
already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you
|
||
|
don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are
|
||
|
payable to "Project Gutenberg Association / Illinois
|
||
|
Benedictine College" within the 60 days following each
|
||
|
date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare)
|
||
|
your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return.
|
||
|
|
||
|
WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
|
||
|
The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time,
|
||
|
scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty
|
||
|
free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution
|
||
|
you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg
|
||
|
Association / Illinois Benedictine College".
|
||
|
|
||
|
This "Small Print!" by Charles B. Kramer, Attorney
|
||
|
Internet (72600.2026@compuserve.com); TEL: (212-254-5093)
|
||
|
*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END*
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
# Frankenstein, or, the Modern Prometheus
|
||
|
## by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
### Letter 1
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
To Mrs. Saville, England
|
||
|
|
||
|
St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17--
|
||
|
|
||
|
You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement
|
||
|
of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.
|
||
|
I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister
|
||
|
of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets
|
||
|
of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks,
|
||
|
which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand
|
||
|
this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions
|
||
|
towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.
|
||
|
Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent
|
||
|
and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole
|
||
|
is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself
|
||
|
to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There,
|
||
|
Margaret,
|
||
|
the sun is forever visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon
|
||
|
and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There--for with your leave,
|
||
|
my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators--
|
||
|
there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea,
|
||
|
we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty
|
||
|
every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe.
|
||
|
Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena
|
||
|
of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes.
|
||
|
What may not be expected in a country of eternal light?
|
||
|
I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle
|
||
|
and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require
|
||
|
only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent forever.
|
||
|
I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world
|
||
|
never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted
|
||
|
by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient
|
||
|
to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence
|
||
|
this labourious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks
|
||
|
in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery
|
||
|
up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false,
|
||
|
you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer
|
||
|
on all mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage
|
||
|
near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months
|
||
|
are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which,
|
||
|
if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.
|
||
|
|
||
|
These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter,
|
||
|
and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven,
|
||
|
for nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind
|
||
|
as a steady purpose--a point on which the soul may fix
|
||
|
its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream
|
||
|
of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts
|
||
|
of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect
|
||
|
of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas
|
||
|
which surround the pole. You may remember that a history
|
||
|
of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole
|
||
|
of our good Uncle Thomas' library. My education was neglected,
|
||
|
yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study
|
||
|
day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret
|
||
|
which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father's dying injunction
|
||
|
had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.
|
||
|
|
||
|
These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets
|
||
|
whose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven. I also became
|
||
|
a poet and for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation;
|
||
|
I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple
|
||
|
where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated.
|
||
|
You are well acquainted with my failure and how heavily
|
||
|
I bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited
|
||
|
the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were turned
|
||
|
into the channel of their earlier bent.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking.
|
||
|
I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself
|
||
|
to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship.
|
||
|
I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea;
|
||
|
I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep;
|
||
|
I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day
|
||
|
and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine,
|
||
|
and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer
|
||
|
might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself
|
||
|
as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration.
|
||
|
I must own I felt a little proud when my captain offered me
|
||
|
the second dignity in the vessel and entreated me to remain
|
||
|
with the greatest earnestness, so valuable did he consider my services.
|
||
|
|
||
|
And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish
|
||
|
some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury,
|
||
|
but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path.
|
||
|
Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative!
|
||
|
My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate,
|
||
|
and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed
|
||
|
on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which
|
||
|
will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only
|
||
|
to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own,
|
||
|
when theirs are failing.
|
||
|
|
||
|
This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia.
|
||
|
They fly quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant,
|
||
|
and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach.
|
||
|
The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs--
|
||
|
a dress which I have already adopted, for there is a great difference
|
||
|
between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours,
|
||
|
when no exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins.
|
||
|
I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road between
|
||
|
St. Petersburgh and Archangel.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks;
|
||
|
and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done
|
||
|
by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors
|
||
|
as I think necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing.
|
||
|
I do not intend to sail until the month of June; and when shall I return?
|
||
|
Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed,
|
||
|
many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet.
|
||
|
If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you,
|
||
|
and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude
|
||
|
for all your love and kindness.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Your affectionate brother,
|
||
|
R. Walton
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
### Letter 2
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
To Mrs. Saville, England
|
||
|
|
||
|
Archangel, 28th March, 17--
|
||
|
|
||
|
How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow!
|
||
|
Yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel
|
||
|
and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already engaged
|
||
|
appear to be men on whom I can depend and are certainly possessed
|
||
|
of dauntless courage.
|
||
|
|
||
|
But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy,
|
||
|
and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil.
|
||
|
I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm
|
||
|
of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed
|
||
|
by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection.
|
||
|
I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium
|
||
|
for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man
|
||
|
who could sympathize with me, whose eyes would reply to mine.
|
||
|
You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel
|
||
|
the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous,
|
||
|
possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind,
|
||
|
whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans.
|
||
|
How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother!
|
||
|
I am too ardent in execution and too impatient of difficulties.
|
||
|
But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated:
|
||
|
for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common
|
||
|
and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas' books of voyages.
|
||
|
At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets
|
||
|
of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power
|
||
|
to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction
|
||
|
that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages
|
||
|
than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality
|
||
|
more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true
|
||
|
that I have thought more and that my daydreams are more extended
|
||
|
and magnificent, but they want (as the painters call it) *keeping*;
|
||
|
and I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me
|
||
|
as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend
|
||
|
on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen.
|
||
|
Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even
|
||
|
in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful
|
||
|
courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or rather,
|
||
|
to word my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his profession.
|
||
|
He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional
|
||
|
prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest
|
||
|
endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him
|
||
|
on board a whale vessel; finding that he was unemployed in this city,
|
||
|
I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The master is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable
|
||
|
in the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline.
|
||
|
This circumstance, added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage,
|
||
|
made me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude,
|
||
|
my best years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage,
|
||
|
has so refined the groundwork of my character that I cannot overcome
|
||
|
an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on board ship:
|
||
|
I have never believed it to be necessary, and when I heard of a mariner
|
||
|
equally noted for his kindliness of heart and the respect and obedience
|
||
|
paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate
|
||
|
in being able to secure his services. I heard of him first
|
||
|
in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him the happiness
|
||
|
of her life. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago
|
||
|
he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having amassed
|
||
|
a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented
|
||
|
to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony;
|
||
|
but she was bathed in tears, and throwing herself at his feet,
|
||
|
entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same time
|
||
|
that she loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father
|
||
|
would never consent to the union. My generous friend
|
||
|
reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover,
|
||
|
instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm
|
||
|
with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life;
|
||
|
but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains
|
||
|
of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited
|
||
|
the young woman's father to consent to her marriage with her lover.
|
||
|
But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour
|
||
|
to my friend, who, when he found the father inexorable,
|
||
|
quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his former mistress
|
||
|
was married according to her inclinations. "What a noble fellow!"
|
||
|
you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is wholly uneducated:
|
||
|
he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends him,
|
||
|
which, while it renders his conduct the more astonishing,
|
||
|
detracts from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would command.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little or because I can conceive
|
||
|
a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am wavering
|
||
|
in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate, and my voyage
|
||
|
is only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation.
|
||
|
The winter has been dreadfully severe, but the spring promises well,
|
||
|
and it is considered as a remarkably early season, so that perhaps
|
||
|
I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly:
|
||
|
you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness
|
||
|
whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect
|
||
|
of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you
|
||
|
a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful,
|
||
|
with which I am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions,
|
||
|
to "the land of mist and snow," but I shall kill no albatross;
|
||
|
therefore do not be alarmed for my safety or if I should come back to you
|
||
|
as worn and woeful as the "Ancient Mariner." You will smile at my allusion,
|
||
|
but I will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to,
|
||
|
my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean
|
||
|
to that production of the most imaginative of modern poets.
|
||
|
There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand.
|
||
|
I am practically industrious--painstaking, a workman to execute
|
||
|
with perseverance and labour--but besides this there is a love
|
||
|
for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined
|
||
|
in all my projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of men,
|
||
|
even to the wild sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore.
|
||
|
|
||
|
But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again,
|
||
|
after having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape
|
||
|
of Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear
|
||
|
to look on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present
|
||
|
to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters
|
||
|
on some occasions when I need them most to support my spirits.
|
||
|
I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection,
|
||
|
should you never hear from me again.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Your affectionate brother,
|
||
|
Robert Walton
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
### Letter 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
|
||
|
by a merchantman now on its homeward voyage from Archangel;
|
||
|
more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land, perhaps,
|
||
|
for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold
|
||
|
and apparently firm of purpose, nor do the floating sheets of ice
|
||
|
that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the region
|
||
|
towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them.
|
||
|
We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is
|
||
|
the height of summer, and although not so warm as in England,
|
||
|
the southern gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores
|
||
|
which I so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree
|
||
|
of renovating warmth which I had not expected.
|
||
|
|
||
|
No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure
|
||
|
in a letter. One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak
|
||
|
are accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record,
|
||
|
and I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake,
|
||
|
as well as yours, I will not rashly encounter danger.
|
||
|
I will be cool, persevering, and prudent.
|
||
|
|
||
|
But success *shall* crown my endeavours. Wherefore not?
|
||
|
Thus far I have gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas,
|
||
|
the very stars themselves being witnesses and testimonies
|
||
|
of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the untamed
|
||
|
yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart
|
||
|
and resolved will of man?
|
||
|
|
||
|
My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus.
|
||
|
But I must finish. Heaven bless my beloved sister!
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
R.W.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
### Letter 4
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
To Mrs. Saville, England
|
||
|
|
||
|
August 5th, 17--
|
||
|
|
||
|
So strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear
|
||
|
recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me
|
||
|
before these papers can come into your possession.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice,
|
||
|
which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her
|
||
|
the sea-room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous,
|
||
|
especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog.
|
||
|
We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place
|
||
|
in the atmosphere and weather.
|
||
|
|
||
|
About two o'clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld,
|
||
|
stretched out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice,
|
||
|
which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned,
|
||
|
and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts,
|
||
|
when a strange sight suddenly attracted our attention
|
||
|
and diverted our solicitude from our own situation.
|
||
|
We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs,
|
||
|
pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile;
|
||
|
a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature,
|
||
|
sat in the sledge and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress
|
||
|
of the traveller with our telescopes until he was lost
|
||
|
among the distant inequalities of the ice.
|
||
|
|
||
|
This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed,
|
||
|
many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote
|
||
|
that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in,
|
||
|
however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track,
|
||
|
which we had observed with the greatest attention.
|
||
|
|
||
|
About two hours after this occurrence we heard the ground sea,
|
||
|
and before night the ice broke and freed our ship. We, however,
|
||
|
lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark
|
||
|
those large loose masses which float about after the breaking up
|
||
|
of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours.
|
||
|
|
||
|
In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck
|
||
|
and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel,
|
||
|
apparently talking to someone in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge,
|
||
|
like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night
|
||
|
on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive;
|
||
|
but there was a human being within it whom the sailors were persuading
|
||
|
to enter the vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be,
|
||
|
a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but a European.
|
||
|
When I appeared on deck the master said, "Here is our captain,
|
||
|
and he will not allow you to perish on the open sea."
|
||
|
|
||
|
On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English,
|
||
|
although with a foreign accent. "Before I come on board your vessel,"
|
||
|
said he, "will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question
|
||
|
addressed to me from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom
|
||
|
I should have supposed that my vessel would have been a resource
|
||
|
which he would not have exchanged for the most precious wealth
|
||
|
the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we
|
||
|
were on a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board.
|
||
|
Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated
|
||
|
for his safety, your surprise would have been boundless.
|
||
|
His limbs were nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated
|
||
|
by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so wretched a condition.
|
||
|
We attempted to carry him into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted
|
||
|
the fresh air he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck
|
||
|
and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy
|
||
|
and forcing him to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed
|
||
|
signs of life we wrapped him up in blankets and placed him near the chimney
|
||
|
of the kitchen stove. By slow degrees he recovered and ate a little soup,
|
||
|
which restored him wonderfully.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak,
|
||
|
and I often feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding.
|
||
|
When he had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin
|
||
|
and attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw
|
||
|
a more interesting creature: his eyes have generally
|
||
|
an expression of wildness, and even madness, but there are moments when,
|
||
|
if anyone performs an act of kindness towards him or does him
|
||
|
the most trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up,
|
||
|
as it were, with a beam of benevolence and sweetness
|
||
|
that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy and despairing,
|
||
|
and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes
|
||
|
that oppresses him.
|
||
|
|
||
|
When my guest was a little recovered I had great trouble
|
||
|
to keep off the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions;
|
||
|
but I would not allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity,
|
||
|
in a state of body and mind whose restoration evidently depended
|
||
|
upon entire repose. Once, however, the lieutenant asked
|
||
|
why he had come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle.
|
||
|
|
||
|
His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom,
|
||
|
and he replied, "To seek one who fled from me."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Yes."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Then I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked you up
|
||
|
we saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice."
|
||
|
|
||
|
This aroused the stranger's attention, and he asked a multitude
|
||
|
of questions concerning the route which the demon, as he called him,
|
||
|
had pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said,
|
||
|
"I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that
|
||
|
of these good people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman of me
|
||
|
to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine."
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
"And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation;
|
||
|
you have benevolently restored me to life."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Soon after this he inquired if I thought that the breaking up
|
||
|
of the ice had destroyed the other sledge. I replied
|
||
|
that I could not answer with any degree of certainty,
|
||
|
for the ice had not broken until near midnight, and the traveller
|
||
|
might have arrived at a place of safety before that time;
|
||
|
but of this I could not judge.
|
||
|
|
||
|
From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame
|
||
|
of the stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck
|
||
|
to watch for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him
|
||
|
to remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness
|
||
|
of the atmosphere. I have promised that someone should watch for him
|
||
|
and give him instant notice if any new object should appear in sight.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence
|
||
|
up to the present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health
|
||
|
but is very silent and appears uneasy when anyone except myself
|
||
|
enters his cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle
|
||
|
that the sailors are all interested in him, although they have had
|
||
|
very little communication with him. For my own part, I begin to love him
|
||
|
as a brother, and his constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy
|
||
|
and compassion. He must have been a noble creature in his better days,
|
||
|
being even now in wreck so attractive and amiable.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend
|
||
|
on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit
|
||
|
had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed
|
||
|
as the brother of my heart.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals,
|
||
|
should I have any fresh incidents to record.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
August 13th, 17--
|
||
|
|
||
|
My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once
|
||
|
my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree.
|
||
|
How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery
|
||
|
without feeling the most poignant grief? He is so gentle,
|
||
|
yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated, and when he speaks,
|
||
|
although his words are culled with the choicest art,
|
||
|
yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.
|
||
|
|
||
|
He is now much recovered from his illness and is continually on the deck,
|
||
|
apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own.
|
||
|
Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery
|
||
|
but that he interests himself deeply in the projects of others.
|
||
|
He has frequently conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated
|
||
|
to him without disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments
|
||
|
in favour of my eventual success and into every minute detail
|
||
|
of the measures I had taken to secure it. I was easily led
|
||
|
by the sympathy which he evinced to use the language of my heart,
|
||
|
to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul, and to say,
|
||
|
with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune,
|
||
|
my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise.
|
||
|
One man's life or death were but a small price to pay for the acquirement
|
||
|
of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should acquire
|
||
|
and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke,
|
||
|
a dark gloom spread over my listener's countenance. At first
|
||
|
I perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands
|
||
|
before his eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears
|
||
|
trickle fast from between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast.
|
||
|
I paused; at length he spoke, in broken accents: "Unhappy man!
|
||
|
Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught?
|
||
|
Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!"
|
||
|
|
||
|
Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity;
|
||
|
but the paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger
|
||
|
overcame his weakened powers, and many hours of repose
|
||
|
and tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his composure.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared
|
||
|
to despise himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling
|
||
|
the dark tyranny of despair, he led me again to converse
|
||
|
concerning myself personally. He asked me the history
|
||
|
of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told, but it awakened
|
||
|
various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a friend,
|
||
|
of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind
|
||
|
than had ever fallen to my lot, and expressed my conviction
|
||
|
that a man could boast of little happiness who did not enjoy this blessing.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I agree with you," replied the stranger; "we are unfashioned creatures,
|
||
|
but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves--
|
||
|
such a friend ought to be--do not lend his aid to perfectionate
|
||
|
our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble
|
||
|
of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge
|
||
|
respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world before you,
|
||
|
and have no cause for despair. But I--I have lost everything
|
||
|
and cannot begin life anew."
|
||
|
|
||
|
As he said this his countenance became expressive of a calm,
|
||
|
settled grief that touched me to the heart. But he was silent
|
||
|
and presently retired to his cabin.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does
|
||
|
the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight
|
||
|
afforded by these wonderful regions seem still to have the power
|
||
|
of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence:
|
||
|
he may suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointments,
|
||
|
yet when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit
|
||
|
that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine wanderer?
|
||
|
You would not if you saw him. You have been tutored and refined
|
||
|
by books and retirement from the world, and you are therefore
|
||
|
somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit
|
||
|
to appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man.
|
||
|
Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is
|
||
|
which he possesses that elevates him so immeasurably above
|
||
|
any other person I ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment,
|
||
|
a quick but never-failing power of judgment, a penetration
|
||
|
into the causes of things, unequalled for clearness and precision;
|
||
|
add to this a facility of expression and a voice whose varied intonations
|
||
|
are soul-subduing music.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
August 19, 17--
|
||
|
|
||
|
Yesterday the stranger said to me, "You may easily perceive,
|
||
|
Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes.
|
||
|
I had determined at one time that the memory of these evils
|
||
|
should die with me, but you have won me to alter my determination.
|
||
|
You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope
|
||
|
that the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you,
|
||
|
as mine has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters
|
||
|
will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing
|
||
|
the same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers
|
||
|
which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may deduce
|
||
|
an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct you if you succeed
|
||
|
in your undertaking and console you in case of failure.
|
||
|
Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous.
|
||
|
Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might fear to encounter
|
||
|
your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear possible
|
||
|
in these wild and mysterious regions which would provoke the laughter
|
||
|
of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of nature;
|
||
|
nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series internal evidence
|
||
|
of the truth of the events of which it is composed."
|
||
|
|
||
|
You may easily imagine that I was much gratified
|
||
|
by the offered communication, yet I could not endure that he should renew
|
||
|
his grief by a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness
|
||
|
to hear the promised narrative, partly from curiosity and partly
|
||
|
from a strong desire to ameliorate his fate if it were in my power.
|
||
|
I expressed these feelings in my answer.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I thank you," he replied, "for your sympathy, but it is useless;
|
||
|
my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event,
|
||
|
and then I shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling,"
|
||
|
continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt him;
|
||
|
"but you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name you;
|
||
|
nothing can alter my destiny; listen to my history,
|
||
|
and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined."
|
||
|
|
||
|
He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day
|
||
|
when I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks.
|
||
|
I have resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied
|
||
|
by my duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his own words,
|
||
|
what he has related during the day. If I should be engaged,
|
||
|
I will at least make notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford you
|
||
|
the greatest pleasure; but to me, who know him and who hear it
|
||
|
from his own lips--with what interest and sympathy shall I read it
|
||
|
in some future day! Even now, as I commence my task, his full-toned voice
|
||
|
swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me
|
||
|
with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand
|
||
|
raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face
|
||
|
are irradiated by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story,
|
||
|
frightful the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course
|
||
|
and wrecked it--thus!
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 1
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished
|
||
|
of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors
|
||
|
and syndics, and my father had filled several public situations
|
||
|
with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him
|
||
|
for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business.
|
||
|
He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs
|
||
|
of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early,
|
||
|
nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband
|
||
|
and the father of a family.
|
||
|
|
||
|
As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character,
|
||
|
I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends
|
||
|
was a merchant who, from a flourishing state, fell,
|
||
|
through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man,
|
||
|
whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition
|
||
|
and could not bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country
|
||
|
where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence.
|
||
|
Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner,
|
||
|
he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne,
|
||
|
where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort
|
||
|
with the truest friendship and was deeply grieved by his retreat
|
||
|
in these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored
|
||
|
the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little worthy
|
||
|
of the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring
|
||
|
to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him
|
||
|
to begin the world again through his credit and assistance.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself,
|
||
|
and it was ten months before my father discovered his abode.
|
||
|
Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the house,
|
||
|
which was situated in a mean street near the Reuss.
|
||
|
But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him.
|
||
|
Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck
|
||
|
of his fortunes, but it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance
|
||
|
for some months, and in the meantime he hoped to procure
|
||
|
some respectable employment in a merchant's house. The interval was,
|
||
|
consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became
|
||
|
more deep and rankling when he had leisure for reflection,
|
||
|
and at length it took so fast hold of his mind that
|
||
|
at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness,
|
||
|
incapable of any exertion.
|
||
|
|
||
|
His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness,
|
||
|
but she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing
|
||
|
and that there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort
|
||
|
possessed a mind of an uncommon mould, and her courage rose to support her
|
||
|
in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw
|
||
|
and by various means contrived to earn a pittance
|
||
|
scarcely sufficient to support life.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse;
|
||
|
her time was more entirely occupied in attending him;
|
||
|
her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth month
|
||
|
her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar.
|
||
|
This last blow overcame her, and she knelt by Beaufort's coffin
|
||
|
weeping bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. He came
|
||
|
like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself
|
||
|
to his care; and after the interment of his friend he conducted her
|
||
|
to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a relation.
|
||
|
Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.
|
||
|
|
||
|
There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents,
|
||
|
but this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer
|
||
|
in bonds of devoted affection. There was a sense of justice
|
||
|
in my father's upright mind which rendered it necessary
|
||
|
that he should approve highly to love strongly.
|
||
|
Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the late-discovered
|
||
|
unworthiness of one beloved and so was disposed to set a greater value
|
||
|
on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and worship
|
||
|
in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the doting fondness
|
||
|
of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues
|
||
|
and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her
|
||
|
for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace
|
||
|
to his behaviour to her. Everything was made to yield to her wishes
|
||
|
and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic
|
||
|
is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind and to surround her
|
||
|
with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion
|
||
|
in her soft and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity
|
||
|
of her hitherto constant spirit, had been shaken by what she
|
||
|
had gone through. During the two years that had elapsed previous
|
||
|
to their marriage my father had gradually relinquished
|
||
|
all his public functions; and immediately after their union
|
||
|
they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of scene
|
||
|
and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders,
|
||
|
as a restorative for her weakened frame.
|
||
|
|
||
|
From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child,
|
||
|
was born at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles.
|
||
|
I remained for several years their only child. Much as they were
|
||
|
attached to each other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores
|
||
|
of affection from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me.
|
||
|
My mother's tender caresses and my father's smile of benevolent pleasure
|
||
|
while regarding me are my first recollections. I was their plaything
|
||
|
and their idol, and something better--their child, the innocent
|
||
|
and helpless creature bestowed on them by heaven, whom to bring up to good,
|
||
|
and whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness
|
||
|
or misery, according as they fulfilled their duties towards me.
|
||
|
With this deep consciousness of what they owed towards the being
|
||
|
to which they had given life, added to the active spirit of tenderness
|
||
|
that animated both, it may be imagined that while during every hour
|
||
|
of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity,
|
||
|
and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed
|
||
|
but one train of enjoyment to me.
|
||
|
|
||
|
For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired
|
||
|
to have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring.
|
||
|
When I was about five years old, while making an excursion
|
||
|
beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week on the shores
|
||
|
of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition often made them enter
|
||
|
the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty;
|
||
|
it was a necessity, a passion--remembering what she had suffered,
|
||
|
and how she had been relieved--for her to act in her turn
|
||
|
the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of their walks
|
||
|
a poor cot in the foldings of a vale attracted their notice
|
||
|
as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of half-clothed children
|
||
|
gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst shape. One day,
|
||
|
when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me,
|
||
|
visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working,
|
||
|
bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal
|
||
|
to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted
|
||
|
my mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock.
|
||
|
The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants;
|
||
|
this child was thin and very fair. Her hair was the brightest
|
||
|
living gold, and despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed
|
||
|
to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample,
|
||
|
her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face
|
||
|
so expressive of sensibility and sweetness that none could behold her
|
||
|
without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent,
|
||
|
and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder
|
||
|
and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history.
|
||
|
She was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman.
|
||
|
Her mother was a German and had died on giving her birth.
|
||
|
The infant had been placed with these good people to nurse:
|
||
|
they were better off then. They had not been long married,
|
||
|
and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge
|
||
|
was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory
|
||
|
of Italy--one among the *schiavi ognor frementi*, who exerted himself
|
||
|
to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim
|
||
|
of its weakness. Whether he had died or still lingered
|
||
|
in the dungeons of Austria was not known. His property was confiscated;
|
||
|
his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued
|
||
|
with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude abode,
|
||
|
fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.
|
||
|
|
||
|
When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me
|
||
|
in the hall of our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub--
|
||
|
a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks and whose form
|
||
|
and motions were lighter than the chamois of the hills. The apparition
|
||
|
was soon explained. With his permission my mother prevailed
|
||
|
on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They were fond
|
||
|
of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them,
|
||
|
but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want
|
||
|
when Providence afforded her such powerful protection.
|
||
|
They consulted their village priest, and the result was
|
||
|
that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents' house--
|
||
|
my more than sister--the beautiful and adored companion
|
||
|
of all my occupations and my pleasures.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Everyone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment
|
||
|
with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride
|
||
|
and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my home,
|
||
|
my mother had said playfully, "I have a pretty present for my Victor--
|
||
|
tomorrow he shall have it." And when, on the morrow,
|
||
|
she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I,
|
||
|
with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally
|
||
|
and looked upon Elizabeth as mine--mine to protect, love, and cherish.
|
||
|
All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own.
|
||
|
We called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No word,
|
||
|
no expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood
|
||
|
to me--my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 2
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
We were brought up together; there was not quite a year
|
||
|
difference in our ages. I need not say that we were strangers
|
||
|
to any species of disunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul
|
||
|
of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast
|
||
|
that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together.
|
||
|
Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition;
|
||
|
but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense application
|
||
|
and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge.
|
||
|
She busied herself with following the aerial creations
|
||
|
of the poets; and in the majestic and wondrous scenes
|
||
|
which surrounded our Swiss home--the sublime shapes
|
||
|
of the mountains, the changes of the seasons, tempest and calm,
|
||
|
the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence
|
||
|
of our Alpine summers--she found ample scope for admiration
|
||
|
and delight. While my companion contemplated with a serious
|
||
|
and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of things,
|
||
|
I delighted in investigating their causes. The world was to me
|
||
|
a secret which I desired to divine. Curiosity, earnest research
|
||
|
to learn the hidden laws of nature, gladness akin to rapture,
|
||
|
as they were unfolded to me, are among the earliest sensations
|
||
|
I can remember.
|
||
|
|
||
|
On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years,
|
||
|
my parents gave up entirely their wandering life and fixed themselves
|
||
|
in their native country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a campagne
|
||
|
on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance
|
||
|
of rather more than a league from the city. We resided principally
|
||
|
in the latter, and the lives of my parents were passed
|
||
|
in considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd
|
||
|
and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore,
|
||
|
to my school-fellows in general; but I united myself in the bonds
|
||
|
of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry Clerval
|
||
|
was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy
|
||
|
of singular talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship,
|
||
|
and even danger for its own sake. He was deeply read
|
||
|
in books of chivalry and romance. He composed heroic songs
|
||
|
and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly adventure.
|
||
|
He tried to make us act plays and to enter into masquerades,
|
||
|
in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles,
|
||
|
of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train
|
||
|
who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre
|
||
|
from the hands of the infidels.
|
||
|
|
||
|
No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself.
|
||
|
My parents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence.
|
||
|
We felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot
|
||
|
according to their caprice, but the agents and creators
|
||
|
of all the many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled
|
||
|
with other families I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate
|
||
|
my lot was, and gratitude assisted the development of filial love.
|
||
|
|
||
|
My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement;
|
||
|
but by some law in my temperature they were turned
|
||
|
not towards childish pursuits but to an eager desire to learn,
|
||
|
and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess
|
||
|
that neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments,
|
||
|
nor the politics of various states possessed attractions for me.
|
||
|
It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn;
|
||
|
and whether it was the outward substance of things
|
||
|
or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man
|
||
|
that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical,
|
||
|
or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak,
|
||
|
with the moral relations of things. The busy stage of life,
|
||
|
the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men were his theme;
|
||
|
and his hope and his dream was to become one among those
|
||
|
whose names are recorded in story as the gallant
|
||
|
and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly soul
|
||
|
of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home.
|
||
|
Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance
|
||
|
of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us.
|
||
|
She was the living spirit of love to soften and attract;
|
||
|
I might have become sullen in my study, through the ardour of my nature,
|
||
|
but that she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness.
|
||
|
And Clerval--could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval?
|
||
|
Yet he might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful
|
||
|
in his generosity, so full of kindness and tenderness
|
||
|
amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded
|
||
|
to him the real loveliness of beneficence and made the doing good
|
||
|
the end and aim of his soaring ambition.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood,
|
||
|
before misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions
|
||
|
of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self.
|
||
|
Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record
|
||
|
those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery,
|
||
|
for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion
|
||
|
which afterward ruled my destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river,
|
||
|
from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded,
|
||
|
it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away
|
||
|
all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the genius
|
||
|
that has regulated my fate; I desire, therefore, in this narration,
|
||
|
to state those facts which led to my predilection for that science.
|
||
|
When I was thirteen years of age we all went on a party of pleasure
|
||
|
to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of the weather
|
||
|
obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house
|
||
|
I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa.
|
||
|
I opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts
|
||
|
to demonstrate and the wonderful facts which he relates
|
||
|
soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light
|
||
|
seemed to dawn upon my mind, and bounding with joy,
|
||
|
I communicated my discovery to my father. My father looked carelessly
|
||
|
at the title page of my book and said, "Ah! Cornelius Agrippa!
|
||
|
My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash."
|
||
|
|
||
|
If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains
|
||
|
to explain to me that the principles of Agrippa
|
||
|
had been entirely exploded and that a modern system of science
|
||
|
had been introduced which possessed much greater powers
|
||
|
than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical,
|
||
|
while those of the former were real and practical,
|
||
|
under such circumstances I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside
|
||
|
and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was,
|
||
|
by returning with greater ardour to my former studies.
|
||
|
It is even possible that the train of my ideas
|
||
|
would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin.
|
||
|
But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume
|
||
|
by no means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents,
|
||
|
and I continued to read with the greatest avidity.
|
||
|
When I returned home my first care was to procure the whole works
|
||
|
of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus.
|
||
|
I read and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight;
|
||
|
they appeared to me treasures known to few besides myself.
|
||
|
I have described myself as always having been imbued
|
||
|
with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature.
|
||
|
In spite of the intense labour and wonderful discoveries
|
||
|
of modern philosophers, I always came from my studies discontented
|
||
|
and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed
|
||
|
that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great
|
||
|
and unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors
|
||
|
in each branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted
|
||
|
appeared even to my boy's apprehensions as tyros engaged
|
||
|
in the same pursuit.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him and was acquainted
|
||
|
with their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more.
|
||
|
He had partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal
|
||
|
lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect,
|
||
|
anatomize, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause,
|
||
|
causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him.
|
||
|
I had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed
|
||
|
to keep human beings from entering the citadel of nature,
|
||
|
and rashly and ignorantly I had repined.
|
||
|
|
||
|
But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper
|
||
|
and knew more. I took their word for all that they averred,
|
||
|
and I became their disciple. It may appear strange that such
|
||
|
should arise in the eighteenth century; but while I followed the routine
|
||
|
of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree,
|
||
|
self-taught with regard to my favourite studies. My father
|
||
|
was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a child's blindness,
|
||
|
added to a student's thirst for knowledge. Under the guidance
|
||
|
of my new preceptors I entered with the greatest diligence
|
||
|
into the search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life;
|
||
|
but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention.
|
||
|
Wealth was an inferior object, but what glory would attend
|
||
|
the discovery if I could banish disease from the human frame
|
||
|
and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!
|
||
|
Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils
|
||
|
was a promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors,
|
||
|
the fulfillment of which I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations
|
||
|
were always unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather to my own
|
||
|
inexperience and mistake than to a want of skill or fidelity
|
||
|
in my instructors. And thus for a time I was occupied by exploded systems,
|
||
|
mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory theories
|
||
|
and floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious knowledge,
|
||
|
guided by an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident
|
||
|
again changed the current of my ideas. When I was
|
||
|
about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near Belrive,
|
||
|
when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm.
|
||
|
It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder burst
|
||
|
at once with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens.
|
||
|
I remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress
|
||
|
with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden
|
||
|
I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak
|
||
|
which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon
|
||
|
as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared,
|
||
|
and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it
|
||
|
the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner.
|
||
|
It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced
|
||
|
to thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld anything
|
||
|
so utterly destroyed.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious
|
||
|
laws of electricity. On this occasion a man of great research
|
||
|
in natural philosophy was with us, and excited by this catastrophe,
|
||
|
he entered on the explanation of a theory which he had formed
|
||
|
on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new
|
||
|
and astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly
|
||
|
into the shade Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus,
|
||
|
the lords of my imagination; but by some fatality the overthrow
|
||
|
of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed studies.
|
||
|
It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be known.
|
||
|
All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable.
|
||
|
By one of those caprices of the mind which we are perhaps
|
||
|
most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up
|
||
|
my former occupations, set down natural history and all its progeny
|
||
|
as a deformed and abortive creation, and entertained
|
||
|
the greatest disdain for a would-be science which
|
||
|
could never even step within the threshold of real knowledge.
|
||
|
In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics
|
||
|
and the branches of study appertaining to that science
|
||
|
as being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy
|
||
|
of my consideration.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments
|
||
|
are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back,
|
||
|
it seems to me as if this almost miraculous change of inclination
|
||
|
and will was the immediate suggestion of the guardian angel
|
||
|
of my life--the last effort made by the spirit of preservation
|
||
|
to avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars
|
||
|
and ready to envelop me. Her victory was announced
|
||
|
by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul which followed
|
||
|
the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting studies.
|
||
|
It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with their prosecution,
|
||
|
happiness with their disregard.
|
||
|
|
||
|
It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual.
|
||
|
Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed
|
||
|
my utter and terrible destruction.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 3
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
When I had attained the age of seventeen my parents resolved
|
||
|
that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt.
|
||
|
I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva, but my father
|
||
|
thought it necessary for the completion of my education
|
||
|
that I should be made acquainted with other customs
|
||
|
than those of my native country. My departure was therefore fixed
|
||
|
at an early date, but before the day resolved upon could arrive,
|
||
|
the first misfortune of my life occurred--an omen, as it were,
|
||
|
of my future misery. Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever;
|
||
|
her illness was severe, and she was in the greatest danger.
|
||
|
During her illness many arguments had been urged
|
||
|
to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her.
|
||
|
She had at first yielded to our entreaties, but when she heard
|
||
|
that the life of her favourite was menaced, she could no longer
|
||
|
control her anxiety. She attended her sickbed; her watchful attentions
|
||
|
triumphed over the malignity of the distemper--Elizabeth was saved,
|
||
|
but the consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver.
|
||
|
On the third day my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied
|
||
|
by the most alarming symptoms, and the looks of her medical attendants
|
||
|
prognosticated the worst event. On her deathbed the fortitude
|
||
|
and benignity of this best of women did not desert her.
|
||
|
She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself. "My children,"
|
||
|
she said, "my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed
|
||
|
on the prospect of your union. This expectation
|
||
|
will now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love,
|
||
|
you must supply my place to my younger children. Alas!
|
||
|
I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved
|
||
|
as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all?
|
||
|
But these are not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour
|
||
|
to resign myself cheerfully to death and will indulge a hope
|
||
|
of meeting you in another world."
|
||
|
|
||
|
She died calmly, and her countenance expressed affection
|
||
|
even in death. I need not describe the feelings of those
|
||
|
whose dearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil,
|
||
|
the void that presents itself to the soul, and the despair
|
||
|
that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long
|
||
|
before the mind can persuade itself that she whom we saw every day
|
||
|
and whose very existence appeared a part of our own can have departed
|
||
|
forever--that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished
|
||
|
and the sound of a voice so familiar and dear to the ear can be hushed,
|
||
|
never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days;
|
||
|
but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil,
|
||
|
then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom
|
||
|
has not that rude hand rent away some dear connection?
|
||
|
And why should I describe a sorrow which all have felt,
|
||
|
and must feel? The time at length arrives when grief
|
||
|
is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile
|
||
|
that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege,
|
||
|
is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had still duties
|
||
|
which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the rest
|
||
|
and learn to think ourselves fortunate whilst one remains
|
||
|
whom the spoiler has not seized. My departure for Ingolstadt,
|
||
|
which had been deferred by these events, was now again determined upon.
|
||
|
I obtained from my father a respite of some weeks. It appeared to me
|
||
|
sacrilege so soon to leave the repose, akin to death,
|
||
|
of the house of mourning and to rush into the thick of life.
|
||
|
I was new to sorrow, but it did not the less alarm me.
|
||
|
I was unwilling to quit the sight of those that remained to me,
|
||
|
and above all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth
|
||
|
in some degree consoled.
|
||
|
|
||
|
She indeed veiled her grief and strove to act the comforter
|
||
|
to us all. She looked steadily on life and assumed its duties
|
||
|
with courage and zeal. She devoted herself to those
|
||
|
whom she had been taught to call her uncle and cousins.
|
||
|
Never was she so enchanting as at this time, when she recalled
|
||
|
the sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us.
|
||
|
She forgot even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last evening
|
||
|
with us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit him
|
||
|
to accompany me and to become my fellow student, but in vain. His father
|
||
|
was a narrow-minded trader and saw idleness and ruin
|
||
|
in the aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply felt
|
||
|
the misfortune of being debarred from a liberal education.
|
||
|
He said little, but when he spoke I read in his kindling eye
|
||
|
and in his animated glance a restrained but firm resolve
|
||
|
not to be chained to the miserable details of commerce.
|
||
|
|
||
|
We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other
|
||
|
nor persuade ourselves to say the word "Farewell!" It was said,
|
||
|
and we retired under the pretence of seeking repose,
|
||
|
each fancying that the other was deceived; but when at morning's dawn
|
||
|
I descended to the carriage which was to convey me away,
|
||
|
they were all there--my father again to bless me, Clerval
|
||
|
to press my hand once more, my Elizabeth to renew her entreaties
|
||
|
that I would write often and to bestow the last feminine attentions
|
||
|
on her playmate and friend.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away
|
||
|
and indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been
|
||
|
surrounded by amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring
|
||
|
to bestow mutual pleasure--I was now alone. In the university
|
||
|
whither I was going I must form my own friends and be my own protector.
|
||
|
My life had hitherto been remarkably secluded and domestic,
|
||
|
and this had given me invincible repugnance to new countenances.
|
||
|
I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were
|
||
|
"old familiar faces," but I believed myself totally unfitted
|
||
|
for the company of strangers. Such were my reflections
|
||
|
as I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded,
|
||
|
my spirits and hopes rose. I ardently desired the acquisition
|
||
|
of knowledge. I had often, when at home, thought it hard
|
||
|
to remain during my youth cooped up in one place and had longed
|
||
|
to enter the world and take my station among other human beings.
