FRANKENSTEIN;

OR,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

Did I request thre, Maker, from my clay

To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me? __
PARADISE Lorr.

VOL. 1.

Lontion:
PRINTED FOR
LACKINGTON, HUGLIES, HARDING, MAVOR, & JONES.
FISSBUHY SQUARE.

1818.

I Epigraph: Milton, Paradise Lost X. 743-45.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 45

 TO

WILLIAM GODWIN,

AUTHOR OF POLITICAL JUSTICE, CALEB WILLIAMS,

St.

THESE VOLUMES

Are respectfully inscribed

BY

THE AUTHOR.

46 MARY W O L L S T O N E C R A F T SHELLEY
 PREFACE.1

THE event on which this fiction is founded has been supposed,

by Dr. Darwin, and some of the physiological writers of Ger-
many, as not of impossible occurrence. I shall not be supposed
as according the remotest degree of serious faith to such an
imagination; yet, in assuming it as the basis of a work of fancy, I
have not considered myself as merely weaving a series of super-
natural terrors. The event on which the interest of the story
depends is exempt from the disadvantages of a mere tale of
spectres or enchantment. It was recommended by the novelty
of the situations which it developes; and, however impossible as
a physical fact, affords a point of view to the imagination for
the delineating of human passions more comprehensive and
commanding than any which the ordinary relations of existing
events can yield.
I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the ele-
mentary principles of human nature, while I have not scrupled
to innovate upon their combinations. The Iliad, the tragic
poetry of Greece, — Shakespeare, in the Tempest and Midsummer
Night's Dream, - and most especially Milton, in Paradise Lost,
conform to this rule; and the most humble novelist, who seeks
to confer or receive amusement from his labours, may, without
presumption, apply to prose fiction a licence, or rather a rule,
from the adoption of which so many exquisite combinations of
human feeling have resulted in the highest specimens of poetry.
The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested in
casual conversation. It was commenced, partly as a source of
amusement, and partly as an expedient for exercising any
untried resources of mind. Other motives were mingled with
these, as the work proceeded. I am by no means indifferent to
the manner in which whatever moral tendencies exist in the
sentiments or characters it contains shall affect the reader; yet
my chief concern in this respect has been limited to the avoid-
ing the enervating effects of the novels of the present day, and
to the exhibition of the amiableness of domestic affection, and

i Written for Shelley by her husband.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 47

the excellence of universal virtue. The opinions which natural-
ly spring from the character and situation of the hero are by no
means to be conceived as existing always in my own convic-
tion; nor is any inference justly to be drawn from the following
pages as prejudicing any philosophical doctrine of whatever
kind.
It is a subject also of additional interest to the author, that
this story was begun in the majestic region where the scene is
principally laid, and in society which cannot cease to be regret-
ted. I passed the summer of 1816 in the environs of Geneva.
The season was cold and rainy, and in the evenings we crowded
around a blazing wood fire, and occasionally amused ourselves
with some German stories of ghosts, which happened to fall
into our hands.1 These tales excited in us a playful desire of
imitation. Two other friends (a tale from the pen of one of
whom would be far more acceptable to the public than any
thing I can ever hope to produce) and myself agreed to write
each a story, founded on some supernatural occurrence.2
The weather, however, suddenly became serene; and my two
friends left me on a journey among the Alps, and lost, in the
magnificent scenes which they present, all memory of their
ghostly visions. The following tale is the only one which has
been completed.

1 Fantasmagoriana, ou recueil d'histoires d'apparitions de spectres, revenans, fant6mes, etc.

(1812), translated anonymously by Jean-Baptiste-Benoit Eyries (1767-1846), from
the first two volumes of the five-volume Gespensterbuch (1811-15) edited by
Friedrich Schulze and Johann Apel. Eyries's translation had been translated into
English, as Tales of the Dead (1813), by Sarah Elizabeth Brown Utterson (1782?-
1851).
2 In addition to P.B. Shelley and Byron, the two friends Shelley has in mind, Polidori
contributed a novel, Ernestus Berchtold; or, The Modem Oedipus (1819). He also com-
pleted Byron's abandoned story; it was published as The Vampyre (1819). PB. Shel-
ley's story has been tentatively identified as the verse "Fragment of a Ghost Story"
(1816).

48 MARY W O L L S T O N E C R A F T SHELLEY
 FRANKENSTEIN;
OR, THE
MODERN PROMETHEUS.

L E T T E R I.

To Mrs. SAVILLE, England.

St. Petersburgh, Dec. nth, 17—.'

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the

commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded
with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday; and my
first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare, and increasing
confidence in the success of my undertaking.
I am already far north of London; and as I walk in the streets
of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my
cheeks, which braces my nerves, and fills me with delight. Do
you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled
from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a
foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise,
my day dreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to
be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it
ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty
and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible; its
broad disk just skirting the horizon, and diffusing a perpetual
splendour. There — for with your leave, my sister, I will put
some trust in preceding navigators - there snow and frost are
banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a
land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto
discovered on the habitable globe.2 Its productions and features

1 As Robinson shows (i:lxv-lxvi), the year is 1796; Walton's story begins at about the
date of Shelley's conception and ends thirteen days after her birth (two days after
her mothers death).
2 The classical notion of a temperate Hyperborean zone still retained some credibili-
ty in Shelley's time. It also appears in P B. Shelley, The Revolt of Islam (1818) I.xlvii-
liv, whose composition overlaps with that of Frankenstein.

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 49

may be without example, as the phaenomena 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;1 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 entice-
ments, 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 can-
not 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 mag-
net, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an under-
taking 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 com-
posed the whole of our good uncle Thomas's library. My edu-
cation was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading.
These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiari-
ty 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 sea-faring life.

