Project Gutenberg's Frankenstein, by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley

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Title: Frankenstein

or The Modern Prometheus

Author: Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley

Release Date: June 17, 2008 [EBook #84]

Last updated: January 13, 2018

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRANKENSTEIN ***

Produced by Judith Boss, Christy Phillips, Lynn Hanninen,

and David Meltzer. HTML version by Al Haines.

Further corrections by Menno de Leeuw.

Frankenstein;

or, the Modern Prometheus

by

Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley

CONTENTS

Letter 1

Letter 2

Letter 3

Letter 4

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

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 for ever

visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a

perpetual splendour. There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put

some trust in preceding navigators—there snow and frost are banished;

and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in

wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable

globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the

phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered

solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I

may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may

regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this

voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I

shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world

never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by

the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to

conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this

laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little

boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his

native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you

cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all

mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole

to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are

requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at

all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my

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

to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as

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

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

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

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

through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember that a

history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the

whole of our good Uncle Thomas’ 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 sympathise with me, whose

eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I

bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet

courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose

tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a

friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution

and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me

that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild

on a common and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas’ 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 any the most

trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with

a beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he

is generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his

teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.

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

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

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

and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose.

Once, however, the lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice

in so strange a vehicle.

His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom, and

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries.”

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

trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine.”

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

benevolently restored me to life.”

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

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

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

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

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

From this time 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 19th, 17—.

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

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

determined 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, rough 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 afterwards ruled my

destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost

forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent

which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys.

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

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

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

on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of the

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

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

with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate and the wonderful

facts which he relates soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new

light seemed to dawn upon my mind, and bounding with joy, I communicated my

discovery to my father. 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