|
||
|
Now my desires were complied with, and it would, indeed,
|
||
|
have been folly to repent.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections
|
||
|
during my journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing.
|
||
|
At length the high white steeple of the town met my eyes.
|
||
|
I alighted and was conducted to my solitary apartment
|
||
|
to spend the evening as I pleased.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction
|
||
|
and paid a visit to some of the principal professors.
|
||
|
Chance--or rather the evil influence, the Angel of Destruction,
|
||
|
which asserted omnipotent sway over me from the moment I turned
|
||
|
my reluctant steps from my father's door--led me first to
|
||
|
M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He was an uncouth man,
|
||
|
but deeply imbued in the secrets of his science. He asked me
|
||
|
several questions concerning my progress in the different
|
||
|
branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I replied
|
||
|
carelessly, and partly in contempt, mentioned the names
|
||
|
of my alchemists as the principal authors I had studied.
|
||
|
The professor stared. "Have you," he said, "really spent your time
|
||
|
in studying such nonsense?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
I replied in the affirmative. "Every minute," continued M. Krempe
|
||
|
with warmth, "every instant that you have wasted on those books
|
||
|
is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory
|
||
|
with exploded systems and useless names. Good God!
|
||
|
In what desert land have you lived, where no one was kind enough
|
||
|
to inform you that these fancies which you have so greedily imbibed
|
||
|
are a thousand years old and as musty as they are ancient?
|
||
|
I little expected, in this enlightened and scientific age,
|
||
|
to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir,
|
||
|
you must begin your studies entirely anew."
|
||
|
|
||
|
So saying, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of several books
|
||
|
treating of natural philosophy which he desired me to procure,
|
||
|
and dismissed me after mentioning that in the beginning
|
||
|
of the following week he intended to commence a course of lectures
|
||
|
upon natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman,
|
||
|
a fellow professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days
|
||
|
that he omitted.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I returned home not disappointed, for I have said that I had long considered
|
||
|
those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I returned
|
||
|
not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any shape.
|
||
|
M. Krempe was a little squat man with a gruff voice and a repulsive
|
||
|
countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favour
|
||
|
of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and connected a strain,
|
||
|
perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had come to
|
||
|
concerning them in my early years. As a child I had not been content
|
||
|
with the results promised by the modern professors of natural science.
|
||
|
With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth
|
||
|
and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of knowledge
|
||
|
along the paths of time and exchanged the discoveries of recent inquirers
|
||
|
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 sought immortality and power;
|
||
|
such views, although futile, were grand; but now the scene was changed.
|
||
|
The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation
|
||
|
of those visions on which my interest in science was chiefly founded.
|
||
|
I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities
|
||
|
of little worth.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Such were my reflections during the first two or three days
|
||
|
of my residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent
|
||
|
in becoming acquainted with the localities and the principal residents
|
||
|
in my new abode. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought
|
||
|
of the information which M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures.
|
||
|
And although I could not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow
|
||
|
deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said
|
||
|
of M. Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went
|
||
|
into the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after.
|
||
|
This professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared
|
||
|
about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive
|
||
|
of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his temples,
|
||
|
but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person
|
||
|
was short but remarkably erect and his voice the sweetest
|
||
|
I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation
|
||
|
of the history of chemistry and the various improvements
|
||
|
made by different men of learning, pronouncing with fervour
|
||
|
the names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then
|
||
|
took a cursory view of the present state of the science
|
||
|
and explained many of its elementary terms. After having made
|
||
|
a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric
|
||
|
upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget:
|
||
|
"The ancient teachers of this science," said he, "promised impossibilities
|
||
|
and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little;
|
||
|
they know that metals cannot be transmuted and that the elixir of life
|
||
|
is a chimera but these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble
|
||
|
in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible,
|
||
|
have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses
|
||
|
of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places.
|
||
|
They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered
|
||
|
how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe.
|
||
|
They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command
|
||
|
the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock
|
||
|
the invisible world with its own shadows."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Such were the professor's words--rather let me say such the words
|
||
|
of the fate--enounced to destroy me. As he went on I felt
|
||
|
as if my soul were grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one
|
||
|
the various keys were touched which formed the mechanism of my being;
|
||
|
chord after chord was sounded, and soon my mind was filled
|
||
|
with one thought, one conception, one purpose. So much has been done,
|
||
|
exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein--more, far more, will I achieve;
|
||
|
treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way,
|
||
|
explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries
|
||
|
of creation.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was
|
||
|
in a state of insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order
|
||
|
would thence arise, but I had no power to produce it. By degrees,
|
||
|
after the morning's dawn, sleep came. I awoke, and my yesternight's
|
||
|
thoughts were as a dream. There only remained a resolution to return
|
||
|
to my ancient studies and to devote myself to a science for which
|
||
|
I believed myself to possess a natural talent. On the same day
|
||
|
I paid M. Waldman a visit. His manners in private
|
||
|
were even more mild and attractive than in public,
|
||
|
for there was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture
|
||
|
which in his own house was replaced by the greatest affability
|
||
|
and kindness. I gave him pretty nearly the same account
|
||
|
of my former pursuits as I had given to his fellow professor.
|
||
|
He heard with attention the little narration concerning my studies
|
||
|
and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus,
|
||
|
but without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited.
|
||
|
He said that "These were men to whose indefatigable zeal
|
||
|
modern philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations
|
||
|
of their knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task,
|
||
|
to give new names and arrange in connected classifications
|
||
|
the facts which they in a great degree had been the instruments
|
||
|
of bringing to light. The labours of men of genius,
|
||
|
however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning
|
||
|
to the solid advantage of mankind." I listened to his statement,
|
||
|
which was delivered without any presumption or affectation,
|
||
|
and then added that his lecture had removed my prejudices
|
||
|
against modern chemists; I expressed myself in measured terms,
|
||
|
with the modesty and deference due from a youth to his instructor,
|
||
|
without letting escape (inexperience in life would have made me ashamed)
|
||
|
any of the enthusiasm which stimulated my intended labours.
|
||
|
I requested his advice concerning the books I ought to procure.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I am happy," said M. Waldman, "to have gained a disciple;
|
||
|
and if your application equals your ability, I have no doubt
|
||
|
of your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy
|
||
|
in which the greatest improvements have been and may be made;
|
||
|
it is on that account that I have made it my peculiar study;
|
||
|
but at the same time, I have not neglected the other
|
||
|
branches of science. A man would make but a very sorry chemist
|
||
|
if he attended to that department of human knowledge alone.
|
||
|
If your wish is to become really a man of science and not merely
|
||
|
a petty experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch
|
||
|
of natural philosophy, including mathematics." He then took me
|
||
|
into his laboratory and explained to me the uses of his various machines,
|
||
|
instructing me as to what I ought to procure and promising me the use
|
||
|
of his own when I should have advanced far enough in the science
|
||
|
not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of books
|
||
|
which I had requested, and I took my leave.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 4
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry,
|
||
|
in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly
|
||
|
my sole occupation. I read with ardour those works,
|
||
|
so full of genius and discrimination, which modern inquirers
|
||
|
have written on these subjects. I attended the lectures
|
||
|
and cultivated the acquaintance of the men of science
|
||
|
of the university, and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal
|
||
|
of sound sense and real information, combined, it is true,
|
||
|
with a repulsive physiognomy and manners, but not on that account
|
||
|
the less valuable. In M. Waldman I found a true friend.
|
||
|
His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism, and his instructions
|
||
|
were given with an air of frankness and good nature that banished
|
||
|
every idea of pedantry. In a thousand ways he smoothed for me
|
||
|
the path of knowledge and made the most abstruse inquiries
|
||
|
clear and facile to my apprehension. My application was at first
|
||
|
fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded
|
||
|
and soon became so ardent and eager that the stars often disappeared
|
||
|
in the light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory.
|
||
|
|
||
|
As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that
|
||
|
my progress was rapid. My ardour was indeed the astonishment
|
||
|
of the students, and my proficiency that of the masters.
|
||
|
Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa
|
||
|
went on, whilst M. Waldman expressed the most heartfelt exultation
|
||
|
in my progress. Two years passed in this manner, during which
|
||
|
I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and soul,
|
||
|
in the pursuit of some discoveries which I hoped to make.
|
||
|
None but those who have experienced them can conceive
|
||
|
of the enticements of science. In other studies you go as far as others
|
||
|
have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know;
|
||
|
but in a scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery
|
||
|
and wonder. A mind of moderate capacity which closely pursues one study
|
||
|
must infallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study;
|
||
|
and I, who continually sought the attainment of one object
|
||
|
of pursuit and was solely wrapped up in this, improved so rapidly
|
||
|
that at the end of two years I made some discoveries
|
||
|
in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which procured me
|
||
|
great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had arrived
|
||
|
at this point and had become as well acquainted with the theory
|
||
|
and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons
|
||
|
of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there
|
||
|
being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning
|
||
|
to my friends and my native town, when an incident happened
|
||
|
that protracted my stay.
|
||
|
|
||
|
One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention
|
||
|
was the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal
|
||
|
endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle
|
||
|
of life proceed? It was a bold question, and one which has ever been
|
||
|
considered as a mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink
|
||
|
of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain
|
||
|
our inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind and determined
|
||
|
thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches
|
||
|
of natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated
|
||
|
by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study
|
||
|
would have been irksome and almost intolerable. To examine
|
||
|
the causes of life, we must first have recourse to death.
|
||
|
I became acquainted with the science of anatomy, but this was not sufficient;
|
||
|
I must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body.
|
||
|
In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions that my mind
|
||
|
should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember
|
||
|
to have trembled at a tale of superstition or to have feared the apparition
|
||
|
of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy, and a churchyard
|
||
|
was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which,
|
||
|
from being the seat of beauty and strength, had become food for the worm.
|
||
|
Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of this decay
|
||
|
and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel-houses.
|
||
|
My attention was fixed upon every object the most insupportable
|
||
|
to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine form of man
|
||
|
was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of death succeed
|
||
|
to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders
|
||
|
of the eye and brain. I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae
|
||
|
of causation, as exemplified in the change from life to death,
|
||
|
and death to life, until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light
|
||
|
broke in upon me--a light so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple,
|
||
|
that while I became dizzy with the immensity of the prospect
|
||
|
which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so many men of genius
|
||
|
who had directed their inquiries towards the same science,
|
||
|
that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not
|
||
|
more certainly shine in the heavens than that which I now affirm is true.
|
||
|
Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery
|
||
|
were distinct and probable. After days and nights of incredible labour
|
||
|
and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life;
|
||
|
nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation
|
||
|
upon lifeless matter.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery
|
||
|
soon gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time
|
||
|
spent in painful labour, to arrive at once at the summit
|
||
|
of my desires was the most gratifying consummation of my toils.
|
||
|
But this discovery was so great and overwhelming that all the steps
|
||
|
by which I had been progressively led to it were obliterated,
|
||
|
and I beheld only the result. What had been the study
|
||
|
and desire of the wisest men since the creation of the world
|
||
|
was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene,
|
||
|
it all opened upon me at once: the information I had obtained
|
||
|
was of a nature rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them
|
||
|
towards the object of my search than to exhibit that object
|
||
|
already accomplished. I was like the Arabian who had been buried
|
||
|
with the dead and found a passage to life, aided only by one glimmering
|
||
|
and seemingly ineffectual light.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I see by your eagerness and the wonder and hope which your eyes express,
|
||
|
my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which
|
||
|
I am acquainted; that cannot be; listen patiently until the end of my story,
|
||
|
and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that subject.
|
||
|
I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was,
|
||
|
to your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me,
|
||
|
if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous
|
||
|
is the acquirement of knowledge and how much happier that man is
|
||
|
who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires
|
||
|
to become greater than his nature will allow.
|
||
|
|
||
|
When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands,
|
||
|
I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it.
|
||
|
Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet
|
||
|
to prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its intricacies
|
||
|
of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a work
|
||
|
of inconceivable difficulty and labour. I doubted at first
|
||
|
whether I should attempt the creation of a being like myself,
|
||
|
or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was too much exalted
|
||
|
by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give life
|
||
|
to an animal as complete and wonderful as man. The materials at present
|
||
|
within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an undertaking,
|
||
|
but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I prepared myself
|
||
|
for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be incessantly baffled,
|
||
|
and at last my work be imperfect, yet when I considered the improvement
|
||
|
which every day takes place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged
|
||
|
to hope my present attempts would at least lay the foundations
|
||
|
of future success. Nor could I consider the magnitude
|
||
|
and complexity of my plan as any argument of its impracticability.
|
||
|
It was with these feelings that I began the creation of a human being.
|
||
|
As the minuteness of the parts formed a great hindrance to my speed,
|
||
|
I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the being
|
||
|
of a gigantic stature, that is to say, about eight feet in height,
|
||
|
and proportionably large. After having formed this determination
|
||
|
and having spent some months in successfully collecting
|
||
|
and arranging my materials, I began.
|
||
|
|
||
|
No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards,
|
||
|
like a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death
|
||
|
appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through,
|
||
|
and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species
|
||
|
would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures
|
||
|
would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude
|
||
|
of his child so completely as I should deserve theirs.
|
||
|
Pursuing these reflections, I thought that if I could bestow animation
|
||
|
upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it
|
||
|
impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted the body
|
||
|
to corruption.
|
||
|
|
||
|
These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking
|
||
|
with unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study,
|
||
|
and my person had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes,
|
||
|
on the very brink of certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope
|
||
|
which the next day or the next hour might realize. One secret
|
||
|
which I alone possessed was the hope to which I had dedicated myself;
|
||
|
and the moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed
|
||
|
and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places.
|
||
|
Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled
|
||
|
among the unhallowed damps of the grave or tortured the living animal
|
||
|
to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim
|
||
|
with the remembrance; but then a resistless and almost frantic impulse
|
||
|
urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation
|
||
|
but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance,
|
||
|
that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as,
|
||
|
the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits.
|
||
|
I collected bones from charnel-houses and disturbed, with profane fingers,
|
||
|
the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary chamber,
|
||
|
or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated
|
||
|
from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase,
|
||
|
I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting
|
||
|
from their sockets in attending to the details of my employment.
|
||
|
The dissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials;
|
||
|
and often did my human nature turn with loathing from my occupation,
|
||
|
whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased,
|
||
|
I brought my work near to a conclusion.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul,
|
||
|
in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields
|
||
|
bestow a more plentiful harvest or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage,
|
||
|
but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same feelings
|
||
|
which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to forget
|
||
|
those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not seen
|
||
|
for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them, and I well remembered
|
||
|
the words of my father: "I know that while you are pleased with yourself
|
||
|
you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear regularly from you.
|
||
|
You must pardon me if I regard any interruption in your correspondence
|
||
|
as a proof that your other duties are equally neglected."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I knew well therefore what would be my father's feelings,
|
||
|
but I could not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself,
|
||
|
but which had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished,
|
||
|
as it were, to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection
|
||
|
until the great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature,
|
||
|
should be completed.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect
|
||
|
to vice or faultiness on my part, but I am now convinced
|
||
|
that he was justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether
|
||
|
free from blame. A human being in perfection ought always to preserve
|
||
|
a calm and peaceful mind and never to allow passion or a transitory desire
|
||
|
to disturb his tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge
|
||
|
is an exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself
|
||
|
has a tendency to weaken your affections and to destroy your taste
|
||
|
for those simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix,
|
||
|
then that study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting
|
||
|
the human mind. If this rule were always observed; if no man
|
||
|
allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity
|
||
|
of his domestic affections, Greece had not been enslaved, Caesar
|
||
|
would have spared his country, America would have been discovered
|
||
|
more gradually, and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.
|
||
|
|
||
|
But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part
|
||
|
of my tale, and your looks remind me to proceed. My father
|
||
|
made no reproach in his letters and only took notice of my science
|
||
|
by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before.
|
||
|
Winter, spring, and summer passed away during my labours;
|
||
|
but I did not watch the blossom or the expanding leaves--sights
|
||
|
which before always yielded me supreme delight--so deeply
|
||
|
was I engrossed in my occupation. The leaves of that year had withered
|
||
|
before my work drew near to a close, and now every day showed me more plainly
|
||
|
how well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked
|
||
|
by my anxiety, and I appeared rather like one doomed by slavery
|
||
|
to toil in the mines, or any other unwholesome trade than an artist
|
||
|
occupied by his favourite employment. Every night I was oppressed
|
||
|
by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful degree;
|
||
|
the fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow creatures
|
||
|
as if I had been guilty of a crime. Sometimes I grew alarmed
|
||
|
at the wreck I perceived that I had become; the energy of my purpose
|
||
|
alone sustained me: my labours would soon end, and I believed
|
||
|
that exercise and amusement would then drive away incipient disease;
|
||
|
and I promised myself both of these when my creation should be complete.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 5
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment
|
||
|
of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony,
|
||
|
I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse
|
||
|
a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet.
|
||
|
It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally
|
||
|
against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when,
|
||
|
by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye
|
||
|
of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion
|
||
|
agitated its limbs.
|
||
|
|
||
|
How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate
|
||
|
the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form?
|
||
|
His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful.
|
||
|
Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles
|
||
|
and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing;
|
||
|
his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more
|
||
|
horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the
|
||
|
same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his
|
||
|
shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings
|
||
|
of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years,
|
||
|
for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body.
|
||
|
For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it
|
||
|
with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished,
|
||
|
the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust
|
||
|
filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created,
|
||
|
I rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber,
|
||
|
unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded
|
||
|
to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the bed
|
||
|
in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness.
|
||
|
But it was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed
|
||
|
by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health,
|
||
|
walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised,
|
||
|
I embraced her, but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips,
|
||
|
they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change,
|
||
|
and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms;
|
||
|
a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling
|
||
|
in the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror;
|
||
|
a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb
|
||
|
became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon,
|
||
|
as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch--
|
||
|
the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain
|
||
|
of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me.
|
||
|
His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds,
|
||
|
while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear;
|
||
|
one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped
|
||
|
and rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belonging
|
||
|
to the house which I inhabited, where I remained during the rest
|
||
|
of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation,
|
||
|
listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were
|
||
|
to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which
|
||
|
I had so miserably given life.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Oh! No mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy
|
||
|
again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch.
|
||
|
I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then,
|
||
|
but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion,
|
||
|
it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly
|
||
|
and hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others,
|
||
|
I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness.
|
||
|
Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment;
|
||
|
dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space
|
||
|
were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid,
|
||
|
the overthrow so complete!
|
||
|
|
||
|
Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned and discovered to my sleepless
|
||
|
and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock,
|
||
|
which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court,
|
||
|
which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets,
|
||
|
pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch
|
||
|
whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my view.
|
||
|
I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited,
|
||
|
but felt impelled to hurry on, although drenched by the rain
|
||
|
which poured from a black and comfortless sky.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring
|
||
|
by bodily exercise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind.
|
||
|
I traversed the streets without any clear conception of where I was
|
||
|
or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear,
|
||
|
and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:
|
||
|
|
||
|
Like one who, on a lonely road,
|
||
|
Doth walk in fear and dread,
|
||
|
And, having once 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."]
|
||
|
|
||
|
Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which
|
||
|
the various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused,
|
||
|
I knew not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach
|
||
|
that was coming towards me from the other end of the street.
|
||
|
As it drew nearer I observed that it was the Swiss diligence;
|
||
|
it stopped just where I was standing, and on the door being opened,
|
||
|
I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out.
|
||
|
"My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you!
|
||
|
How fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!"
|
||
|
|
||
|
Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence
|
||
|
brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes
|
||
|
of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand,
|
||
|
and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly,
|
||
|
and for the first time during many months, calm and serene joy.
|
||
|
I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner,
|
||
|
and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for some time
|
||
|
about our mutual friends and his own good fortune in being permitted
|
||
|
to come to Ingolstadt. "You may easily believe," said he,
|
||
|
"how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that
|
||
|
all necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of bookkeeping;
|
||
|
and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last,
|
||
|
for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same
|
||
|
as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in *The Vicar of Wakefield*:
|
||
|
`I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily
|
||
|
without Greek.' But his affection for me at length overcame his dislike
|
||
|
of learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery
|
||
|
to the land of knowledge."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me
|
||
|
how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear
|
||
|
from you so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little
|
||
|
upon their account myself. But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he,
|
||
|
stopping short and gazing full in my face, "I did not before remark
|
||
|
how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if
|
||
|
you had been watching for several nights."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged
|
||
|
in one occupation that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest,
|
||
|
as you see; but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments
|
||
|
are now at an end and that I am at length free."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less
|
||
|
to allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked
|
||
|
with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected,
|
||
|
and the thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left
|
||
|
in my apartment might still be there, alive and walking about.
|
||
|
I dreaded to behold this monster, but I feared still more that Henry
|
||
|
should see him. Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes
|
||
|
at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room.
|
||
|
My hand was already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself.
|
||
|
I then paused, and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door
|
||
|
forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when they expect
|
||
|
a spectre to stand in waiting for them on the other side;
|
||
|
but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment was empty,
|
||
|
and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe
|
||
|
that so great a good fortune could have befallen me, but when I became
|
||
|
assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy
|
||
|
and ran down to Clerval.
|
||
|
|
||
|
We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast;
|
||
|
but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me;
|
||
|
I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse
|
||
|
beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place;
|
||
|
I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud.
|
||
|
Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival,
|
||
|
but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes
|
||
|
for which he could not account, and my loud, unrestrained,
|
||
|
heartless laughter frightened and astonished him.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter?
|
||
|
Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause
|
||
|
of all this?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I
|
||
|
thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; "*he* can
|
||
|
tell. Oh, save me! Save me!" I imagined that the monster seized
|
||
|
me; I struggled furiously and fell down in a fit.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Poor Clerval! What must have been his feelings? A meeting,
|
||
|
which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness.
|
||
|
But I was not the witness of his grief, for I was lifeless
|
||
|
and did not recover my senses for a long, long time.
|
||
|
|
||
|
This was the commencement of a nervous fever which confined me
|
||
|
for several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse.
|
||
|
I afterwards learned that, knowing my father's advanced age
|
||
|
and unfitness for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness
|
||
|
would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent
|
||
|
of my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind
|
||
|
and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt
|
||
|
of my recovery, he did not doubt that, instead of doing harm,
|
||
|
he performed the kindest action that he could towards them.
|
||
|
|
||
|
But I was in reality very ill, and surely nothing but the unbounded
|
||
|
and unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life.
|
||
|
The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was
|
||
|
forever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him.
|
||
|
Doubtless my words surprised Henry; he at first believed them to be
|
||
|
the wanderings of my disturbed imagination, but the pertinacity
|
||
|
with which I continually recurred to the same subject persuaded him
|
||
|
that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.
|
||
|
|
||
|
By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses that alarmed
|
||
|
and grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time
|
||
|
I became capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure,
|
||
|
I perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared and that the young buds
|
||
|
were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window.
|
||
|
It was a divine spring, and the season contributed greatly
|
||
|
to my convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and affection
|
||
|
revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a short time
|
||
|
I became as cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Dearest Clerval," exclaimed I, "how kind, how very good you are to me.
|
||
|
This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised yourself,
|
||
|
has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you?
|
||
|
I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have been
|
||
|
the occasion, but you will forgive me."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"You will repay me entirely if you do not discompose yourself,
|
||
|
but get well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits,
|
||
|
I may speak to you on one subject, may I not?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
I trembled. One subject! What could it be? Could he allude
|
||
|
to an object on whom I dared not even think?
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed my change of colour,
|
||
|
"I will not mention it if it agitates you; but your father and cousin
|
||
|
would be very happy if they received a letter from you
|
||
|
in your own handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been
|
||
|
and are uneasy at your long silence."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first thought
|
||
|
would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love
|
||
|
and who are so deserving of my love?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad
|
||
|
to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you;
|
||
|
it is from your cousin, I believe."
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 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, and even the constant letters
|
||
|
of dear kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me
|
||
|
on your account. You are forbidden to write--to hold a pen;
|
||
|
yet one word from you, dear Victor, is necessary to calm
|
||
|
our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought that each post
|
||
|
would bring this line, and my persuasions have restrained my uncle
|
||
|
from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have prevented
|
||
|
his encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers
|
||
|
of so long a journey, yet how often have I regretted
|
||
|
not being able to perform it myself! I figure to myself
|
||
|
that the task of attending on your sickbed has devolved
|
||
|
on some mercenary old nurse, who could never guess your wishes
|
||
|
nor minister to them with the care and affection of your
|
||
|
poor cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes
|
||
|
that indeed you are getting better. I eagerly hope that you will
|
||
|
confirm this intelligence soon in your own handwriting.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Get well--and return to us. You will find a happy,
|
||
|
cheerful home and friends who love you dearly. Your
|
||
|
father's health is vigorous, and he asks but to see you,
|
||
|
but to be assured that you are well; and not a care will ever
|
||
|
cloud his benevolent countenance. How pleased you would be
|
||
|
to remark the improvement of our Ernest! He is now sixteen
|
||
|
and full of activity and spirit. He is desirous to be a true Swiss
|
||
|
and to enter into foreign service, but we cannot part with him,
|
||
|
at least until his elder brother return to us. My uncle
|
||
|
is not pleased with the idea of a military career in a distant country,
|
||
|
but Ernest never had your powers of application. He looks upon study
|
||
|
as an odious fetter; his time is spent in the open air, climbing
|
||
|
the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear that he will become
|
||
|
an idler unless we yield the point and permit him to enter
|
||
|
on the profession which he has selected.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children,
|
||
|
has taken place since you left us. The blue lake and snow-clad
|
||
|
mountains--they never change; and I think our placid home
|
||
|
and our contented hearts are regulated by the same immutable laws.
|
||
|
My trifling occupations take up my time and amuse me, and I am rewarded
|
||
|
for any exertions by seeing none but happy, kind faces around me.
|
||
|
Since you left us, but one change has taken place
|
||
|
in our little household. Do you remember on what occasion
|
||
|
Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably you do not;
|
||
|
I will relate her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz,
|
||
|
her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine
|
||
|
was the third. This girl had always been the favourite of her father,
|
||
|
but through a strange perversity, her mother could not endure her,
|
||
|
and after the death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt
|
||
|
observed this, and when Justine was twelve years of age,
|
||
|
prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at our house.
|
||
|
The republican institutions of our country have produced simpler
|
||
|
and happier manners than those which prevail in the great monarchies
|
||
|
that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between
|
||
|
the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders,
|
||
|
being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined
|
||
|
and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing
|
||
|
as a servant in France and England. Justine, thus received
|
||
|
in our family, learned the duties of a servant, a condition which,
|
||
|
in our fortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance
|
||
|
and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours;
|
||
|
and I recollect you once remarked that if you were in an ill humour,
|
||
|
one glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason
|
||
|
that Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica--she looked
|
||
|
so frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment
|
||
|
for her, by which she was induced to give her an education superior
|
||
|
to that which she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid;
|
||
|
Justine was the most grateful little creature in the world:
|
||
|
I do not mean that she made any professions; I never heard
|
||
|
one pass her lips, but you could see by her eyes that she
|
||
|
almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition was gay
|
||
|
and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention
|
||
|
to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model
|
||
|
of all excellence and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology
|
||
|
and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.
|
||
|
|
||
|
When my dearest aunt died every one was too much occupied
|
||
|
in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her
|
||
|
during her illness with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine
|
||
|
was very ill; but other trials were reserved for her.
|
||
|
|
||
|
One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother,
|
||
|
with the exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless.
|
||
|
The conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think
|
||
|
that the deaths of her favourites was a judgment from heaven
|
||
|
to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic;
|
||
|
and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived.
|
||
|
Accordingly, a few months after your departure for Ingolstadt,
|
||
|
Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor girl!
|
||
|
She wept when she quitted our house; she was much altered
|
||
|
since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness
|
||
|
and a winning mildness to her manners which had before been remarkable
|
||
|
for vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother's house
|
||
|
of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating
|
||
|
in her repentance. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive
|
||
|
her unkindness but much oftener accused her of having caused
|
||
|
the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length
|
||
|
threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased
|
||
|
her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died
|
||
|
on the first approach of cold weather, at the beginning
|
||
|
of this last winter. Justine has returned to us, and I assure you
|
||
|
I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle
|
||
|
and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien
|
||
|
and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin,
|
||
|
of little darling William. I wish you could see him;
|
||
|
he is very tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes,
|
||
|
dark 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 of age.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged
|
||
|
in a little gossip concerning the good people of Geneva.
|
||
|
The pretty Miss Mansfield has already received the congratulatory
|
||
|
visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman,
|
||
|
John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard,
|
||
|
the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite schoolfellow,
|
||
|
Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the departure
|
||
|
of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his spirits,
|
||
|
and is reported to be on the point of marrying a very lively,
|
||
|
pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow,
|
||
|
and much older than Manoir, but she is very much admired
|
||
|
and a favourite with everybody.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin;
|
||
|
but my anxiety returns upon me as I conclude. 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. Adieu!
|
||
|
My cousin, take care of yourself, and, I entreat you, write!
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Elizabeth Lavenza
|
||
|
|
||
|
Geneva, March 18th, 17--
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed when I had read her letter.
|
||
|
"I will write instantly and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel."
|
||
|
I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence
|
||
|
had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight
|
||
|
I was able to leave my chamber.
|
||
|
|
||
|
One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval
|
||
|
to the several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent
|
||
|
a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained.
|
||
|
Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning
|
||
|
of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy
|
||
|
even to the name of natural philosophy. When I was otherwise
|
||
|
quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument
|
||
|
would renew all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this,
|
||
|
and had removed all my apparatus from my view. He had also changed
|
||
|
my apartment, for he perceived that I had acquired a dislike
|
||
|
for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these cares
|
||
|
of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors.
|
||
|
M. Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth,
|
||
|
the astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived
|
||
|
that I disliked the subject, but not guessing the real cause,
|
||
|
he attributed my feelings to modesty and changed the subject
|
||
|
from my improvement to the science itself, with a desire,
|
||
|
as I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What could I do?
|
||
|
He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had placed
|
||
|
carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments which were
|
||
|
to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death.
|
||
|
I writhed under his words yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt.
|
||
|
Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning
|
||
|
the sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse,
|
||
|
his total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn.
|
||
|
I thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly
|
||
|
that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me;
|
||
|
and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence
|
||
|
that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him
|
||
|
that event which was so often present to my recollection but which I feared
|
||
|
the detail to another would only impress more deeply.
|
||
|
|
||
|
M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time,
|
||
|
of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh, blunt encomiums
|
||
|
gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman.
|
||
|
"D--n the fellow!" cried he. "Why, M. Clerval, I assure you
|
||
|
he has outstripped us all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is
|
||
|
nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years ago, believed
|
||
|
in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in the Gospel, has now set himself
|
||
|
at the head of the university; and if he is not soon pulled down,
|
||
|
we shall all be out of countenance. Ay, ay," continued he,
|
||
|
observing my face expressive of suffering, "M. Frankenstein is modest,
|
||
|
an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be diffident
|
||
|
of themselves, you know, M. Clerval; I was myself when young;
|
||
|
but that wears out in a very short time."
|
||
|
|
||
|
M. Krempe had now commenced a eulogy on himself, which happily
|
||
|
turned the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Clerval had never sympathized in my tastes for natural science,
|
||
|
and his literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me.
|
||
|
He came to the university with the design of making himself complete master
|
||
|
of the Oriental languages, as thus he should open a field
|
||
|
for the plan of life he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue
|
||
|
no inglorious career, he turned his eyes towards the East
|
||
|
as affording scope for his spirit of enterprise. The Persian,
|
||
|
Arabic, and Sanskrit languages engaged his attention,
|
||
|
and I was easily induced to enter on the same studies.
|
||
|
Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished to fly
|
||
|
from reflection and hated my former studies, I felt great relief
|
||
|
in being the fellow pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction
|
||
|
but consolation in the works of the Orientalists. I did not,
|
||
|
like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects,
|
||
|
for I did not contemplate making any other use of them
|
||
|
than temporary amusement. I read merely to understand their meaning,
|
||
|
and they well repaid my labours. Their melancholy is soothing,
|
||
|
and their joy elevating, to a degree I never experienced
|
||
|
in studying the authors of any other country. When you read
|
||
|
their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses,
|
||
|
in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes
|
||
|
your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical poetry
|
||
|
of Greece and Rome!
|
||
|
|
||
|
Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva
|
||
|
was fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed
|
||
|
by several accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads
|
||
|
were deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded
|
||
|
until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay very bitterly,
|
||
|
for I longed to see my native town and my beloved friends.
|
||
|
My return had only been delayed so long from an unwillingness
|
||
|
to leave Clerval in a strange place before he had become acquainted
|
||
|
with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully,
|
||
|
and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came
|
||
|
its beauty compensated for its dilatoriness.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily
|
||
|
which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed
|
||
|
a pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid
|
||
|
a personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited.
|
||
|
I acceded with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise,
|
||
|
and Clerval had always been my favourite companion in the rambles
|
||
|
of this nature that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.
|
||
|
|
||
|
We passed a fortnight in these perambulations; my health and spirits
|
||
|
had long been restored, and they gained additional strength
|
||
|
from the salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress,
|
||
|
and the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me
|
||
|
from the intercourse of my fellow creatures and rendered me unsocial,
|
||
|
but Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart;
|
||
|
he again taught me to love the aspect of nature and the cheerful faces
|
||
|
of children. Excellent friend! How sincerely did you love me
|
||
|
and endeavour to elevate my mind until it was on a level with your own!
|
||
|
A selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed me until your gentleness
|
||
|
and affection warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature
|
||
|
who, a few years ago, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care.
|
||
|
When happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me
|
||
|
the most delightful sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields
|
||
|
filled me with ecstasy. The present season was indeed divine;
|
||
|
the flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer
|
||
|
were already in bud. I was undisturbed by thoughts which
|
||
|
during the preceding year had pressed upon me, notwithstanding
|
||
|
my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible burden.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Henry rejoiced in my gaiety and sincerely sympathized in my feelings;
|
||
|
he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations
|
||
|
that filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion
|
||
|
were truly astonishing; his conversation was full of imagination,
|
||
|
and very often, in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers,
|
||
|
he invented tales of wonderful fancy and passion. At other times
|
||
|
he repeated my favourite poems or drew me out into arguments,
|
||
|
which he supported with great ingenuity.
|
||
|
|
||
|
We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon; the peasants were dancing,
|
||
|
and everyone we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits were high,
|
||
|
and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 7
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
On my return, I found the following letter from my father:--
|
||
|
|
||
|
"My dear Victor,
|
||
|
|
||
|
"You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix
|
||
|
the date of your return to us; and I was at first tempted
|
||
|
to write only a few lines, merely mentioning the day
|
||
|
on which I should expect you. But that would be a cruel kindness,
|
||
|
and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise, my son,
|
||
|
when you expected a happy and glad welcome, to behold,
|
||
|
on the contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor,
|
||
|
can I relate our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you
|
||
|
callous to our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain
|
||
|
on my long absent son? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news,
|
||
|
but I know it is impossible; even now your eye skims over the page
|
||
|
to seek the words which are to convey to you the horrible tidings.
|
||
|
|
||
|
William is dead!--that sweet child, whose smiles delighted
|
||
|
and warmed my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor,
|
||
|
he is murdered! I will not attempt to console you;
|
||
|
but will simply relate the circumstances of the transaction.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers,
|
||
|
went to walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene,
|
||
|
and we prolonged our walk farther than usual. It was already dusk
|
||
|
before we thought of returning; and then we discovered that
|
||
|
William and Ernest, who had gone on before, were not to be found.
|
||
|
We accordingly rested on a seat until they should return.
|
||
|
Presently Ernest came, and enquired if we had seen his brother;
|
||
|
he said, that he had been playing with him, that William
|
||
|
had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him,
|
||
|
and afterwards waited for a long time, but that he did not return.
|
||
|
|
||
|
This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him
|
||
|
until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might
|
||
|
have returned to the house. He was not there. We returned again,
|
||
|
with torches; for I could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy
|
||
|
had lost himself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night;
|
||
|
Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish. About five in the morning
|
||
|
I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming
|
||
|
and active in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless;
|
||
|
the print of the murder's finger was on his neck.
|
||
|
|
||
|
He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible
|
||
|
in my countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth.
|
||
|
She was very earnest to see the corpse. At first I attempted
|
||
|
to prevent her; but she persisted, and entering the room
|
||
|
where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the victim,
|
||
|
and clasping her hands exclaimed, "O God! I have murdered
|
||
|
my darling child!"
|
||
|
|
||
|
She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty.
|
||
|
When she again lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me,
|
||
|
that that same evening William had teased her to let him wear
|
||
|
a very valuable miniature that she possessed of your mother.
|
||
|
This picture is gone, and was doubtless the temptation which urged
|
||
|
the murdered to the deed. We have no trace of him at present,
|
||
|
although our exertions to discover him are unremitted;
|
||
|
but they will not restore my beloved William!
|
||
|
|
||
|
Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth.
|
||
|
She weeps continually, and accuses herself unjustly
|
||
|
as the cause of his death; her words pierce my heart.
|
||
|
We are all unhappy; but will not that be an additional motive for you,
|
||
|
my son, to return and be our comforter? Your dear mother!
|
||
|
Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live
|
||
|
to witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!
|
||
|
|
||
|
Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance
|
||
|
against the assassin, but with feelings of peace and gentleness,
|
||
|
that will heal, instead of festering, the wounds of our minds.
|
||
|
Enter the house of mourning, my friend, but with kindness
|
||
|
and affection for those who love you, and not with hatred
|
||
|
for your enemies.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Your affectionate and afflicted father,
|
||
|
Alphonse Frankenstein.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Geneva, May 12th, 17--.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter,
|
||
|
was surprised to observe the despair that succeeded the joy
|
||
|
I at first expressed on receiving new from my friends.
|
||
|
I threw the letter on the table, and covered my face with my hands.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep
|
||
|
with bitterness, "are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend,
|
||
|
what has happened?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
I motioned him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the room
|
||
|
in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of Clerval,
|
||
|
as he read the account of my misfortune.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I can offer you no consolation, my friend," said he;
|
||
|
"your disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses."
|
||
|
|
||
|
During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation;
|
||
|
he could only express his heartfelt sympathy. "Poor William!" said he,
|
||
|
dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother!
|
||
|
Who that had seen him bright and joyous in his young beauty,
|
||
|
but must weep over his untimely loss! To die so miserably;
|
||
|
to feel the murderer's grasp! How much more a murderer
|
||
|
that could destroy radiant innocence! Poor little fellow!
|
||
|
one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep,
|
||
|
but he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings
|
||
|
are at an end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form,
|
||
|
and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a subject for pity;
|
||
|
we must reserve that for his miserable survivors."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets;
|
||
|
the words impressed themselves on my mind and I remembered them
|
||
|
afterwards in solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived,
|
||
|
I hurried into a cabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend.
|
||
|
|
||
|
My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on,
|
||
|
for I longed to console and sympathise with my loved
|
||
|
and sorrowing friends; but when I drew near my native town,
|
||
|
I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the multitude
|
||
|
of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through scenes
|
||
|
familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six years.
|
||
|
How altered every thing might be during that time! One sudden
|
||
|
and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand
|
||
|
little circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations,
|
||
|
which, although they were done more tranquilly, might not be
|
||
|
the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I dared no advance,
|
||
|
dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble,
|
||
|
although I was unable to define them.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind.
|
||
|
I contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm;
|
||
|
and the snowy mountains, `the palaces of nature,' were not changed.