I Cf. Darwin's speculations on electromagnetism, The Economy of Vegetation (1791)

II. I93n.

50 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 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 under-
taking. 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 reso-
lution 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 forti-
tude: I am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but
sometimes to sustain my own, when their's are failing.
This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia.
They fly quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is
pleasant, and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an
English stage-coach. The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapt

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 51

in furs, a dress which I have already adopted; for there is a great
difference between walking the deck and remaining seated
motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from
actually freezing in your veins. I have no ambition to lose my
life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and Archangel.
I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three
weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily
be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage
as many sailors as I think necessary among those who are
accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail until
the month of June: and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how
can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months,
perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you
will see me again soon, or never.
Farewell, my dear, excellent, Margaret. Heaven shower down
blessings on you, and save me, that I may again and again testify
my gratitude for all your love and kindness.

Your affectionate brother,

R. WALTON

LETTER II.

To Mrs. SAVILLE, England.

Archangel, 28th March, 17—-1

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 sat-
isfy; and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most

I I.e., 1797 (Wollstonecraft and Godwin were married on 29 March).

52 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

severe evil. I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing
with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to partici-
pate 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 coura-
geous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind,
whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans.
How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor
brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too impatient of
difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-
educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a
common, and read nothing but our uncle Thomas's books of
voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated
poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased
to be in my power to derive its most important benefits from
such a conviction, that I perceived the necessity of becoming
acquainted with more languages than that of my native coun-
try. Now I am twenty-eight, and am in reality more illiterate
than many school-boys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought
more, and that my day dreams are more extended and magni-
ficent; 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 lieu-
tenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage and enter-
prise; he is madly desirous of glory. He is an Englishman, and in
the midst of national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by
cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of human-

i Perspective.

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 53

ity. 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. He is, indeed, of so amiable a nature, that he will
not hunt (a favourite, and almost the only amusement here),
because he cannot endure to spill blood. He is, moreover, hero-
ically generous. 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 aban-
doned 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.2 "What a noble fellow!" you will exclaim. He is
so; but then he has passed all his life on board a vessel, and has
scarcely an idea beyond the rope and the shroud.3
But do not suppose that, 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

1 The bounty distributed, according to rank, among the officers and crew of a ship
that captured an enemy vessel.
2 Cf. Wollstonecraft's account of the generosity of Crown Prince Frederik of Den-
mark in Letters Written during a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark
(1796) VII.
3 Cf. the magnanimous jailer in Godwin, S(. Leon 237; XXII.

54 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 consid-
ered 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;"1 but I shall
kill no albatross, therefore do not be alarmed for my safety.
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 to write to me by every
opportunity: I may receive your letters (though the chance is
very doubtful) 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 I I I .

To Mrs. SAVILLE, England.

July yth, 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

i S.T. Coleridge (1772-1834), "The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere" (1798) 408.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 55

merchant-man 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 reno-
vating 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 breaking of a
mast, 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 your's, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be
cool, persevering, and prudent.
Remember me to all my English friends.

Most affectionately yours,

R.W

L E T T E R IV.

To Mrs. SAVILLE, England.

August 5th, 17—.

So strange an accident has happened to us, that I cannot for-

bear 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 dan-
gerous, especially as we were compassed round by a very thick

56 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 per-
ceived 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;1 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 break-
ing up of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours.
In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon
deck, and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel,
apparently talking to some one in the sea. It was, in fact, a
sledge, like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards
us in the night, on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog
remained alive; but there was a human being within it, whom
the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel. He was not, as
the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of some
undiscovered island, but an European. When I appeared on
deck, the master said, "Here is our captain, and he will not
allow you to perish on the open sea."

I A "heavy sea in which large waves rise and dash upon the coast without apparent
cause" (OED).

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 57
 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 ques-
tion 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, how-
ever, that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the north-
ern 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 shewed
signs of life, we wrapped him up in blankets, and placed him
near the chimney of the kitchen-stove.1 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 crea-
ture: his eyes have generally an expression of wildness, and even
madness; but there are moments when, if any one performs an
act of kindness towards him, or does him any the most trifling
service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a
beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled.
But he is generally melancholy and despairing; and sometimes
he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes that
oppresses him.

i Cf. Shelley's dream of 19 March 1815,Journals 1:70.

58 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 When my guest was a little recovered, I had great trouble to
keep off the men, who wished to ask him a thousand ques-
tions; but I would not allow him to be tormented by their idle
curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose restoration evi-
dently depended upon entire repose. Once, however, the lieu-
tenant 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 multi-
tude of questions concerning the route which the daemon, 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 inhu-
man in me to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine."
"And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situa-
tion; 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 the stranger seemed very eager 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. But I have
promised that some one should watch for him, and give him
instant notice if any new object should appear in sight.
Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence
up to the present day. The stranger has gradually improved in

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 59
health, but is very silent, and appears uneasy when any one
except myself enters his cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliat-
ing 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 inter-
vals, should I have any fresh incidents to record.