|
||
|
By degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued
|
||
|
my journey towards Geneva.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower
|
||
|
as I approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly
|
||
|
the black sides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc.
|
||
|
I wept like a child. "Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake!
|
||
|
how do you welcome your wanderer? Your summits are clear;
|
||
|
the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to prognosticate peace,
|
||
|
or to mock at my unhappiness?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling
|
||
|
on these preliminary circumstances; but they were days
|
||
|
of comparative happiness, and I think of them with pleasure.
|
||
|
My country, my beloved country! who but a native can tell
|
||
|
the delight I took in again beholding thy streams, thy mountains,
|
||
|
and, more than all, thy lovely lake!
|
||
|
|
||
|
Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me.
|
||
|
Night also closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains,
|
||
|
I felt still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene
|
||
|
of evil, and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become
|
||
|
the most wretched of human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly,
|
||
|
and failed only in one single circumstance, that in all the misery
|
||
|
I imagined and dreaded, I did not conceive the hundredth part
|
||
|
of the anguish I was destined to endure.
|
||
|
|
||
|
It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva;
|
||
|
the gates of the town were already shut; and I was obliged
|
||
|
to pass the night at Secheron, a village at the distance of half a league
|
||
|
from the city. The sky was serene; and, as I was unable to rest,
|
||
|
I resolved to visit the spot where my poor William had been murdered.
|
||
|
As I could not pass through the town, I was obliged to cross the lake
|
||
|
in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage
|
||
|
I saw the lightning playing on the summit of Mont Blanc
|
||
|
in the most beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly,
|
||
|
and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its progress.
|
||
|
It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain
|
||
|
coming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly increased.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm
|
||
|
increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash
|
||
|
over my head. It was echoed from Saleve, the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy;
|
||
|
vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake,
|
||
|
making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant
|
||
|
every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself
|
||
|
from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in Switzerland,
|
||
|
appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most violent storm
|
||
|
hung exactly north of the town, over the part of the lake
|
||
|
which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copet.
|
||
|
Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened
|
||
|
and sometimes disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of the lake.
|
||
|
|
||
|
While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific,
|
||
|
I wandered on with a hasty step. This noble war in the sky
|
||
|
elevated my spirits; I clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud,
|
||
|
"William, dear angel! this is thy funeral, this thy dirge!"
|
||
|
As I said these words, I perceived in the gloom a figure which stole
|
||
|
from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing intently:
|
||
|
I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the object,
|
||
|
and discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature,
|
||
|
and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity,
|
||
|
instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy daemon,
|
||
|
to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be
|
||
|
(I shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother?
|
||
|
No sooner did that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced
|
||
|
of its truth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree
|
||
|
for support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom.
|
||
|
Nothing in human shape could have destroyed the fair child.
|
||
|
He was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere presence
|
||
|
of the idea was an irresistible proof of the fact. I thought
|
||
|
of pursuing the devil; but it would have been in vain,
|
||
|
for another flash discovered him to me hanging among the rocks
|
||
|
of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Saleve, a hill
|
||
|
that bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit,
|
||
|
and disappeared.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still continued,
|
||
|
and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I resolved
|
||
|
in my minds the events which I had until now sought to forget:
|
||
|
the whole train of my progress toward the creation; the appearance
|
||
|
of the works of my own hands at my bedside; its departure. Two years
|
||
|
had now nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life;
|
||
|
and was this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world
|
||
|
a depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery;
|
||
|
had he not murdered my brother?
|
||
|
|
||
|
No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder
|
||
|
of the night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air.
|
||
|
But I did not feel the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination
|
||
|
was busy in scenes of evil and despair. I considered the being
|
||
|
whom I had cast among mankind, and endowed with the will and power
|
||
|
to effect purposes of horror, such as the deed which he had now done,
|
||
|
nearly in the light of my own vampire, my own spirit let loose
|
||
|
from the grave, and forced to destroy all that was dear to me.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates
|
||
|
were open, and I hastened to my father's house. My first thought
|
||
|
was to discoverer what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit
|
||
|
to be made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell.
|
||
|
A being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life,
|
||
|
had met me at midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain.
|
||
|
I remembered also the nervous fever with which I had been seized
|
||
|
just at the time that I dated my creation, and which would give
|
||
|
an air of delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable.
|
||
|
I well knew that if any other had communicated such a relation to me,
|
||
|
I should have looked upon it as the ravings of insanity. Besides,
|
||
|
the strange nature of the animal would elude all pursuit,
|
||
|
even if I were so far credited as to persuade my relatives to commence it.
|
||
|
And then of what use would be pursuit? Who could arrest a creature
|
||
|
capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont Saleve?
|
||
|
These reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain silent.
|
||
|
|
||
|
It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house.
|
||
|
I told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library
|
||
|
to attend their usual hour of rising.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Six years had elapsed, passed in a dream but for one indelible trace,
|
||
|
and I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father
|
||
|
before my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent!
|
||
|
He still remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother,
|
||
|
which stood over the mantel-piece. It was an historical subject,
|
||
|
painted at my father's desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort
|
||
|
in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead father.
|
||
|
Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity
|
||
|
and beauty, that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity.
|
||
|
Below this picture was a miniature of William; and my tears flowed
|
||
|
when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged, Ernest entered:
|
||
|
he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me: "Welcome,
|
||
|
my dearest Victor," said he. "Ah! I wish you had come three months ago,
|
||
|
and then you would have found us all joyous and delighted.
|
||
|
You come to us now to share a misery which nothing can alleviate;
|
||
|
yet your presence will, I hope, revive our father, who seems sinking
|
||
|
under his misfortune; and your persuasions will induce poor Elizabeth
|
||
|
to cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations.--Poor William!
|
||
|
he was our darling and our pride!"
|
||
|
|
||
|
Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of mortal agony
|
||
|
crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the wretchedness
|
||
|
of my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new,
|
||
|
and a not less terrible, disaster. I tried to calm Ernest;
|
||
|
I enquired more minutely concerning my father, and her I named my cousin.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"She most of all," said Ernest, "requires consolation; she accused herself
|
||
|
of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched.
|
||
|
But since the murderer has been discovered--"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt
|
||
|
to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try
|
||
|
to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw.
|
||
|
I saw him too; he was free last night!"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I do not know what you mean," replied my brother, in accents of wonder,
|
||
|
"but to us the discovery we have made completes our misery.
|
||
|
No one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth
|
||
|
will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence.
|
||
|
Indeed, who would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable,
|
||
|
and fond of all the family, could suddenly become so capable
|
||
|
of so frightful, so appalling a crime?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused?
|
||
|
But it is wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it,
|
||
|
surely, Ernest?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"No one did at first; but several circumstances came out,
|
||
|
that have almost forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour
|
||
|
has been so confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that,
|
||
|
I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried to-day,
|
||
|
and you will then hear all."
|
||
|
|
||
|
He then related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William
|
||
|
had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed
|
||
|
for several days. During this interval, one of the servants,
|
||
|
happening to examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the murder,
|
||
|
had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother,
|
||
|
which had been judged to be the temptation of the murderer.
|
||
|
The servant instantly showed it to one of the others, who,
|
||
|
without saying a word to any of the family, went to a magistrate;
|
||
|
and, upon their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On being charged
|
||
|
with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure
|
||
|
by her extreme confusion of manner. This was a strange tale,
|
||
|
but it did not shake my faith; and I replied earnestly,
|
||
|
"You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good Justine,
|
||
|
is innocent."
|
||
|
|
||
|
At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed
|
||
|
on his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully;
|
||
|
and, after we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced
|
||
|
some other topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed,
|
||
|
"Good God, papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer
|
||
|
of poor William."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"We do also, unfortunately," replied my father, "for indeed
|
||
|
I had rather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered
|
||
|
so much depravity and ungratitude in one I valued so highly."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty.
|
||
|
She is to be tried to-day, and I hope, I sincerely hope,
|
||
|
that she will be acquitted."
|
||
|
|
||
|
This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind
|
||
|
that Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder.
|
||
|
I had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence
|
||
|
could be brought forward strong enough to convict her. My tale
|
||
|
was not one to announce publicly; its astounding horror
|
||
|
would be looked upon as madness by the vulgar. Did any one indeed exist,
|
||
|
except I, the creator, who would believe, unless his senses convinced him,
|
||
|
in the existence of the living monument of presumption and rash ignorance
|
||
|
which I had let loose upon the world?
|
||
|
|
||
|
We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her
|
||
|
since I last beheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness
|
||
|
surpassing the beauty of her childish years. There was the same candour,
|
||
|
the same vivacity, but it was allied to an expression
|
||
|
more full of sensibility and intellect. She welcomed me
|
||
|
with the greatest affection. "Your arrival, my dear cousin,"
|
||
|
said she, "fills me with hope. You perhaps will find some means
|
||
|
to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe,
|
||
|
if she be convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly
|
||
|
as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us;
|
||
|
we have not only lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl,
|
||
|
whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate.
|
||
|
If she is condemned, I never shall know joy more. But she will not,
|
||
|
I am sure she will not; and then I shall be happy again,
|
||
|
even after the sad death of my little William."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"She is innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and that shall be proved;
|
||
|
fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance
|
||
|
of her acquittal."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt,
|
||
|
and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible:
|
||
|
and to see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner
|
||
|
rendered me hopeless and despairing." She wept.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Dearest niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is,
|
||
|
as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws,
|
||
|
and the activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow
|
||
|
of partiality."
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 8
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
We passed a few sad hours until eleven o'clock, when the trial
|
||
|
was to commence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged
|
||
|
to attend as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court.
|
||
|
During the whole of this wretched mockery of justice I suffered
|
||
|
living torture. It was to be decided whether the result of my curiosity
|
||
|
and lawless devices would cause the death of two of my fellow beings:
|
||
|
one a smiling babe full of innocence and joy, the other
|
||
|
far more dreadfully murdered, with every aggravation of infamy
|
||
|
that could make the murder memorable in horror. Justine also was a girl
|
||
|
of merit and possessed qualities which promised to render her life happy;
|
||
|
now all was to be obliterated in an ignominious grave, and I the cause!
|
||
|
A thousand times rather would I have confessed myself guilty of the crime
|
||
|
ascribed to Justine, but I was absent when it was committed,
|
||
|
and such a declaration would have been considered as the ravings
|
||
|
of a madman and would not have exculpated her who suffered through me.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning,
|
||
|
and her countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity
|
||
|
of her feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident
|
||
|
in innocence and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated
|
||
|
by thousands, for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise
|
||
|
have excited was obliterated in the minds of the spectators
|
||
|
by the imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed.
|
||
|
She was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained;
|
||
|
and as her confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt,
|
||
|
she worked up her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered
|
||
|
the court she threw her eyes round it and quickly discovered
|
||
|
where we were seated. A tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us,
|
||
|
but she quickly recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful affection
|
||
|
seemed to attest her utter guiltlessness.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The trial began, and after the advocate against her had stated the charge,
|
||
|
several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined against her,
|
||
|
which might have staggered anyone who had not such proof of her innocence
|
||
|
as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on which the murder
|
||
|
had been committed and towards morning had been perceived by a market-woman
|
||
|
not far from the spot where the body of the murdered child
|
||
|
had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she did there,
|
||
|
but she looked very strangely and only returned a confused
|
||
|
and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight o'clock,
|
||
|
and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she replied
|
||
|
that she had been looking for the child and demanded earnestly
|
||
|
if anything had been heard concerning him. When shown the body,
|
||
|
she fell into violent hysterics and kept her bed for several days.
|
||
|
The picture was then produced which the servant had found in her pocket;
|
||
|
and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was
|
||
|
the same which, an hour before the child had been missed,
|
||
|
she had placed round his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation
|
||
|
filled the court.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded,
|
||
|
her countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery
|
||
|
were strongly expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears,
|
||
|
but when she was desired to plead, she collected her powers
|
||
|
and spoke in an audible although variable voice.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"God knows," she said, "how entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend
|
||
|
that my protestations should acquit me; I rest my innocence on a plain
|
||
|
and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced against me,
|
||
|
and I hope the character I have always borne will incline my judges
|
||
|
to a favourable interpretation where any circumstance appears doubtful
|
||
|
or suspicious."
|
||
|
|
||
|
She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed
|
||
|
the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed
|
||
|
at the house of an aunt at Chene, a village situated at about a league
|
||
|
from Geneva. On her return, at about nine o'clock, she met a man
|
||
|
who asked her if she had seen anything of the child who was lost.
|
||
|
She was alarmed by this account and passed several hours
|
||
|
in looking for him, when the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced
|
||
|
to remain several hours of the night in a barn belonging to a cottage,
|
||
|
being unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom she was well known.
|
||
|
Most of the night she spent here watching; towards morning she believed
|
||
|
that she slept for a few minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she awoke.
|
||
|
It was dawn, and she quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavour
|
||
|
to find my brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay,
|
||
|
it was without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered
|
||
|
when questioned by the market-woman was not surprising,
|
||
|
since she had passed a sleepless night and the fate of poor William
|
||
|
was yet uncertain. Concerning the picture she could give no account.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I know," continued the unhappy victim, "how heavily and fatally
|
||
|
this one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power
|
||
|
of explaining it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance,
|
||
|
I am only left to conjecture concerning the probabilities by which
|
||
|
it might have been placed in my pocket. But here also I am checked.
|
||
|
I believe that I have no enemy on earth, and none surely would have been
|
||
|
so wicked as to destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it there?
|
||
|
I know of no opportunity afforded him for so doing; or, if I had,
|
||
|
why should he have stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon?
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for hope.
|
||
|
I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my character,
|
||
|
and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed guilt,
|
||
|
I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my innocence."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Several witnesses were called who had known her for many years,
|
||
|
and they spoke well of her; but fear and hatred of the crime
|
||
|
of which they supposed her guilty rendered them timorous and unwilling
|
||
|
to come forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource,
|
||
|
her excellent dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail
|
||
|
the accused, when, although violently agitated, she desired permission
|
||
|
to address the court.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I am," said she, "the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered,
|
||
|
or rather his sister, for I was educated by and have lived with his parents
|
||
|
ever since and even long before his birth. It may therefore be judged
|
||
|
indecent in me to come forward on this occasion, but when I see
|
||
|
a fellow creature about to perish through the cowardice
|
||
|
of her pretended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak,
|
||
|
that I may say what I know of her character. I am well acquainted
|
||
|
with the accused. I have lived in the same house with her,
|
||
|
at one time for five and at another for nearly two years.
|
||
|
During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable
|
||
|
and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein,
|
||
|
my aunt, in her last illness, with the greatest affection and care
|
||
|
and afterwards attended her own mother during a tedious illness,
|
||
|
in a manner that excited the admiration of all who knew her,
|
||
|
after which she again lived in my uncle's house, where she was beloved
|
||
|
by all the family. She was warmly attached to the child who is now dead
|
||
|
and acted towards him like a most affectionate mother. For my own part,
|
||
|
I do not hesitate to say that, notwithstanding all the evidence
|
||
|
produced against her, I believe and rely on her perfect innocence.
|
||
|
She had no temptation for such an action; as to the bauble on which
|
||
|
the chief proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it, I should have
|
||
|
willingly given it to her, so much do I esteem and value her."
|
||
|
|
||
|
A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth's simple and powerful appeal,
|
||
|
but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in favour
|
||
|
of poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned
|
||
|
with renewed violence, charging her with the blackest ingratitude.
|
||
|
She herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer.
|
||
|
My own agitation and anguish was extreme during the whole trial.
|
||
|
I believed in her innocence; I knew it. Could the demon
|
||
|
who had (I did not for a minute doubt) murdered my brother
|
||
|
also in his hellish sport have betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy?
|
||
|
I could not sustain the horror of my situation, and when I perceived
|
||
|
that the popular voice and the countenances of the judges
|
||
|
had already condemned my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court
|
||
|
in agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal mine;
|
||
|
she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse
|
||
|
tore my bosom and would not forgo their hold.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning
|
||
|
I went to the court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask
|
||
|
the fatal question, but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause
|
||
|
of my visit. The ballots had been thrown; they were all black,
|
||
|
and Justine was condemned.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before
|
||
|
experienced sensations of horror, and I have endeavoured
|
||
|
to bestow upon them adequate expressions, but words cannot convey
|
||
|
an idea of the heart-sickening despair that I then endured.
|
||
|
The person to whom I addressed myself added that Justine
|
||
|
had already confessed her guilt. "That evidence," he observed,
|
||
|
"was hardly required in so glaring a case, but I am glad of it,
|
||
|
and, indeed, none of our judges like to condemn a criminal
|
||
|
upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so decisive."
|
||
|
|
||
|
This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean?
|
||
|
Had my eyes deceived me? And was I really as mad as the whole world
|
||
|
would believe me to be if I disclosed the object of my suspicions?
|
||
|
I hastened to return home, and Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"My cousin," replied I, "it is decided as you may have expected;
|
||
|
all judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer than that
|
||
|
one guilty should escape. But she has confessed."
|
||
|
|
||
|
This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness
|
||
|
upon Justine's innocence. "Alas!" said she. "How shall I ever again
|
||
|
believe in human goodness? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed
|
||
|
as my sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence
|
||
|
only to betray? Her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or guile,
|
||
|
and yet she has committed a murder."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire
|
||
|
to see my cousin. My father wished her not to go but said
|
||
|
that he left it to her own judgment and feelings to decide.
|
||
|
"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I will go, although she is guilty;
|
||
|
and you, Victor, shall accompany me; I cannot go alone."
|
||
|
The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not refuse.
|
||
|
|
||
|
We entered the gloomy prison chamber and beheld Justine
|
||
|
sitting on some straw at the farther end; her hands were manacled,
|
||
|
and her head rested on her knees. She rose on seeing us enter;
|
||
|
and when we were left alone with her, she threw herself at the feet
|
||
|
of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My cousin wept also.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Oh, Justine!" said she. "Why did you rob me of my last consolation?
|
||
|
I relied on your innocence, and although I was then very wretched,
|
||
|
I was not so miserable as I am now."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you
|
||
|
also join with my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?"
|
||
|
Her voice was suffocated with sobs.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Rise, my poor girl," said Elizabeth; "why do you kneel,
|
||
|
if you are innocent? I am not one of your enemies,
|
||
|
I believed you guiltless, notwithstanding every evidence,
|
||
|
until I heard that you had yourself declared your guilt.
|
||
|
That report, you say, is false; and be assured, dear Justine,
|
||
|
that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a moment,
|
||
|
but your own confession."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I did confess, but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might
|
||
|
obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart
|
||
|
than all my other sins. The God of heaven forgive me!
|
||
|
Ever since I was condemned, my confessor has besieged me; he threatened
|
||
|
and menaced, until I almost began to think that I was the monster
|
||
|
that he said I was. He threatened excommunication and hell fire
|
||
|
in my last moments if I continued obdurate. Dear lady,
|
||
|
I had none to support me; all looked on me as a wretch doomed
|
||
|
to ignominy and perdition. What could I do? In an evil hour
|
||
|
I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly miserable."
|
||
|
|
||
|
She paused, weeping, and then continued, "I thought with horror,
|
||
|
my sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine,
|
||
|
whom your blessed aunt had so highly honoured, and whom you loved,
|
||
|
was a creature capable of a crime which none but the devil himself
|
||
|
could have perpetrated. Dear William! dearest blessed child!
|
||
|
I soon shall see you again in heaven, where we shall all he happy;
|
||
|
and that consoles me, going as I am to suffer ignominy and death."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Oh, Justine! Forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you.
|
||
|
Why did you confess? But do not mourn, dear girl. Do not fear.
|
||
|
I will proclaim, I will prove your innocence. I will melt
|
||
|
the stony hearts of your enemies by my tears and prayers.
|
||
|
You shall not die! You, my playfellow, my companion, my sister,
|
||
|
perish on the scaffold! No! No! I never could survive
|
||
|
so horrible a misfortune."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Justine shook her head mournfully. "I do not fear to die," she said;
|
||
|
"that pang is past. God raises my weakness and gives me courage
|
||
|
to endure the worst. I leave a sad and bitter world; and if
|
||
|
you remember me and think of me as of one unjustly condemned,
|
||
|
I am resigned to the fate awaiting me. Learn from me, dear lady,
|
||
|
to submit in patience to the will of heaven!"
|
||
|
|
||
|
During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison room,
|
||
|
where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair!
|
||
|
Who dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow
|
||
|
was to pass the awful boundary between life and death, felt not,
|
||
|
as I did, such deep and bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth
|
||
|
and ground them together, uttering a groan that came from my inmost soul.
|
||
|
Justine started. When she saw who it was, she approached me and said,
|
||
|
"Dear sir, you are very kind to visit me; you, I hope, do not believe
|
||
|
that I am guilty?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
I could not answer. "No, Justine," said Elizabeth; "he is
|
||
|
more convinced of your innocence than I was, for even when he heard
|
||
|
that you had confessed, he did not credit it."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest gratitude
|
||
|
towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the affection
|
||
|
of others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than half
|
||
|
my misfortune, and I feel as if I could die in peace now that my innocence
|
||
|
is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself.
|
||
|
She indeed gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer,
|
||
|
felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope
|
||
|
or consolation. Elizabeth also wept and was unhappy, but hers also
|
||
|
was the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes
|
||
|
over the fair moon, for a while hides but cannot tarnish its brightness.
|
||
|
Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core of my heart;
|
||
|
I bore a hell within me which nothing could extinguish.
|
||
|
We stayed several hours with Justine, and it was with great difficulty
|
||
|
that Elizabeth could tear herself away. "I wish," cried she,
|
||
|
"that I were to die with you; I cannot live in this world of misery."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty
|
||
|
repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth and said
|
||
|
in a voice of half-suppressed emotion, "Farewell, sweet lady,
|
||
|
dearest Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend; may heaven,
|
||
|
in its bounty, bless and preserve you; may this be the last misfortune
|
||
|
that you will ever suffer! Live, and be happy, and make others so."
|
||
|
|
||
|
And on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth's heart-rending eloquence
|
||
|
failed to move the judges from their settled conviction
|
||
|
in the criminality of the saintly sufferer. My passionate
|
||
|
and indignant appeals were lost upon them. And when I received
|
||
|
their cold answers and heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these men,
|
||
|
my purposed avowal died away on my lips. Thus I might proclaim myself
|
||
|
a madman, but not revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched victim.
|
||
|
She perished on the scaffold as a murderess!
|
||
|
|
||
|
From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate
|
||
|
the deep and voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing!
|
||
|
And my father's woe, and the desolation of that late so smiling home
|
||
|
all was the work of my thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones,
|
||
|
but these are not your last tears! Again shall you raise
|
||
|
the funeral wail, and the sound of your lamentations shall again
|
||
|
and again be heard! Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early,
|
||
|
much-loved friend; he who would spend each vital drop of blood
|
||
|
for your sakes, who has no thought nor sense of joy except
|
||
|
as it is mirrored also in your dear countenances, who would fill
|
||
|
the air with blessings and spend his life in serving you--
|
||
|
he bids you weep, to shed countless tears; happy beyond his hopes,
|
||
|
if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the destruction pause
|
||
|
before the peace of the grave have succeeded to your sad torments!
|
||
|
|
||
|
Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror,
|
||
|
and despair, I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon
|
||
|
the graves of William and Justine, the first hapless victims
|
||
|
to my unhallowed arts.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 9
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Nothing is more painful to the human mind than, after the feelings
|
||
|
have been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness
|
||
|
of inaction and certainty which follows and deprives the soul
|
||
|
both of hope and fear. Justine died, she rested, and I was alive.
|
||
|
The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse
|
||
|
pressed on my heart which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes;
|
||
|
I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief
|
||
|
beyond description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself)
|
||
|
was yet behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and the love
|
||
|
of virtue. I had begun life with benevolent intentions and thirsted
|
||
|
for the moment when I should put them in practice and make myself useful
|
||
|
to my fellow beings. Now all was blasted; instead of that serenity
|
||
|
of conscience which allowed me to look back upon the past
|
||
|
with self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes,
|
||
|
I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away
|
||
|
to a hell of intense tortures such as no language can describe.
|
||
|
|
||
|
This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps
|
||
|
never entirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained.
|
||
|
I shunned the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency
|
||
|
was torture to me; solitude was my only consolation--deep, dark,
|
||
|
deathlike solitude.
|
||
|
|
||
|
My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible
|
||
|
in my disposition and habits and endeavoured by arguments
|
||
|
deduced from the feelings of his serene conscience and guiltless life
|
||
|
to inspire me with fortitude and awaken in me the courage
|
||
|
to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me. "Do you think, Victor,"
|
||
|
said he, "that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child
|
||
|
more than I loved your brother"--tears came into his eyes as he spoke--
|
||
|
"but is it not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain
|
||
|
from augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief?
|
||
|
It is also a duty owed to yourself, for excessive sorrow
|
||
|
prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge
|
||
|
of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society."
|
||
|
|
||
|
This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case;
|
||
|
I should have been the first to hide my grief and console my friends
|
||
|
if remorse had not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm,
|
||
|
with my other sensations. Now I could only answer my father
|
||
|
with a look of despair and endeavour to hide myself from his view.
|
||
|
|
||
|
About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change
|
||
|
was particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates
|
||
|
regularly at ten o'clock and the impossibility of remaining
|
||
|
on the lake after that hour had rendered our residence within
|
||
|
the walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I was now free.
|
||
|
Often, after the rest of the family had retired for the night,
|
||
|
I took the boat and passed many hours upon the water. Sometimes,
|
||
|
with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes,
|
||
|
after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to pursue
|
||
|
its own course and gave way to my own miserable reflections.
|
||
|
I was often tempted, when all was at peace around me,
|
||
|
and I the only unquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene
|
||
|
so beautiful and heavenly--if I except some bat, or the frogs,
|
||
|
whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard only when I approached
|
||
|
the shore--often, I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake,
|
||
|
that the waters might close over me and my calamities forever.
|
||
|
But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic and suffering Elizabeth,
|
||
|
whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was bound up in mine.
|
||
|
I thought also of my father and surviving brother; should I
|
||
|
by my base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the malice
|
||
|
of the fiend whom I had let loose among them?
|
||
|
|
||
|
At these moments I wept bitterly and wished that peace
|
||
|
would revisit my mind only that I might afford them consolation
|
||
|
and happiness. But that could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope.
|
||
|
I had been the author of unalterable evils, and I lived in daily fear
|
||
|
lest the monster whom I had created should perpetrate some new wickedness.
|
||
|
I had an obscure feeling that all was not over and that he would still
|
||
|
commit some signal crime, which by its enormity should almost efface
|
||
|
the recollection of the past. There was always scope for fear
|
||
|
so long as anything I loved remained behind. My abhorrence of this fiend
|
||
|
cannot be conceived. When I thought of him I gnashed my teeth,
|
||
|
my eyes became inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish
|
||
|
that life which I had so thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected
|
||
|
on his crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge burst all bounds
|
||
|
of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to the highest peak
|
||
|
of the Andes, could I when there have precipitated him to their base.
|
||
|
I wished to see him again, that I might wreak the utmost extent
|
||
|
of abhorrence on his head and avenge the deaths of William and Justine.
|
||
|
Our house was the house of mourning. My father's health was deeply shaken
|
||
|
by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and desponding;
|
||
|
she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all pleasure
|
||
|
seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears
|
||
|
she then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence
|
||
|
so blasted and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature
|
||
|
who in earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake
|
||
|
and talked with ecstasy of our future prospects. The first
|
||
|
of those sorrows which are sent to wean us from the earth had visited her,
|
||
|
and its dimming influence quenched her dearest smiles.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death
|
||
|
of Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works
|
||
|
as they before appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts
|
||
|
of vice and injustice that I read in books or heard from others
|
||
|
as tales of ancient days or imaginary evils; at least they were remote
|
||
|
and more familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery
|
||
|
has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting
|
||
|
for each other's blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Everybody believed
|
||
|
that poor girl to be guilty; and if she could have committed the crime
|
||
|
for which she suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved
|
||
|
of human creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son
|
||
|
of her benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth,
|
||
|
and appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent
|
||
|
to the death of any human being, but certainly I should have thought
|
||
|
such a creature unfit to remain in the society of men.
|
||
|
But she was innocent. I know, I feel she was innocent;
|
||
|
you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas! Victor,
|
||
|
when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves
|
||
|
of certain happiness? I feel as if I were walking on the edge
|
||
|
of a precipice, towards which thousands are crowding and endeavouring
|
||
|
to plunge me into the abyss. William and Justine were assassinated,
|
||
|
and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free,
|
||
|
and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer
|
||
|
on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places
|
||
|
with such a wretch."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed,
|
||
|
but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish
|
||
|
in my countenance, and kindly taking my hand, said, "My dearest friend,
|
||
|
you must calm yourself. These events have affected me,
|
||
|
God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are.
|
||
|
There is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge,
|
||
|
in your countenance that makes me tremble. Dear Victor,
|
||
|
banish these dark passions. Remember the friends around you,
|
||
|
who centre all their hopes in you. Have we lost the power
|
||
|
of rendering you happy? Ah! While we love, while we are true
|
||
|
to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty,
|
||
|
your native country, we may reap every tranquil blessing--
|
||
|
what can disturb our peace?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before
|
||
|
every other gift of fortune suffice to chase away the fiend
|
||
|
that lurked in my heart? Even as she spoke I drew near to her,
|
||
|
as if in terror, lest at that very moment the destroyer
|
||
|
had been near to rob me of her.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth,
|
||
|
nor of heaven, could redeem my soul from woe; the very accents
|
||
|
of love were ineffectual. I was encompassed by a cloud
|
||
|
which no beneficial influence could penetrate. The wounded deer
|
||
|
dragging its fainting limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze
|
||
|
upon the arrow which had pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me,
|
||
|
but sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek,
|
||
|
by bodily exercise and by change of place, some relief
|
||
|
from my intolerable sensations. It was during an access of this kind
|
||
|
that I suddenly left my home, and bending my steps towards
|
||
|
the near Alpine valleys, sought in the magnificence,
|
||
|
the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and my ephemeral,
|
||
|
because human, sorrows. My wanderings were directed towards
|
||
|
the valley of Chamounix. I had visited it frequently
|
||
|
during my boyhood. Six years had passed since then: I was a wreck,
|
||
|
but nought had changed in those savage and enduring scenes.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I performed the first part of my journey on horseback.
|
||
|
I afterwards hired a mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable
|
||
|
to receive injury on these rugged roads. The weather was fine;
|
||
|
it was about the middle of the month of August, nearly two months
|
||
|
after the death of Justine, that miserable epoch from which I dated
|
||
|
all my woe. The weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened
|
||
|
as I plunged yet deeper in the ravine of Arve. The immense mountains
|
||
|
and precipices that overhung me on every side, the sound of the river
|
||
|
raging among the rocks, and the dashing of the waterfalls around
|
||
|
spoke of a power mighty as Omnipotence--and I ceased to fear
|
||
|
or to bend before any being less almighty than that which had created
|
||
|
and ruled the elements, here displayed in their most terrific guise.
|
||
|
Still, as I ascended higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent
|
||
|
and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on the precipices
|
||
|
of piny mountains, the impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there
|
||
|
peeping forth from among the trees formed a scene of singular beauty.
|
||
|
But it was augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps,
|
||
|
whose white and shining pyramids and domes towered above all,
|
||
|
as belonging to another earth, the habitations of another race of beings.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river forms,
|
||
|
opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that overhangs it.
|
||
|
Soon after, I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley
|
||
|
is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque
|
||
|
as that of Servox, through which I had just passed. The high
|
||
|
and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries, but I saw no more
|
||
|
ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road;
|
||
|
I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche and marked the smoke
|
||
|
of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc,
|
||
|
raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and its tremendous dome
|
||
|
overlooked the valley.
|
||
|
|
||
|
A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me
|
||
|
during this journey. Some turn in the road, some new object
|
||
|
suddenly perceived and recognized, reminded me of days gone by,
|
||
|
and were associated with the lighthearted gaiety of boyhood.
|
||
|
The very winds whispered in soothing accents, and maternal Nature
|
||
|
bade me weep no more. Then again the kindly influence ceased to act--
|
||
|
I found myself fettered again to grief and indulging in all the misery
|
||
|
of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal, striving so to forget
|
||
|
the world, my fears, and more than all, myself--or, in a more desperate
|
||
|
fashion, I alighted and threw myself on the grass, weighed down
|
||
|
by horror and despair.
|
||
|
|
||
|
At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded
|
||
|
to the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured.
|
||
|
For a short space of time I remained at the window watching
|
||
|
the pallid lightnings that played above Mont Blanc and listening
|
||
|
to the rushing of the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath.
|
||
|
The same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations;
|
||
|
when I placed my head upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it
|
||
|
as it came and blessed the giver of oblivion.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 10
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
I spent the following day roaming through the valley. I stood
|
||
|
beside the sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacier,
|
||
|
that with slow pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills
|
||
|
to barricade the valley. The abrupt sides of vast mountains
|
||
|
were before me; the icy wall of the glacier overhung me;
|
||
|
a few shattered pines were scattered around; and the solemn silence
|
||
|
of this glorious presence-chamber of imperial nature was broken
|
||
|
only by the brawling waves or the fall of some vast fragment,
|
||
|
the thunder sound of the avalanche or the cracking, reverberated
|
||
|
along the mountains, of the accumulated ice, which,
|
||
|
through the silent working of immutable laws, was ever and anon
|
||
|
rent and torn, as if it had been but a plaything in their hands.
|
||
|
These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation
|
||
|
that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness
|
||
|
of feeling, and although they did not remove my grief, they subdued
|
||
|
and tranquillized it. In some degree, also, they diverted my mind
|
||
|
from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the last month.
|
||
|
I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it were, waited on
|
||
|
and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes
|
||
|
which I had contemplated during the day. They congregated round me;
|
||
|
the unstained snowy mountaintop, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods,
|
||
|
and ragged bare ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds--
|
||
|
they all gathered round me and bade me be at peace.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke? All of soul-
|
||
|
inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded
|
||
|
every thought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists
|
||
|
hid the summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces
|
||
|
of those mighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil
|
||
|
and seek them in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me?
|
||
|
My mule was brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit
|
||
|
of Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous
|
||
|
and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it.
|
||
|
It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the soul
|
||
|
and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy.
|
||
|
The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always
|
||
|
the effect of solemnizing my mind and causing me to forget
|
||
|
the passing cares of life. I determined to go without a guide,
|
||
|
for I was well acquainted with the path, and the presence of another
|
||
|
would destroy the solitary grandeur of the scene.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual
|
||
|
and short windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity
|
||
|
of the mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate.
|
||
|
In a thousand spots the traces of the winter avalanche
|
||
|
may be perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on the ground,
|
||
|
some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning upon the jutting rocks
|
||
|
of the mountain or transversely upon other trees. The path,
|
||
|
as you ascend nigher, is intersected by ravines of snow,
|
||
|
down which stones continually roll from above; one of them
|
||
|
is particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound,
|
||
|
such as even speaking in a loud voice, produces a concussion of air
|
||
|
sufficient to draw destruction upon the head of the speaker.
|
||
|
The pines are not tall or luxuriant, but they are sombre and add
|
||
|
an air of severity to the scene. I looked on the valley beneath;
|
||
|
vast mists were rising from the rivers which ran through it
|
||
|
and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite mountains,
|
||
|
whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain poured
|
||
|
from the dark sky and added to the melancholy impression I received
|
||
|
from the objects around me. Alas! Why does man boast of sensibilities
|
||
|
superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders them
|
||
|
more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger,
|
||
|
thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved
|
||
|
by every wind that blows and a chance word or scene that that word may
|
||
|
convey to us.
|
||
|
|
||
|
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 arrived at the top of the ascent.
|
||
|
For some time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice.
|
||
|
A mist covered both that and the surrounding mountains.
|
||
|
Presently a breeze dissipated the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier.
|
||
|
The surface is very uneven, rising like the waves of a troubled sea,
|
||
|
descending low, and interspersed by rifts that sink deep.
|
||
|
The field of ice is almost a league in width, but I spent nearly two hours
|
||
|
in crossing it. The opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock.
|
||
|
From the side where I now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite,
|
||
|
at the distance of a league; and above it rose Mont Blanc,
|
||
|
in awful majesty. I remained in a recess of the rock,
|
||
|
gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea, or rather
|
||
|
the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains,
|
||
|
whose aerial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy
|
||
|
and glittering peaks shone in the sunlight over the clouds.
|
||
|
My heart, which was before sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy;
|
||
|
I exclaimed, "Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest
|
||
|
in your narrow beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me,
|
||
|
as your companion, away from the joys of life."
|
||
|
|
||
|
As I said this I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance,
|
||
|
advancing towards me with superhuman speed. He bounded
|
||
|
over the crevices in the ice, among which I had walked with caution;
|
||
|
his stature, also, as he approached, seemed to exceed that of man.
|
||
|
I was troubled; a mist came over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me,
|
||
|
but I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the mountains.
|
||
|
I perceived, as the shape came nearer (sight tremendous and abhorred!)
|
||
|
that it was the wretch whom I had created. I trembled with rage
|
||
|
and horror, resolving to wait his approach and then close with him
|
||
|
in mortal combat. He approached; his countenance bespoke bitter anguish,
|
||
|
combined with disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness
|
||
|
rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes. But I scarcely
|
||
|
observed this; rage and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance,
|
||
|
and I recovered only to overwhelm him with words expressive
|
||
|
of furious detestation and contempt.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Devil," I exclaimed, "do you dare approach me? And do not you
|
||
|
fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head?
|
||
|
Begone, vile insect! Or rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust!
|
||
|
And, oh! That I could, with the extinction of your miserable existence,
|
||
|
restore those victims whom you have so diabolically murdered!"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I expected this reception," said the daemon. "All men hate the wretched;
|
||
|
how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things!
|
||
|
Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom
|
||
|
thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us.
|
||
|
You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life?
|
||
|
Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you
|
||
|
and the rest of mankind. If you will comply with my conditions,
|
||
|
I will leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse,
|
||
|
I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood
|
||
|
of your remaining friends."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Abhorred monster! Fiend that thou art! The tortures of hell
|
||
|
are too mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil!
|
||
|
You reproach me with your creation, come on, then, that I may extinguish
|
||
|
the spark which I so negligently bestowed."
|
||
|
|
||
|
My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the feelings
|
||
|
which can arm one being against the existence of another.
|
||
|
|
||
|
He easily eluded me and said--
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Be calm! I entreat you to hear me before you give vent to your hatred
|
||
|
on my devoted head. Have I not suffered enough, that you seek
|
||
|
to increase my misery? Life, although it may only be an accumulation
|
||
|
of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it. Remember,
|
||
|
thou hast made me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior
|
||
|
to thine, my joints more supple. But I will not be tempted
|
||
|
to set myself in opposition to thee. I am thy creature,
|
||
|
and I will be even mild and docile to my natural lord and king
|
||
|
if thou wilt also perform thy part, the which thou owest me.
|
||
|
Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every other and trample
|
||
|
upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection,
|
||
|
is most due. Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam,
|
||
|
but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy
|
||
|
for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone
|
||
|
am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery
|
||
|
made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community between
|
||
|
you and me; we are enemies. Begone, or let us try our strength
|
||
|
in a fight, in which one must fall."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee
|
||
|
to turn a favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores
|
||
|
thy goodness and compassion? Believe me, Frankenstein,
|
||
|
I was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity;
|
||
|
but am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor me;
|
||
|
what hope can I gather from your fellow creatures, who owe me nothing?
|
||
|
They spurn and hate me. The desert mountains and dreary glaciers
|
||
|
are my refuge. I have wandered here many days; the caves of ice,
|
||
|
which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the only one
|
||
|
which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I hail,
|
||
|
for they are kinder to me than your fellow beings. If the multitude
|
||
|
of mankind knew of my existence, they would do as you do,
|
||
|
and arm themselves for my destruction. Shall I not then hate them
|
||
|
who abhor me? I will keep no terms with my enemies. I am miserable,
|
||
|
and they shall share my wretchedness. Yet it is in your power
|
||
|
to recompense me, and deliver them from an evil which it only remains
|
||
|
for you to make so great, that not only you and your family,
|
||
|
but thousands of others, shall be swallowed up in the whirlwinds
|
||
|
of its rage. Let your compassion be moved, and do not disdain me.
|
||
|
Listen to my tale; when you have heard that, abandon or commiserate me,
|
||
|
as you shall judge that I deserve. But hear me. The guilty are allowed,
|
||
|
by human laws, bloody as they are, to speak in their own defence
|
||
|
before they are condemned. Listen to me, Frankenstein. You accuse me
|
||
|
of murder, and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience,
|
||
|
destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man!
|
||
|
Yet I ask you not to spare me; listen to me, and then, if you can,
|
||
|
and if you will, destroy the work of your hands."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Why do you call to my remembrance," I rejoined, "circumstances
|
||
|
of which I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable origin
|
||
|
and author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which
|
||
|
you first saw light! Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands
|
||
|
that formed you! You have made me wretched beyond expression.
|
||
|
You have left me no power to consider whether I am just to you or not.
|
||
|
Begone! Relieve me from the sight of your detested form."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Thus I relieve thee, my creator," he said, and placed his hated
|
||
|
hands before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; "thus
|
||
|
I take from thee a sight which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me
|
||
|
and grant me thy compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed,
|
||
|
I demand this from you. Hear my tale; it is long and strange,
|
||
|
and the temperature of this place is not fitting to your fine sensations;
|
||
|
come to the hut upon the mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens;
|
||
|
before it descends to hide itself behind your snowy precipices
|
||
|
and illuminate another world, you will have heard my story and can decide.
|
||
|
On you it rests, whether I quit forever the neighbourhood of man
|
||
|
and lead a harmless life, or become the scourge of your fellow creatures
|
||
|
and the author of your own speedy ruin."
|
||
|
|
||
|
As he said this he led the way across the ice; I followed.
|
||
|
My heart was full, and I did not answer him, but as I proceeded,
|
||
|
I weighed the various arguments that he had used and determined
|
||
|
at least to listen to his tale. I was partly urged by curiosity,
|
||
|
and compassion confirmed my resolution. I had hitherto supposed him
|
||
|
to be the murderer of my brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation
|
||
|
or denial of this opinion. For the first time, also, I felt
|
||
|
what the duties of a creator towards his creature were,
|
||
|
and that I ought to render him happy before I complained of his wickedness.
|
||
|
These motives urged me to comply with his demand. We crossed the ice,
|
||
|
therefore, and ascended the opposite rock. The air was cold, and the rain
|
||
|
again began to descend; we entered the hut, the fiend with an air
|
||
|
of exultation, I with a heavy heart and depressed spirits. But I consented
|
||
|
to listen, and seating myself by the fire which my odious companion
|
||
|
had lighted, he thus began his tale.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 11
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
"It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era
|
||
|
of my being; all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct.
|
||
|
A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard,
|
||
|
and smelt at the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time
|
||
|
before I learned to distinguish between the operations
|
||
|
of my various senses. By degrees, I remember, a stronger light
|
||
|
pressed upon my nerves, so that I was obliged to shut my eyes.
|
||
|
Darkness then came over me and troubled me, but hardly had I felt this
|
||
|
when, by opening my eyes, as I now suppose, the light poured in
|
||
|
upon me again. I walked and, I believe, descended, but I presently found
|
||
|
a great alteration in my sensations. Before, dark and opaque bodies
|
||
|
had surrounded me, impervious to my touch or sight; but I now found
|
||
|
that I could wander on at liberty, with no obstacles
|
||
|
which I could not either surmount or avoid. The light became
|
||
|
more and more oppressive to me, and the heat wearying me as I walked,
|
||
|
I sought a place where I could receive shade. This was the forest
|
||
|
near Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook resting
|
||
|
from my fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst.
|
||
|
This roused me from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries
|
||
|
which I found hanging on the trees or lying on the ground.
|
||
|
I slaked my thirst at the brook, and then lying down,
|
||
|
was overcome by sleep.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half frightened,
|
||
|
as it were, instinctively, finding myself so desolate.
|
||
|
Before I had quitted your apartment, on a sensation of cold,
|
||
|
I had covered myself with some clothes, but these were insufficient
|
||
|
to secure me from the dews of night. I was a poor, helpless,
|
||
|
miserable wretch; I knew, and could distinguish, nothing;
|
||
|
but feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat down and wept.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens and gave me a sensation
|
||
|
of pleasure. I started up and beheld a radiant form rise
|
||
|
from among the trees.* [*The moon] I gazed with a kind of wonder.
|
||
|
It moved slowly, but it enlightened my path, and I again went out
|
||
|
in search of berries. I was still cold when under one of the trees
|
||
|
I found a huge cloak, with which I covered myself, and sat down
|
||
|
upon the ground. No distinct ideas occupied my mind; all was confused.
|
||
|
I felt light, and hunger, and thirst, and darkness; innumerable sounds
|
||
|
rang in my ears, and on all sides various scents saluted me;
|
||
|
the only object that I could distinguish was the bright moon,
|
||
|
and I fixed my eyes on that with pleasure.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night
|
||
|
had greatly lessened, when I began to distinguish my sensations
|
||
|
from each other. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream
|
||
|
that supplied me with drink and the trees that shaded me
|
||
|
with their foliage. I was delighted when I first discovered
|
||
|
that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my ears,
|
||
|
proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals
|
||
|
who had often intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also
|
||
|
to observe, with greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me
|
||
|
and to perceive the boundaries of the radiant roof of light
|
||
|
which canopied me. Sometimes I tried to imitate the pleasant songs
|
||
|
of the birds but was unable. Sometimes I wished to express my sensations
|
||
|
in my own mode, but the uncouth and inarticulate sounds
|
||
|
which broke from me frightened me into silence again.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a lessened form,
|
||
|
showed itself, while I still remained in the forest. My sensations
|
||
|
had by this time become distinct, and my mind received every day
|
||
|
additional ideas. My eyes became accustomed to the light
|
||
|
and to perceive objects in their right forms; I distinguished the insect
|
||
|
from the herb, and by degrees, one herb from another. I found
|
||
|
that the sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those
|
||
|
of the blackbird and thrush were sweet and enticing.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire
|
||
|
which had been left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome
|
||
|
with delight at the warmth I experienced from it. In my joy
|
||
|
I thrust my hand into the live embers, but quickly drew it out again
|
||
|
with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought, that the same cause
|
||
|
should produce such opposite effects! I examined the materials
|
||
|
of the fire, and to my joy found it to be composed of wood.
|
||
|
I quickly collected some branches, but they were wet and would not burn.
|
||
|
I was pained at this and sat still watching the operation of the fire.
|
||
|
The wet wood which I had placed near the heat dried and itself
|
||
|
became inflamed. I reflected on this, and by touching
|
||
|
the various branches, I discovered the cause and busied myself
|
||
|
in collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it
|
||
|
and have a plentiful supply of fire. When night came on
|
||
|
and brought sleep with it, I was in the greatest fear lest my fire
|
||
|
should be extinguished. I covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves
|
||
|
and placed wet branches upon it; and then, spreading my cloak,
|
||
|
I lay on the ground and sank into sleep.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire.
|
||
|
I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame.
|
||
|
I observed this also and contrived a fan of branches, which roused
|
||
|
the embers when they were nearly extinguished. When night came again
|
||
|
I found, with pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as heat
|
||
|
and that the discovery of this element was useful to me in my food,
|
||
|
for I found some of the offals that the travellers had left
|
||
|
had been roasted, and tasted much more savoury than the berries
|
||
|
I gathered from the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress my food
|
||
|
in the same manner, placing it on the live embers. I found
|
||
|
that the berries were spoiled by this operation, and the nuts
|
||
|
and roots much improved.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Food, however, became scarce, and I often spent the whole day
|
||
|
searching in vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger.
|
||
|
When I found this, I resolved to quit the place that I had
|
||
|
hitherto inhabited, to seek for one where the few wants
|
||
|
I experienced would be more easily satisfied. In this emigration
|
||
|
I exceedingly lamented the loss of the fire which I had obtained
|
||
|
through accident and knew not how to reproduce it. I gave several hours
|
||
|
to the serious consideration of this difficulty, but I was obliged
|
||
|
to relinquish all attempt to supply it, and wrapping myself up in my cloak,
|
||
|
I struck across the wood towards the setting sun. I passed three days
|
||
|
in these rambles and at length discovered the open country.
|
||
|
A great fall of snow had taken place the night before, and the fields
|
||
|
were of one uniform white; the appearance was disconsolate,
|
||
|
and I found my feet chilled by the cold damp substance
|
||
|
that covered the ground.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food
|
||
|
and shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground,
|
||
|
which had doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd.
|
||
|
This was a new sight to me, and I examined the structure
|
||
|
with great curiosity. Finding the door open, I entered. An old man
|
||
|
sat in it, near a fire, over which he was preparing his breakfast.
|
||
|
He turned on hearing a noise, and perceiving me, shrieked loudly,
|
||
|
and quitting the hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which
|
||
|
his debilitated form hardly appeared capable. His appearance,
|
||
|
different from any I had ever before seen, and his flight
|
||
|
somewhat surprised me. But I was enchanted by the appearance
|
||
|
of the hut; here the snow and rain could not penetrate;
|
||
|
the ground was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite
|
||
|
and divine a retreat as Pandemonium appeared to the demons of hell
|
||
|
after their sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured
|
||
|
the remnants of the shepherd's breakfast, which consisted of bread,
|
||
|
cheese, milk, and wine; the latter, however, I did not like.
|
||
|
Then, overcome by fatigue, I lay down among some straw and fell asleep.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"It was noon when I awoke, and allured by the warmth of the sun,
|
||
|
which shone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence
|
||
|
my travels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant's breakfast
|
||
|
in a wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours,
|
||
|
until at sunset I arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear!
|
||
|
the huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses engaged my admiration
|
||
|
by turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese
|
||
|
that I saw placed at the windows of some of the cottages,
|
||
|
allured my appetite. One of the best of these I entered,
|
||
|
but I had hardly placed my foot within the door before the children
|
||
|
shrieked, and one of the women fainted. The whole village was roused;
|
||
|
some fled, some attacked me, until, grievously bruised by stones
|
||
|
and many other kinds of missile weapons, I escaped to the open country
|
||
|
and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel, quite bare,
|
||
|
and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had beheld
|
||
|
in the village. This hovel however, joined a cottage of a neat
|
||
|
and pleasant appearance, but after my late dearly bought experience,
|
||
|
I dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed of wood,
|
||
|
but so low that I could with difficulty sit upright in it. No wood,
|
||
|
however, was placed on the earth, which formed the floor, but it was dry;
|
||
|
and although the wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found it
|
||
|
an agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Here, then, I retreated and lay down happy to have found a shelter,
|
||
|
however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more
|
||
|
from the barbarity of man. As soon as morning dawned I crept
|
||
|
from my kennel, that I might view the adjacent cottage and discover
|
||
|
if I could remain in the habitation I had found. It was situated
|
||
|
against the back of the cottage and surrounded on the sides
|
||
|
which were exposed by a pig sty and a clear pool of water.
|
||
|
One part was open, and by that I had crept in; but now
|
||
|
I covered every crevice by which I might be perceived
|
||
|
with stones and wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them
|
||
|
on occasion to pass out; all the light I enjoyed
|
||
|
came through the sty, and that was sufficient for me.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Having thus arranged my dwelling and carpeted it with clean straw,
|
||
|
I retired, for I saw the figure of a man at a distance,
|
||
|
and I remembered too well my treatment the night before
|
||
|
to trust myself in his power. I had first, however, provided
|
||
|
for my sustenance for that day by a loaf of coarse bread,
|
||
|
which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink more conveniently
|
||
|
than from my hand of the pure water which flowed by my retreat.
|
||
|
The floor was a little raised, so that it was kept perfectly dry,
|
||
|
and by its vicinity to the chimney of the cottage it was tolerably warm.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel
|
||
|
until something should occur which might alter my determination.
|
||
|
It was indeed a paradise compared to the bleak forest,
|
||
|
my former residence, the rain-dropping branches, and dank earth.
|
||
|
I ate my breakfast with pleasure and was about to remove a plank
|
||
|
to procure myself a little water when I heard a step,
|
||
|
and looking through a small chink, I beheld a young creature,
|
||
|
with a pail on her head, passing before my hovel. The girl was young
|
||
|
and of gentle demeanour, unlike what I have since found cottagers
|
||
|
and farmhouse servants to be. Yet she was meanly dressed,
|
||
|
a coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her only garb;
|
||
|
her fair hair was plaited but not adorned: she looked patient yet sad.
|
||
|
I lost sight of her, and in about a quarter of an hour she returned
|
||
|
bearing the pail, which was now partly filled with milk.
|
||
|
As she walked along, seemingly incommoded by the burden,
|
||
|
a young man met her, whose countenance expressed a deeper despondence.
|
||
|
Uttering a few sounds with an air of melancholy, he took the pail
|
||
|
from her head and bore it to the cottage himself. She followed,
|
||
|
and they disappeared. Presently I saw the young man again,
|
||
|
with some tools in his hand, cross the field behind the cottage;
|
||
|
and the girl was also busied, sometimes in the house and sometimes
|
||
|
in the yard.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the windows
|
||
|
of the cottage had formerly occupied a part of it, but the panes
|
||
|
had been filled up with wood. In one of these was a small
|
||
|
and almost imperceptible chink through which the eye
|
||
|
could just penetrate. Through this crevice a small room was visible,
|
||
|
whitewashed and clean but very bare of furniture. In one corner,
|
||
|
near a small fire, sat an old man, leaning his head on his hands
|
||
|
in a disconsolate attitude. The young girl was occupied
|
||
|
in arranging the cottage; but presently she took something
|
||
|
out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat down
|
||
|
beside the old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play
|
||
|
and to produce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush
|
||
|
or the nightingale. It was a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch
|
||
|
who had never beheld aught beautiful before. The silver hair
|
||
|
and benevolent countenance of the aged cottager won my reverence,
|
||
|
while the gentle manners of the girl enticed my love. He played
|
||
|
a sweet mournful air which I perceived drew tears from the eyes
|
||
|
of his amiable companion, of which the old man took no notice,
|
||
|
until she sobbed audibly; he then pronounced a few sounds,
|
||
|
and the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt at his feet.
|
||
|
He raised her and smiled with such kindness and affection
|
||
|
that I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature;
|
||
|
they were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before
|
||
|
experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or food;
|
||
|
and I withdrew from the window, unable to bear these emotions.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his shoulders
|
||
|
a load of wood. The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him
|
||
|
of his burden, and taking some of the fuel into the cottage,
|
||
|
placed it on the fire; then she and the youth went apart
|
||
|
into a nook 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, which she placed in water, and then
|
||
|
upon the fire. She afterwards continued her work, whilst the young man
|
||
|
went into the garden and appeared busily employed in digging
|
||
|
and pulling up roots. After he had been employed thus about an hour,
|
||
|
the young woman joined him and they entered the cottage together.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The old man had, in the meantime, been pensive, but on the appearance
|
||
|
of his companions he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to eat.
|
||
|
The meal was quickly dispatched. The young woman was again occupied
|
||
|
in arranging the cottage, the old man walked before the cottage
|
||
|
in the sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth.
|
||
|
Nothing could exceed in beauty the contrast between these two
|
||
|
excellent creatures. One was old, with silver hairs
|
||
|
and a countenance beaming with benevolence and love;
|
||
|
the younger was slight and graceful in his figure,
|
||
|
and his features were moulded with the finest symmetry, yet his eyes
|
||
|
and attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency.
|
||
|
The old man returned to the cottage, and the youth,
|
||
|
with tools different from those he had used in the morning,
|
||
|
directed his steps across the fields.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Night quickly shut in, but to my extreme wonder, I found
|
||
|
that the cottagers had a means of prolonging light by the use of tapers,
|
||
|
and was delighted to find that the setting of the sun did not put an end
|
||
|
to the pleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbours.
|
||
|
In the evening the young girl and her companion were employed
|
||
|
in various occupations which I did not understand; and the old man
|
||
|
again took up the instrument which produced the divine sounds
|
||
|
that had enchanted me in the morning. So soon as he had finished,
|
||
|
the youth began, not to play, but to utter sounds that were monotonous,
|
||
|
and neither resembling the harmony of the old man's instrument
|
||
|
nor the songs of the birds; I since found that he read aloud,
|
||
|
but at that time I knew nothing of the science of words or letters.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time,
|
||
|
extinguished their lights and retired, as I conjectured, to rest."
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 12
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought
|
||
|
of the occurrences of the day. What chiefly struck me
|
||
|
was the gentle manners of these people, and I longed to join them,
|
||
|
but dared not. I remembered too well the treatment I had suffered
|
||
|
the night before from the barbarous villagers, and resolved,
|
||
|
whatever course of conduct I might hereafter think it right
|
||
|
to pursue, that for the present I would remain quietly in my hovel,
|
||
|
watching and endeavouring to discover the motives which influenced
|
||
|
their actions.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun.
|
||
|
The young woman arranged the cottage and prepared the food,
|
||
|
and the youth departed after the first meal.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded it.
|
||
|
The young man was constantly employed out of doors, and the girl
|
||
|
in various laborious occupations within. The old man,
|
||
|
whom I soon perceived to be blind, employed his leisure hours
|
||
|
on his instrument or in contemplation. Nothing could exceed
|
||
|
the love and respect which the younger cottagers exhibited
|
||
|
towards their venerable companion. They performed towards him
|
||
|
every little office of affection and duty with gentleness,
|
||
|
and he rewarded them by his benevolent smiles.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"They were not entirely happy. The young man and his companion
|
||
|
often went apart and appeared to weep. I saw no cause
|
||
|
for their unhappiness, but I was deeply affected by it.
|
||
|
If such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that I,
|
||
|
an imperfect and solitary being, should be wretched. Yet why
|
||
|
were these gentle beings unhappy? They possessed a delightful house
|
||
|
(for such it was in my eyes) and every luxury; they had a fire
|
||
|
to warm them when chill and delicious viands when hungry;
|
||
|
they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more,
|
||
|
they enjoyed one another's company and speech, interchanging each day
|
||
|
looks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply?
|
||
|
Did they really express pain? I was at first unable to solve
|
||
|
these questions, but perpetual attention and time explained to me
|
||
|
many appearances which were at first enigmatic.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes
|
||
|
of the uneasiness of this amiable family: it was poverty,
|
||
|
and they suffered that evil in a very distressing degree.
|
||
|
Their nourishment consisted entirely of the vegetables of their garden
|
||
|
and the milk of one cow, which gave very little during the winter,
|
||
|
when its masters could scarcely procure food to support it.
|
||
|
They often, I believe, suffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly,
|
||
|
especially the two younger cottagers, for several times
|
||
|
they placed food before the old man when they reserved none for themselves.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed,
|
||
|
during the night, to steal a part of their store for my own consumption,
|
||
|
but when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on the cottagers,
|
||
|
I abstained and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and roots
|
||
|
which I gathered from a neighbouring wood.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I discovered also another means through which I was enabled
|
||
|
to assist their labours. I found that the youth spent a great part
|
||
|
of each day in collecting wood for the family fire, and during the night
|
||
|
I often took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered,
|
||
|
and brought home firing sufficient for the consumption of several days.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman,
|
||
|
when she opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished
|
||
|
on seeing a great pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words
|
||
|
in a loud voice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed surprise.
|
||
|
I observed, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day,
|
||
|
but spent it in repairing the cottage and cultivating the garden.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found
|
||
|
that these people possessed a method of communicating their experience
|
||
|
and feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived
|
||
|
that the words they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain,
|
||
|
smiles or sadness, in the minds and countenances of the hearers.
|
||
|
This was indeed a godlike science, and I ardently desired
|
||
|
to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in every attempt
|
||
|
I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick,
|
||
|
and the words they uttered, not having any apparent connection
|
||
|
with visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue
|
||
|
by which I could unravel the mystery of their reference.
|
||
|
By great application, however, and after having remained
|
||
|
during the space of several revolutions of the moon in my hovel,
|
||
|
I discovered the names that were given to some of the most familiar
|
||
|
objects of discourse; I learned and applied the words, `fire,' `milk,'
|
||
|
`bread,' and `wood.' I learned also the names of the cottagers
|
||
|
themselves. The youth and his companion had each of them several names,
|
||
|
but the old man had only one, which was `father.' The girl was called
|
||
|
`sister' or `Agatha,' and the youth `Felix,' `brother,' or `son.'
|
||
|
I cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas appropriated
|
||
|
to each of these sounds and was able to pronounce them.
|
||
|
I distinguished several other words without being able as yet
|
||
|
to understand or apply them, such as `good,' `dearest,' unhappy.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners
|
||
|
and beauty of the cottagers greatly endeared them to me;
|
||
|
when they were unhappy, I felt depressed; when they rejoiced,
|
||
|
I sympathized in their joys. I saw few human beings besides them,
|
||
|
and if any other happened to enter the cottage, their harsh manners
|
||
|
and rude gait only enhanced to me the superior accomplishments
|
||
|
of my friends. The old man, I could perceive, often endeavoured
|
||
|
to encourage his children, as sometimes I found that he called them,
|
||
|
to cast off their melancholy. He would talk in a cheerful accent,
|
||
|
with an expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure even upon me.
|
||
|
Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled with tears,
|
||
|
which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived; but I generally found
|
||
|
that her countenance and tone were more cheerful after having listened
|
||
|
to the exhortations of her father. It was not thus with Felix.
|
||
|
He was always the saddest of the group, and even to my unpractised senses,
|
||
|
he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his friends.
|
||
|
But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more cheerful
|
||
|
than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old man.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I could mention innumerable instances which, although slight,
|
||
|
marked the dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst
|
||
|
of poverty and want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister
|
||
|
the first little white flower that peeped out from beneath
|
||
|
the snowy ground. Early in the morning, before she had risen,
|
||
|
he cleared away the snow that obstructed her path to the milk-house,
|
||
|
drew water from the well, and brought the wood from the outhouse,
|
||
|
where, to his perpetual astonishment, he found his store always
|
||
|
replenished by an invisible hand. In the day, I believe,
|
||
|
he worked sometimes for a neighbouring farmer, because he often
|
||
|
went forth and did not return until dinner, yet brought no wood
|
||
|
with him. At other times he worked in the garden, but
|
||
|
as there was little to do in the frosty season, he read to the old man
|
||
|
and Agatha.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"This reading had puzzled me extremely at first, but by degrees
|
||
|
I discovered that he uttered many of the same sounds when he read
|
||
|
as when he talked. I conjectured, therefore, that he found
|
||
|
on the paper signs for speech which he understood, and I ardently longed
|
||
|
to comprehend these also; but how was that possible
|
||
|
when I did not even understand the sounds for which they stood as signs?
|
||
|
I improved, however, sensibly in this science, but not sufficiently
|
||
|
to follow up any kind of conversation, although I applied my whole mind
|
||
|
to the endeavour, for I easily perceived that, although I eagerly longed
|
||
|
to discover myself to the cottagers, I ought not to make the attempt
|
||
|
until I had first become master of their language, which knowledge
|
||
|
might enable me to make them overlook the deformity of my figure,
|
||
|
for with this also the contrast perpetually presented to my eyes
|
||
|
had made me acquainted.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers--their grace,
|
||
|
beauty, and delicate complexions; but how was I terrified when I viewed
|
||
|
myself in a transparent pool! At first I started back, unable to believe
|
||
|
that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when
|
||
|
I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am,
|
||
|
I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification.
|
||
|
Alas! I did not yet entirely know the fatal effects
|
||
|
of this miserable deformity.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"As the sun became warmer and the light of day longer, the snow vanished,
|
||
|
and I beheld the bare trees and the black earth. From this time
|
||
|
Felix was more employed, and the heart-moving indications
|
||
|
of impending famine disappeared. Their food, as I afterwards found,
|
||
|
was coarse, but it was wholesome; and they procured a sufficiency of it.
|
||
|
Several new kinds of plants sprang up in the garden, which they dressed;
|
||
|
and these signs of comfort increased daily as the season advanced.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at noon,
|
||
|
when it did not rain, as I found it was called when the heavens
|
||
|
poured forth its waters. This frequently took place, but a high wind
|
||
|
quickly dried the earth, and the season became far more pleasant
|
||
|
than it had been.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the morning
|
||
|
I attended the motions of the cottagers, and when they were dispersed
|
||
|
in various occupations, I slept; the remainder of the day was spent
|
||
|
in observing my friends. When they had retired to rest,
|
||
|
if there was any moon or the night was star-light, I went into the woods
|
||
|
and collected my own food and fuel for the cottage. When I returned,
|
||
|
as often as it was necessary, I cleared their path from the snow
|
||
|
and performed those offices that I had seen done by Felix.
|
||
|
I afterwards found that these labours, performed by an invisible hand,
|
||
|
greatly astonished them; and once or twice I heard them,
|
||
|
on these occasions, utter the words `good spirit,' `wonderful';
|
||
|
but I did not then understand the signification of these terms.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to discover
|
||
|
the motives and feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive
|
||
|
to know why Felix appeared so miserable and Agatha so sad. I thought
|
||
|
(foolish wretch!) that it might be in my power to restore happiness
|
||
|
to these deserving people. When I slept or was absent, the forms
|
||
|
of the venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the excellent Felix
|
||
|
flitted before me. I looked upon them as superior beings
|
||
|
who would be the arbiters of my future destiny. I formed
|
||
|
in my imagination a thousand pictures of presenting myself to them,
|
||
|
and their reception of me. I imagined that they would be disgusted,
|
||
|
until, by my gentle demeanour and conciliating words,
|
||
|
I should first win their favour and afterwards their love.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"These thoughts exhilarated me and led me to apply with fresh ardour
|
||
|
to the acquiring the art of language. My organs were indeed harsh,
|
||
|
but supple; and although my voice was very unlike the soft music
|
||
|
of their tones, yet I pronounced such words as I understood
|
||
|
with tolerable ease. It was as the ass and the lap-dog;
|
||
|
yet surely the gentle ass whose intentions were affectionate,
|
||
|
although his manners were rude, deserved better treatment
|
||
|
than blows and execration.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly altered
|
||
|
the aspect of the earth. Men who before this change seemed
|
||
|
to have been hid in caves dispersed themselves and were employed
|
||
|
in various arts of cultivation. The birds sang in more cheerful notes,
|
||
|
and the leaves began to bud forth on the trees. Happy, happy earth!
|
||
|
Fit habitation for gods, which, so short a time before, was bleak,
|
||
|
damp, and unwholesome. My spirits were elevated
|
||
|
by the enchanting appearance of nature; the past was blotted
|
||
|
from my memory, the present was tranquil, and the future gilded
|
||
|
by bright rays of hope and anticipations of joy."
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 13
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate
|
||
|
events that impressed me with feelings which, from what I had been,
|
||
|
have made me what I am.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine and the skies cloudless.
|
||
|
It surprised me that what before was desert and gloomy should now bloom
|
||
|
with the most beautiful flowers and verdure. My senses were gratified
|
||
|
and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight
|
||
|
and a thousand sights of beauty.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically
|
||
|
rested from labour--the old man played on his guitar, and the children
|
||
|
listened to him--that I observed the countenance of Felix
|
||
|
was melancholy beyond expression; he sighed frequently, and once
|
||
|
his father paused in his music, and I conjectured by his manner
|
||
|
that he inquired the cause of his son's sorrow. Felix replied
|
||
|
in a cheerful accent, and the old man was recommencing his music
|
||
|
when someone tapped at the door.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a country-man as a guide.
|
||
|
The lady was dressed in a dark suit and covered with a thick black veil.
|
||
|
Agatha asked a question, to which the stranger only replied
|
||
|
by pronouncing, in a sweet accent, the name of Felix. Her voice
|
||
|
was musical but unlike that of either of my friends.
|
||
|
On hearing this word, Felix came up hastily to the lady, who,
|
||
|
when she saw him, threw up her veil, and I beheld a countenance
|
||
|
of angelic beauty and expression. Her hair of a shining raven black,
|
||
|
and curiously braided; her eyes were dark, but gentle, although animated;
|
||
|
her features of a regular proportion, and her complexion wondrously fair,
|
||
|
each cheek tinged with a lovely pink.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every
|
||
|
trait of sorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed
|
||
|
a degree of ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly have
|
||
|
believed it capable; his eyes sparkled, as his cheek flushed
|
||
|
with pleasure; and at that moment I thought him as beautiful
|
||
|
as the stranger. She appeared affected by different feelings;
|
||
|
wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she held out her hand
|
||
|
to Felix, who kissed it rapturously and called her, as well
|
||
|
as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian. She did not appear
|
||
|
to understand him, but smiled. He assisted her to dismount,
|
||
|
and dismissing her guide, conducted her into the cottage.
|
||
|
Some conversation took place between him and his father,
|
||
|
and the young stranger knelt at the old man's feet and would have kissed
|
||
|
his hand, but he raised her and embraced her affectionately.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I soon perceived that although the stranger uttered articulate sounds
|
||
|
and appeared to have a language of her own, she was neither understood by
|
||
|
nor herself understood the cottagers. They made many signs
|
||
|
which I did not comprehend, but I saw that her presence
|
||
|
diffused gladness through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow
|
||
|
as the sun dissipates the morning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy
|
||
|
and with smiles of delight welcomed his Arabian. Agatha,
|
||
|
the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands of the lovely stranger,
|
||
|
and pointing to her brother, made signs which appeared to me to mean
|
||
|
that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some hours passed thus,
|
||
|
while they, by their countenances, expressed joy, the cause of which
|
||
|
I did not comprehend. Presently I found, by the frequent recurrence
|
||
|
of some sound which the stranger repeated after them,
|
||
|
that she was endeavouring to learn their language; and the idea
|
||
|
instantly occurred to me that I should make use of the same instructions
|
||
|
to the same end. The stranger learned about twenty words
|
||
|
at the first lesson; most of them, indeed, were those which I had
|
||
|
before understood, but I profited by the others.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early.
|
||
|
When they separated Felix kissed the hand of the stranger and said,
|
||
|
'Good night sweet Safie.' He sat up much longer, conversing with
|
||
|
his father, and by the frequent repetition of her name I conjectured
|
||
|
that their lovely guest was the subject of their conversation.
|
||
|
I ardently desired to understand them, and bent every faculty
|
||
|
towards that purpose, but found it utterly impossible.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The next morning Felix went out to his work, and after
|
||
|
the usual occupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat
|
||
|
at the feet of the old man, and taking his guitar, played some airs
|
||
|
so entrancingly beautiful that they at once drew tears of sorrow
|
||
|
and delight from my eyes. She sang, and her voice flowed
|
||
|
in a rich cadence, swelling or dying away like a nightingale of the woods.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha,
|
||
|
who at first declined it. She played a simple air, and her voice
|
||
|
accompanied it in sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain
|
||
|
of the stranger. The old man appeared enraptured and said some words
|
||
|
which Agatha endeavoured to explain to Safie, and by which he appeared
|
||
|
to wish to express that she bestowed on him the greatest delight
|
||
|
by her music.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration
|
||
|
that joy had taken place of sadness in the countenances of my friends.
|
||
|
Safie was always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly
|
||
|
in the knowledge of language, so that in two months I began to comprehend
|
||
|
most of the words uttered by my protectors.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage,
|
||
|
and the green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers,
|
||
|
sweet to the scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance
|
||
|
among the moonlight woods; the sun became warmer, the nights
|
||
|
clear and balmy; and my nocturnal rambles were an extreme pleasure to me,
|
||
|
although they were considerably shortened by the late setting
|
||
|
and early rising of the sun, for I never ventured abroad during daylight,
|
||
|
fearful of meeting with the same treatment I had formerly endured
|
||
|
in the first village which I entered.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily
|
||
|
master the language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly
|
||
|
than the Arabian, who understood very little and conversed
|
||
|
in broken accents, whilst I comprehended and could imitate
|
||
|
almost every word that was spoken.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters
|
||
|
as it was taught to the stranger, and this opened before me
|
||
|
a wide field for wonder and delight.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney's Ruins of Empires.
|
||
|
I should not have understood the purport of this book had not Felix,
|
||
|
in reading it, given very minute explanations. He had chosen this work,
|
||
|
he said, because the declamatory style was framed in imitation
|
||
|
of the Eastern authors. Through this work I obtained
|
||
|
a cursory knowledge of history and a view of the several empires
|
||
|
at present existing in the world; it gave me an insight into the manners,
|
||
|
governments, and religions of the different nations of the earth.
|
||
|
I heard of the slothful Asiatics, of the stupendous genius
|
||
|
and mental activity of the Grecians, of the wars and wonderful virtue
|
||
|
of the early Romans--of their subsequent degenerating--of the decline
|
||
|
of that mighty empire, of chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard
|
||
|
of the discovery of the American hemisphere and wept with Safie
|
||
|
over the hapless fate of its original inhabitants.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings.
|
||
|
Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous and magnificent,
|
||
|
yet so vicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion
|
||
|
of the evil principle and at another as all that can be conceived
|
||
|
of noble and godlike. To be a great and virtuous man
|
||
|
appeared the highest honour that can befall a sensitive being;
|
||
|
to be base and vicious, as many on record have been, appeared
|
||
|
the lowest degradation, a condition more abject than that
|
||
|
of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time
|
||
|
I could not conceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow,
|
||
|
or even why there were laws and governments; but when I heard details
|
||
|
of vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased and I turned away
|
||
|
with disgust and loathing.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me.
|
||
|
While I listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the Arabian,
|
||
|
the strange system of human society was explained to me. I heard
|
||
|
of the division of property, of immense wealth and squalid poverty,
|
||
|
of rank, descent, and noble blood.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned
|
||
|
that the possessions most esteemed by your fellow creatures
|
||
|
were high and unsullied descent united with riches. A man
|
||
|
might be respected with only one of these advantages,
|
||
|
but without either he was considered, except in very rare instances,
|
||
|
as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his powers for the profits
|
||
|
of the chosen few! And what was I? Of my creation and creator
|
||
|
I was absolutely ignorant, but I knew that I possessed no money,
|
||
|
no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides, endued with a figure
|
||
|
hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same nature as man.
|
||
|
I was more agile than they and could subsist upon coarser diet;
|
||
|
I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my frame;
|
||
|
my stature far exceeded theirs. When I looked around I saw
|
||
|
and heard of none like me. Was I, then, a monster, a blot
|
||
|
upon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men disowned?
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections
|
||
|
inflicted upon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased
|
||
|
with knowledge. Oh, that I had forever remained in my native wood,
|
||
|
nor known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind
|
||
|
when it has once seized on it like a lichen on the rock.
|
||
|
I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling,
|
||
|
but I learned that there was but one means to overcome
|
||
|
the sensation of pain, and that was death--a state which I feared
|
||
|
yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good feelings
|
||
|
and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my cottagers,
|
||
|
but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except through means
|
||
|
which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and unknown,
|
||
|
and which rather increased than satisfied the desire I had
|
||
|
of becoming one among my fellows. The gentle words of Agatha
|
||
|
and the animated smiles of the charming Arabian were not for me.
|
||
|
The mild exhortations of the old man and the lively conversation
|
||
|
of the loved Felix were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply. I heard
|
||
|
of the difference of sexes, and the birth and growth of children,
|
||
|
how the father doted on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies
|
||
|
of the older child, how all the life and cares of the mother
|
||
|
were wrapped up in the precious charge, how the mind of youth
|
||
|
expanded and gained knowledge, of brother, sister, and all
|
||
|
the various relationships which bind one human being
|
||
|
to another in mutual bonds.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched
|
||
|
my infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses;
|
||
|
or if they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy
|
||
|
in which I distinguished nothing. From my earliest remembrance
|
||
|
I had been as I then was in height and proportion. I had never yet
|
||
|
seen a being resembling me or who claimed any intercourse with me.
|
||
|
What was I? The question again recurred, to be answered only with groans.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I will soon explain to what these feelings tended, but allow me now
|
||
|
to return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me
|
||
|
such various feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder,
|
||
|
but which all terminated in additional love and reverence
|
||
|
for my protectors (for so I loved, in an innocent, half-painful
|
||
|
self-deceit, to call them)."