August i jth, 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 continual-
ly on the deck, apparently watching for the sledge that preced-
ed his own. Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly
occupied by his own misery, but that he interests himself deeply
in the employments of others. He has asked me many questions
concerning my design; and I have related my little history
frankly to him. He appeared pleased with the confidence, and
suggested several alterations in my plan, which I shall find
exceedingly useful. There is no pedantry in his manner; but all
he does appears to spring solely from the interest he instinctive-
ly takes in the welfare of those who surround him. He is often
overcome by gloom, and then he sits by himself, and tries to
overcome all that is sullen or unsocial in his humour. These
paroxysms pass from him like a cloud from before the sun,
though his dejection never leaves him. I have endeavoured to

60 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

win his confidence; and I trust that I have succeeded. One day
I mentioned to him the desire I had always felt of finding a
friend who might sympathize with me, and direct me by his
counsel. I said, I did not belong to that class of men who are
offended by advice. "I am self-educated, and perhaps I hardly
rely sufficiently upon my own powers. I wish therefore that my
companion should be wiser and more experienced than
myself, to confirm and support me; nor have I believed it
impossible to find a true friend."
"I agree with you," replied the stranger, "in believing that
friendship is not only a desirable, but a possible acquisition. 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,1 and have no cause for despair.
But I — I have lost every thing, and cannot begin life anew."
As he said this, his countenance became expressive of a calm
settled grief, that touched me to the heart. But he was silent,
and presently retired to his cabin.
Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply
than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and
every sight afforded by these wonderful regions, seems still to
have the power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man
has a double existence: he may surfer misery, and be over-
whelmed 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 laugh at the enthusiasm I express concerning this
divine wanderer? If you do, you must have certainly lost that
simplicity which was once your characteristic charm. Yet, if
you will, smile at the warmth of my expressions, while I find
every day new causes for repeating them.

August rpth, 17—.

Yesterday the stranger said to me, "You may easily perceive,
Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled
misfortunes. I had determined, once, that the memory of these

i An ironic allusion to Milton, Paradise Lost XII.646.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; O R , THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 61
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 misfortunes will be useful to you,
yet, if you are inclined, listen to my tale. I believe that the
strange incidents connected with it will afford a view of nature,
which may enlarge your faculties and understanding. You will
hear of powers and occurrences, such as you have been accus-
tomed to believe impossible: but I do not doubt that my tale
conveys in its series internal evidence of the truth of the events
of which it is composed."
You may easily conceive 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 use-
less; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and
then I shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling," contin-
ued 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 engaged, 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!

62 MARY W O L L S T O N E C R A F T SHELLEY
 FRANKENSTEIN;
OR,
THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.

C H A P T E R I.

I AM by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most

distinguished of that republic. My ancestors had been for many
years counsellors and syndics;1 and my father had filled several
public situations with honour and reputation. He was respect-
ed by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable
attention to public business. He passed his younger days per-
petually occupied by the affairs of his country; and it was not
until the decline of life that he thought of marrying, and
bestowing on the state sons who might carry his virtues and his
name down to posterity.
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
grieved also for the loss of his society, and resolved to seek him
out and endeavour to persuade 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

i Genevan legislators.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 63

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 for-
tunes; but it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for
some months, and in the mean time he hoped to procure some
respectable employment in a merchant's house. The interval
•was consequently spent in inaction; his grief only became more
deep and rankling, when he had leisure for reflection; and at
length it took so fast hold of his mind, that at the end of three
months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion.
His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness; but
she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreas-
ing, 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;1 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 con-
ducted her to Geneva, and placed her under the protection of a
relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.
When my father became a husband and a parent, he found
his time so occupied by the duties of his new situation, that he
relinquished many of his public employments, and devoted
himself to the education of his children. Of these I was the
eldest, and the destined successor to all his labours and utility.
No creature could have more tender parents than mine. My
improvement and health were their constant care, especially as I
remained for several years their only child. But before I contin-
ue my narrative, I must record an incident which took place
when I was four years of age.

I Plain sewing.

64 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 My father had a sister, whom he tenderly loved, and who
had married early in life an Italian gentleman. Soon after her
marriage, she had accompanied her husband into his native
country, and for some years my father had very little com-
munication with her. About the time I mentioned she died;
and a few months afterwards he received a letter from her hus-
band, acquainting him with his intention of marrying an Italian
lady, and requesting my father to take charge of the infant
Elizabeth, the only child of his deceased sister. "It is my wish,"
he said, "that you should consider her as your own daughter,
and educate her thus. Her mother's fortune is secured to her,
the documents of which I will commit to your keeping.
Reflect upon this proposition; and decide whether you would
prefer educating your niece yourself to her being brought up
by a stepmother."
My father did not hesitate, and immediately went to Italy,
that he might accompany the little Elizabeth to her future
home. I have often heard my mother say, that she was at that
time the most beautiful child she had ever seen, and shewed
signs even then of a gentle and affectionate disposition. These
indications, and a desire to bind as closely as possible the ties of
domestic love, determined my mother to consider Elizabeth as
my future wife; a design which she never found reason to
repent.1
From this time Elizabeth Lavenza became my playfellow,
and, as we grew older, my friend. She was docile and good
tempered, yet gay and playful as a summer insect. Although she
was lively and animated, her feelings were strong and deep, and
her disposition uncommonly affectionate. No one could better
enjoy liberty, yet no one could submit with more grace than
she did to constraint and caprice. Her imagination was luxuri-
ant, yet her capability of application was great. Her person was
the image of her mind; her hazel eyes, although as lively as a
bird's, possessed an attractive softness. Her figure was light and
airy; and, though capable of enduring great fatigue, she
appeared the most fragile creature in the world. While I
admired her understanding and fancy, I loved to tend on her, as

I Cf. the story of Laura in Godwin, Caleb Williams 290-91 (Ill.xiii).

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 65

I should on a favourite animal; and I never saw so much grace
both of person and mind united to so little pretension.
Every one adored Elizabeth. If the servants had any request
to make, it was always through her intercession. We were
strangers to any species of disunion and dispute; for although
there was a great dissimilitude in our characters, there was an
harmony in that very dissimilitude. I was more calm and philo-
sophical than my companion; yet my temper was not so yield-
ing. My application was of longer endurance; but it was not so
severe whilst it endured. I delighted in investigating the facts
relative to the actual world; she busied herself in following the
aerial creations of the poets. The world was to me a secret,
which I desired to discover; to her it was a vacancy, which she
sought to people with imaginations of her own.1
My brothers were considerably younger than myself; but I
had a friend in one of my schoolfellows, who compensated for
this deficiency. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of
Geneva, an intimate friend of my father. He was a boy of sin-
gular talent and fancy. I remember, when he was nine years old,
he wrote a fairy tale, which was the delight and amazement of
all his companions. His favourite study consisted in books of
chivalry and romance; and when very young, I can remember,
that we used to act plays composed by him out of these
favourite books, the principal characters of which were Orlan-
do,2 Robin Hood, Amadis,3 and St. George.
No youth could have passed more happily than mine. My
parents were indulgent, and my companions amiable. Our stud-
ies were never forced; and by some means we always had an
end placed in view, which excited us to ardour in the prosecu-
tion of them. It was by this method, and not by emulation, that
we were urged to application. Elizabeth was not incited to
apply herself to drawing, that her companions might not out-
strip her; but through the desire of pleasing her aunt, by the

1 Cf. Wollstonecraft's critique of women's education, Vindication 130-31; II (Appen-

dix A.2.iii), and Caleb's fatal curiosity in Godwin, Caleb Williams 4(1.i).
2 The hero of Orlando Furioso (1532), by Ludovico Ariosto (1474-1533).
3 The hero of Amadis de Gaula, a traditional Spanish or Portuguese chivalric
romance, written down by Garcia de Montalvo in the later fifteenth century and
translated by Robert Southey (1774-1843) in 1803.

66 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

representation of some favourite scene done by her own hand.
We learned Latin and English, that we might read the writings
in those languages; and so far from study being made odious to
us through punishment, we loved application, and our amuse-
ments would have been the labours of other children. Perhaps
we did not read so many books, or learn languages so quickly,
as those who are disciplined according to the ordinary meth-
ods; but what we learned was impressed the more deeply on
our memories.
In this description of our domestic circle I include Henry
Clerval; for he was constantly with us. He went to school with
me, and generally passed the afternoon at our house; for being
an only child, and destitute of companions at home, his father
was well pleased that he should find associates at our house; and
we were never completely happy when Clerval was absent.
I feel 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 reflec-
tions upon self. But, in drawing the picture of my early days, I
must not omit to 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 philosophy1 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.2 I opened it with
apathy; the theory •which he attempts to demonstrate, and the
wonderful facts which he relates, soon changed this feeling into

1 The common eighteenth-century term for natural science.

2 Henricus Cornelius Agrippa of Nettesheim (1486-1535), author of De Occulta
Philosophic! (1529) and De Vanitate Scientiarum (i53o).Cf. Godwin, S(. Leon 307;
XXIX.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 67

enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind; and,
bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my father.
I cannot help remarking here the many opportunities instruc-
tors possess of directing the attention of their pupils to useful
knowledge, which they utterly neglect. My father looked care-
lessly 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 intro-
duced, 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, with my
imagination warmed as it was, should probably have applied
myself to the more rational theory of chemistry which has
resulted from modern discoveries. 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.1 I read and studied the wild fancies of these
writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures known to
few beside myself; and although I often wished to communi-
cate these secret stores of knowledge to my father, yet his
indefinite censure of my favourite Agrippa always withheld
me. I disclosed my discoveries to Elizabeth, therefore, under a
promise of strict secrecy; but she did not interest herself in the
subject, and I was left by her to pursue my studies alone.
It may appear very strange, that a disciple of Albertus

I Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim (i493?-i54i), known as Paracelsus,

Swiss physician, alchemist, and mystic; and Albertus Magnus (l i93?-i28o), German
Dominican monk, philosopher, and teacher of Thomas Aquinas. Both authors were
favourites of the young Percy Shelley.

68 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

Magnus should arise in the eighteenth century; but our family
was not scientifical, and I had not attended any of the lectures
given at the schools of Geneva. My dreams were therefore
undisturbed by reality; and I entered with the greatest diligence
into the search of the philosophers stone and the elixir of life.1
But the latter obtained my most undivided attention: wealth
was an inferior object; but what glory would attend the discov-
ery, 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 fulfilment of which I most eagerly sought; and if
my incantations were always unsuccessful, I attributed the fail-
ure rather to my own inexperience and mistake, than to a want
of skill or fidelity in my instructors.2
The natural phaenomena that take place every day before
our eyes did not escape my examinations. Distillation, and the
wonderful effects of steam,3 processes of which my favourite
authors were utterly ignorant, excited my astonishment; but my
utmost wonder was engaged by some experiments on an air-
pump, which I saw employed by a gentleman whom we were
in the habit of visiting.
The ignorance of the early philosophers on these and sever-
al other points served to decrease their credit with me: but I
could not entirely throw them aside, before some other system
should occupy their place in my mind.
When I was about fifteen years old, we had retired to our
house near Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and
terrible thunder-storm. It advanced from behind the moun-
tains of Jura; and the thunder burst at once with frightful loud-
ness 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

I The hero of Godwin's St. Leon (1799) acquires both secrets.