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 14
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends.
|
||
|
It was one which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind,
|
||
|
unfolding as it did a number of circumstances, each interesting
|
||
|
and wonderful to one so utterly inexperienced as I was.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descended
|
||
|
from a good family in France, where he had lived for many years
|
||
|
in affluence, respected by his superiors and beloved by his equals.
|
||
|
His son was bred in the service of his country, and Agatha
|
||
|
had ranked with ladies of the highest distinction. A few months
|
||
|
before my arrival they had lived in a large and luxurious city
|
||
|
called Paris, surrounded by friends and possessed of every enjoyment
|
||
|
which virtue, refinement of intellect, or taste, accompanied
|
||
|
by a moderate fortune, could afford.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin.
|
||
|
He was a Turkish merchant and had inhabited Paris for many years,
|
||
|
when, for some reason which I could not learn, he became obnoxious
|
||
|
to the government. He was seized and cast into prison
|
||
|
the very day that Safie arrived from Constantinople to join him.
|
||
|
He was tried and condemned to death. The injustice of his sentence
|
||
|
was very flagrant; all Paris was indignant; and it was judged
|
||
|
that his religion and wealth rather than the crime alleged against him
|
||
|
had been the cause of his condemnation.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Felix had accidentally been present at the trial; his horror
|
||
|
and indignation were uncontrollable when he heard the decision
|
||
|
of the court. He made, at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver him
|
||
|
and then looked around for the means. After many fruitless attempts
|
||
|
to gain admittance to the prison, he found a strongly grated window
|
||
|
in an unguarded part of the building, which lighted the dungeon
|
||
|
of the unfortunate Muhammadan, who, loaded with chains,
|
||
|
waited in despair the execution of the barbarous sentence.
|
||
|
Felix visited the grate at night and made known to the prisoner
|
||
|
his intentions in his favour. The Turk, amazed and delighted,
|
||
|
endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his deliverer by promises
|
||
|
of reward and wealth. Felix rejected his offers with contempt,
|
||
|
yet when he saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit her father
|
||
|
and who by her gestures expressed her lively gratitude, the youth
|
||
|
could not help owning to his own mind that the captive possessed
|
||
|
a treasure which would fully reward his toil and hazard.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter had made
|
||
|
on the heart of Felix and endeavoured to secure him more entirely
|
||
|
in his interests by the promise of her hand in marriage so soon
|
||
|
as he should be conveyed to a place of safety. Felix was too delicate
|
||
|
to accept this offer, yet he looked forward to the probability
|
||
|
of the event as to the consummation of his happiness.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"During the ensuing days, while the preparations were going forward
|
||
|
for the escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed
|
||
|
by several letters that he received from this lovely girl,
|
||
|
who found means to express her thoughts in the language of her lover
|
||
|
by the aid of an old man, a servant of her father who understood French.
|
||
|
She thanked him in the most ardent terms for his intended services
|
||
|
towards her parent, and at the same time she gently deplored her own fate.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I have copies of these letters, for I found means, during my residence
|
||
|
in the hovel, to procure the implements of writing; and the letters
|
||
|
were often in the hands of Felix or Agatha. Before I depart
|
||
|
I will give them to you; they will prove the truth of my tale;
|
||
|
but at present, as the sun is already far declined,
|
||
|
I shall only have time to repeat the substance of them to you.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Safie related that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized
|
||
|
and made a slave by the Turks; recommended by her beauty,
|
||
|
she had won the heart of the father of Safie, who married her.
|
||
|
The young girl spoke in high and enthusiastic terms of her mother,
|
||
|
who, born in freedom, spurned the bondage to which she was now reduced.
|
||
|
She instructed her daughter in the tenets of her religion
|
||
|
and taught her to aspire to higher powers of intellect
|
||
|
and an independence of spirit forbidden to the female followers
|
||
|
of Muhammad. This lady died, but her lessons were indelibly impressed
|
||
|
on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of again returning
|
||
|
to Asia and being immured within the walls of a harem,
|
||
|
allowed only to occupy herself with infantile amusements,
|
||
|
ill-suited to the temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas
|
||
|
and a noble emulation for virtue. The prospect of marrying a Christian
|
||
|
and remaining in a country where women were allowed to take
|
||
|
a rank in society was enchanting to her.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed, but on the night
|
||
|
previous to it he quitted his prison and before morning was distant
|
||
|
many leagues from Paris. Felix had procured passports in the name
|
||
|
of his father, sister, and himself. He had previously communicated
|
||
|
his plan to the former, who aided the deceit by quitting his house,
|
||
|
under the pretence of a journey and concealed himself, with his daughter,
|
||
|
in an obscure part of Paris.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons
|
||
|
and across Mont Cenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided
|
||
|
to wait a favourable opportunity of passing into some part
|
||
|
of the Turkish dominions.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment
|
||
|
of his departure, before which time the Turk renewed his promise
|
||
|
that she should be united to his deliverer; and Felix remained
|
||
|
with them in expectation of that event; and in the meantime
|
||
|
he enjoyed the society of the Arabian, who exhibited towards him
|
||
|
the simplest and tenderest affection. They conversed with one another
|
||
|
through the means of an interpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation
|
||
|
of looks; and Safie sang to him the divine airs of her native country.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place and encouraged the hopes
|
||
|
of the youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed far other plans.
|
||
|
He loathed the idea that his daughter should be united to a Christian,
|
||
|
but he feared the resentment of Felix if he should appear lukewarm,
|
||
|
for he knew that he was still in the power of his deliverer
|
||
|
if he should choose to betray him to the Italian state
|
||
|
which they inhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which
|
||
|
he should be enabled to prolong the deceit until
|
||
|
it might be no longer necessary, and secretly to take his daughter
|
||
|
with him when he departed. His plans were facilitated by the news
|
||
|
which arrived from Paris.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape
|
||
|
of their victim and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer.
|
||
|
The plot of Felix was quickly discovered, and DeLacey and Agatha
|
||
|
were thrown into prison. The news reached Felix and roused him
|
||
|
from his dream of pleasure. His blind and aged father
|
||
|
and his gentle sister lay in a noisome dungeon while he enjoyed
|
||
|
the free air and the society of her whom he loved.
|
||
|
This idea was torture to him. He quickly arranged with the Turk
|
||
|
that if the latter should find a favourable opportunity for escape
|
||
|
before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should remain as a boarder
|
||
|
at a convent at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian,
|
||
|
he hastened to Paris and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the law,
|
||
|
hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"He did not succeed. They remained confined for five months
|
||
|
before the trial took place, the result of which deprived them
|
||
|
of their fortune and condemned them to a perpetual exile
|
||
|
from their native country.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany,
|
||
|
where I discovered them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk,
|
||
|
for whom he and his family endured such unheard-of oppression,
|
||
|
on discovering that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and ruin,
|
||
|
became a traitor to good feeling and honour and had quitted Italy
|
||
|
with his daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money
|
||
|
to aid him, as he said, in some plan of future maintenance.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix
|
||
|
and rendered him, when I first saw him, the most miserable
|
||
|
of his family. He could have endured poverty, and while this distress
|
||
|
had been the meed of his virtue, he gloried in it; but the ingratitude
|
||
|
of the Turk and the loss of his beloved Safie were misfortunes
|
||
|
more bitter and irreparable. The arrival of the Arabian
|
||
|
now infused new life into his soul.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"When the news reached Leghorn that Felix was deprived
|
||
|
of his wealth and rank, the merchant commanded his daughter
|
||
|
to think no more of her lover, but to prepare to return
|
||
|
to her native country. The generous nature of Safie was outraged
|
||
|
by this command; she attempted to expostulate with her father,
|
||
|
but he left her angrily, reiterating his tyrannical mandate.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter's apartment
|
||
|
and told her hastily that he had reason to believe that his residence
|
||
|
at Leghorn had been divulged and that he should speedily be delivered
|
||
|
up to the French government; he had consequently hired a vessel
|
||
|
to convey him to Constantinople, for which city he should sail
|
||
|
in a few hours. He intended to leave his daughter under the care
|
||
|
of a confidential servant, to follow at her leisure with the greater part
|
||
|
of his property, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct
|
||
|
that it would become her to pursue in this emergency. A residence
|
||
|
in Turkey was abhorrent to her; her religion and her feelings
|
||
|
were alike averse to it. By some papers of her father
|
||
|
which fell into her hands she heard of the exile of her lover
|
||
|
and learnt the name of the spot where he then resided.
|
||
|
She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her determination.
|
||
|
Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her and a sum of money,
|
||
|
she quitted Italy with an attendant, a native of Leghorn,
|
||
|
but who understood the common language of Turkey,
|
||
|
and departed for Germany.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues
|
||
|
from the cottage of De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill.
|
||
|
Safie nursed her with the most devoted affection, but the poor girl died,
|
||
|
and the Arabian was left alone, unacquainted with the language
|
||
|
of the country and utterly ignorant of the customs of the world.
|
||
|
She fell, however, into good hands. The Italian had mentioned
|
||
|
the name of the spot for which they were bound, and after her death
|
||
|
the woman of the house in which they had lived took care that Safie
|
||
|
should arrive in safety at the cottage of her lover."
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 15
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Such was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed me deeply.
|
||
|
I learned, from the views of social life which it developed,
|
||
|
to admire their virtues and to deprecate the vices of mankind.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil, benevolence and generosity
|
||
|
were ever present before me, inciting within me a desire to become an actor
|
||
|
in the busy scene where so many admirable qualities were called forth
|
||
|
and displayed. But in giving an account of the progress of my intellect,
|
||
|
I must not omit a circumstance which occurred in the beginning of the month
|
||
|
of August of the same year.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"One night during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood
|
||
|
where I collected my own food and brought home firing for my protectors,
|
||
|
I found on the ground a leathern portmanteau containing several articles
|
||
|
of dress and some books. I eagerly seized the prize
|
||
|
and returned with it to my hovel. Fortunately the books were written
|
||
|
in the language, the elements of which I had acquired at the cottage;
|
||
|
they consisted of Paradise Lost, a volume of Plutarch's Lives,
|
||
|
and the Sorrows of Werter. The possession of these treasures
|
||
|
gave me extreme delight; I now continually studied and exercised my mind
|
||
|
upon these histories, whilst my friends were employed
|
||
|
in their ordinary occupations.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books.
|
||
|
They produced in me an infinity of new images and feelings,
|
||
|
that sometimes raised me to ecstasy, but more frequently
|
||
|
sunk me into the lowest dejection. In the Sorrows of Werter,
|
||
|
besides the interest of its simple and affecting story,
|
||
|
so many opinions are canvassed and so many lights thrown upon
|
||
|
what had hitherto been to me obscure subjects that I found in it
|
||
|
a never-ending source of speculation and astonishment.
|
||
|
The gentle and domestic manners it described, combined
|
||
|
with lofty sentiments and feelings, which had for their object
|
||
|
something out of self, accorded well with my experience
|
||
|
among my protectors and with the wants which were forever alive
|
||
|
in my own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a more divine being
|
||
|
than I had ever beheld or imagined; his character contained no pretension,
|
||
|
but it sank deep. The disquisitions upon death and suicide
|
||
|
were calculated to fill me with wonder. I did not pretend to enter
|
||
|
into the merits of the case, yet I inclined towards the opinions
|
||
|
of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely understanding it.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own feelings
|
||
|
and condition. I found myself similar yet at the same time
|
||
|
strangely unlike to the beings concerning whom I read
|
||
|
and to whose conversation I was a listener. I sympathized with
|
||
|
and partly understood them, but I was unformed in mind;
|
||
|
I was dependent on none and related to none. "The path of my departure
|
||
|
was free," and there was none to lament my annihilation.
|
||
|
My person was hideous and my stature gigantic. What did this mean?
|
||
|
Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination?
|
||
|
These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve them.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The volume of Plutarch's Lives which I possessed contained
|
||
|
the histories of the first founders of the ancient republics.
|
||
|
This book had a far different effect upon me from the Sorrows of Werter.
|
||
|
I learned from Werter's imaginations despondency and gloom,
|
||
|
but Plutarch taught me high thoughts; he elevated me
|
||
|
above the wretched sphere of my own reflections, to admire and love
|
||
|
the heroes of past ages. Many things I read surpassed my understanding
|
||
|
and experience. I had a very confused knowledge of kingdoms,
|
||
|
wide extents of country, mighty rivers, and boundless seas.
|
||
|
But I was perfectly unacquainted with towns and large assemblages of men.
|
||
|
The cottage of my protectors had been the only school in which
|
||
|
I had studied human nature, but this book developed new
|
||
|
and mightier scenes of action. I read of men concerned in public affairs,
|
||
|
governing or massacring their species. I felt the greatest ardour
|
||
|
for virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice,
|
||
|
as far as I understood the signification of those terms,
|
||
|
relative as they were, as I applied them, to pleasure and pain alone.
|
||
|
Induced by these feelings, I was of course led to admire
|
||
|
peaceable lawgivers, Numa, Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference
|
||
|
to Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my protectors
|
||
|
caused these impressions to take a firm hold on my mind; perhaps,
|
||
|
if my first introduction to humanity had been made by a young soldier,
|
||
|
burning for glory and slaughter, I should have been imbued
|
||
|
with different sensations.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"But Paradise Lost excited different and far deeper emotions.
|
||
|
I read it, as I had read the other volumes which had fallen
|
||
|
into my hands, as a true history. It moved every feeling of wonder
|
||
|
and awe that the picture of an omnipotent God warring
|
||
|
with his creatures was capable of exciting. I often referred
|
||
|
the several situations, as their similarity struck me, to my own.
|
||
|
Like Adam, I was apparently united by no link to any other being
|
||
|
in existence; but his state was far different from mine
|
||
|
in every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God
|
||
|
a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care
|
||
|
of his Creator; he was allowed to converse with and acquire knowledge
|
||
|
from beings of a superior nature, but I was wretched, helpless, and alone.
|
||
|
Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition,
|
||
|
for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors,
|
||
|
the bitter gall of envy rose within me.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feelings.
|
||
|
Soon after my arrival in the hovel I discovered some papers
|
||
|
in the pocket of the dress which I had taken from your laboratory.
|
||
|
At first I had neglected them, but now that I was able
|
||
|
to decipher the characters in which they were written,
|
||
|
I began to study them with diligence. It was your journal
|
||
|
of the four months that preceded my creation. You minutely described
|
||
|
in these papers every step you took in the progress of your work;
|
||
|
this history was mingled with accounts of domestic occurrences.
|
||
|
You doubtless recollect these papers. Here they are.
|
||
|
Everything is related in them which bears reference to my accursed origin;
|
||
|
the whole detail of that series of disgusting circumstances
|
||
|
which produced it is set in view; the minutest description
|
||
|
of my odious and loathsome person is given, in language
|
||
|
which painted your own horrors and rendered mine indelible.
|
||
|
I sickened as I read. `Hateful day when I received life!'
|
||
|
I exclaimed in agony. `Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster
|
||
|
so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust? God, in pity,
|
||
|
made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form
|
||
|
is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance.
|
||
|
Satan had his companions, fellow devils, to admire and encourage him,
|
||
|
but I am solitary and abhorred.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude;
|
||
|
but when I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers,
|
||
|
their amiable and benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself
|
||
|
that when they should become acquainted with my admiration
|
||
|
of their virtues they would compassionate me and overlook
|
||
|
my personal deformity. Could they turn from their door one,
|
||
|
however monstrous, who solicited their compassion and friendship?
|
||
|
I resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way to fit myself
|
||
|
for an interview with them which would decide my fate.
|
||
|
I postponed this attempt for some months longer, for the importance
|
||
|
attached to its success inspired me with a dread lest I should fail.
|
||
|
Besides, I found that my understanding improved so much
|
||
|
with every day's experience that I was unwilling to commence
|
||
|
this undertaking until a few more months should have added to my sagacity.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Several changes, in the meantime, took place in the cottage.
|
||
|
The presence of Safie diffused happiness among its inhabitants,
|
||
|
and I also found that a greater degree of plenty reigned there.
|
||
|
Felix and Agatha spent more time in amusement and conversation,
|
||
|
and were assisted in their labours by servants. They did not appear rich,
|
||
|
but they were contented and happy; their feelings were serene and peaceful,
|
||
|
while mine became every day more tumultuous. Increase of knowledge
|
||
|
only discovered to me more clearly what a wretched outcast I was.
|
||
|
I cherished hope, it is true, but it vanished when I beheld my person
|
||
|
reflected in water or my shadow in the moonshine, even as that frail image
|
||
|
and that inconstant shade.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I endeavoured to crush these fears and to fortify myself for the trial
|
||
|
which in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed
|
||
|
my thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise,
|
||
|
and dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathizing
|
||
|
with my feelings and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances
|
||
|
breathed smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream; no Eve
|
||
|
soothed my sorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered
|
||
|
Adam's supplication to his Creator. But where was mine?
|
||
|
He had abandoned me, and in the bitterness of my heart I cursed him.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief,
|
||
|
the leaves decay and fall, and nature again assume the barren
|
||
|
and bleak appearance it had worn when I first beheld the woods
|
||
|
and the lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness of the weather;
|
||
|
I was better fitted by my conformation for the endurance of cold
|
||
|
than heat. But my chief delights were the sight of the flowers,
|
||
|
the birds, and all the gay apparel of summer; when those deserted me,
|
||
|
I turned with more attention towards the cottagers. Their happiness
|
||
|
was not decreased by the absence of summer. They loved
|
||
|
and sympathized with one another; and their joys, depending on each other,
|
||
|
were not interrupted by the casualties that took place around them.
|
||
|
The more I saw of them, the greater became my desire
|
||
|
to claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to be known
|
||
|
and loved by these amiable creatures; to see their sweet looks
|
||
|
directed towards me with affection was the utmost limit of my ambition.
|
||
|
I dared not think that they would turn them from me
|
||
|
with disdain and horror. The poor that stopped at their door
|
||
|
were never driven away. I asked, it is true, for greater treasures
|
||
|
than a little food or rest: I required kindness and sympathy;
|
||
|
but I did not believe myself utterly unworthy of it.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons
|
||
|
had taken place since I awoke into life. My attention at this time
|
||
|
was solely directed towards my plan of introducing myself
|
||
|
into the cottage of my protectors. I revolved many projects,
|
||
|
but that on which I finally fixed was to enter the dwelling
|
||
|
when the blind old man should be alone. I had sagacity enough
|
||
|
to discover that the unnatural hideousness of my person
|
||
|
was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly beheld me.
|
||
|
My voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I thought,
|
||
|
therefore, that if in the absence of his children
|
||
|
I could gain the good will and mediation of the old De Lacey,
|
||
|
I might by his means be tolerated by my younger protectors.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the
|
||
|
ground and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth,
|
||
|
Safie, Agatha, and Felix departed on a long country walk,
|
||
|
and the old man, at his own desire, was left alone in the cottage.
|
||
|
When his children had departed, he took up his guitar
|
||
|
and played several mournful but sweet airs, more sweet and mournful
|
||
|
than I had ever heard him play before. At first his countenance
|
||
|
was illuminated with pleasure, but as he continued, thoughtfulness
|
||
|
and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the instrument,
|
||
|
he sat absorbed in reflection.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial,
|
||
|
which would decide my hopes or realize my fears. The servants
|
||
|
were gone to a neighbouring fair. All was silent in
|
||
|
and around the cottage; it was an excellent opportunity;
|
||
|
yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my limbs failed me
|
||
|
and I sank to the ground. Again I rose, and exerting all the firmness
|
||
|
of which I was master, removed the planks which I had placed
|
||
|
before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived me,
|
||
|
and with renewed determination I approached the door of their cottage.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I knocked. `Who is there?' said the old man. `Come in.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I entered. `Pardon this intrusion,' said I; `I am a traveller
|
||
|
in want of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me
|
||
|
if you would allow me to remain a few minutes before the fire.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`Enter,' said De Lacey, `and I will try in what manner I can
|
||
|
to relieve your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are from home,
|
||
|
and as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult
|
||
|
to procure food for you.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`Do not trouble yourself, my kind host; I have food; it is warmth
|
||
|
and rest only that I need.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute
|
||
|
was precious to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner
|
||
|
to commence the interview, when the old man addressed me.
|
||
|
`By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman;
|
||
|
are you French?'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`No; but I was educated by a French family and understand
|
||
|
that language only. I am now going to claim the protection
|
||
|
of some friends, whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour
|
||
|
I have some hopes.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`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 upon earth. These amiable people
|
||
|
to whom I go have never seen me and know little of me.
|
||
|
I am full of fears, for if I fail there, I am an outcast
|
||
|
in the world forever.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate,
|
||
|
but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest,
|
||
|
are full of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes;
|
||
|
and if these friends are good and amiable, do not despair.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`They are kind--they are the most excellent creatures in the world;
|
||
|
but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me.
|
||
|
I have good dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless
|
||
|
and in some degree beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes,
|
||
|
and where they ought to see a feeling and kind friend,
|
||
|
they behold only a detestable monster.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless,
|
||
|
cannot you undeceive them?'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account
|
||
|
that I feel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these friends;
|
||
|
I have, unknown to them, been for many months in the habits
|
||
|
of daily kindness towards them; but they believe that I wish to injure them,
|
||
|
and it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`Where do these friends reside?'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`Near this spot.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The old man paused and then continued, `If you will unreservedly confide
|
||
|
to me the particulars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use
|
||
|
in undeceiving them. I am blind and cannot judge of your countenance,
|
||
|
but there is something in your words which persuades me
|
||
|
that you are sincere. I am poor and an exile, but it will afford me
|
||
|
true pleasure to be in any way serviceable to a human creature.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`Excellent man! I thank you and accept your generous offer.
|
||
|
You raise me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust that,
|
||
|
by your aid, I shall not be driven from the society and sympathy
|
||
|
of your fellow creatures.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`Heaven forbid! Even if you were really criminal,
|
||
|
for that can only drive you to desperation, and not
|
||
|
instigate you to virtue. I also am unfortunate; I and my family
|
||
|
have been condemned, although innocent; judge, therefore,
|
||
|
if I do not feel for your misfortunes.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? From your lips
|
||
|
first have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me;
|
||
|
I shall be forever grateful; and your present humanity assures me
|
||
|
of success with those friends whom I am on the point of meeting.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`May I know the names and residence of those friends?' "I paused.
|
||
|
This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to rob me of
|
||
|
or bestow happiness on me forever. I struggled vainly
|
||
|
for firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed
|
||
|
all my remaining strength; 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, but seizing the hand of the old man,
|
||
|
I cried, `Now is the time! Save and protect me! You and your family
|
||
|
are the friends whom I seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`Great God!' exclaimed the old man. 'Who are you?'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie,
|
||
|
and Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation
|
||
|
on beholding me? Agatha fainted, and Safie, unable to attend
|
||
|
to her friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward,
|
||
|
and with supernatural force tore me from his father,
|
||
|
to whose knees I clung, in a transport of fury, he dashed me
|
||
|
to the ground and struck me violently with a stick.
|
||
|
I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope.
|
||
|
But my heart sank within me as with bitter sickness, and I refrained.
|
||
|
I saw him on the point of repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain
|
||
|
and anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped
|
||
|
unperceived to my hovel."
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 16
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant,
|
||
|
did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly
|
||
|
bestowed? I know not; despair had not yet taken possession of me;
|
||
|
my feelings were those of rage and revenge. I could with pleasure
|
||
|
have destroyed the cottage and its inhabitants and have glutted myself
|
||
|
with their shrieks and misery.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"When night came I quitted my retreat and wandered in the wood;
|
||
|
and now, no longer restrained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent
|
||
|
to my anguish in fearful howlings. I was like a wild beast
|
||
|
that had broken the toils, destroying the objects that obstructed me
|
||
|
and ranging through the wood with a staglike swiftness. Oh!
|
||
|
What a miserable night I passed! The cold stars shone in mockery,
|
||
|
and the bare trees waved their branches above me; now and then
|
||
|
the sweet voice of a bird burst forth amidst the universal stillness.
|
||
|
All, save I, were at rest or in enjoyment; I, like the arch-fiend,
|
||
|
bore a hell within me, and finding myself unsympathized with,
|
||
|
wished to tear up the trees, spread havoc and destruction around me,
|
||
|
and then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure;
|
||
|
I became fatigued with excess of bodily exertion and sank
|
||
|
on the damp grass in the sick impotence of despair.
|
||
|
There was none among the myriads of men that existed who would pity
|
||
|
or assist me; and should I feel kindness towards my enemies? No;
|
||
|
from that moment I declared everlasting war against the species,
|
||
|
and more than all, against him who had formed me and sent me forth
|
||
|
to this insupportable misery.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The sun rose; I heard the voices of men and knew that it was impossible
|
||
|
to return to my retreat during that day. Accordingly I hid myself
|
||
|
in some thick underwood, determining to devote the ensuing hours
|
||
|
to reflection on my situation.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The pleasant sunshine and the pure air of day restored me
|
||
|
to some degree of tranquillity; and when I considered what had passed
|
||
|
at the cottage, I could not help believing that I had been too hasty
|
||
|
in my conclusions. I had certainly acted imprudently. It was apparent
|
||
|
that my conversation had interested the father in my behalf,
|
||
|
and I was a fool in having exposed my person to the horror of his children.
|
||
|
I ought to have familiarized the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees
|
||
|
to have discovered myself to the rest of his family,
|
||
|
when they should have been prepared for my approach.
|
||
|
But I did not believe my errors to be irretrievable,
|
||
|
and after much consideration I resolved to return to the cottage,
|
||
|
seek the old man, and by my representations win him to my party.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I sank
|
||
|
into a profound sleep; but the fever of my blood did not allow me
|
||
|
to be visited by peaceful dreams. The horrible scene
|
||
|
of the preceding day was forever acting before my eyes;
|
||
|
the females were flying and the enraged Felix tearing me
|
||
|
from his father's feet. I awoke exhausted, and finding
|
||
|
that it was already night, I crept forth from my hiding-place,
|
||
|
and went in search of food.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps towards
|
||
|
the well-known path that conducted to the cottage. All there
|
||
|
was at peace. I crept into my hovel and remained in silent expectation
|
||
|
of the accustomed hour when the family arose. That hour passed,
|
||
|
the sun mounted high in the heavens, but the cottagers did not appear.
|
||
|
I trembled violently, apprehending some dreadful misfortune.
|
||
|
The inside of the cottage was dark, and I heard no motion;
|
||
|
I cannot describe the agony of this suspense.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Presently two countrymen passed by, but pausing near the cottage,
|
||
|
they entered into conversation, using violent gesticulations;
|
||
|
but I did not understand what they said, as they spoke the language
|
||
|
of the country, which differed from that of my protectors. Soon after,
|
||
|
however, Felix approached with another man; I was surprised,
|
||
|
as I knew that he had not quitted the cottage that morning,
|
||
|
and waited anxiously to discover from his discourse
|
||
|
the meaning of these unusual appearances.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`Do you consider,' said his companion to him, `that you will be obliged
|
||
|
to pay three months' rent and to lose the produce of your garden?
|
||
|
I do not wish to take any unfair advantage, and I beg therefore
|
||
|
that you will take some days to consider of your determination.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`It is utterly useless,' replied Felix; `we can never again
|
||
|
inhabit your cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest danger,
|
||
|
owing to the dreadful circumstance that I have related.
|
||
|
My wife and my sister will never recover from their horror.
|
||
|
I entreat you not to reason with me any more. Take possession
|
||
|
of your tenement and let me fly from this place.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Felix trembled violently as he said this. He and his companion
|
||
|
entered the cottage, in which they remained for a few minutes,
|
||
|
and then departed. I never saw any of the family of De Lacey more.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state
|
||
|
of utter and stupid despair. My protectors had departed
|
||
|
and had broken the only link that held me to the world.
|
||
|
For the first time the feelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom,
|
||
|
and I did not strive to control them, but allowing myself to be borne
|
||
|
away by the stream, I bent my mind towards injury and death.
|
||
|
When I thought of my friends, of the mild voice of De Lacey,
|
||
|
the gentle eyes of Agatha, and the exquisite beauty of the Arabian,
|
||
|
these thoughts vanished and a gush of tears somewhat soothed me.
|
||
|
But again when I reflected that they had spurned and deserted me,
|
||
|
anger returned, a rage of anger, and unable to injure anything human,
|
||
|
I turned my fury towards inanimate objects. As night advanced
|
||
|
I placed a variety of combustibles around the cottage,
|
||
|
and after having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in the garden,
|
||
|
I waited with forced impatience until the moon had sunk
|
||
|
to commence my operations.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the woods
|
||
|
and quickly dispersed the clouds that had loitered in the heavens;
|
||
|
the blast tore along like a mighty avalanche and produced
|
||
|
a kind of insanity in my spirits that burst all bounds of reason
|
||
|
and reflection. I lighted the dry branch of a tree and danced
|
||
|
with fury around the devoted cottage, my eyes still fixed
|
||
|
on the western horizon, the edge of which the moon nearly touched.
|
||
|
A part of its orb was at length hid, and I waved my brand; it sank,
|
||
|
and with a loud scream I fired the straw, and heath, and bushes,
|
||
|
which I had collected. The wind fanned the fire, and the cottage
|
||
|
was quickly enveloped by the flames, which clung to it and licked it
|
||
|
with their forked and destroying tongues.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"As soon as I was convinced that no assistance could save any part
|
||
|
of the habitation, I quitted the scene and sought for refuge in the woods.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"And now, with the world before me, whither should I bend my steps?
|
||
|
I resolved to fly far from the scene of my misfortunes;
|
||
|
but to me, hated and despised, every country must be equally horrible.
|
||
|
At length the thought of you crossed my mind. I learned from your papers
|
||
|
that you were my father, my creator; and to whom could I apply
|
||
|
with more fitness than to him who had given me life?
|
||
|
Among the lessons that Felix had bestowed upon Safie,
|
||
|
geography had not been omitted; I had learned from these
|
||
|
the relative situations of the different countries of the earth.
|
||
|
You had mentioned Geneva as the name of your native town,
|
||
|
and towards this place I resolved to proceed.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"But how was I to direct myself? I knew that I must travel
|
||
|
in a southwesterly direction to reach my destination,
|
||
|
but the sun was my only guide. I did not know the names
|
||
|
of the towns that I was to pass through, nor could I ask information
|
||
|
from a single human being; but I did not despair. From you only
|
||
|
could I hope for succour, although towards you I felt no sentiment
|
||
|
but that of hatred. Unfeeling, heartless creator! You had endowed me
|
||
|
with perceptions and passions and then cast me abroad an object
|
||
|
for the scorn and horror of mankind. But on you only had I any claim
|
||
|
for pity and redress, and from you I determined to seek that justice
|
||
|
which I vainly attempted to gain from any other being
|
||
|
that wore the human form.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"My travels were long and the sufferings I endured intense.
|
||
|
It was late in autumn when I quitted the district where I had so long
|
||
|
resided. I travelled only at night, fearful of encountering
|
||
|
the visage of a human being. Nature decayed around me, and the sun
|
||
|
became heatless; rain and snow poured around me; mighty rivers were frozen;
|
||
|
the surface of the earth was hard and chill, and bare,
|
||
|
and I found no shelter. Oh, earth! How often did I imprecate curses
|
||
|
on the cause of my being! The mildness of my nature had fled,
|
||
|
and all within me was turned to gall and bitterness.
|
||
|
The nearer I approached to your habitation, the more deeply
|
||
|
did I feel the spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart.
|
||
|
Snow fell, and the waters were hardened, but I rested not.
|
||
|
A few incidents now and then directed me, and I possessed
|
||
|
a map of the country; but I often wandered wide from my path.
|
||
|
The agony of my feelings allowed me no respite; no incident occurred
|
||
|
from which my rage and misery could not extract its food;
|
||
|
but a circumstance that happened when I arrived on the confines
|
||
|
of Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth and the earth
|
||
|
again began to look green, confirmed in an especial manner
|
||
|
the bitterness and horror of my feelings.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I generally rested during the day and travelled only
|
||
|
when I was secured by night from the view of man. One morning,
|
||
|
however, finding that my path lay through a deep wood,
|
||
|
I ventured to continue my journey after the sun had risen;
|
||
|
the day, which was one of the first of spring, cheered even me
|
||
|
by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of the air.
|
||
|
I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead,
|
||
|
revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of these sensations,
|
||
|
I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and forgetting my solitude
|
||
|
and deformity, dared to be happy. Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks,
|
||
|
and I even raised my humid eyes with thankfulness towards the blessed sun,
|
||
|
which bestowed such joy upon me.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came
|
||
|
to its boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river,
|
||
|
into which many of the trees bent their branches, now budding
|
||
|
with the fresh spring. Here I paused, not exactly knowing
|
||
|
what path to pursue, when I heard the sound of voices,
|
||
|
that induced me to conceal myself under the shade of a cypress.
|
||
|
I was scarcely hid when a young girl came running towards the spot
|
||
|
where I was concealed, laughing, as if she ran from someone in sport.
|
||
|
She continued her course along the precipitous sides of the river,
|
||
|
when suddenly her foot slipped, and she fell into the rapid stream.
|
||
|
I rushed from my hiding-place and with extreme labour,
|
||
|
from the force of the current, saved her and dragged her to shore.
|
||
|
She was senseless, and I endeavoured by every means in my power
|
||
|
to restore animation, when I was suddenly interrupted by the approach
|
||
|
of a rustic, who was probably the person from whom she had playfully fled.
|
||
|
On seeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms,
|
||
|
hastened towards the deeper parts of the wood. I followed speedily,
|
||
|
I hardly knew why; but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun,
|
||
|
which he carried, at my body and fired. I sank to the ground,
|
||
|
and my injurer, with increased swiftness, escaped into the wood.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"This was then the reward of my benevolence! I had saved a human being
|
||
|
from destruction, and as a recompense I now writhed
|
||
|
under the miserable pain of a wound which shattered the flesh and bone.
|
||
|
The feelings of kindness and gentleness which I had entertained
|
||
|
but a few moments before gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth.
|
||
|
Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind.
|
||
|
But the agony of my wound overcame me; my pulses paused, and I fainted.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring
|
||
|
to cure the wound which I had received. The ball had entered my shoulder,
|
||
|
and I knew not whether it had remained there or passed through;
|
||
|
at any rate I had no means of extracting it. My sufferings
|
||
|
were augmented also by the oppressive sense of the injustice
|
||
|
and ingratitude of their infliction. My daily vows rose for revenge--
|
||
|
a deep and deadly revenge, such as would alone compensate
|
||
|
for the outrages and anguish I had endured.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey.
|
||
|
The labours I endured were no longer to be alleviated by the bright sun
|
||
|
or gentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a mockery
|
||
|
which insulted my desolate state and made me feel more painfully
|
||
|
that I was not made for the enjoyment of pleasure.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"But my toils now drew near a close, and in two months from this time
|
||
|
I reached the environs of Geneva.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place
|
||
|
among the fields that surround it to meditate in what manner
|
||
|
I should apply to you. I was oppressed by fatigue and hunger
|
||
|
and far too unhappy to enjoy the gentle breezes of evening
|
||
|
or the prospect of the sun setting behind the stupendous mountains of Jura.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of reflection,
|
||
|
which was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful child,
|
||
|
who came running into the recess I had chosen,
|
||
|
with all the sportiveness of infancy. Suddenly, as I gazed on him,
|
||
|
an idea seized me that this little creature was unprejudiced
|
||
|
and had lived too short a time to have imbibed a horror of deformity.
|
||
|
If, therefore, I could seize him and educate him as my companion
|
||
|
and friend, I should not be so desolate in this peopled earth.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Urged by this impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed
|
||
|
and drew him towards me. As soon as he beheld my form,
|
||
|
he placed his hands before his eyes and uttered a shrill scream;
|
||
|
I drew his hand forcibly from his face and said, `Child,
|
||
|
what is the meaning of this? I do not intend to hurt you; listen to me.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"He struggled violently. `Let me go,' he cried; `monster!
|
||
|
Ugly wretch! You wish 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.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`Hideous monster! Let me go. My papa is a Syndic--
|
||
|
he is M. Frankenstein--he will punish you. You dare not keep me.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"`Frankenstein! you belong then to my enemy--to him towards whom
|
||
|
I have sworn eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The child still struggled and loaded me with epithets
|
||
|
which carried despair to my heart; I grasped his throat to silence him,
|
||
|
and in a moment he lay dead at my feet.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation
|
||
|
and hellish triumph; clapping my hands, I exclaimed, `I too can
|
||
|
create desolation; my enemy is not invulnerable; this death will
|
||
|
carry despair to him, and a thousand other miseries shall torment
|
||
|
and destroy him.'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering
|
||
|
on his breast. I took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely woman.
|
||
|
In spite of my malignity, it softened and attracted me.
|
||
|
For a few moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes,
|
||
|
fringed by deep lashes, and her lovely lips; but presently
|
||
|
my rage returned; I remembered that I was forever deprived
|
||
|
of the delights that such beautiful creatures could bestow
|
||
|
and that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, in regarding me,
|
||
|
have changed that air of divine benignity to one expressive of disgust
|
||
|
and affright.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with rage?
|
||
|
I only wonder that at that moment, instead of venting my sensations
|
||
|
in exclamations and agony, I did not rush among mankind and perish
|
||
|
in the attempt to destroy them.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"While l was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot
|
||
|
where I had committed the murder, and seeking a more secluded
|
||
|
hiding-place, I entered a barn which had appeared to me to be empty.
|
||
|
A woman was sleeping on some straw; she was young, not indeed
|
||
|
so beautiful as her whose portrait I held, but of an agreeable aspect
|
||
|
and blooming in the loveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought,
|
||
|
is one of those whose joy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but me.
|
||
|
And then I bent over her and whispered, 'Awake, fairest,
|
||
|
thy lover is near--he who would give his life but to obtain one look
|
||
|
of affection from thine eyes; my beloved, awake!'
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The sleeper stirred; a thrill of terror ran through me.
|
||
|
Should she indeed awake, and see me, and curse me, and denounce
|
||
|
the murderer? Thus would she assuredly act if her darkened eyes opened
|
||
|
and she beheld me. The thought was madness; it stirred
|
||
|
the fiend within me--not I, but she, shall suffer; the murder
|
||
|
I have committed because I am forever robbed of all that she could give me,
|
||
|
she shall atone. The crime had its source in her; be hers the punishment!
|
||
|
Thanks to the lessons of Felix and the sanguinary laws of man,
|
||
|
I had learned now to work mischief. I bent over her
|
||
|
and placed the portrait securely in one of the folds of her dress.
|
||
|
She moved again, and I fled.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place,
|
||
|
sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world
|
||
|
and its miseries forever. At length I wandered towards these mountains,
|
||
|
and have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed
|
||
|
by a burning passion which you alone can gratify. We may not part
|
||
|
until you have promised to comply with my requisition. I am alone
|
||
|
and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed
|
||
|
and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My companion
|
||
|
must be of the same species and have the same defects.
|
||
|
This being you must create."
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 17
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
The being finished speaking and fixed his looks upon me in the expectation
|
||
|
of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to arrange my ideas
|
||
|
sufficiently to understand the full extent of his proposition. He continued,
|
||
|
|
||
|
"You must create a female for me with whom I can live in the interchange
|
||
|
of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone can do,
|
||
|
and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse to concede."
|
||
|
|
||
|
The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger
|
||
|
that had died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers,
|
||
|
and as he said this I could no longer suppress the rage
|
||
|
that burned within me.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I do refuse it," I replied; "and no torture shall ever extort
|
||
|
a consent from me. You may render me the most miserable of men,
|
||
|
but you shall never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create
|
||
|
another like yourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate the world.
|
||
|
Begone! I have answered you; you may torture me, but I will never consent."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"You are in the wrong," replied the fiend; "and instead of threatening,
|
||
|
I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable.
|
||
|
Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator,
|
||
|
would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell me why
|
||
|
I should pity man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder
|
||
|
if you could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts and destroy my frame,
|
||
|
the work of your own hands. Shall I respect man when he condemns me?
|
||
|
Let him live with me in the interchange of kindness, and instead of injury
|
||
|
I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude
|
||
|
at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses
|
||
|
are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be
|
||
|
the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries;
|
||
|
if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you
|
||
|
my archenemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred.
|
||
|
Have a care; I will work at your destruction, nor finish
|
||
|
until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse the hour
|
||
|
of your birth."
|
||
|
|
||
|
A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled
|
||
|
into contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold;
|
||
|
but presently he calmed himself and proceeded-
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me,
|
||
|
for you do not reflect that you are the cause of its excess.
|
||
|
If any being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them
|
||
|
a hundred and a hundredfold; for that one creature's sake
|
||
|
I would make peace with the whole kind! But I now indulge
|
||
|
in dreams of bliss that cannot be realized. What I ask of you
|
||
|
is reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of another sex,
|
||
|
but as hideous as myself; the gratification is small,
|
||
|
but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me.
|
||
|
It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world;
|
||
|
but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.
|
||
|
Our lives will not be happy, but they will be harmless and free
|
||
|
from the misery I now feel. Oh! My creator, make me happy;
|
||
|
let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit! Let me see
|
||
|
that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing;
|
||
|
do not deny me my request!"
|
||
|
|
||
|
I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences
|
||
|
of my consent, but I felt that there was some justice in his argument.
|
||
|
His tale and the feelings he now expressed proved him to be a creature
|
||
|
of fine sensations, and did I not as his maker owe him all the portion
|
||
|
of happiness that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of feeling
|
||
|
and continued,
|
||
|
|
||
|
"If you consent, neither you nor any other human being
|
||
|
shall ever see us again; I will go to the vast wilds of South America.
|
||
|
My food is not that of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid
|
||
|
to glut my appetite; acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment.
|
||
|
My companion will be of the same nature as myself and will be content
|
||
|
with the same fare. We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun
|
||
|
will shine on us as on man and will ripen our food. The picture I present
|
||
|
to you is peaceful and human, and you must feel that you could deny it
|
||
|
only in the wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been
|
||
|
towards me, I now see compassion in your eyes; let me seize
|
||
|
the favourable moment and persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"You propose," replied I, "to fly from the habitations of man,
|
||
|
to dwell in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be
|
||
|
your only companions. How can you, who long for the love
|
||
|
and sympathy of man, persevere in this exile? You will return
|
||
|
and again seek their kindness, and you will meet with their detestation;
|
||
|
your evil passions will be renewed, and you will then have a companion
|
||
|
to aid you in the task of destruction. This may not be;
|
||
|
cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"How inconstant are your feelings! But a moment ago you were moved
|
||
|
by my representations, and why do you again harden yourself
|
||
|
to my complaints? I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit,
|
||
|
and by you that made me, that with the companion you bestow
|
||
|
I will quit the neighbourhood of man and dwell, as it may chance,
|
||
|
in the most savage of places. My evil passions will have fled,
|
||
|
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 upon me. I compassionated him
|
||
|
and sometimes felt a wish to console him, but when I looked upon him,
|
||
|
when I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened
|
||
|
and my feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred.
|
||
|
I tried to stifle these sensations; I thought that as I could not sympathize
|
||
|
with him, I had no right to withhold from him the small portion
|
||
|
of happiness which was yet in my power to bestow.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"You swear," I said, "to be harmless; but have you not already shown
|
||
|
a degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust you?
|
||
|
May not even this be a feint that will increase your triumph
|
||
|
by affording a wider scope for your revenge?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"How is this? I must not be trifled with, and I demand an answer.
|
||
|
If I have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion;
|
||
|
the love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes,
|
||
|
and I shall become a thing of whose existence everyone will be ignorant.
|
||
|
My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor,
|
||
|
and my virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion
|
||
|
with an equal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive being
|
||
|
and became linked to the chain of existence and events
|
||
|
from which I am now excluded."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I paused some time to reflect on all he had related
|
||
|
and the various arguments which he had employed. I thought
|
||
|
of the promise of virtues which he had displayed on the opening
|
||
|
of his existence and the subsequent blight of all kindly feeling
|
||
|
by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had manifested towards him.
|
||
|
His power and threats were not omitted in my calculations; a creature
|
||
|
who could exist in the ice caves of the glaciers and hide himself
|
||
|
from pursuit among the ridges of inaccessible precipices was a being
|
||
|
possessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a long pause
|
||
|
of reflection I concluded that the justice due both to him
|
||
|
and my fellow creatures demanded of me that I should comply
|
||
|
with his request. Turning to him, therefore, I said,
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe forever,
|
||
|
and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon
|
||
|
as I shall deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you
|
||
|
in your exile."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I swear," he cried, "by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven,
|
||
|
and by the fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my prayer,
|
||
|
while they exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your home
|
||
|
and commence your labours; I shall watch their progress
|
||
|
with unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready
|
||
|
I shall appear."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change
|
||
|
in my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed
|
||
|
than the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost among the undulations
|
||
|
of the sea of ice.
|
||
|
|
||
|
His tale had occupied the whole day, and the sun was upon the verge
|
||
|
of the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten
|
||
|
my descent towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed
|
||
|
in darkness; but my heart was heavy, and my steps slow.
|
||
|
The labour of winding among the little paths of the mountain
|
||
|
and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced perplexed me, occupied as I was
|
||
|
by the emotions which the occurrences of the day had produced.
|
||
|
Night was far advanced when I came to the halfway resting-place
|
||
|
and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at intervals
|
||
|
as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines rose before me,
|
||
|
and every here and there a broken tree lay on the ground; it was a scene
|
||
|
of wonderful solemnity and stirred strange thoughts within me.
|
||
|
I wept bitterly, and clasping my hands in agony, I exclaimed,
|
||
|
"Oh! Stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock me;
|
||
|
if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as nought;
|
||
|
but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness."
|
||
|
|
||
|
These were wild and miserable thoughts, but I cannot describe to you
|
||
|
how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me and how I listened
|
||
|
to every blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly siroc
|
||
|
on its way to consume me.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix;
|
||
|
I took no rest, but returned immediately to Geneva. Even in my own heart
|
||
|
I could give no expression to my sensations--they weighed on me
|
||
|
with a mountain's weight and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them.
|
||
|
Thus I returned home, and entering the house, presented myself to the family.
|
||
|
My haggard and wild appearance awoke intense alarm, but I answered
|
||
|
no question, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were placed
|
||
|
under a ban--as if I had no right to claim their sympathies--
|
||
|
as if never more might I enjoy companionship with them. Yet even thus
|
||
|
I loved them to adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate myself
|
||
|
to my most abhorred task. The prospect of such an occupation
|
||
|
made every other circumstance of existence pass before me like a dream,
|
||
|
and that thought only had to me the reality of life.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 18
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva;
|
||
|
and I could not collect the courage to recommence my work.
|
||
|
I feared the vengeance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable
|
||
|
to overcome my repugnance to the task which was enjoined me.
|
||
|
I found that I could not compose a female without again devoting
|
||
|
several months to profound study and laborious disquisition.
|
||
|
I had heard of some discoveries having been made by an English philosopher,
|
||
|
the knowledge of which was material to my success, and I sometimes thought
|
||
|
of obtaining my father's consent to visit England for this purpose;
|
||
|
but I clung to every pretence of delay and shrank from taking
|
||
|
the first step in an undertaking whose immediate necessity
|
||
|
began to appear less absolute to me. A change indeed
|
||
|
had taken place in me; my health, which had hitherto declined,
|
||
|
was now much restored; and my spirits, when unchecked
|
||
|
by the memory of my unhappy promise, rose proportionably.
|
||
|
My father saw this change with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts
|
||
|
towards the best method of eradicating the remains of my melancholy,
|
||
|
which every now and then would return by fits, and with
|
||
|
a devouring blackness overcast the approaching sunshine.
|
||
|
At these moments I took refuge in the most perfect solitude.
|
||
|
I passed whole days on the lake alone in a little boat,
|
||
|
watching the clouds and listening to the rippling of the waves,
|
||
|
silent and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun seldom failed
|
||
|
to restore me to some degree of composure, and on my return
|
||
|
I met the salutations of my friends with a readier smile
|
||
|
and a more cheerful heart.
|
||
|
|
||
|
It was after my return from one of these rambles that my father,
|
||
|
calling me aside, thus addressed me,
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have resumed
|
||
|
your former pleasures and seem to be returning to yourself.
|
||
|
And yet you are still unhappy and still avoid our society.
|
||
|
For some time I was lost in conjecture as to the cause of this,
|
||
|
but yesterday an idea struck me, and if it is well founded,
|
||
|
I conjure you to avow it. Reserve on such a point would be
|
||
|
not only useless, but draw down treble misery on us all."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I trembled violently at his exordium, and my father continued--
|
||
|
"I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your marriage
|
||
|
with our dear Elizabeth as the tie of our domestic comfort
|
||
|
and the stay of my declining years. You were attached to each other
|
||
|
from your earliest infancy; you studied together, and appeared,
|
||
|
in dispositions and tastes, entirely suited to one another.
|
||
|
But so blind is the experience of man that what I conceived
|
||
|
to be the best assistants to my plan may have entirely destroyed it.
|
||
|
You, perhaps, regard her as your sister, without any wish
|
||
|
that she might become your wife. Nay, you may have met with another
|
||
|
whom you may love; and considering yourself as bound in honour to Elizabeth,
|
||
|
this struggle may occasion the poignant misery which you appear to feel."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"My dear father, reassure yourself. I love my cousin tenderly
|
||
|
and sincerely. I never saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth does,
|
||
|
my warmest admiration and affection. My future hopes and prospects
|
||
|
are entirely bound up in the expectation of our union."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"The expression of your sentiments of this subject, my dear Victor,
|
||
|
gives me more pleasure than I have for some time experienced.
|
||
|
If you feel thus, we shall assuredly be happy, however present events
|
||
|
may cast a gloom over us. But it is this gloom which appears
|
||
|
to have taken so strong a hold of your mind that I wish to dissipate.
|
||
|
Tell me, therefore, whether you object to an immediate solemnization
|
||
|
of the marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events
|
||
|
have drawn us from that everyday tranquillity refitting my years
|
||
|
and infirmities. You are younger; yet l do not suppose,
|
||
|
possessed as you are of a competent fortune, that an early marriage
|
||
|
would at all interfere with any future plans of honour and utility
|
||
|
that you may have formed. Do not suppose, however, that I wish
|
||
|
to dictate happiness to you or that a delay on your part would cause me
|
||
|
any serious uneasiness. Interpret my words with candour and answer me,
|
||
|
I conjure you, with confidence and sincerity."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I listened to my father in silence and remained for some time
|
||
|
incapable of offering any reply. I revolved rapidly in my mind
|
||
|
a multitude of thoughts and endeavoured to arrive at 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
|
||
|
which I had not yet fulfilled and dared not break, or if I did,
|
||
|
what manifold miseries might not impend over me and my devoted family!
|
||
|
Could I enter into a festival with this deadly weight yet hanging
|
||
|
round my neck and bowing me to the ground? I must perform my engagement
|
||
|
and let the monster depart with his mate before I allowed myself
|
||
|
to enjoy the delight of a union from which I expected peace.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of either
|
||
|
journeying to England or entering into a long correspondence
|
||
|
with those philosophers of that country whose knowledge
|
||
|
and discoveries were of indispensable use to me in my present undertaking.
|
||
|
The latter method of obtaining the desired intelligence was dilatory
|
||
|
and unsatisfactory; besides, I had an insurmountable aversion
|
||
|
to the idea of engaging myself in my loathsome task in my father's house
|
||
|
while in habits of familiar intercourse with those I loved.
|
||
|
I knew that a thousand fearful accidents might occur, the slightest
|
||
|
of which would disclose a tale to thrill all connected with me with horror.
|
||
|
I was aware also that I should often lose all self-command,
|
||
|
all capacity of hiding the harrowing sensations that would possess me
|
||
|
during the progress of my unearthly occupation. I must absent myself
|
||
|
from all I loved while thus employed. Once commenced,
|
||
|
it would quickly be achieved, and I might be restored to my family
|
||
|
in peace and happiness. My promise fulfilled, the monster
|
||
|
would depart forever. Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some accident
|
||
|
might meanwhile occur to destroy him and put an end to my slavery forever.
|
||
|
|
||
|
These feelings dictated my answer to my father. I expressed a wish
|
||
|
to visit England, but concealing the true reasons of this request,
|
||
|
I clothed my desires under a guise which excited no suspicion,
|
||
|
while I urged my desire with an earnestness that easily induced
|
||
|
my father to comply. After so long a period of an absorbing melancholy
|
||
|
that resembled madness in its intensity and effects, he was glad to find
|
||
|
that I was capable of taking pleasure in the idea of such a journey,
|
||
|
and he hoped that change of scene and varied amusement would,
|
||
|
before my return, have restored me entirely to myself.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The duration of my absence was left to my own choice; a few months,
|
||
|
or at most a year, was the period contemplated. One paternal
|
||
|
kind precaution he had taken to ensure my having a companion.
|
||
|
Without previously communicating with me, he had, in concert
|
||
|
with Elizabeth, arranged that Clerval should join me at Strasbourg.
|
||
|
This interfered with the solitude I coveted for the prosecution
|
||
|
of my task; yet at the commencement of my journey the presence of my friend
|
||
|
could in no way be an impediment, and truly I rejoiced that thus
|
||
|
I should be saved many hours of lonely, maddening reflection.
|
||
|
Nay, Henry might stand between me and the intrusion of my foe.
|
||
|
If I were alone, would he not at times force his abhorred presence
|
||
|
on me to remind me of my task or to contemplate its progress?
|
||
|
|
||
|
To England, therefore, I was bound, and it was understood that my union
|
||
|
with Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return.
|
||
|
My father's age rendered him extremely averse to delay. For myself,
|
||
|
there was one reward I promised myself from my detested toils--
|
||
|
one consolation for my unparalleled sufferings; it was the prospect
|
||
|
of that day when, enfranchised from my miserable slavery,
|
||
|
I might claim Elizabeth and forget the past in my union with her.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I now made arrangements for my journey, but one feeling haunted me
|
||
|
which filled me with fear and agitation. During my absence I should leave
|
||
|
my friends unconscious of the existence of their enemy and unprotected
|
||
|
from his attacks, exasperated as he might be by my departure.
|
||
|
But he had promised to follow me wherever I might go, and would he not
|
||
|
accompany me to England? This imagination was dreadful in itself,
|
||
|
but soothing inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my friends.
|
||
|
I was agonized with the idea of the possibility that the reverse
|
||
|
of this might happen. But through the whole period
|
||
|
during which I was the slave of my creature I allowed myself
|
||
|
to be governed by the impulses of the moment; and my present sensations
|
||
|
strongly intimated that the fiend would follow me and exempt my family
|
||
|
from the danger of his machinations.
|
||
|
|
||
|
It was in the latter end of September that I again quitted
|
||
|
my native country. My journey had been my own suggestion,
|
||
|
and Elizabeth therefore acquiesced, but she was filled with disquiet
|
||
|
at the idea of my suffering, away from her, the inroads of misery
|
||
|
and grief. It had been her care which provided me a companion in
|
||
|
Clerval--and yet a man is blind to a thousand minute circumstances
|
||
|
which call forth a woman's sedulous attention. She longed
|
||
|
to bid me hasten my return; a thousand conflicting emotions
|
||
|
rendered her mute as she bade me a tearful, silent farewell.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me away, hardly knowing
|
||
|
whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around.
|
||
|
I remembered only, and it was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on it,
|
||
|
to order that my chemical instruments should be packed to go with me.
|
||
|
Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through many beautiful
|
||
|
and majestic scenes, but my eyes were fixed and unobserving.
|
||
|
I could only think of the bourne of my travels and the work
|
||
|
which was to occupy me whilst they endured.
|
||
|
|
||
|
After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I traversed
|
||
|
many leagues, I arrived at Strasbourg, where I waited two days for Clerval.
|
||
|
He came. Alas, how great was the contrast between us! He was alive
|
||
|
to every new scene, joyful when he saw the beauties of the setting sun,
|
||
|
and more happy when he beheld it rise and recommence a new day.
|
||
|
He pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape
|
||
|
and the appearances of the sky. "This is what it is to live,"
|
||
|
he cried; "how I enjoy existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein,
|
||
|
wherefore are you desponding and sorrowful!" In truth,
|
||
|
I was occupied by gloomy thoughts and neither saw the descent
|
||
|
of the evening star nor the golden sunrise reflected in the Rhine.
|
||
|
And you, my friend, would be far more amused with the journal of Clerval,
|
||
|
who observed the scenery with an eye of feeling and delight,
|
||
|
than in listening to my reflections. I, a miserable wretch,
|
||
|
haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to enjoyment.
|
||
|
|
||
|
We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Strasbourg to Rotterdam,
|
||
|
whence we might take shipping for London. During this voyage
|
||
|
we passed many willowy islands and saw several beautiful towns.
|
||
|
We stayed a day at Mannheim, and on the fifth from our departure
|
||
|
from Strasbourg, arrived at Mainz. The course of the Rhine below Mainz
|
||
|
becomes much more picturesque. The river descends rapidly
|
||
|
and winds between hills, not high, but steep, and of beautiful forms.
|
||
|
We saw many ruined castles standing on the edges of precipices,
|
||
|
surrounded by black woods, high and inaccessible. This part of the Rhine,
|
||
|
indeed, presents a singularly variegated landscape. In one spot
|
||
|
you view rugged hills, ruined castles overlooking tremendous precipices,
|
||
|
with the dark Rhine rushing beneath; and on the sudden turn of a promontory,
|
||
|
flourishing vineyards with green sloping banks and a meandering river
|
||
|
and populous towns occupy the scene.
|
||
|
|
||
|
We travelled at the time of the vintage and heard the song
|
||
|
of the labourers as we glided down the stream. Even I,
|
||
|
depressed in mind, and my spirits continually agitated by gloomy feelings,
|
||
|
even I was pleased. I lay at the bottom of the boat, and as I gazed
|
||
|
on the cloudless blue sky, I seemed to drink in a tranquillity
|
||
|
to which I had long been a stranger. And if these were my sensations,
|
||
|
who can describe those of Henry? He felt as if he had been transported
|
||
|
to fairy-land and enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by man.
|
||
|
"I have seen," he said, "the most beautiful scenes of my own country;
|
||
|
I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the snowy mountains
|
||
|
descend almost perpendicularly to the water, casting black
|
||
|
and impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy and mournful appearance
|
||
|
were it not for the most verdant islands that believe the eye
|
||
|
by their gay appearance; I have seen this lake agitated by a tempest,
|
||
|
when the wind tore up whirlwinds of water and gave you an idea
|
||
|
of what the water-spout must be on the great ocean; and the waves dash
|
||
|
with fury the base of the mountain, where the priest and his mistress
|
||
|
were overwhelmed by an avalanche and where their dying voices
|
||
|
are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the nightly 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 before saw equalled. Look at that castle which overhangs
|
||
|
yon precipice; and that also on the island, almost concealed
|
||
|
amongst the foliage of those lovely trees; and now that group of labourers
|
||
|
coming from among their vines; and that village half hid in the recess
|
||
|
of the mountain. Oh, surely the spirit that inhabits and guards
|
||
|
this place has a soul more in harmony with man than those
|
||
|
who pile the glacier or retire to the inaccessible peaks
|
||
|
of the mountains of our own country." Clerval! Beloved friend!
|
||
|
Even now it delights me to record your words and to dwell on the praise
|
||
|
of which you are so eminently deserving. He was a being formed
|
||
|
in the "very poetry of nature." His wild and enthusiastic imagination
|
||
|
was chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed
|
||
|
with ardent affections, and his friendship was of that devoted
|
||
|
and wondrous nature that the world-minded teach us to look for only
|
||
|
in the imagination. But even human sympathies were not sufficient
|
||
|
to satisfy his eager mind. The scenery of external nature,
|
||
|
which others regard only with admiration, he loved with ardour:--
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
-----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 forever?
|
||
|
Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and magnificent,
|
||
|
which formed 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 thus; your form so divinely wrought, and beaming with beauty,
|
||
|
has decayed, but your spirit still visits and consoles your unhappy friend.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are
|
||
|
but a slight tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe
|
||
|
my heart, overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates.
|
||
|
I will proceed with my tale.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we resolved
|
||
|
to post the remainder of our way, for the wind was contrary
|
||
|
and the stream of the river was too gentle to aid us. Our journey here
|
||
|
lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery, but we arrived
|
||
|
in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England.
|
||
|
It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December,
|
||
|
that I first saw the white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames
|
||
|
presented a new scene; they were flat but fertile, and almost every town
|
||
|
was marked by the remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort
|
||
|
and remembered the Spanish Armada, Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich--
|
||
|
places which I had heard of even in my country.
|
||
|
|
||
|
At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul's
|
||
|
towering above all, and the Tower famed in English history.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 19
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
London was our present point of rest; we determined to remain
|
||
|
several months in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired
|
||
|
the intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this time,
|
||
|
but this was with me a secondary object; I was principally occupied
|
||
|
with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the completion
|
||
|
of my promise and quickly availed myself of the letters of introduction
|
||
|
that I had brought with me, addressed to the most distinguished
|
||
|
natural philosophers.
|
||
|
|
||
|
If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness,
|
||
|
it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a blight
|
||
|
had come over my existence, and I only visited these people
|
||
|
for the sake of the information they might give me on the subject
|
||
|
in which my interest was so terribly profound. Company was irksome to me;
|
||
|
when alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth;
|
||
|
the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself
|
||
|
into a transitory peace. But busy, uninteresting, joyous faces
|
||
|
brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier
|
||
|
placed between me and my fellow men; this barrier was sealed
|
||
|
with the blood of William and Justine, and to reflect on the events
|
||
|
connected with those names filled my soul with anguish.
|
||
|
|
||
|
But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive
|
||
|
and anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of manners
|
||
|
which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of instruction
|
||
|
and amusement. He was also pursuing an object he had long had in view.
|
||
|
His design was to visit India, in the belief that he had in his knowledge
|
||
|
of its various languages, and in the views he had taken of its society,
|
||
|
the means of materially assisting the progress of European colonization
|
||
|
and trade. In Britain only could he further the execution of his plan.
|
||
|
He was forever busy, and the only check to his enjoyments was my sorrowful
|
||
|
and dejected mind. I tried to conceal this as much as possible,
|
||
|
that I might not debar him from the pleasures natural to one
|
||
|
who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by any care
|
||
|
or bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany him,
|
||
|
alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also began
|
||
|
to collect the materials necessary for my new creation,
|
||
|
and this was to me like the torture of single drops of water
|
||
|
continually falling on the head. Every thought that was devoted to it
|
||
|
was an extreme anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it
|
||
|
caused my lips to quiver, and my heart to palpitate.
|
||
|
|
||
|
After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person
|
||
|
in Scotland who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned
|
||
|
the beauties of his native country and asked us if those were not sufficient
|
||
|
allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perth,
|
||
|
where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invitation,
|
||
|
and I, although I abhorred society, wished to view again mountains
|
||
|
and streams and all the wondrous works with which Nature adorns
|
||
|
her chosen dwelling-places. We had arrived in England at the beginning
|
||
|
of October, and it was now February. We accordingly determined
|
||
|
to commence our journey towards the north at the expiration
|
||
|
of another month. In this expedition we did not intend to follow
|
||
|
the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock,
|
||
|
and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion
|
||
|
of this tour about the end of July. I packed up my chemical instruments
|
||
|
and the materials I had collected, resolving to finish my labours
|
||
|
in some obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland.
|
||
|
|
||
|
We quitted London on the 27th of March and remained a few days at Windsor,
|
||
|
rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene to us mountaineers;
|
||
|
the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of stately deer
|
||
|
were all novelties to us.
|
||
|
|
||
|
From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this city
|
||
|
our minds were filled with the remembrance of the events
|
||
|
that had been transacted there more than a century and a half before.
|
||
|
It was here that Charles I had collected his forces. This city
|
||
|
had remained faithful to him, after the whole nation had forsaken his cause
|
||
|
to join the standard of Parliament and liberty. The memory
|
||
|
of that unfortunate king and his companions, the amiable Falkland,
|
||
|
the insolent Goring, his queen, and son, gave a peculiar interest
|
||
|
to every part of the city which they might be supposed to have inhabited.
|
||
|
The spirit of elder days found a dwelling here, and we delighted
|
||
|
to trace its footsteps. If these feelings had not found
|
||
|
an imaginary gratification, the appearance of the city had yet in itself
|
||
|
sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The colleges are ancient
|
||
|
and picturesque; the streets are almost magnificent; and the lovely Isis,
|
||
|
which flows beside it through meadows of exquisite verdure,
|
||
|
is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters, which reflects
|
||
|
its majestic assemblage of towers, and spires, and domes,
|
||
|
embosomed among aged trees.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I enjoyed this scene, and yet my enjoyment was embittered
|
||
|
both by the memory of the past and the anticipation of the future.
|
||
|
I was formed for peaceful happiness. During my youthful days
|
||
|
discontent never visited my mind, and if I was ever overcome by ennui,
|
||
|
the sight of what is beautiful in nature or the study of what is excellent
|
||
|
and sublime in the productions of man could always interest my heart
|
||
|
and communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree;
|
||
|
the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive
|
||
|
to exhibit what I shall soon cease to be--a miserable spectacle
|
||
|
of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others and intolerable to myself.
|
||
|
|
||
|
We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs
|
||
|
and endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate
|
||
|
to the most animating epoch of English history. Our little voyages
|
||
|
of discovery were often prolonged by the successive objects
|
||
|
that presented themselves. We visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden
|
||
|
and the field on which that patriot fell. For a moment my soul was elevated
|
||
|
from its debasing and miserable fears to contemplate the divine ideas
|
||
|
of liberty and self sacrifice of which these sights were the monuments
|
||
|
and the remembrancers. For an instant I dared to shake off my chains
|
||
|
and look around me with a free and lofty 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 proceeded to Matlock, which was
|
||
|
our next place of rest. The country in the neighbourhood
|
||
|
of this village resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland;
|
||
|
but everything is on a lower scale, and the green hills
|
||
|
want the crown of distant white Alps which always attend
|
||
|
on the piny mountains of my native country. We visited the wondrous cave
|
||
|
and the little cabinets of natural history, where the curiosities
|
||
|
are disposed in the same manner as in the collections
|
||
|
at Servox and Chamounix. The latter name made me tremble
|
||
|
when pronounced by Henry, and I hastened to quit Matlock,
|
||
|
with which that terrible scene was thus associated.
|
||
|
|
||
|
From Derby, still journeying northwards, we passed two months
|
||
|
in Cumberland and Westmorland. I could now almost fancy myself
|
||
|
among the Swiss mountains. The little patches of snow
|
||
|
which yet lingered on the northern sides of the mountains, the lakes,
|
||
|
and the dashing of the rocky streams were all familiar
|
||
|
and dear sights to me. Here also we made some acquaintances,
|
||
|
who almost contrived to cheat me into happiness. The delight of Clerval
|
||
|
was proportionably greater than mine; his mind expanded
|
||
|
in the company of men of talent, and he found in his own nature
|
||
|
greater capacities and resources than he could have imagined himself
|
||
|
to have possessed while he associated with his inferiors.
|
||
|
"I could pass my life here," said he to me; "and among these mountains
|
||
|
I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine."
|
||
|
|
||
|
But he found that a traveller's life is one that includes much pain
|
||
|
amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are forever on the stretch;
|
||
|
and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged
|
||
|
to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something new,
|
||
|
which again engages his attention, and which also he forsakes
|
||
|
for other novelties.
|
||
|
|
||
|
We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland
|
||
|
and Westmorland and conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants
|
||
|
when the period of our appointment with our Scotch friend approached,
|
||
|
and we left them to travel on. For my own part I was not sorry.
|
||
|
I had now neglected my promise for some time, and I feared the effects
|
||
|
of the daemon's disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland
|
||
|
and wreak his vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued me
|
||
|
and tormented me at every moment from which I might otherwise
|
||
|
have snatched repose and peace. I waited for my letters
|
||
|
with feverish impatience; if they were delayed I was miserable
|
||
|
and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they arrived
|
||
|
and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared
|
||
|
to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the fiend
|
||
|
followed me and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion.
|
||
|
When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment,
|
||
|
but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage
|
||
|
of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great crime,
|
||
|
the consciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed
|
||
|
drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet that city
|
||
|
might have interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it
|
||
|
so well as Oxford, for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing
|
||
|
to him. But the beauty and regularity of the new town of Edinburgh,
|
||
|
its romantic castle and its environs, the most delightful in the world,
|
||
|
Arthur's Seat, St. Bernard's Well, and the Pentland Hills compensated him
|
||
|
for the change and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration.
|
||
|
But I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey.
|
||
|
|
||
|
We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, 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 or enter
|
||
|
into their feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest;
|
||
|
and accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland
|
||
|
alone. "Do you," said I, "enjoy yourself, and let this be our rendezvous.
|
||
|
I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with my motions,
|
||
|
I entreat you; leave me to peace and solitude for a short time;
|
||
|
and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart,
|
||
|
more congenial to your own temper.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Henry wished to dissuade me, but seeing me bent on this plan,
|
||
|
ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to write often.
|
||
|
"I had rather be with you," he said, "in your solitary rambles,
|
||
|
than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know; hasten, then,
|
||
|
my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself somewhat at home,
|
||
|
which I cannot do in your absence."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot
|
||
|
of Scotland and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt
|
||
|
but that the monster followed me and would discover himself to me
|
||
|
when I should have finished, that he might receive his companion.
|
||
|
With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands
|
||
|
and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours.
|
||
|
It was a place fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock
|
||
|
whose high sides were continually beaten upon by the waves.
|
||
|
The soil was barren, scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable cows,
|
||
|
and oatmeal for its inhabitants, which consisted of five persons,
|
||
|
whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare.
|
||
|
Vegetables and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries,
|
||
|
and even fresh water, was to be procured from the mainland,
|
||
|
which was about five miles distant.
|
||
|
|
||
|
On the whole island there were but three miserable huts,
|
||
|
and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired.
|
||
|
It contained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness
|
||
|
of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in,
|
||
|
the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges.
|
||
|
I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took possession,
|
||
|
an incident which would doubtless have occasioned some surprise
|
||
|
had not all the senses of the cottagers been benumbed by want
|
||
|
and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested,
|
||
|
hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which I gave,
|
||
|
so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men.
|
||
|
|
||
|
In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening,
|
||
|
when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea
|
||
|
to listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet.
|
||
|
It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland;
|
||
|
it was far different from this desolate and appalling landscape.
|
||
|
Its hills are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly
|
||
|
in the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky,
|
||
|
and when troubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play
|
||
|
of a lively infant when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.
|
||
|
|
||
|
In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived,
|
||
|
but as I proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible
|
||
|
and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself
|
||
|
to enter my laboratory for several days, and at other times
|
||
|
I toiled day and night in order to complete my work. It was, indeed,
|
||
|
a filthy process in which I was engaged. During my first experiment,
|
||
|
a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment;
|
||
|
my mind was intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes
|
||
|
were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it
|
||
|
in cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation,
|
||
|
immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an instant call
|
||
|
my attention from the actual scene in which I was engaged,
|
||
|
my spirits became unequal; I grew restless and nervous. Every moment
|
||
|
I feared to meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes
|
||
|
fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them lest they should encounter
|
||
|
the object which I so much dreaded to behold. I feared to wander
|
||
|
from the sight of my fellow creatures lest when alone
|
||
|
he should come to claim his companion.
|
||
|
|
||
|
In the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already
|
||
|
considerably advanced. I looked towards its completion with a tremulous
|
||
|
and eager hope, which I dared not trust myself to question but which
|
||
|
was intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil that made my heart sicken
|
||
|
in my bosom.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 20
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
I sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the moon
|
||
|
was just rising from the sea; I had not sufficient light
|
||
|
for my employment, and I remained idle, in a pause of consideration
|
||
|
of whether I should leave my labour for the night or hasten its conclusion
|
||
|
by an unremitting attention to it. As I sat, a train of reflection
|
||
|
occurred to me which led me to consider the effects of what I was now doing.
|
||
|
Three years before, I was engaged in the same manner and had created
|
||
|
a fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart
|
||
|
and filled it forever with the bitterest remorse. I was now
|
||
|
about to form another being of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant;
|
||
|
she might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate and delight,
|
||
|
for its own sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn
|
||
|
to quit the neighbourhood of man and hide himself in deserts,
|
||
|
but she had not; and she, who in all probability was to become
|
||
|
a thinking and reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a compact
|
||
|
made before her creation. They might even hate each other; the creature
|
||
|
who already lived loathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive
|
||
|
a greater abhorrence for it when it came before his eyes in the female form?
|
||
|
She also might turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man;
|
||
|
she might quit him, and he be again alone, exasperated
|
||
|
by the fresh provocation of being deserted by one of his own species.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Even if they were to leave Europe and inhabit the deserts
|
||
|
of the new world, yet one of the first results of those sympathies
|
||
|
for which the daemon thirsted would be children, and a race of devils
|
||
|
would be propagated upon the earth who might make the very existence
|
||
|
of the species of man a condition precarious and full of terror.
|
||
|
Had I right, for my own benefit, to inflict this curse
|
||
|
upon everlasting generations? I had before been moved by the sophisms
|
||
|
of the being I had created; I had been struck senseless
|
||
|
by his fiendish threats; but now, for the first time,
|
||
|
the wickedness of my promise burst upon me; I shuddered to think
|
||
|
that future ages might curse me as their pest, whose selfishness
|
||
|
had not hesitated to buy its own peace at the price, perhaps,
|
||
|
of the existence of the whole human race.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I trembled and my heart failed within me, when, on looking up,
|
||
|
I saw by the light of the moon the daemon at the casement.
|
||
|
A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat
|
||
|
fulfilling the task which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me
|
||
|
in my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves,
|
||
|
or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths; and he now came
|
||
|
to mark my progress and claim the fulfillment of my promise.
|
||
|
|
||
|
As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent
|
||
|
of malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness
|
||
|
on my promise of creating another like to him, and trembling
|
||
|
with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged.
|
||
|
The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future existence
|
||
|
he depended for happiness, and with a howl of devilish despair
|
||
|
and revenge, withdrew.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I left the room, and locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own heart
|
||
|
never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling steps,
|
||
|
I sought my own apartment. I was alone; none were near me
|
||
|
to dissipate the gloom and relieve me from the sickening oppression
|
||
|
of the most terrible reveries.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Several hours passed, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea;
|
||
|
it was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature
|
||
|
reposed under the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone
|
||
|
specked the water, and now and then the gentle breeze wafted
|
||
|
the sound of voices as the fishermen called to one another.
|
||
|
I felt the silence, although I was hardly conscious
|
||
|
of its extreme profundity, until my ear was suddenly arrested
|
||
|
by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a person landed
|
||
|
close to my house.
|
||
|
|
||
|
In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one
|
||
|
endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot;
|
||
|
I felt a presentiment of who it was and wished to rouse
|
||
|
one of the peasants who dwelt in a cottage not far from mine;
|
||
|
but I was overcome by the sensation of helplessness, so often felt
|
||
|
in frightful dreams, when you in vain endeavour to fly
|
||
|
from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage;
|
||
|
the door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared.
|
||
|
Shutting the door, he approached me and said in a smothered voice,
|
||
|
"You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you intend?
|
||
|
Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and misery;
|
||
|
I left Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the Rhine,
|
||
|
among its willow islands and over the summits of its hills.
|
||
|
I have dwelt many months in the heaths of England and among
|
||
|
the deserts of Scotland. I have endured incalculable fatigue,
|
||
|
and cold, and hunger; do you dare destroy my hopes?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another like yourself,
|
||
|
equal in deformity and wickedness."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself
|
||
|
unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power;
|
||
|
you believe yourself 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 irresolution is past, and the period of your power
|
||
|
is arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness;
|
||
|
but they confirm me in a determination of not creating you
|
||
|
a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth
|
||
|
a daemon whose delight is in death and wretchedness? Begone!
|
||
|
I am firm, and your words will only exasperate my rage."
|
||
|
|
||
|
The monster saw my determination in my face and gnashed his teeth
|
||
|
in the impotence of anger. "Shall each man," cried he, "find a wife
|
||
|
for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone?
|
||
|
I had feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation
|
||
|
and scorn. Man! You may hate, but beware! Your hours will pass in dread
|
||
|
and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you
|
||
|
your happiness forever. Are you to be happy while I grovel
|
||
|
in the intensity of my wretchedness? You can blast my other passions,
|
||
|
but revenge remains--revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food!
|
||
|
I may die, but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun
|
||
|
that gazes on your misery. Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful.
|
||
|
I will watch with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom.
|
||
|
Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice.
|
||
|
I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward
|
||
|
to bend beneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your wedding-night."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I started forward and exclaimed, "Villain! Before you sign my death-warrant,
|
||
|
be sure that you are yourself safe."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I would have seized him, but he eluded me and quitted the house
|
||
|
with precipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his boat,
|
||
|
which shot across the waters with an arrowy swiftness
|
||
|
and was soon lost amidst the waves.
|
||
|
|
||
|
All was again silent, but his words rang in my ears. I burned with rage
|
||
|
to pursue the murderer of my peace and precipitate him into the ocean.
|
||
|
I walked up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination
|
||
|
conjured up a thousand images to torment and sting me.
|
||
|
Why had I not followed him and closed with him in mortal strife?
|
||
|
But I had suffered him to depart, and he had directed his course
|
||
|
towards the mainland. I shuddered to think who might be the next victim
|
||
|
sacrificed to his insatiate revenge. And then I thought again
|
||
|
of his words--"*I will be with you on your wedding-night*."
|
||
|
That, then, was the period fixed for the fulfillment of my destiny.
|
||
|
In that hour I should die and at once satisfy and extinguish his malice.
|
||
|
The prospect did not move me to fear; yet when I thought
|
||
|
of my beloved Elizabeth, of her tears and endless sorrow,
|
||
|
when she should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her,
|
||
|
tears, the first I had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes,
|
||
|
and I resolved not to fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean;
|
||
|
my feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness
|
||
|
when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair.
|
||
|
I left the house, the horrid scene of the last night's contention,
|
||
|
and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost regarded
|
||
|
as an insuperable barrier between me and my fellow creatures;
|
||
|
nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me.
|
||
|
I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily,
|
||
|
it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery.
|
||
|
If I returned, it was to be sacrificed or to see those
|
||
|
whom I most loved die under the grasp of a daemon
|
||
|
whom I had myself created.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated
|
||
|
from all it loved and miserable in the separation. When it became noon,
|
||
|
and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass and was overpowered
|
||
|
by a deep sleep. I had been awake the whole of the preceding night,
|
||
|
my nerves were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery.
|
||
|
The sleep into which I now sank refreshed me; and when I awoke,
|
||
|
I again felt as if I belonged to a race of human beings like myself,
|
||
|
and I began to reflect upon what had passed with greater composure;
|
||
|
yet still the words of the fiend rang in my ears like a death-knell;
|
||
|
they appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore,
|
||
|
satisfying my appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake,
|
||
|
when I saw a fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men
|
||
|
brought me a packet; it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval
|
||
|
entreating me to join him. He said that he was wearing away his time
|
||
|
fruitlessly where he was, that letters from the friends he had formed
|
||
|
in London desired his return to complete the negotiation
|
||
|
they had entered into for his Indian enterprise. He could not any longer
|
||
|
delay his departure; but as his journey to London might be followed,
|
||
|
even sooner than he now conjectured, by his longer voyage,
|
||
|
he entreated me to bestow as much of my society on him as I could spare.
|
||
|
He besought me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle
|
||
|
and to meet him at Perth, that we might proceed southwards together.
|
||
|
This letter in a degree recalled me to life, and I determined
|
||
|
to quit my island at the expiration of two days.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered
|
||
|
to reflect; I must pack up my chemical instruments, and for that purpose
|
||
|
I must enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work,
|
||
|
and I must handle those utensils the sight of which was sickening to me.
|
||
|
The next morning, at daybreak, I summoned sufficient courage
|
||
|
and unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains
|
||
|
of the half-finished creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered
|
||
|
on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled the living flesh
|
||
|
of a human being. I paused to collect myself and then entered the chamber.
|
||
|
With trembling hand I conveyed the instruments out of the room,
|
||
|
but I reflected that I ought not to leave the relics of my work
|
||
|
to excite the horror and suspicion of the peasants; and I accordingly
|
||
|
put them into a basket, with a great quantity of stones, and laying them up,
|
||
|
determined to throw them into the sea that very night;
|
||
|
and in the meantime I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning
|
||
|
and arranging my chemical apparatus.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had taken place
|
||
|
in my feelings since the night of the appearance of the daemon.
|
||
|
I had before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair as a thing that,
|
||
|
with whatever consequences, must be fulfilled; but I now felt
|
||
|
as if a film had been taken from before my eyes and that I
|
||
|
for the first time saw clearly. The idea of renewing my labours
|
||
|
did not for one instant occur to me; the threat I had heard
|
||
|
weighed on my thoughts, but I did not reflect that a voluntary act of mine
|
||
|
could avert it. I had resolved in my own mind that to create another
|
||
|
like the fiend I had first made would be an act of the basest
|
||
|
and most atrocious selfishness, and I banished from my mind
|
||
|
every thought that could lead to a different conclusion.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Between two and three in the morning the moon rose; and I then,
|
||
|
putting my basket aboard a little skiff, 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 the commission of a dreadful crime
|
||
|
and avoided with shuddering anxiety any encounter with my fellow creatures.
|
||
|
At one time the moon, which had before been clear, was suddenly overspread
|
||
|
by a thick cloud, and I took advantage of the moment of darkness
|
||
|
and cast my basket into the sea; I listened to the gurgling sound
|
||
|
as it sank and then sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded,
|
||
|
but the air was pure, although chilled by the northeast breeze
|
||
|
that was then rising. But it refreshed me and filled me
|
||
|
with such agreeable sensations that I resolved to prolong my stay
|
||
|
on the water, and fixing the rudder in a direct position,
|
||
|
stretched myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the moon,
|
||
|
everything was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat
|
||
|
as its keel cut through the waves; the murmur lulled me,
|
||
|
and in a short time I slept soundly.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I do not know how long I remained in this situation, but when I awoke
|
||
|
I found that the sun had already mounted considerably. The wind was high,
|
||
|
and the waves continually threatened the safety of my little skiff.