z Cf. P.B. Shelley,"Hymn to Intellectual Beauty" (1816) 49-54.
3 Cf. Darwin on steam power, The Economy of Vegetation 1.289-96.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OH, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 69
 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 ribbands of wood. I
never beheld any thing so utterly destroyed.
The catastrophe of this tree excited my extreme astonish-
ment; and I eagerly inquired of my father the nature and origin
of thunder and lightning. He replied, "Electricity;" describing
at the same time the various effects of that power. He con-
structed a small electrical machine, and exhibited a few experi-
ments; he made also a kite, with a wire and string, which drew
down that fluid from the clouds.1
This last stroke completed the overthrow of Cornelius
Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, who had so long
reigned the lords of my imagination. But by some fatality I did
not feel inclined to commence the study of any modern
system; and this disinclination was influenced by the following
circumstance.
My father expressed a wish that I should attend a course of
science lectures upon natural philosophy, to which I cheerfully con-
sented. Some accident prevented my attending these lectures
he until the course was nearly finished. The lecture, being there-
didn’t fore one of the last, was entirely incomprehensible to me. The
attend professor discoursed with the greatest fluency of potassium and
to boron, of sulphates and oxyds, terms to which I could affix no
classes
idea; and I became disgusted with the science of natural philos-
becau
ophy, although I still read Pliny and Buffon with delight,
se his 2
mothe authors, in my estimation, of nearly equal interest and utility.
r died My occupations at this age were principally the mathe-
matics, and most of the branches of study appertaining to that
science. I was busily employed in learning languages; Latin was
already familiar to me, and I began to read some of the easiest
Greek authors without the help of a lexicon. I also perfectly
Dictionary
understood English and German. This is the list of my accom-

1 Cf. Darwin, The Economy of Vegetation 1.362-70, 383-412 (Appendix B.i.i),

2 Caius Plinius Secundus (23-79), author of the encyclopedic Historia Natumlis; and
Georges-Louis Leclerc, comte de Buffon (1707-88), author of Histoire naturelle (44
vols., 1749-1804). Shelley read both in 1817.

70 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

plishments at the age of seventeen; and you may conceive that
my hours were fully employed in acquiring and maintaining a
knowledge of this various literature.
Another task also devolved upon me, when I became the
instructor of my brothers. Ernest was six years younger than
myself, and was my principal pupil. He had been afflicted with
ill heath from his infancy, through which Elizabeth and I had
been his constant nurses: his disposition was gentle, but he was
incapable of any severe application. William, the youngest of
our family, was yet an infant, and the most beautiful little fellow
in the world; his lively blue eyes, dimpled cheeks, and endear-
ing manners, inspired the tenderest affection.
Such was our domestic circle, from which care and pain
seemed for ever banished. My father directed our studies, and
my mother partook of our enjoyments. Neither of us possessed
the slightest pre-eminence over the other; the voice of com-
mand was never heard amongst us; but mutual affection
engaged us all to comply with and obey the slightest desire of
each other.

CHAPTER II.

WHEN I had attained the age of seventeen, my parents resolved

that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt.1
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. foreshadowing
Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; but her illness was not
severe, and she quickly recovered. During her confinement,

i The University of Ingolstadt (1472-1800), on the Danube in Upper Bavaria, had a

medical school, but it was more famous, or infamous, as the headquarters of the
Illuminati, a revolutionary secret society founded by Adam Weishaupt in 1776.
Victor goes there in 1789.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 71

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 her favourite was recover-
ing, she could no longer debar herself from her society, and
entered her chamber long before the danger of infection was
past. The consequences of this imprudence were fatal. On the
third day my mother sickened; her fever was very malignant,
and the looks of her attendants prognosticated the worst event.
On her death-bed the fortitude and benignity of this admirable
woman 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 your younger
cousins. 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."1
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 for
ever - 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 com-
mences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand rent away
some dear connexion; 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

i Cf. Goethe, The Sorrows of Werter 102-8; Letter XXXVII (Appendix C.2.ii).

72 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 journey to Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these
events, was now again determined upon. I obtained from my
father a respite of some weeks. This period was spent sadly; my
mother's death, and my speedy departure, depressed our spirits;
but Elizabeth endeavoured to renew the spirit of cheerfulness
in our little society. Since the death of her aunt, her mind had
acquired new firmness and vigour. She determined to fulfil her
duties with the greatest exactness; and she felt that that most
imperious duty, of rendering her uncle and cousins happy, had
devolved upon her. She consoled me, amused her uncle,
instructed my brothers; and I never beheld her so enchanting as
at this time, when she was continually endeavouring to con-
tribute to the happiness of others, entirely forgetful of herself.
The day of my departure at length arrived. I had taken leave
of all my friends, excepting Clerval, who spent the last evening
with us. He bitterly lamented that he was unable to accompany
me: but his father could not be persuaded to part with him,
intending that he should become a partner with him in busi-
ness, in compliance with his favourite theory, that learning was
superfluous in the commerce of ordinary life. Henry had a
refined mind; he had no desire to be idle, and was well pleased
to become his father's partner, but he believed that a man
might be a very good trader, and yet possess a cultivated under-
standing.
We sat late, listening to his complaints, and making many lit-
tle arrangements for the future. The next morning early I
departed. Tears gushed from the eyes of Elizabeth; they pro-
ceeded partly from sorrow at my departure, and partly because
she reflected that the same journey was to have taken place
three months before, when a mother's blessing would have
accompanied me.
I threw myself into the chaise1 that was to convey me away,

i A small, open carriage.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; O R , THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 73
 and indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had
ever been surrounded by amiable companions, continually
lonelin engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure, I was now
ess 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 broth-
ers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were "old familiar faces;"1 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, and among
others to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He
received me with politeness, and asked me several questions
concerning my progress in the different branches of science
appertaining to natural philosophy. I mentioned, it is true, with
fear and trembling, the only authors I had ever read upon those
subjects. 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

i "The Old Familiar Faces" is the title and refrain of a poem (1798) by Charles Lamb
(1775-1834).