|
||
|
I found that the wind was northeast and must have driven me
|
||
|
far from the coast from which I had embarked. I endeavoured
|
||
|
to change my course but quickly found that if I again made the attempt
|
||
|
the boat would be instantly filled with water. Thus situated,
|
||
|
my only resource was to drive before the wind. I confess
|
||
|
that I felt a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me
|
||
|
and was so slenderly acquainted with the geography of this part
|
||
|
of the world that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might be driven
|
||
|
into the wide Atlantic and feel all the tortures of starvation
|
||
|
or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters that roared
|
||
|
and buffeted around me. I had already been out many hours
|
||
|
and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my other sufferings.
|
||
|
I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds
|
||
|
that flew before the wind, only to be replaced by others;
|
||
|
I looked upon the sea; it was to be my grave. "Fiend," I exclaimed,
|
||
|
"your task is already fulfilled!" I thought of Elizabeth, of my father,
|
||
|
and of Clerval--all left behind, on whom the monster
|
||
|
might satisfy his sanguinary and merciless passions.
|
||
|
This idea plunged me into a reverie so despairing and frightful
|
||
|
that even now, when the scene is on the point
|
||
|
of closing before me forever, I shudder to reflect on it.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined
|
||
|
towards the horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze
|
||
|
and the sea became free from breakers. But these gave place
|
||
|
to a heavy swell; I felt sick and hardly able to hold the rudder,
|
||
|
when suddenly I saw a line of high land towards the south.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue and the dreadful suspense
|
||
|
I endured 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 mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love
|
||
|
we have of life even in the excess of misery! I constructed
|
||
|
another sail with a part of my dress and eagerly steered my course
|
||
|
towards the land. It had a wild and rocky appearance,
|
||
|
but as I approached nearer I easily perceived the traces of cultivation.
|
||
|
I saw vessels near the shore and found myself suddenly transported
|
||
|
back to the neighbourhood of civilized man. I carefully traced the windings
|
||
|
of the land and hailed a steeple which I at length saw issuing
|
||
|
from behind a small promontory. As I was in a state of extreme debility,
|
||
|
I resolved to sail directly towards the town, as a place
|
||
|
where I could most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately
|
||
|
I had money with me. As I turned the promontory I perceived
|
||
|
a small neat town and a good harbour, which I entered,
|
||
|
my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected escape.
|
||
|
|
||
|
As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails,
|
||
|
several people crowded towards the spot. They seemed much surprised
|
||
|
at my appearance, but instead of offering me any assistance,
|
||
|
whispered together with gestures that at any other time
|
||
|
might have produced in me a slight sensation of alarm. As it was,
|
||
|
I merely remarked that they spoke English, and I therefore addressed them
|
||
|
in that language. "My good friends," said I, "will you be so kind
|
||
|
as to tell me the name of this town and inform me where I am?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"You will know that soon enough," replied a man with a hoarse voice.
|
||
|
"Maybe you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste,
|
||
|
but you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer
|
||
|
from a stranger, and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning
|
||
|
and angry countenances of his companions. "Why do you answer me
|
||
|
so roughly?" I replied. "Surely it is not the custom of Englishmen
|
||
|
to receive strangers so inhospitably."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"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 dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd
|
||
|
rapidly increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity
|
||
|
and anger, which annoyed and in some degree alarmed me. I inquired
|
||
|
the way to the inn, but no one replied. I then moved forward,
|
||
|
and a murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they followed
|
||
|
and surrounded me, when an ill-looking man approaching
|
||
|
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 am I to give an account of myself?
|
||
|
Is not this a free country?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate,
|
||
|
and 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 presently recovered myself.
|
||
|
I was innocent; that could easily be proved; accordingly
|
||
|
I followed my conductor in silence and was led to one of the best houses
|
||
|
in the town. I was ready to sink from fatigue and hunger,
|
||
|
but being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic to rouse
|
||
|
all my strength, that no physical debility might be construed
|
||
|
into apprehension or conscious guilt. Little did I then expect
|
||
|
the calamity that was in a few moments to overwhelm me
|
||
|
and extinguish in horror and despair all fear of ignominy or death.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I must pause here, for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory
|
||
|
of the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail,
|
||
|
to my recollection.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 21
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate,
|
||
|
an old benevolent man with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me,
|
||
|
however, with some degree of severity, and then, turning towards
|
||
|
my conductors, he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion.
|
||
|
|
||
|
About half a dozen men came forward; and, one being selected
|
||
|
by the magistrate, he deposed that he had been out fishing
|
||
|
the night before with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent,
|
||
|
when, about ten o'clock, they observed a strong northerly blast rising,
|
||
|
and they accordingly put in for port. It was a very dark night,
|
||
|
as the moon had not yet risen; they did not land at the harbour,
|
||
|
but, as they had been accustomed, at a creek about two miles below.
|
||
|
He walked on first, carrying a part of the fishing tackle,
|
||
|
and his companions followed him at some distance. As he was
|
||
|
proceeding along the sands, he struck his foot against something
|
||
|
and fell at his length on the ground. His companions came up
|
||
|
to assist him, and by the light of their lantern they found
|
||
|
that he had fallen on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead.
|
||
|
Their first supposition was that it was the corpse of some person
|
||
|
who had been drowned and was thrown on shore by the waves,
|
||
|
but on examination they found that the clothes were not wet
|
||
|
and even that the body was not then cold. They instantly carried it
|
||
|
to the cottage of an old woman near the spot and endeavoured,
|
||
|
but in vain, to restore it to life. It appeared to be a handsome young man,
|
||
|
about five and twenty years of age. He had apparently been strangled,
|
||
|
for there was no sign of any violence except the black mark
|
||
|
of fingers on his neck.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me,
|
||
|
but when the mark of the fingers was mentioned I remembered
|
||
|
the murder of my brother and felt myself extremely agitated;
|
||
|
my limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes, which obliged me
|
||
|
to lean on a chair for support. The magistrate observed me
|
||
|
with a keen eye and of course drew an unfavourable augury from my manner.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The son confirmed his father's account, but when Daniel Nugent
|
||
|
was called he swore positively that just before the fall of his companion,
|
||
|
he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore;
|
||
|
and 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 deposed that she lived near the beach and was standing
|
||
|
at the door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen,
|
||
|
about an hour before she heard of the discovery of the body,
|
||
|
when she saw a boat with only one man in it push off from that part
|
||
|
of the shore where the corpse was afterwards found.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the body
|
||
|
into her house; it was not cold. They put it into a bed and rubbed it,
|
||
|
and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite gone.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Several other men were examined concerning my landing, and they agreed that,
|
||
|
with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night,
|
||
|
it was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours
|
||
|
and had been obliged to return nearly to the same spot
|
||
|
from which I had departed. Besides, they observed that it appeared
|
||
|
that I had brought the body from another place, and it was likely
|
||
|
that as I did not appear to know the shore, I might have
|
||
|
put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the town of----
|
||
|
from the place where I had deposited the corpse.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be
|
||
|
taken into the room where the body lay for interment,
|
||
|
that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would produce upon me.
|
||
|
This idea was probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited
|
||
|
when the mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted,
|
||
|
by the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help
|
||
|
being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place
|
||
|
during this eventful night; but, knowing that I had been conversing
|
||
|
with several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time
|
||
|
that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil
|
||
|
as to the consequences of the affair.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I entered the room where the corpse lay and was led up to the coffin.
|
||
|
How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched
|
||
|
with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering
|
||
|
and agony. The examination, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses,
|
||
|
passed like a dream from my memory when I saw the lifeless form
|
||
|
of Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath,
|
||
|
and throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my murderous
|
||
|
machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life?
|
||
|
Two I have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny;
|
||
|
but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor--"
|
||
|
|
||
|
The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured,
|
||
|
and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions.
|
||
|
|
||
|
A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death;
|
||
|
my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself
|
||
|
the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes
|
||
|
I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend
|
||
|
by whom I was tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster
|
||
|
already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror.
|
||
|
Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me;
|
||
|
but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient
|
||
|
to affright the other witnesses.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before,
|
||
|
why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away
|
||
|
many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents;
|
||
|
how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health
|
||
|
and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb!
|
||
|
Of what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many shocks,
|
||
|
which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture?
|
||
|
|
||
|
But I was doomed to live and in two months found myself as awaking
|
||
|
from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed,
|
||
|
surrounded by jailers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable
|
||
|
apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke
|
||
|
to understanding; I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened
|
||
|
and only felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me;
|
||
|
but when I looked around and saw the barred windows and the squalidness
|
||
|
of the room in which I was, 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,
|
||
|
and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often
|
||
|
characterize that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude,
|
||
|
like that of persons accustomed to see without sympathizing
|
||
|
in sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference;
|
||
|
she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one
|
||
|
that I had heard during my sufferings. "Are you better now, sir?" said she.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe I am;
|
||
|
but if it be all true, if indeed I 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 that it were better for you if you were dead,
|
||
|
for 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 were well if everybody did the same."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling
|
||
|
a speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death;
|
||
|
but I felt languid and unable to reflect on all that had passed.
|
||
|
The whole series of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted
|
||
|
if indeed it were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind
|
||
|
with the force of reality.
|
||
|
|
||
|
As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew feverish;
|
||
|
a darkness pressed around me; no one was near me who soothed me
|
||
|
with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me.
|
||
|
The physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman
|
||
|
prepared them for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first,
|
||
|
and the expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage
|
||
|
of the second. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer
|
||
|
but the hangman who would gain his fee?
|
||
|
|
||
|
These were my first reflections, but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin
|
||
|
had shown me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room
|
||
|
in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best);
|
||
|
and it was he who had provided a physician and a nurse. It is true,
|
||
|
he seldom came to see me, for although he ardently desired
|
||
|
to relieve the sufferings of every human creature, he did not wish
|
||
|
to be present at the agonies and miserable ravings of a murderer.
|
||
|
He came, therefore, sometimes to see that I was not neglected,
|
||
|
but his visits were short and with long intervals.
|
||
|
|
||
|
One day, while I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair,
|
||
|
my eyes half open and my cheeks livid like those in death. I was overcome
|
||
|
by gloom and misery and often reflected I had better seek death
|
||
|
than desire to remain in a world which to me was replete with wretchedness.
|
||
|
At one time I considered whether I should not declare myself guilty
|
||
|
and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been.
|
||
|
Such were my thoughts when the door of my apartment was opened
|
||
|
and Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion;
|
||
|
he drew a chair close to mine and addressed 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 which I am capable of receiving."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief
|
||
|
to one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will,
|
||
|
I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode, for doubtless evidence can easily
|
||
|
be brought to free you from the criminal charge."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"That is my least concern; I am, by a course of strange events,
|
||
|
become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured
|
||
|
as I am and have been, can death be any evil to me?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing
|
||
|
than the strange chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown,
|
||
|
by some surprising accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality,
|
||
|
seized immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight
|
||
|
that was presented to your eyes was the body of your friend,
|
||
|
murdered in so unaccountable a manner and placed, as it were,
|
||
|
by some fiend across your path."
|
||
|
|
||
|
As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured
|
||
|
on this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise
|
||
|
at the knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose
|
||
|
some astonishment was exhibited in my countenance, for Mr. Kirwin
|
||
|
hastened to say, "Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers
|
||
|
that were on your person were brought me, and I examined them
|
||
|
that I might discover some trace by which I could send to your relations
|
||
|
an account of your misfortune and illness. I found several letters,
|
||
|
and, among others, one which I discovered from its commencement
|
||
|
to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva; nearly two months
|
||
|
have elapsed since the departure of my letter. But you are ill;
|
||
|
even now you tremble; you are unfit for agitation of any kind."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"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 am now to lament?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin with gentleness;
|
||
|
"and someone, a friend, is come to visit you."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself,
|
||
|
but it instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come
|
||
|
to mock at my misery and taunt me with the death of Clerval,
|
||
|
as a new incitement for me to comply with his hellish desires.
|
||
|
I put my hand before my eyes, and cried out in agony, "Oh!
|
||
|
Take him away! I cannot see him; for God's sake, do not let him enter!"
|
||
|
|
||
|
Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help
|
||
|
regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt and said
|
||
|
in rather a severe tone, "I should have thought, young man,
|
||
|
that the presence of your father would have been welcome
|
||
|
instead of inspiring such violent repugnance."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"My father!" cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed
|
||
|
from anguish to pleasure. "Is my father indeed come? How kind,
|
||
|
how very kind! But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate;
|
||
|
perhaps he thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return
|
||
|
of delirium, and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence.
|
||
|
He rose and quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment
|
||
|
my father entered it.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure
|
||
|
than the arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him
|
||
|
and cried, "Are you, then, safe--and Elizabeth--and Ernest?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare and endeavoured,
|
||
|
by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart,
|
||
|
to raise my desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a prison
|
||
|
cannot be the abode of cheerfulness. "What a place is this that you inhabit,
|
||
|
my son!" said he, looking mournfully at the barred windows
|
||
|
and wretched appearance of the room. "You travelled to seek happiness,
|
||
|
but a fatality seems to pursue you. And poor Clerval--"
|
||
|
|
||
|
The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation
|
||
|
too great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Alas! Yes, my father," replied I; "some destiny of the most
|
||
|
horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it,
|
||
|
or surely I should have died on the coffin of Henry."
|
||
|
|
||
|
We were not allowed to converse for any length of time,
|
||
|
for the precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary
|
||
|
that could ensure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in and insisted
|
||
|
that my strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion.
|
||
|
But the appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel,
|
||
|
and I gradually recovered my health.
|
||
|
|
||
|
As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black melancholy
|
||
|
that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was forever before me,
|
||
|
ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation into which
|
||
|
these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous relapse.
|
||
|
Alas! Why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life?
|
||
|
It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing
|
||
|
to a close. Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these throbbings
|
||
|
and relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust;
|
||
|
and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest.
|
||
|
Then the appearance of death was distant, although the wish was ever present
|
||
|
to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless,
|
||
|
wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me and my destroyer
|
||
|
in its ruins.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three months
|
||
|
in prison, and although I was still weak and in continual danger
|
||
|
of a relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles
|
||
|
to the country town where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself
|
||
|
with every care of collecting witnesses and arranging my defence.
|
||
|
I was spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal,
|
||
|
as the case was not brought before the court that decides on life and death.
|
||
|
The grand jury rejected the bill, on its being proved
|
||
|
that I was on the Orkney Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found;
|
||
|
and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated from prison.
|
||
|
|
||
|
My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations
|
||
|
of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe
|
||
|
the fresh atmosphere and permitted to return to my native country.
|
||
|
I did not participate in these feelings, for to me the walls of a dungeon
|
||
|
or a palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned forever,
|
||
|
and although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart,
|
||
|
I saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness,
|
||
|
penetrated by no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me.
|
||
|
Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death,
|
||
|
the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids and the long black lashes
|
||
|
that fringed them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster,
|
||
|
as I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.
|
||
|
|
||
|
My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection.
|
||
|
He talked of Geneva, which I should soon visit, of Elizabeth and Ernest;
|
||
|
but these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed,
|
||
|
I felt a wish for happiness and thought with melancholy delight
|
||
|
of my beloved cousin or longed, with a devouring *maladie du pays*,
|
||
|
to see once more the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been
|
||
|
so dear to me in early childhood; but my general state of feeling
|
||
|
was a torpor in which a prison was as welcome a residence
|
||
|
as the divinest scene in nature; and these fits were seldom interrupted
|
||
|
but by paroxysms of anguish and despair. At these moments
|
||
|
I often endeavoured to put an end to the existence I loathed,
|
||
|
and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance to restrain me
|
||
|
from committing some dreadful act of violence.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally triumphed
|
||
|
over my selfish despair. It was necessary that I should return
|
||
|
without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those
|
||
|
I so fondly loved and to lie in wait for the murderer,
|
||
|
that if any chance led me to the place of his concealment,
|
||
|
or if he dared again to blast me by his presence, I might,
|
||
|
with unfailing aim, put an end to the existence of the monstrous image
|
||
|
which I had endued with the mockery of a soul still more monstrous.
|
||
|
My father still desired to delay our departure, fearful
|
||
|
that I could not sustain the fatigues 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 preyed upon my wasted frame.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such inquietude and impatience,
|
||
|
my father thought it best to yield. We took our passage on board a vessel
|
||
|
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 hailed the darkness
|
||
|
that shut Ireland from my sight, and my pulse beat with a feverish joy
|
||
|
when I reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me
|
||
|
in the light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in which I was,
|
||
|
the wind that blew me from the detested shore of Ireland, and the sea
|
||
|
which surrounded me told me too forcibly that I was deceived by no vision
|
||
|
and that Clerval, my friend and dearest companion, had fallen a victim
|
||
|
to me and the monster of my creation. I repassed, in my memory,
|
||
|
my whole life--my quiet happiness while residing with my family in Geneva,
|
||
|
the death of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered,
|
||
|
shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to the creation
|
||
|
of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night in which he first lived.
|
||
|
I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a thousand feelings
|
||
|
pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the custom
|
||
|
of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum, for it was by means
|
||
|
of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary
|
||
|
for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection
|
||
|
of my various misfortunes, I now swallowed double my usual quantity
|
||
|
and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite
|
||
|
from thought and misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects
|
||
|
that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of nightmare;
|
||
|
I felt the fiend's grasp in my neck and could not free myself from it;
|
||
|
groans and cries rang in my ears. My father, who was watching over me,
|
||
|
perceiving my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves were around,
|
||
|
the cloudy sky above, the fiend was not here: a sense of security,
|
||
|
a feeling that a truce was established between the present hour
|
||
|
and the irresistible, disastrous future imparted to me
|
||
|
a kind of calm forgetfulness, of which the human mind is
|
||
|
by its structure peculiarly susceptible.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 22
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
The voyage came to an end. We landed, and proceeded to Paris.
|
||
|
I soon found that I had overtaxed my strength and that I must repose
|
||
|
before I could continue my journey. My father's care and attentions
|
||
|
were indefatigable, but he did not know the origin of my sufferings
|
||
|
and sought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable ill.
|
||
|
He wished me to seek amusement in society. I abhorred the face of man.
|
||
|
Oh, not abhorred! They were my brethren, my fellow beings,
|
||
|
and I felt attracted even to the most repulsive among them,
|
||
|
as to creatures of an angelic nature and celestial mechanism.
|
||
|
But I felt that I had no right to share their intercourse.
|
||
|
I had unchained an enemy among them whose joy it was to shed their blood
|
||
|
and to revel in their groans. How they would, each and all,
|
||
|
abhor me and hunt me from the world did they know my unhallowed acts
|
||
|
and the crimes which had their source in me!
|
||
|
|
||
|
My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society
|
||
|
and strove by various arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he thought
|
||
|
that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer
|
||
|
a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Alas! My father," said I, "how little do you know me. Human beings,
|
||
|
their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such a wretch
|
||
|
as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I,
|
||
|
and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause
|
||
|
of this--I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry--they all died
|
||
|
by my hands."
|
||
|
|
||
|
My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make
|
||
|
the same assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed
|
||
|
to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it
|
||
|
as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness,
|
||
|
some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination,
|
||
|
the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence.
|
||
|
I avoided explanation and maintained a continual silence
|
||
|
concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion
|
||
|
that I should be supposed mad, and this in itself would forever
|
||
|
have chained my tongue. But, besides, I could not bring myself
|
||
|
to disclose a secret which would fill my hearer with consternation
|
||
|
and make fear and unnatural horror the inmates of his breast.
|
||
|
I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy and was silent
|
||
|
when I would have given the world to have confided the fatal secret.
|
||
|
Yet, still, words like those I have recorded would burst
|
||
|
uncontrollably from me. I could offer no explanation of them,
|
||
|
but their truth in part relieved the burden of my mysterious woe.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder,
|
||
|
"My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this? My dear son,
|
||
|
I entreat you never to make such an assertion again."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I am not mad," I cried energetically; "the sun and the heavens,
|
||
|
who have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth.
|
||
|
I am the assassin of those most innocent victims; they died
|
||
|
by my machinations. A thousand times would I have shed my own blood,
|
||
|
drop by drop, to have saved their lives; but I could not,
|
||
|
my father, indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race."
|
||
|
|
||
|
The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas
|
||
|
were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation
|
||
|
and endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts. He wished
|
||
|
as much as possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes
|
||
|
that had taken place in Ireland and never alluded to them
|
||
|
or suffered me to speak of my misfortunes.
|
||
|
|
||
|
As time passed away I became more calm; misery had her dwelling
|
||
|
in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner
|
||
|
of my own crimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness of them.
|
||
|
By the utmost self-violence I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness,
|
||
|
which sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world,
|
||
|
and my manners were calmer and more composed than they had ever been
|
||
|
since my journey to the sea of ice.
|
||
|
|
||
|
A few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland
|
||
|
I received the following letter from Elizabeth:
|
||
|
|
||
|
My dear Friend,
|
||
|
|
||
|
It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter
|
||
|
from my uncle dated at Paris; you are no longer
|
||
|
at a formidable distance, and I may hope to see you
|
||
|
in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much
|
||
|
you must have suffered! I expect to see you looking even more ill
|
||
|
than when you quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed
|
||
|
most miserably, tortured as I have been by anxious suspense;
|
||
|
yet I hope to see peace in your countenance and to find
|
||
|
that your heart is not totally void of comfort and tranquillity.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you
|
||
|
so miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time.
|
||
|
I would not disturb you at this period, when so many misfortunes
|
||
|
weigh upon you, but a conversation that I had with my uncle
|
||
|
previous to his departure renders some explanation necessary
|
||
|
before we meet.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Explanation! You may possibly say, What can Elizabeth
|
||
|
have to explain? If you really say this, my questions are answered
|
||
|
and all my doubts satisfied. But you are distant from me,
|
||
|
and it is possible that you may dread and yet be pleased
|
||
|
with this explanation; and in a probability of this being the case,
|
||
|
I dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence,
|
||
|
I have often wished to express to you but have never had the courage
|
||
|
to begin.
|
||
|
|
||
|
You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan
|
||
|
of your parents ever since our infancy. We were told this when young,
|
||
|
and taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly
|
||
|
take place. We were affectionate playfellows during childhood,
|
||
|
and, I believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older.
|
||
|
But as brother and sister often entertain a lively affection
|
||
|
towards each other without desiring a more intimate union,
|
||
|
may not such also be our case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me,
|
||
|
I conjure you by our mutual happiness, with simple truth--
|
||
|
Do you not love another?
|
||
|
|
||
|
You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life
|
||
|
at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that
|
||
|
when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude
|
||
|
from the society of every creature, I could not help supposing
|
||
|
that you might regret our connection and believe yourself
|
||
|
bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents,
|
||
|
although they opposed themselves to your inclinations.
|
||
|
But this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my friend,
|
||
|
that I love you and that in my airy dreams of futurity
|
||
|
you have been my constant friend and companion.
|
||
|
But it is your happiness I desire as well as my own
|
||
|
when I declare to you that our marriage would render me
|
||
|
eternally miserable unless it were the dictate
|
||
|
of your own free choice. Even now I weep to think that,
|
||
|
borne down as you are by the cruellest misfortunes,
|
||
|
you may stifle, by the word "honour," all hope of that love
|
||
|
and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself.
|
||
|
I, who have so disinterested an affection for you,
|
||
|
may increase your miseries tenfold by being an obstacle
|
||
|
to your wishes. Ah! Victor, be assured that your cousin
|
||
|
and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable
|
||
|
by this supposition. Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me
|
||
|
in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth
|
||
|
will have the power to interrupt my tranquillity.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer 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, and if I see but one smile
|
||
|
on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion
|
||
|
of mine, I shall need no other happiness.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Elizabeth Lavenza
|
||
|
|
||
|
Geneva, May 18th, 17--
|
||
|
|
||
|
This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten,
|
||
|
the threat of the fiend--"*I will be with you on your
|
||
|
wedding-night!*" Such was my sentence, and on that night
|
||
|
would the daemon employ every art to destroy me and tear me
|
||
|
from the glimpse of happiness which promised partly to console
|
||
|
my sufferings. On that night he had determined to consummate
|
||
|
his crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a deadly struggle
|
||
|
would then assuredly take place, in which if he were victorious
|
||
|
I should be at peace and his power over me be at an end.
|
||
|
If he were vanquished, I should be a free man. Alas! What freedom?
|
||
|
Such as the peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred
|
||
|
before his eyes, his cottage burnt, his lands laid waste,
|
||
|
and he is turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and alone, but free.
|
||
|
Such would be my liberty except that in my Elizabeth I possessed
|
||
|
a treasure, alas, balanced by those horrors of remorse and guilt
|
||
|
which would pursue me until death.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and reread her letter,
|
||
|
and some softened feelings stole into my heart and dared to whisper
|
||
|
paradisiacal dreams of love and joy; but the apple was already eaten,
|
||
|
and the angel's arm bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I would die
|
||
|
to make her happy. If the monster executed his threat,
|
||
|
death was inevitable; yet, again, I considered whether my marriage
|
||
|
would hasten my fate. My destruction might indeed arrive
|
||
|
a few months sooner, but if my torturer should suspect that I postponed it,
|
||
|
influenced by his menaces, he would surely find other
|
||
|
and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge. He had vowed
|
||
|
*to be with me on my wedding-night*, yet he did not consider
|
||
|
that threat as binding him to peace in the meantime, for as if to show me
|
||
|
that he was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval
|
||
|
immediately after the enunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore,
|
||
|
that if my immediate union with my cousin would conduce either to hers
|
||
|
or my father's happiness, my adversary's designs against my life
|
||
|
should not retard it a single hour.
|
||
|
|
||
|
In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm
|
||
|
and affectionate. "I fear, my beloved girl," I said, "little happiness
|
||
|
remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is centred in you.
|
||
|
Chase away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate my life
|
||
|
and my endeavours for contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth,
|
||
|
a dreadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with horror,
|
||
|
and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only wonder
|
||
|
that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this tale of misery
|
||
|
and terror to you the day after our marriage shall take place, for,
|
||
|
my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us.
|
||
|
But until then, I conjure you, do not mention or allude to it.
|
||
|
This I most earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply."
|
||
|
|
||
|
In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth's letter
|
||
|
we returned to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm affection,
|
||
|
yet tears were in her eyes as she beheld my emaciated frame
|
||
|
and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her also. She was thinner
|
||
|
and had lost much of that heavenly vivacity that had before charmed me;
|
||
|
but her gentleness and soft looks of compassion made her
|
||
|
a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as I was.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought madness
|
||
|
with it, and when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity possessed me;
|
||
|
sometimes I was furious and burnt with rage, sometimes low and despondent.
|
||
|
I neither spoke nor looked at anyone, but sat motionless,
|
||
|
bewildered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits;
|
||
|
her gentle voice would soothe me when transported by passion
|
||
|
and inspire me with human feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept
|
||
|
with me and for me. When reason returned, she would remonstrate
|
||
|
and endeavour to inspire me with resignation. Ah! It is well
|
||
|
for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty
|
||
|
there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury
|
||
|
there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate marriage
|
||
|
with Elizabeth. I remained silent.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Have you, then, some other attachment?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"None on earth. I love Elizabeth and look forward to our union
|
||
|
with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it
|
||
|
I will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness
|
||
|
of my cousin."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen us,
|
||
|
but let us only cling closer to what remains and transfer our love
|
||
|
for those whom we have lost to those who yet live. Our circle
|
||
|
will be small but bound close by the ties of affection
|
||
|
and mutual misfortune. And when time shall have softened your despair,
|
||
|
new and dear objects of care will be born to replace those
|
||
|
of whom we have been so cruelly deprived."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance
|
||
|
of the threat returned; nor can you wonder that, omnipotent
|
||
|
as the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost
|
||
|
regard him as invincible, and that when he had pronounced the words
|
||
|
"*I shall be with you on your wedding-night*," I should regard
|
||
|
the threatened fate as unavoidable. But death was no evil to me
|
||
|
if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced with it, and I therefore,
|
||
|
with a contented and even cheerful countenance, agreed with my father
|
||
|
that if my cousin would consent, the ceremony should take place
|
||
|
in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Great God! If for one instant I had thought what might be
|
||
|
the hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather
|
||
|
have banished myself forever from my native country and wandered
|
||
|
a friendless outcast over the earth than have consented
|
||
|
to this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of magic powers,
|
||
|
the monster had blinded me to his real intentions; and when I thought
|
||
|
that I had prepared only my own death, I hastened that
|
||
|
of a far dearer victim.
|
||
|
|
||
|
As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice
|
||
|
or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed
|
||
|
my feelings by an appearance of hilarity that brought smiles and joy
|
||
|
to the countenance of my father, but hardly deceived the everwatchful
|
||
|
and nicer eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union
|
||
|
with placid contentment, not unmingled with a little fear,
|
||
|
which past misfortunes had impressed, that what now appeared certain
|
||
|
and tangible happiness might soon dissipate into an airy dream
|
||
|
and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Preparations were made for the event, congratulatory visits were received,
|
||
|
and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up, as well as I could,
|
||
|
in my own heart the anxiety that preyed there and entered
|
||
|
with seeming earnestness into the plans of my father,
|
||
|
although they might only serve as the decorations of my tragedy.
|
||
|
Through my father's exertions a part of the inheritance of Elizabeth
|
||
|
had been restored to her by the Austrian government. A small possession
|
||
|
on the shores of Como belonged to her. It was agreed that,
|
||
|
immediately after our union, we should proceed to Villa Lavenza
|
||
|
and spend our first days of happiness beside the beautiful lake
|
||
|
near which it stood.
|
||
|
|
||
|
In the meantime I took every precaution to defend my person
|
||
|
in case the fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols
|
||
|
and a dagger constantly about me and was ever on the watch
|
||
|
to prevent artifice, and by these means gained a greater degree
|
||
|
of tranquillity. Indeed, as the period approached, the threat
|
||
|
appeared more as a delusion, not to be regarded as worthy
|
||
|
to disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for in my marriage
|
||
|
wore a greater appearance of certainty as the day fixed
|
||
|
for its solemnization drew nearer and I heard it continually spoken of
|
||
|
as an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed greatly
|
||
|
to calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes
|
||
|
and my destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil
|
||
|
pervaded her; and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret
|
||
|
which I had promised to reveal to her on the following day.
|
||
|
My father was in the meantime overjoyed and in the bustle
|
||
|
of preparation only recognized in the melancholy of his niece
|
||
|
the diffidence of a bride.
|
||
|
|
||
|
After the ceremony was performed a large party assembled at my father's,
|
||
|
but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence our journey by water,
|
||
|
sleeping that night at Evian and continuing our voyage on the following day.
|
||
|
The day was fair, the wind favourable; all smiled on our nuptial embarkation.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed
|
||
|
the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along; the sun was hot,
|
||
|
but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy
|
||
|
while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the lake,
|
||
|
where we saw Mont Saleve, the pleasant banks of Montalegre,
|
||
|
and at a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blanc
|
||
|
and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her;
|
||
|
sometimes coasting the opposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura
|
||
|
opposing its dark side to the ambition that would quit its native country,
|
||
|
and an almost insurmountable barrier to the invader
|
||
|
who should wish to enslave it.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I took the hand of Elizabeth. "You are sorrowful, my love.
|
||
|
Ah! If you knew what I have suffered and what I may yet endure,
|
||
|
you would endeavour to let me taste the quiet and freedom
|
||
|
from despair that this one day at least permits me to enjoy."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Be happy, my dear Victor," replied Elizabeth; "there is, I hope,
|
||
|
nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively joy
|
||
|
is not painted in my face, my heart is contented. Something whispers to me
|
||
|
not to depend too much on the prospect that is opened before us,
|
||
|
but I will not listen to such a sinister voice. Observe how fast
|
||
|
we move along and how the clouds, which sometimes obscure
|
||
|
and sometimes rise above the dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty
|
||
|
still more interesting. Look also at the innumerable fish
|
||
|
that are swimming in the clear waters, where we can distinguish
|
||
|
every pebble that lies at the bottom. What a divine day!
|
||
|
How happy and serene all nature appears!"
|
||
|
|
||
|
Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine
|
||
|
from all reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her temper
|
||
|
was fluctuating; joy for a few instants shone in her eyes,
|
||
|
but it continually gave place to distraction and reverie.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The sun sank lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance
|
||
|
and observed its path through the chasms of the higher
|
||
|
and the glens of the lower hills. The Alps here come closer to the lake,
|
||
|
and we approached the amphitheatre of mountains which forms
|
||
|
its eastern boundary. The spire of Evian shone under the woods
|
||
|
that surrounded it and the range of mountain above mountain
|
||
|
by which it was overhung.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity,
|
||
|
sank at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water
|
||
|
and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the shore,
|
||
|
from which it wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and hay.
|
||
|
The sun sank beneath the horizon as we landed, and as I touched the shore
|
||
|
I felt those cares and fears revive which soon were to clasp me
|
||
|
and cling to me forever.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 23
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
It was eight o'clock when we landed; we walked for a short time
|
||
|
on the shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired
|
||
|
to the inn and contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods,
|
||
|
and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displaying
|
||
|
their black outlines.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence
|
||
|
in the west. The moon had reached her summit in the heavens
|
||
|
and was beginning to descend; the clouds swept across it
|
||
|
swifter than the flight of the vulture and dimmed her rays,
|
||
|
while the lake reflected the scene of the busy heavens,
|
||
|
rendered still busier by the restless waves that were beginning to rise.
|
||
|
Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I had been calm during the day, but so soon as night obscured
|
||
|
the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind.
|
||
|
I was anxious and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol
|
||
|
which was hidden in my bosom; every sound terrified me, but I resolved
|
||
|
that I would sell my life dearly and not shrink from the conflict
|
||
|
until my own life or that of my adversary was extinguished.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid
|
||
|
and fearful silence, but there was something in my glance
|
||
|
which communicated terror to her, and trembling, she asked,
|
||
|
"What is it that agitates you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Oh! Peace, peace, my love," replied I; "this night,
|
||
|
and all will be safe; but this night is dreadful, very dreadful."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected
|
||
|
how fearful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife,
|
||
|
and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her
|
||
|
until I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy.
|
||
|
|
||
|
She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages
|
||
|
of the house and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat
|
||
|
to my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him and was beginning
|
||
|
to conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened
|
||
|
to prevent the execution of his menaces when suddenly I heard
|
||
|
a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth
|
||
|
had retired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind,
|
||
|
my arms dropped, the motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended;
|
||
|
I could feel the blood trickling in my veins and tingling
|
||
|
in the extremities of my limbs. This state lasted but for an instant;
|
||
|
the scream was repeated, and I rushed into the room.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Great God! Why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate
|
||
|
the destruction of the best hope and the purest creature on earth?
|
||
|
She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed,
|
||
|
her head hanging down and her pale and distorted features
|
||
|
half covered by her hair. Everywhere I turn I see the same figure--
|
||
|
her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer
|
||
|
on its bridal bier. Could I behold this and live? Alas!
|
||
|
Life is obstinate and clings closest where it is most hated.
|
||
|
For a moment only did I lose recollection; I fell senseless on the ground.
|
||
|
|
||
|
When I recovered I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn;
|
||
|
their countenances expressed a breathless terror, but the horror of others
|
||
|
appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me.
|
||
|
I escaped from them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth,
|
||
|
my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy.
|
||
|
She had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her,
|
||
|
and now, as she lay, her head upon her arm and a handkerchief
|
||
|
thrown across her face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep.
|
||
|
I rushed towards her and embraced her with ardour, but the deadly languor
|
||
|
and coldness of the limbs told me that what I now held in my arms
|
||
|
had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished.
|
||
|
The murderous mark of the fiend's grasp was on her neck,
|
||
|
and the breath had ceased to issue from her lips.
|
||
|
|
||
|
While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look up.
|
||
|
The windows of the room had before been darkened, and I felt a kind of panic
|
||
|
on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber.
|
||
|
The shutters had been thrown back, and with a sensation of horror
|
||
|
not to be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous
|
||
|
and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer,
|
||
|
as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife.
|
||
|
I rushed towards the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom, fired;
|
||
|
but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and running
|
||
|
with the swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed
|
||
|
to the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats;
|
||
|
nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours,
|
||
|
we returned hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been
|
||
|
a form conjured up by my fancy. After having landed,
|
||
|
they proceeded to search the country, parties going
|
||
|
in different directions among the woods and vines.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I attempted to accompany them and proceeded a short distance
|
||
|
from the house, but my head whirled round, my steps were like those
|
||
|
of a drunken man, I fell at last in a state of utter exhaustion;
|
||
|
a film covered my eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever.
|
||
|
In this state I was carried back and placed on a bed, hardly conscious
|
||
|
of what had happened; my eyes wandered round the room
|
||
|
as if to seek something that I had lost.
|
||
|
|
||
|
After an interval I arose, and as if by instinct, crawled into the room
|
||
|
where the corpse of my beloved lay. There were women weeping around;
|
||
|
I hung over it and joined my sad tears to theirs; all this time
|
||
|
no distinct idea presented itself to my mind, but my thoughts rambled
|
||
|
to various subjects, reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes
|
||
|
and their cause. I was bewildered, in a cloud of wonder and horror.
|
||
|
The death of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval,
|
||
|
and lastly of my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining
|
||
|
friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now
|
||
|
might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet.
|
||
|
This idea made me shudder and recalled me to action. I started up
|
||
|
and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed.
|
||
|
|
||
|
There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake;
|
||
|
but the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents.
|
||
|
However, it was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive
|
||
|
by night. I hired men to row and took an oar myself,
|
||
|
for I had always experienced relief from mental torment in bodily exercise.
|
||
|
But the overflowing misery I now felt, and the excess of agitation
|
||
|
that I endured rendered me incapable of any exertion.
|
||
|
I threw down the oar, and leaning my head upon my hands,
|
||
|
gave way to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up,
|
||
|
I saw scenes which were familiar to me in my happier time
|
||
|
and which I had contemplated but the day before in the company of her
|
||
|
who was now but a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes.
|
||
|
The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the waters
|
||
|
as they had done a few hours before; they had then been observed
|
||
|
by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great
|
||
|
and sudden change. The sun might shine or the clouds might lower,
|
||
|
but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before.
|
||
|
A fiend had snatched from me every hope of future happiness;
|
||
|
no creature had ever been so miserable as I was; so frightful an event
|
||
|
is single in the history of man.
|
||
|
|
||
|
But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed
|
||
|
this last overwhelming event? Mine has been a tale of horrors;
|
||
|
I have reached their acme, and what I must now relate
|
||
|
can but be tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends
|
||
|
were snatched away; I was left desolate. My own strength is exhausted,
|
||
|
and I must tell, in a few words, what remains of my hideous narration.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived, but the former
|
||
|
sunk under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent
|
||
|
and venerable old man! His eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost
|
||
|
their charm and their delight--his Elizabeth, his more than daughter,
|
||
|
whom he doted on with all that affection which a man feels,
|
||
|
who in the decline of life, having few affections, clings more earnestly
|
||
|
to those that remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery
|
||
|
on his grey hairs and doomed him to waste in wretchedness!
|
||
|
He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated around him;
|
||
|
the springs of existence suddenly gave way; he was unable
|
||
|
to rise from his bed, and in a few days he died in my arms.
|
||
|
|
||
|
What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation,
|
||
|
and chains and darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me.