74 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 so greedily imbibed, are a thousand years old, and as musty as
they are ancient? I little expected in this enlightened and scien-
tific age to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus.
My dear Sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew."
So saying, he stept 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 begin-
ning 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 missed.
I returned home, not disappointed, for I had long considered
those authors useless whom the professor had so strongly
reprobated; but I did not feel much inclined to study the books
which I procured at his recommendation. M. Krempe was a
little squat man, with a gruff voice and repulsive countenance;
the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favour of his
doctrine. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern nat-
ural philosophy. It was very different, when the masters of the questi
science sought immortality and power; such views, although ons
forbidde futile, were grand: but now the scene was changed. The ambi- the
n sciencetion of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of educat
those visions on which my interest in science was chiefly ion
founded. I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless syste
grandeur for realities of little worth. m
Such were my reflections during the first two or three days
spent almost in solitude. 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 gray hairs covered his temples, but
those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person was

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 75

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 transmut-
ed, and that the elixir of life is a chimera. But these philoso-
phers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their
eyes to pour over the microscope or crucible, have indeed per-
formed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of nature,
and shew how she works in her hiding places.1 They ascend
into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood circu-
lates, 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."2
I departed highly pleased with the professor and his lecture,
and paid him a visit the same evening. 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 kind-
ness. He heard with attention my 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 foun-
dations of their knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier
task, to give new names, and arrange in connected classifica-
tions, the facts which they in a great degree had been the

1 Cf. Davy, Discourse 14-15 (Appendix B.i.iv).

2 Cf. Godwin, Political Justice 2: 502-4; VIH.viii.appendix (Appendix A. I .i); and Davy,
Discourse 15-17 (Appendix B.2.v), and 18-19 (Appendix B.2.vi).

76 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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; and I, at the same time,
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."1
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. foreshadowing,prolapse

CHAPTER I I I .

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 writ-
ten on these subjects. I attended the lectures, and cultivated the
acquaintance, of the men of science of the university; and I

I Cf. Davy, Discourse 10-11 (Appendix B.2.iii).

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 77

 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. It was, perhaps, the amiable character of this man that
inclined me more to that branch of natural philosophy which
he professed, than an intrinsic love for the science itself. But
this state of mind had place only in the first steps towards
knowledge: the more fully I entered into the science, the more
exclusively I pursued it for its own sake. That application,
which at first had been a matter of duty and resolution, now
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 I
improved rapidly. 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,
he which I hoped to make. None but those who have experi-
want enced them can conceive of the enticements of science. In
s to other studies you go as far as others have gone before you, and
creat there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit there
e is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moder-
some ate capacity, which closely pursues one study, must infallibly
thing arrive at great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually
sought the attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely
wrapt 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 prac-
tice 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

78 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 friends and my native town, when an incident happened that
protracted my stay.
One of the phaenomena 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 branch-
es of natural philosophy which relate to physiology.1 Unless I
had been animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my
application to this study would have been irksome, and almost
scienceintolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must first have
used inrecourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of
supern anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the
atural natural decay and corruption of the human body. In my educa-
way
tion 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
gothic upon my fancy; and a church-yard was to me merely the recep-
element tacle 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.2
My attention was fixed upon every object the most insupport-
hubris,
able to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine
his form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption
flaw he of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the
didnt worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused,
stop examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exem-
plified in the change from life to death, and death to life,3 until
from the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon

1 Cf. Davy, Discourse 8 (Appendix B.z.ii).

2 Cf. P.B. Shelley, "Alastor" (1815) 23-29.
3 Cf. Darwin, The Temple of Nature IV.383-4O4 (Appendix B. I. iii); and Davy, Discourse
5-6 (Appendix B.2.i).

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OH, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 79
 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
1
mad I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret.
doctor Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman.
element 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 suc-
ceeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay,
more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation upon
lifeless matter.2 god complex
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 obliterat-
ed, 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
allusion been buried with the dead, and found a passage to life aided
only by one glimmering, and seemingly ineffectual, light.3
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,

1 Cf. Wollstonecraft, Vindication 244-45; VI (Appendix A.2.vi).

2 Cf. Godwin's speculations on the indefinite extension of human life, Political Justice
2: 519-28; VIII.ix.appendix (Appendix A.i.ii);and Davy, Discourse 18-19 (Appendix
B.2.VJ).

3 An allusion to the Fourth Voyage of Sinbad in The Thousand Nights and One Night.

8O MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 knowl-
edge, 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.1 knowing your limits
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 imag-
ination was too much exalted by my first success to permit me
to doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as complex and
wonderful as man. The materials at present within my com-
mand 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

I Cf. Davy, Discourse 9 (Appendix B.2.vii).

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 81

 first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark
he world. A new species would bless me as its creator and source;
wants many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to
ackno me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so com-situatio
wledg nal and
pletely as I should deserve theirs.1 Pursuing these reflections, I
ement dramat
thought, that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I
, god ic irony
compl might in process of time (although I now found it impossible)
ex renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to
corruption. intrupting in narration
intrusive narration
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 pur-
suit. It was indeed but a passing trance, that only made me feel
with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceas-
ing 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 cham-
ber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all
the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my work-
shop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their
sockets in attending to the details of my employment. The dis-
secting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my
gothic
materials; and often did my human nature turn with loathing
setting
from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by an eagerness

I Cf. Darwin, The Temple of Nature 11.103-24, 159-66 (Appendix B.i.v).

82 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 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
binary charms of nature. And the same feelings which made me
ppositionsneglect the scenes around me caused me also to forget those
science vsfriends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not
nature 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 affec-
tion, 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."1
I knew well therefore what would be my father's feelings;
but I could not tear my thoughts from my employment, loath-
some 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 swal-
lowed up every habit of my nature, should be completed.2
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 con-
vinced 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 tenden-
cy 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 tranquilli-

1 Cf. Godwin's analysis of the scientist's need for society, Political Justice 1:311; IVv;
but also of the tendency of technology to reduce humans' reliance on each other,
Political Justice 2: 502-4; VHI.viii.appendix (Appendix A.i.i).
2 Cf. Davy's warning, Discourse 23 (Appendix B.2.viii).

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 83

ty 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 Peru1 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. intrusive narration
My father made no reproach in his letters; and only took
notice of my silence 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 shewed 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; a disease that I regretted the more because I had
hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and had always boasted
of the firmness of my nerves. But I believed that exercise and
amusement would soon drive away such symptoms; and I
promised myself both of these, when my creation should be
complete.2 losing his health

C H A P T E R IV.

IT was on a dreary night of November,3 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.4 It was already one in the morning; the rain

1 Quoted from Volney, The Ruins 167 (see Appendix C.i.ii).

2 Cf. Davy's warning, Discourse 24-26 (Appendix B.z.ix).
3 In 1793.
4 Cf. Darwin, The Economy of Vegetation 11.355-94 (Appendix B.i.ii).

84 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 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 arter-
ies 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
gothi
body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had
c
desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but
elem
ents 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 forget-
foresh fulness. But it was in vain: I slept indeed, but I was disturbed by
adowi the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of
ng of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and sur-
murde prised, I embraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss on her
r 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 con-
vulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it
forced its way through the window-shutters, I beheld the

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 85

 wretch - the miserable monster whom I had created.1 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
lack of some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He
languagemight have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched
out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed down
stairs. I took refuge in the court-yard 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. he was expecting to love
the
Oh! no mortal could support the creature butofhethat
horror gotcounte-
hate
nance. 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.allusion
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 bitter-
ness 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 wetted by the rain, which
poured from a black and comfortless sky.

i Cf. Adam's dream and awakening, Milton, Paradise Lost VIII.460-89 (Appendix
C.4.iv); and Osmond's dream in Matthew Gregory Lewis (1775-1818), The Castle
Spectre (1797) IV.i.

86 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeav-
ouring, 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 dar-
ing to look about me:

Like one who, on a lonely road,

Doth walk in fear and dread,
And, having once turn'd round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.1

Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at

which the various diligences2 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 pres-
ence 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
ırony
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 it was not absolutely necessary for a

1 Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner." [Shelley's note: lines 451-56.]

2 Stage-coaches.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 87

merchant not to understand any thing except book-keeping;
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 school-master in the Vicar of Wakefield:'!
have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily
without Greek.'1 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 bye, I mean to lecture you a little
upon their account myself. — But, my dear Frankenstein," con-
tinued 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." irony
1 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 crea-
ture 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

i Oliver Goldsmith, The Vicar of Wakefield (1766) XX.

88 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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, heart-
less laughter, frightened and astonished him.
"My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the mat-
ter? 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; "foe
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 bit-
terness. 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 for ever before my eyes, and I raved

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 89

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 contin-
ually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my dis-
order 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 dis-
appeared, 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 your-
self, 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 hand-writing. 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."

90 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 C H A P T E R V.

CLERVAL then put the following letter into my hands.

"To V. FRANKENSTEIN.
"MY DEAR COUSIN,
"I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all felt
concerning your health. We cannot help imagining that your
friend Clerval conceals the extent of your disorder: for it is
now several months since we have seen your hand-writing; and
all this time you have been obliged to dictate your letters to
Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have been exceedingly ill; and
this makes us all very wretched, as much so nearly as after the
death of your dear mother. My uncle was almost persuaded
that you were indeed dangerously ill, and could hardly be
restrained from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. Clerval
always writes that you are getting better; I eagerly hope that
you will confirm this intelligence soon in your own hand-
writing; for indeed, indeed, Victor, we are all very miserable on
this account. Relieve us from this fear, and we shall be the hap-
piest creatures in the world. Your father's health is now so vig-
orous, that he appears ten years younger since last winter.
Ernest also is so much improved, that you would hardly know
him: he is now nearly sixteen, and has lost that sickly appear-
ance which he had some years ago; he is grown quite robust
and active.
"My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about
what profession Ernest should follow. His constant illness when
young has deprived him of the habits of application; and now
that he enjoys good health, he is continually in the open air,
climbing the hills, or rowing on the lake. I therefore proposed
that he should be a farmer; which you know, Cousin, is a
favourite scheme of mine. A farmer's is a very healthy happy
life; and the least hurtful, or rather the most beneficial profes-
sion of any. My uncle had an idea of his being educated as an
advocate, that through his interest he might become a judge.
But, besides that he is not at all fitted for such an occupation, it
is certainly more creditable to cultivate the earth for the suste-

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 91

 nance of man, than to be the confidant, and sometimes the
accomplice, of his vices; which is the profession of a lawyer. I
said, that the employments of a prosperous farmer, if they were
not a more honourable, they were at least a happier species of
occupation than that of a judge, whose misfortune it was always
to meddle with the dark side of human nature. My uncle
smiled, and said, that I ought to be an advocate myself, which
put an end to the conversation on that subject.1
"And now I must tell you a little story that will please, and
perhaps amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz?2
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 perver-
sity, 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
monar
to allow her to live at her house. The republican institutions of
chy vs
republiour country have produced simpler and happier manners than
c 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.
"After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the
heroine of my little tale: for Justine was a great favourite of
your's; 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

1 Cf. Godwin's low opinion of lawyers, Political Justice 2: 404-5; Vll.viii.

2 Possibly named after the heroine of Justine; or, The Misfortunes of Virtue (1791), by
Donatien-Alphonse de Sade (1740-1814). Among her many misfortunes, Sade's
Justine is repeatedly accused of crimes she did not commit. Both Byron and P.B.
Shelley knew the book.