|
||
|
Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows
|
||
|
and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth, but I awoke
|
||
|
and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed, but by degrees
|
||
|
I gained a clear conception of my miseries and situation
|
||
|
and was then released from my prison. For they had called me mad,
|
||
|
and during many months, as I understood, a solitary cell
|
||
|
had been my habitation.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Liberty, however, had been a useless gift to me, had I not,
|
||
|
as I awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge.
|
||
|
As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect
|
||
|
on their cause--the monster whom I had created, the miserable daemon
|
||
|
whom I had sent abroad into the world for my destruction.
|
||
|
I was possessed by a maddening rage when I thought of him,
|
||
|
and desired and ardently prayed that I might have him within my grasp
|
||
|
to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to
|
||
|
reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this purpose,
|
||
|
about a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge
|
||
|
in the town and told him that I had an accusation to make,
|
||
|
that I knew the destroyer of my family, and that I required him
|
||
|
to exert his whole authority for the apprehension of the murderer.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness.
|
||
|
"Be assured, sir," said he, "no pains or exertions on my part
|
||
|
shall be spared to discover the villain."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposition
|
||
|
that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange that I should fear
|
||
|
you would not credit it were there not something in truth which,
|
||
|
however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected
|
||
|
to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood."
|
||
|
My manner as I thus addressed him was impressive but calm;
|
||
|
I had formed in my own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death,
|
||
|
and this purpose quieted my agony and for an interval reconciled me to life.
|
||
|
I now related my history briefly but with firmness and precision,
|
||
|
marking the dates with accuracy and never deviating
|
||
|
into invective or exclamation.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued
|
||
|
he became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes
|
||
|
shudder with horror; at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief,
|
||
|
was painted on his countenance.
|
||
|
|
||
|
When I had concluded my narration I said, "This is the being
|
||
|
whom I accuse and for whose seizure and punishment I call upon you
|
||
|
to exert your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate,
|
||
|
and I believe and hope that your feelings as a man will not revolt
|
||
|
from the execution of those functions on this occasion."
|
||
|
|
||
|
This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy
|
||
|
of my own auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of belief
|
||
|
that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events;
|
||
|
but when he was called upon to act officially in consequence,
|
||
|
the whole tide of his incredulity returned. He, however,
|
||
|
answered mildly, "I would willingly afford you every aid in your pursuit,
|
||
|
but the creature of whom you speak appears to have powers
|
||
|
which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow an animal
|
||
|
which can traverse the sea of ice and inhabit caves and dens
|
||
|
where no man would venture to intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed
|
||
|
since the commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture
|
||
|
to what place he has wandered or what region he may now inhabit."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit,
|
||
|
and if he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted
|
||
|
like the chamois and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive
|
||
|
your thoughts; you do not credit my narrative and do not intend
|
||
|
to pursue my enemy with the punishment which is his desert."
|
||
|
|
||
|
As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was intimidated.
|
||
|
"You are mistaken," said he. "I will exert myself, and if it is in my power
|
||
|
to seize the monster, be assured that he shall suffer punishment
|
||
|
proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have
|
||
|
yourself described to be his properties, that this will prove impracticable;
|
||
|
and thus, while every proper measure is pursued, you should make up
|
||
|
your mind to disappointment."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail.
|
||
|
My revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be a vice,
|
||
|
I confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul.
|
||
|
My rage is unspeakable when I reflect that the murderer,
|
||
|
whom I have turned loose upon society, still exists. You refuse
|
||
|
my just demand; I have but one resource, and I devote myself,
|
||
|
either in my life or death, to his destruction."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a frenzy
|
||
|
in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness
|
||
|
which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed.
|
||
|
But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas
|
||
|
than those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind
|
||
|
had much the appearance of madness. He endeavoured to soothe me
|
||
|
as a nurse does a child and reverted to my tale
|
||
|
as the effects of delirium.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Man," I cried, "how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom!
|
||
|
Cease; you know not what it is you say."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I broke from the house angry and disturbed and retired
|
||
|
to meditate on some other mode of action.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Chapter 24
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought
|
||
|
was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury;
|
||
|
revenge alone endowed me with strength and composure; it moulded
|
||
|
my feelings and allowed me to be calculating and calm at periods
|
||
|
when otherwise delirium or death would have been my portion.
|
||
|
|
||
|
My first resolution was to quit Geneva forever; my country,
|
||
|
which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now,
|
||
|
in my adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money,
|
||
|
together with a few jewels which had belonged to my mother, and departed.
|
||
|
|
||
|
And now my wanderings began which are to cease but with life.
|
||
|
I have traversed a vast portion of the earth and have endured
|
||
|
all the hardships which travellers in deserts and barbarous countries
|
||
|
are wont to meet. How I have lived I hardly know; many times
|
||
|
have I stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain
|
||
|
and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared not die
|
||
|
and leave my adversary in being.
|
||
|
|
||
|
When I quitted Geneva my first labour was to gain some clue
|
||
|
by which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan
|
||
|
was unsettled, and I wandered many hours round the confines of the town,
|
||
|
uncertain what path I should pursue. As night approached
|
||
|
I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery where William,
|
||
|
Elizabeth, and my father reposed. I entered it and approached the tomb
|
||
|
which marked their graves. Everything was silent except the leaves
|
||
|
of the trees, which were gently agitated by the wind;
|
||
|
the night was nearly dark, and the scene would have been solemn
|
||
|
and affecting even to an uninterested observer. The spirits
|
||
|
of the departed seemed to flit around and to cast a shadow,
|
||
|
which was felt but not seen, around the head of the mourner.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way
|
||
|
to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also lived,
|
||
|
and to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass
|
||
|
and kissed the earth and with quivering lips exclaimed,
|
||
|
"By the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me,
|
||
|
by the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night,
|
||
|
and the spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the daemon
|
||
|
who caused this misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict.
|
||
|
For this purpose I will preserve my life; to execute this dear revenge
|
||
|
will I again behold the sun and tread the green herbage of earth,
|
||
|
which otherwise should vanish from my eyes forever. And I call on you,
|
||
|
spirits of the dead, and on you, wandering ministers of vengeance,
|
||
|
to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster
|
||
|
drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I had begun my adjuration with solemnity and an awe which almost assured me
|
||
|
that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion,
|
||
|
but the furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choked my utterance.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiendish laugh.
|
||
|
It rang on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed it,
|
||
|
and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter.
|
||
|
Surely in that moment I should have been possessed by frenzy
|
||
|
and have destroyed my miserable existence but that my vow was heard
|
||
|
and that I was reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away,
|
||
|
when a well-known and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear,
|
||
|
addressed me in an audible whisper, "I am satisfied, miserable wretch!
|
||
|
You have determined to live, and I am satisfied."
|
||
|
|
||
|
I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded,
|
||
|
but the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon
|
||
|
arose and shone full upon his ghastly and distorted shape
|
||
|
as he fled with more than mortal speed.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I pursued him, and for many months this has been my task.
|
||
|
Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone,
|
||
|
but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared, and by a strange chance,
|
||
|
I saw the fiend enter by night and hide himself in a vessel
|
||
|
bound for the Black Sea. I took my passage in the same ship,
|
||
|
but he escaped, I know not how.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me,
|
||
|
I have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants,
|
||
|
scared by this horrid apparition, informed me of his path;
|
||
|
sometimes he himself, who feared that if I lost all trace of him
|
||
|
I should despair and die, left some mark to guide me. The snows
|
||
|
descended on my head, and I saw the print of his huge step on the
|
||
|
white plain. To you first entering on life, to whom care is new
|
||
|
and agony unknown, how can you understand what I have felt and still feel?
|
||
|
Cold, want, and fatigue were the least pains which I was destined to endure;
|
||
|
I was cursed by some devil and carried about with me my eternal hell;
|
||
|
yet still a spirit of good followed and directed my steps
|
||
|
and when I most murmured would suddenly extricate me
|
||
|
from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes, when nature,
|
||
|
overcome by hunger, sank under the exhaustion, a repast was prepared for me
|
||
|
in the desert that restored and inspirited me. The fare was, indeed,
|
||
|
coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate, but I will not doubt
|
||
|
that it was set there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me.
|
||
|
Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst,
|
||
|
a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few drops that revived me,
|
||
|
and vanish.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the daemon
|
||
|
generally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the country
|
||
|
chiefly collected. In other places human beings were seldom seen,
|
||
|
and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my path.
|
||
|
I had money with me and gained the friendship of the villagers
|
||
|
by distributing it; or I brought with me some food that I had killed,
|
||
|
which, after taking a small part, I always presented to those
|
||
|
who had provided me with fire and utensils for cooking.
|
||
|
|
||
|
My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me,
|
||
|
and it was during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep!
|
||
|
Often, when most miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me
|
||
|
even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me had provided these moments,
|
||
|
or rather hours, of happiness that I might retain strength
|
||
|
to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk
|
||
|
under my hardships. During the day I was sustained and inspirited
|
||
|
by the hope of night, for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife,
|
||
|
and my beloved country; again I saw the benevolent countenance
|
||
|
of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth's voice,
|
||
|
and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often,
|
||
|
when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming
|
||
|
until night should come and that I should then enjoy reality
|
||
|
in the arms of my dearest friends. What agonizing fondness
|
||
|
did I feel for them! How did I cling to their dear forms,
|
||
|
as sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself
|
||
|
that they still lived! At such moments vengeance, that burned within me,
|
||
|
died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the destruction
|
||
|
of the daemon more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the mechanical impulse
|
||
|
of some power of which I was unconscious, than as the ardent desire
|
||
|
of my soul.
|
||
|
|
||
|
What his feelings were whom I pursued I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed,
|
||
|
he left marks in writing on the barks of the trees or cut in stone
|
||
|
that guided me and instigated my fury. "My reign is not yet over"--
|
||
|
these words were legible in one of these inscriptions--
|
||
|
"you live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices
|
||
|
of the north, where you will feel the misery of cold and frost,
|
||
|
to which I am impassive. You will find near this place,
|
||
|
if you follow not too tardily, a dead hare; eat and be refreshed.
|
||
|
Come on, my enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives,
|
||
|
but many hard and miserable hours must you endure until that period
|
||
|
shall arrive."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee,
|
||
|
miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I give up my search
|
||
|
until he or I perish; and then with what ecstasy shall I join my Elizabeth
|
||
|
and my departed friends, who even now prepare for me the reward
|
||
|
of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage!
|
||
|
|
||
|
As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened
|
||
|
and the cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support.
|
||
|
The peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy
|
||
|
ventured forth to seize the animals whom starvation had forced
|
||
|
from their hiding-places to seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice,
|
||
|
and no fish could be procured; and thus I was cut off
|
||
|
from my chief article of maintenance.
|
||
|
|
||
|
The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours.
|
||
|
One inscription that he left was in these words: "Prepare!
|
||
|
Your toils only begin; wrap yourself in furs and provide food,
|
||
|
for we shall soon enter upon a journey where your sufferings
|
||
|
will satisfy my everlasting hatred."
|
||
|
|
||
|
My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words;
|
||
|
I resolved not to fail in my purpose, and calling on heaven to support me,
|
||
|
I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts,
|
||
|
until the ocean appeared at a distance and formed the utmost boundary
|
||
|
of the horizon. Oh! How unlike it was to the blue seasons of the south!
|
||
|
Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land
|
||
|
by its superior wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy
|
||
|
when they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia,
|
||
|
and hailed with rapture the boundary of their toils. I did not weep,
|
||
|
but I knelt down and with a full heart thanked my guiding spirit
|
||
|
for conducting me in safety to the place where I hoped,
|
||
|
notwithstanding my adversary's gibe, to meet and grapple with him.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs
|
||
|
and thus traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know not
|
||
|
whether the fiend possessed the same advantages, but I found that,
|
||
|
as before I had daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him,
|
||
|
so much so that when I first saw the ocean he was but one day's journey
|
||
|
in advance, and I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach.
|
||
|
With new courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days
|
||
|
arrived at a wretched hamlet on the seashore. I inquired of the inhabitants
|
||
|
concerning the fiend and gained accurate information. A gigantic monster,
|
||
|
they said, had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols,
|
||
|
putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage through fear
|
||
|
of his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter food,
|
||
|
and placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized
|
||
|
on a numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them,
|
||
|
and the same night, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers,
|
||
|
had pursued his journey across the sea in a direction that led to no land;
|
||
|
and they conjectured that he must speedily be destroyed
|
||
|
by the breaking of the ice or frozen by the eternal frosts.
|
||
|
|
||
|
On hearing this information I suffered a temporary access of despair.
|
||
|
He had escaped me, and I must commence a destructive
|
||
|
and almost endless journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean,
|
||
|
amidst cold that few of the inhabitants could long endure and which I,
|
||
|
the native of a genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive.
|
||
|
Yet at the idea that the fiend should live and be triumphant,
|
||
|
my rage and vengeance returned, and like a mighty tide,
|
||
|
overwhelmed every other feeling. After a slight repose,
|
||
|
during which the spirits of the dead hovered round and instigated me
|
||
|
to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities
|
||
|
of the frozen ocean, and purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions,
|
||
|
I departed from land.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I cannot guess how many days have passed since then,
|
||
|
but I have endured misery which nothing but the eternal sentiment
|
||
|
of a just retribution burning within my heart could have enabled me
|
||
|
to support. Immense and rugged mountains of ice often
|
||
|
barred up my passage, and I often heard the thunder of the ground sea,
|
||
|
which threatened my destruction. But again the frost came
|
||
|
and made the paths of the sea secure.
|
||
|
|
||
|
By the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should guess
|
||
|
that I had passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual
|
||
|
protraction of hope, returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops
|
||
|
of despondency and grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed
|
||
|
almost secured her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery.
|
||
|
Once, after the poor animals that conveyed me had with incredible toil
|
||
|
gained the summit of a sloping ice mountain, and one,
|
||
|
sinking under his fatigue, died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish,
|
||
|
when suddenly my eye caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain.
|
||
|
I strained my sight to discover what it could be and uttered a wild cry
|
||
|
of ecstasy when I distinguished a sledge and the distorted proportions
|
||
|
of a well-known form within. Oh! With what a burning gush did hope
|
||
|
revisit my heart! Warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away,
|
||
|
that they might not intercept the view I had of the daemon;
|
||
|
but still my sight was dimmed by the burning drops, until,
|
||
|
giving way to the emotions that oppressed me, I wept aloud.
|
||
|
|
||
|
But this was not the time for delay; I disencumbered the dogs
|
||
|
of their dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food,
|
||
|
and after an hour's rest, which was absolutely necessary,
|
||
|
and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continued my route.
|
||
|
The sledge was still visible, nor did I again lose sight of it
|
||
|
except at the moments when for a short time some ice-rock concealed it
|
||
|
with its intervening crags. I indeed perceptibly gained on it,
|
||
|
and when, after nearly two days' journey, I beheld my enemy at no
|
||
|
more than a mile distant, my heart bounded within me.
|
||
|
|
||
|
But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe,
|
||
|
my hopes were suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him
|
||
|
more utterly than I had ever done before. A ground sea was heard;
|
||
|
the thunder of its progress, as the waters rolled and swelled
|
||
|
beneath me, became every moment more ominous and terrific.
|
||
|
I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose; the sea roared; and,
|
||
|
as with the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split and cracked
|
||
|
with a tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished;
|
||
|
in a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy,
|
||
|
and I was left drifting on a scattered piece of ice
|
||
|
that was continually lessening and thus preparing for me a hideous death.
|
||
|
|
||
|
In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs died,
|
||
|
and I myself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress
|
||
|
when I saw your vessel riding at anchor and holding forth to me
|
||
|
hopes of succour and life. I had no conception that vessels
|
||
|
ever came so far north and was astounded at the sight.
|
||
|
I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars,
|
||
|
and by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue,
|
||
|
to move my ice raft in the direction of your ship. I had determined,
|
||
|
if you were going southwards, still to trust myself to the mercy
|
||
|
of the seas rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you
|
||
|
to grant me a boat with which I could pursue my enemy.
|
||
|
But your direction was northwards. You took me on board
|
||
|
when my vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk
|
||
|
under my multiplied hardships into a death which I still dread,
|
||
|
for my task is unfulfilled.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Oh! When will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the daemon,
|
||
|
allow me the rest I so much desire; or must I die, and he yet live?
|
||
|
If I do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape,
|
||
|
that you will seek him and satisfy my vengeance in his death.
|
||
|
And do I dare to ask of you to undertake my pilgrimage,
|
||
|
to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No; I am not so selfish.
|
||
|
Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear, if the ministers of vengeance
|
||
|
should conduct him to you, swear that he shall not live--
|
||
|
swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated woes and survive
|
||
|
to add to the list of his dark crimes. He is eloquent and persuasive,
|
||
|
and once his words had even power over my heart; but trust him not.
|
||
|
His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and fiendlike malice.
|
||
|
Hear him not; 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 direct the steel aright.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
Walton, in continuation.
|
||
|
|
||
|
August 26th, 17--
|
||
|
|
||
|
You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret;
|
||
|
and do you not feel your blood congeal with horror, like that
|
||
|
which even now curdles mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony,
|
||
|
he could not continue his tale; at others, his voice broken,
|
||
|
yet piercing, uttered with difficulty the words so replete with anguish.
|
||
|
His fine and lovely eyes were now lighted up with indignation,
|
||
|
now subdued to downcast sorrow and quenched in infinite wretchedness.
|
||
|
Sometimes he commanded his countenance and tones and related
|
||
|
the most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice, suppressing every mark
|
||
|
of agitation; then, like a volcano bursting forth,
|
||
|
his face would suddenly change to an expression of the wildest rage
|
||
|
as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor.
|
||
|
|
||
|
His tale is connected and told with an appearance of the simplest truth,
|
||
|
yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me,
|
||
|
and the apparition of the monster seen from our ship,
|
||
|
brought to me a greater conviction of the truth of his narrative
|
||
|
than his asseverations, however earnest and connected.
|
||
|
Such a monster has, then, really existence! I cannot doubt it,
|
||
|
yet I am lost in surprise and admiration. Sometimes I endeavoured
|
||
|
to gain from Frankenstein the particulars of his creature's formation,
|
||
|
but on this point he was impenetrable.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Are you mad, my friend?" said he. "Or whither
|
||
|
does your senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for yourself
|
||
|
and the world a demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace! Learn my miseries
|
||
|
and do not seek to increase your own."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history;
|
||
|
he asked to see them and then himself corrected and augmented them
|
||
|
in many places, but principally in giving the life and spirit
|
||
|
to the conversations he held with his enemy. "Since you have preserved
|
||
|
my narration," said he, "I would not that a mutilated one
|
||
|
should go down to posterity."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest tale
|
||
|
that ever imagination formed. My thoughts and every feeling of my soul
|
||
|
have been drunk up by the interest for my guest which this tale
|
||
|
and his own elevated and gentle manners have created.
|
||
|
I wish to soothe him, yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable,
|
||
|
so destitute of every hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no!
|
||
|
The only joy that he can now know will be when he composes
|
||
|
his shattered spirit to peace and death. Yet he enjoys one comfort,
|
||
|
the offspring of solitude and delirium; he believes that when in dreams
|
||
|
he holds converse with his friends and derives from that communion
|
||
|
consolation for his miseries or excitements to his vengeance,
|
||
|
that they are not the creations of his fancy, but the beings themselves
|
||
|
who visit him from the regions of a remote world. This faith
|
||
|
gives a solemnity to his reveries that render them to me
|
||
|
almost as imposing and interesting as truth.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and misfortunes.
|
||
|
On every point of general literature he displays unbounded knowledge
|
||
|
and a quick and piercing apprehension. His eloquence is forcible
|
||
|
and touching; nor can I hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident
|
||
|
or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love, without tears.
|
||
|
What a glorious creature must he have been in the days of his prosperity,
|
||
|
when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin! He seems to feel his own worth
|
||
|
and the greatness of his fall.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"When younger," said he, "I believed myself destined
|
||
|
for some great enterprise. My feelings are profound, but I possessed
|
||
|
a coolness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements.
|
||
|
This sentiment of the worth of my nature supported me when others
|
||
|
would have been oppressed, for I deemed it criminal to throw away
|
||
|
in useless grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow creatures.
|
||
|
When I reflected on the work I had completed, no less a one
|
||
|
than the creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself
|
||
|
with the herd of common projectors. But this thought, which supported me
|
||
|
in the commencement of my career, now serves only to plunge me lower
|
||
|
in the dust. All my speculations and hopes are as nothing,
|
||
|
and like the archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained
|
||
|
in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis
|
||
|
and application were intense; by the union of these qualities
|
||
|
I conceived the idea and executed the creation of a man. Even now
|
||
|
I cannot recollect without passion my reveries while the work was incomplete.
|
||
|
I trod heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers,
|
||
|
now burning with the idea of their effects. From my infancy
|
||
|
I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition; but how am I sunk!
|
||
|
Oh! My friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would not recognize me
|
||
|
in this state of degradation. Despondency rarely visited my heart;
|
||
|
a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell, never,
|
||
|
never again to rise."
|
||
|
|
||
|
Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend;
|
||
|
I have sought one who would sympathize with and love me. Behold,
|
||
|
on these desert seas I have found such a one, but I fear I have gained him
|
||
|
only to know his value and lose him. I would reconcile him to life,
|
||
|
but he repulses the idea.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"I thank you, Walton," he said, "for your kind intentions
|
||
|
towards so miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties
|
||
|
and fresh affections, think you that any can replace those who are gone?
|
||
|
Can any man be to me as Clerval was, or any woman another Elizabeth?
|
||
|
Even where the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence,
|
||
|
the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power
|
||
|
over our minds which hardly any later friend can obtain.
|
||
|
They know our infantine dispositions, which, however they may be
|
||
|
afterwards modified, are never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions
|
||
|
with more certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives.
|
||
|
A sister or a brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms
|
||
|
have been shown early, suspect the other of fraud or false dealing,
|
||
|
when another friend, however strongly he may be attached, may,
|
||
|
in spite of himself, be contemplated with suspicion. But I enjoyed friends,
|
||
|
dear not only through habit and association, but from their own merits;
|
||
|
and wherever I am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth and the conversation
|
||
|
of Clerval will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead,
|
||
|
and but one feeling in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life.
|
||
|
If I were engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught
|
||
|
with extensive utility to my fellow creatures, then could I live
|
||
|
to fulfil it. But such is not my destiny; I must pursue and destroy
|
||
|
the being to whom I gave existence; then my lot on earth will be fulfilled
|
||
|
and I may die."
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
My beloved Sister, September 2nd
|
||
|
|
||
|
I write to you, encompassed by peril and ignorant whether I am
|
||
|
ever doomed to see again dear England and the dearer friends that
|
||
|
inhabit it. I am surrounded by mountains of ice which admit of
|
||
|
no escape and threaten every moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows
|
||
|
whom I have persuaded to be my companions look towards me for aid,
|
||
|
but I have none to bestow. There is something terribly appalling
|
||
|
in our situation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert me.
|
||
|
Yet it is terrible to reflect that the lives of all these men
|
||
|
are endangered through me. If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause.
|
||
|
|
||
|
And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear
|
||
|
of my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass,
|
||
|
and you will have visitings of despair and yet be tortured by hope.
|
||
|
Oh! My beloved sister, the sickening failing of your heart-felt expectations
|
||
|
is, in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you
|
||
|
have a husband and lovely children; you may be happy. Heaven bless you
|
||
|
and make you so!
|
||
|
|
||
|
My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion.
|
||
|
He endeavours to fill me with hope and talks as if life were a possession
|
||
|
which he valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents
|
||
|
have happened to other navigators who have attempted this sea,
|
||
|
and in spite of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries.
|
||
|
Even the sailors feel the power of his eloquence; when he speaks,
|
||
|
they no longer despair; he rouses their energies,
|
||
|
and while they hear his voice they believe these vast mountains of ice
|
||
|
are mole-hills which will vanish before the resolutions of man.
|
||
|
These feelings are transitory; each day of expectation delayed
|
||
|
fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny caused by this despair.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
September 5th
|
||
|
|
||
|
A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest that,
|
||
|
although it is highly probable that these papers may never reach you,
|
||
|
yet I cannot forbear recording it.
|
||
|
|
||
|
We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger
|
||
|
of being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive,
|
||
|
and many of my unfortunate comrades have already found a grave
|
||
|
amidst this scene of desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in health;
|
||
|
a feverish fire still glimmers in his eyes, but he is exhausted,
|
||
|
and when suddenly roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again
|
||
|
into apparent lifelessness.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny.
|
||
|
This morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend--
|
||
|
his eyes half closed and his limbs hanging listlessly--
|
||
|
I was roused by half a dozen of the sailors, who demanded admission
|
||
|
into the cabin. They entered, and their leader addressed me.
|
||
|
He told me that he and his companions had been chosen by the other sailors
|
||
|
to come in deputation to me to make me a requisition which, in justice,
|
||
|
I could not refuse. We were immured in ice and should probably never escape,
|
||
|
but they feared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate
|
||
|
and a free passage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage
|
||
|
and lead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily
|
||
|
have surmounted this. They insisted, therefore, that I should engage
|
||
|
with a solemn promise that if the vessel should be freed
|
||
|
I would instantly direct my course southwards.
|
||
|
|
||
|
This speech troubled me. I had not despaired, nor had I yet conceived
|
||
|
the idea of returning if set free. Yet could I, in justice,
|
||
|
or even in possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered,
|
||
|
when Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and indeed
|
||
|
appeared hardly to have force enough to attend, now roused himself;
|
||
|
his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour.
|
||
|
Turning towards the men, he said, "What do you mean? What do you demand
|
||
|
of your captain? Are you, then, so easily turned from your design?
|
||
|
Did you not call this a glorious expedition? And wherefore was it glorious?
|
||
|
Not because the way was smooth and placid as a southern sea,
|
||
|
but because it was full of dangers and terror, because at every new incident
|
||
|
your fortitude was to be called forth and your courage exhibited,
|
||
|
because danger and death surrounded it, and these you were to brave
|
||
|
and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this was it an honourable
|
||
|
undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors
|
||
|
of your species, your names adored as belonging to brave men
|
||
|
who encountered death for honour and the benefit of mankind.
|
||
|
And now, behold, with the first imagination of danger, or, if you will,
|
||
|
the first mighty and terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away
|
||
|
and are content to be handed down as men who had not strength enough
|
||
|
to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls, they were chilly
|
||
|
and returned to their warm firesides. Why, that requires
|
||
|
not this preparation; ye need not have come thus far
|
||
|
and dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat merely
|
||
|
to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! Be men, or be more than men.
|
||
|
Be steady to your purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made
|
||
|
of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you
|
||
|
if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families
|
||
|
with the stigma of disgrace marked on your brows. Return as heroes
|
||
|
who have fought and conquered and who know not what it is
|
||
|
to turn their backs on the foe."
|
||
|
|
||
|
He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings
|
||
|
expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design
|
||
|
and heroism, that can you wonder that these men were moved?
|
||
|
They looked at one another and were unable to reply. I spoke;
|
||
|
I told them to retire and consider of what had been said,
|
||
|
that I would not lead them farther north if they strenuously desired
|
||
|
the contrary, but that I hoped that, with reflection,
|
||
|
their courage would return.
|
||
|
|
||
|
They retired and I turned towards my friend, but he was sunk in languor
|
||
|
and almost deprived of life.
|
||
|
|
||
|
How all this will terminate, I know not, but I had rather die
|
||
|
than return shamefully, my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear
|
||
|
such will be my fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour,
|
||
|
can never willingly continue to endure their present hardships.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
September 7th
|
||
|
|
||
|
The die is cast; I have consented to return if we are not destroyed.
|
||
|
Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision;
|
||
|
I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy
|
||
|
than I possess to bear this injustice with patience.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
September 12th
|
||
|
|
||
|
It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes
|
||
|
of utility and glory; I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour
|
||
|
to detail these bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister;
|
||
|
and while I am wafted towards England and towards you,
|
||
|
I will not despond.
|
||
|
|
||
|
September 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder
|
||
|
were heard at a distance as the islands split and cracked
|
||
|
in every direction. We were in the most imminent peril,
|
||
|
but as we could only remain passive, my chief attention was occupied
|
||
|
by my unfortunate guest whose illness increased in such a degree
|
||
|
that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice cracked behind us
|
||
|
and was driven with force towards the north; a breeze sprang
|
||
|
from the west, and on the 11th the passage towards the south
|
||
|
became perfectly free. When the sailors saw this and that their return
|
||
|
to their native country was apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy
|
||
|
broke from them, loud and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing,
|
||
|
awoke and asked the cause of the tumult. "They shout," I said,
|
||
|
"because they will soon return to England."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Do you, then, really return?"
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Alas! Yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them
|
||
|
unwillingly to danger, and I must return."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose,
|
||
|
but mine is assigned to me by heaven, and I dare not. I am weak,
|
||
|
but surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me
|
||
|
with sufficient strength." Saying this, he endeavoured
|
||
|
to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too great for him;
|
||
|
he fell back and fainted.
|
||
|
|
||
|
It was long before he was restored, and I often thought
|
||
|
that life was entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes;
|
||
|
he breathed with difficulty and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him
|
||
|
a composing draught and ordered us to leave him undisturbed.
|
||
|
In the meantime he told me that my friend had certainly
|
||
|
not many hours to live.
|
||
|
|
||
|
His sentence was pronounced, and I could only grieve and be patient.
|
||
|
I sat by his bed, watching him; his eyes were closed,
|
||
|
and I thought he slept; but presently he called to me in a feeble voice,
|
||
|
and bidding me come near, said, "Alas! The strength I relied on is gone;
|
||
|
I feel that I shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor,
|
||
|
may still be in being. Think not, Walton, that in the last moments
|
||
|
of my existence I feel that burning hatred and ardent desire of revenge
|
||
|
I once expressed; but I feel myself justified in desiring the death
|
||
|
of my adversary. During these last days I have been occupied
|
||
|
in examining my past conduct; nor do I find it blamable.
|
||
|
In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature
|
||
|
and was bound towards him to assure, as far as was in my power,
|
||
|
his happiness and well-being. This was my duty, but there was another
|
||
|
still paramount to that. My duties towards the beings of my own species
|
||
|
had greater claims to my attention because they included a greater proportion
|
||
|
of happiness or misery. Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right
|
||
|
in refusing, to create a companion for the first creature.
|
||
|
He showed unparalleled malignity and selfishness in evil;
|
||
|
he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction beings
|
||
|
who possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know
|
||
|
where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself that
|
||
|
he may render no other wretched, he ought to die.
|
||
|
The task of his destruction was mine, but I have failed.
|
||
|
When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I asked you
|
||
|
to undertake my unfinished work, and I renew this request now,
|
||
|
when I am only induced by reason and virtue.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends
|
||
|
to fulfil this task; and now that you are returning to England,
|
||
|
you will have little chance of meeting with him. But the consideration
|
||
|
of these points, and the well balancing of what you may esteem your duties,
|
||
|
I leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed
|
||
|
by the near approach of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right,
|
||
|
for I may still be misled by passion.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me;
|
||
|
in other respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my release,
|
||
|
is the only happy one which I have enjoyed for several years.
|
||
|
The forms of the beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their arms.
|
||
|
Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity and avoid ambition,
|
||
|
even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself
|
||
|
in science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself
|
||
|
been blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed."
|
||
|
|
||
|
His voice became fainter as he spoke, and at length, exhausted by his effort,
|
||
|
he sank into silence. About half an hour afterwards he attempted again
|
||
|
to speak but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes
|
||
|
closed forever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away
|
||
|
from his lips.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction
|
||
|
of this glorious spirit? What can I say that will enable you
|
||
|
to understand the depth of my sorrow? All that I should express
|
||
|
would be inadequate and feeble. My tears flow; my mind
|
||
|
is overshadowed by a cloud of disappointment. But I journey
|
||
|
towards England, and I may there find consolation.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is midnight;
|
||
|
the breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir.
|
||
|
Again there is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes
|
||
|
from the cabin where the remains of Frankenstein still lie.
|
||
|
I must arise and examine. Good night, my sister.
|
||
|
|
||
|
Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy
|
||
|
with the remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power
|
||
|
to detail it; yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete
|
||
|
without this final and wonderful catastrophe.
|
||
|
|
||
|
I entered the cabin where lay the remains of my ill-fated
|
||
|
and admirable friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words
|
||
|
to describe--gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted
|
||
|
in its proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his face
|
||
|
was concealed by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand
|
||
|
was extended, in colour and apparent texture like that of a mummy.
|
||
|
When he heard the sound of my approach, he ceased to utter
|
||
|
exclamations of grief and horror and sprung towards the window.
|
||
|
Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such
|
||
|
loathsome yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily
|
||
|
and endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard
|
||
|
to this destroyer. I called on him to stay.
|
||
|
|
||
|
He paused, looking on me with wonder, and again turning towards
|
||
|
the lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence,
|
||
|
and every feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage
|
||
|
of some uncontrollable passion.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"That is also my victim!" he exclaimed. "In his murder my crimes
|
||
|
are consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its close!
|
||
|
Oh, Frankenstein! Generous and self-devoted being! What does it avail
|
||
|
that I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee
|
||
|
by destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! He is cold, he cannot answer me."
|
||
|
|
||
|
His voice seemed suffocated, and my first impulses, which had suggested
|
||
|
to me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend
|
||
|
in destroying his enemy, were now suspended by a mixture
|
||
|
of curiosity and compassion. I approached this tremendous being;
|
||
|
I dared not again raise my eyes to his face, there was something
|
||
|
so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness. I attempted to speak,
|
||
|
but the words died away on my lips. The monster continued
|
||
|
to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches. At length
|
||
|
I gathered resolution to address him in a pause of the tempest
|
||
|
of his passion. "Your repentance," I said, "is now superfluous.
|
||
|
If you had listened to the voice of conscience and heeded
|
||
|
the stings of remorse before you had urged your diabolical
|
||
|
vengeance to this extremity, Frankenstein would yet have lived."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"And do you dream?" said the daemon. "Do you think that I was then dead
|
||
|
to agony and remorse? He," he continued, pointing to the corpse,
|
||
|
"he suffered not in the consummation of the deed. Oh!
|
||
|
Not the ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine
|
||
|
during the lingering detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness
|
||
|
hurried me on, while my heart was poisoned with remorse.
|
||
|
Think you that the groans of Clerval were music to my ears?
|
||
|
My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy,
|
||
|
and when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure
|
||
|
the violence of the change without torture such as you cannot even imagine.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"After the murder of Clerval I returned to Switzerland,
|
||
|
heart-broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity
|
||
|
amounted to horror; I abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he,
|
||
|
the author at once of my existence and of its unspeakable torments,
|
||
|
dared to hope for happiness, that while he accumulated wretchedness
|
||
|
and despair upon me he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions
|
||
|
from the indulgence of which I was forever barred, then impotent envy
|
||
|
and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance.
|
||
|
I recollected my threat and resolved that it should be accomplished.
|
||
|
I knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture,
|
||
|
but I was the slave, not the master, of an impulse which I detested
|
||
|
yet could not disobey. Yet when she died! Nay, then I was not miserable.
|
||
|
I had cast off all feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess
|
||
|
of my despair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far,
|
||
|
I had no choice but to adapt my nature to an element
|
||
|
which I had willingly chosen. The completion of my demoniacal design
|
||
|
became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended; there is my last victim!"
|
||
|
|
||
|
I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery;
|
||
|
yet, when I called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers
|
||
|
of eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes
|
||
|
on the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was rekindled within me.
|
||
|
"Wretch!" I said. "It is well that you come here to whine
|
||
|
over the desolation that you have made. You throw a torch
|
||
|
into a pile of buildings, and when they are consumed,
|
||
|
you sit among the ruins and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend!
|
||
|
If he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object,
|
||
|
again would he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance.
|
||
|
It is not pity that you feel; you lament only because the victim
|
||
|
of your malignity is withdrawn from your power."
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Oh, it is not thus--not thus," interrupted the being.
|
||
|
"Yet such must be the impression conveyed to you by what appears
|
||
|
to be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow feeling
|
||
|
in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I first sought it,
|
||
|
it was the love of virtue, the feelings of happiness and affection
|
||
|
with which my whole being overflowed, that I wished to be participated.
|
||
|
But now that virtue has become to me a shadow, and that happiness
|
||
|
and affection are turned into bitter and loathing despair,
|
||
|
in what should I seek for sympathy? I am content to suffer alone
|
||
|
while my sufferings shall endure; when I die, I am well satisfied
|
||
|
that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once my fancy
|
||
|
was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment.
|
||
|
Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings who, pardoning my outward form,
|
||
|
would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding.
|
||
|
I was nourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion.
|
||
|
But now crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal.
|
||
|
No guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found
|
||
|
comparable to mine. When I run over the frightful catalogue
|
||
|
of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts
|
||
|
were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty
|
||
|
and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the fallen angel
|
||
|
becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man
|
||
|
had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge
|
||
|
of my crimes and his misfortunes. But in the detail which he gave you
|
||
|
of them he could not sum up the hours and months of misery
|
||
|
which I endured wasting in impotent passions. For while
|
||
|
I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires.
|
||
|
They were forever ardent and craving; still I desired love
|
||
|
and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there no injustice
|
||
|
in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all humankind
|
||
|
sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend
|
||
|
from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic
|
||
|
who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous
|
||
|
and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned,
|
||
|
am an abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on.
|
||
|
Even now my blood boils at the recollection of this injustice.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely
|
||
|
and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept
|
||
|
and grasped to death his throat who never injured me
|
||
|
or any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen
|
||
|
of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery;
|
||
|
I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin. There he lies,
|
||
|
white and cold in death. You hate me, but your abhorrence
|
||
|
cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the hands
|
||
|
which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the imagination
|
||
|
of it was conceived and long for the moment when these hands
|
||
|
will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief.
|
||
|
My work is nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man's death
|
||
|
is needed to consummate the series of my being and accomplish
|
||
|
that which must be done, but it requires my own. Do not think
|
||
|
that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel
|
||
|
on the ice raft which brought me thither and shall seek
|
||
|
the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile
|
||
|
and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains
|
||
|
may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch
|
||
|
who would create such another as I have been. I shall die.
|
||
|
I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me or be the prey
|
||
|
of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead
|
||
|
who called me into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance
|
||
|
of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars
|
||
|
or feel the winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and sense
|
||
|
will pass away; and in this condition must I find my happiness.
|
||
|
Some years ago, when the images which this world affords
|
||
|
first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer
|
||
|
and heard the rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds,
|
||
|
and these were all to me, I should have wept to die;
|
||
|
now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes and torn
|
||
|
by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death?
|
||
|
|
||
|
"Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of humankind
|
||
|
whom these eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein!
|
||
|
If thou wert yet alive and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me,
|
||
|
it would be better satiated in my life than in my destruction.
|
||
|
But it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause
|
||
|
greater wretchedness; and if yet, in some mode unknown to me,
|
||
|
thou hadst not ceased to think and feel, thou wouldst not desire
|
||
|
against me a vengeance greater than that which I feel.
|
||
|
Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine,
|
||
|
for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my wounds
|
||
|
until death shall close them forever.
|
||
|
|
||
|
"But soon," he cried with sad and solemn enthusiasm, "I shall die,
|
||
|
and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries
|
||
|
will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly
|
||
|
and exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light
|
||
|
of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea
|
||
|
by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace, or if it thinks,
|
||
|
it will not surely think thus. Farewell."
|
||
|
|
||
|
He sprang from the cabin window as he said this, upon the ice raft
|
||
|
which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves
|
||
|
and lost in darkness and distance.
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
|
||
|
End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Frankenstein
|
||
|
|
||
|
|