92 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

Angelica1 - 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 pro-
tectress. Although her disposition was gay, and in many respects
inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention to every ges-
ture 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 con-
ceived. 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 mothers
house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was
very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged Jus-
tine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her
of having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetu-
al 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

I The heroine of Orlando Furioso.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 93

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 eye-lashes, 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 lit-
tle 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 Mel-
bourne, 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 every body.
"I have written myself into good spirits, dear cousin; yet I
cannot conclude without again anxiously inquiring concerning
your health. Dear Victor, if you are not very ill, write yourself,
and make your father and all of us happy; or — I cannot bear to
tbink of the other side of the question; my tears already flow.
Adieu, my dearest cousin.
"ELIZABETH LAVENZA.
"Geneva, March i8th, 17—."

"Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed when I had read her let-

ter, "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 regular-
ly. 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,

94 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 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 con-
hates ceived a violent antipathy even to the name of natural philoso-
science phy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the sight of
a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my ner-
vous symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my appa-
ratus 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 sub-
ject, alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance; and the conversa-
tion 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 outstrip! us all. Aye, stare
if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 95

few years ago, believed Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as 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.
- Aye, aye," 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 an eulogy on himself,
which happily turned the conversation from a subject that was
so annoying to me.
Clerval was no natural philosopher. His imagination was too
vivid for the minutiae of science. Languages were his principal
study; and he sought, by acquiring their elements, to open a
field for self-instruction on his return to Geneva. Persian, Ara-
bic, and Hebrew, gained his attention, after he had made himself
perfectly master of Greek and Latin. For my own part, 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
eastern
instruction but consolation in the works of the orientalists. culture
Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating to aorianted
degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any in
other country. When you read their writings, life appears to
consist in a warm sun and 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.

96 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 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 proposi-
tion: 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 gen-
tleness and affection warmed and opened my senses; I became
the same happy creature -who, a few years ago, loving 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 ecsta-
cy. 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 preced-
ing 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
orientalist
was full of imagination; and very often, in imitation of the Per-
sian 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
parallel between science and literature
F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 97
peasants were dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and
happy. My own spirits were high, and I bounded along with
feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.

CHAPTER VI.

ON my return, I found the following letter from my father: -

"ToV. FRANKENSTEIN.
"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 expect-
ed a happy and gay welcome, to behold, on the contrary, tears
and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate our misfor-
tune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to our joys
and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on an absent child? 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! william murdered by the monster
"I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the
circumstances of the transaction.
"Last Thursday (May yth)1 I, my niece, and your two broth-
ers, 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 dis-
covered 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 inquired if we
had seen his brother: he said, that they had been playing to-

T The year is 1795.

98 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 gether, that William had run away to hide himself, and that he
vainly sought for him, and afterwards waited for him 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 murderer'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 infant!'
"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 teazed her to let him
foresha wear a very valuable miniature that she possessed of your
dowing mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless the temptation
which urged the murderer 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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 99

for those who love you, and not with hatred for your enemies.
"Your affectionate and afflicted father,

"ALPHONSE FRANKENSTEIN.
"Geneva, May I2th, 17—."

Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this let-

ter, was surprised to observe the despair that succeeded to the
joy I at first expressed on receiving news from my friends. I
threw the letter on the table, and covered my face with my
hands.
"My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he per-
ceived me weep with bitterness, "are you always to be unhap-
py? My dear friend, what has happened?"
I motioned to 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 raise my spirits.
He did not do this by common topics of consolation, but by
exhibiting the truest sympathy. "Poor William!" said he, "that
dear child; he now sleeps with his angel mother. His friends
mourn and weep, but he is at rest: he does not now feel the
murderer's grasp; a sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no
pain. He can no longer be a fit subject for pity; the survivors
are the greatest sufferers, and for them time is the only consola-
tion. Those maxims of the Stoics, that death was no evil, and
that the mind of man ought to be superior to despair on the
eternal absence of a beloved object, ought not to be urged.
Even Cato wept over the dead body of his brother."1
Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the
words impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered

i Cf. Plutarch's Lives 4:195, 2Oi-2;"Cato the Younger" (Appendix C.3.v).

IOO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

them afterwards in solitude. But now, as soon as the horses
arrived, I hurried into a cabriole,1 and bade farewell to my
friend.
My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry
on, for I longed to console and sympathize 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 alter-
ations, which, although they were done more tranquilly, might
not be the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I dared not 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,"2 were not changed. By degrees the calm and heavenly
scene restored me, and I continued my journey towards Gene-
va.
The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrow-
er 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 plea-
sure. 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.

1 A two-wheeled, one-horse carriage.

2 Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage III (1816) lxii.2.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 101

 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 con-
ceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to
endure. foreshadowing
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 half a league to
the east of 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. Dur-
ing this short voyage I saw the lightnings playing on the sum-
mit 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. gothic element
I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and
storm increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a ter-
rific 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 dark-
ness, 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 that part of the lake which lies
between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copet.
Another storm enlighted Jura with faint flashes; and another
darkened and sometimes disclosed the Mole, a peaked moun-
tain to the east of the lake.1

I Cf. Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage IH.xcii-xcvii.

102 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 sublime While I watched the storm, so beautiful yet terrific, I wan-
dered 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
lightni object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic
ng is stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than
horror belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the
elemen wretch, the filthy daemon to whom I had given life.1 What did
t 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. No-
thing in human shape could have destroyed that 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 revolved in my mind the events which I had until
now sought to forget: the whole train of my progress towards
the creation; the appearance of the work of my own hands alive
at my bed side; 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

i Cf. Wollstonecraft, Vindication 232-34; V.v (Appendix A.2.ii).

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 103

open air. But I did not feel the inconvenience of the weather;
my imagination was busy in scenes of evil and despair. I consid-
ered 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. comparison with vampire
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 discover 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 deliri-
um 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. Besides, 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.1
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 as 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
respectable parent! He still remained to me. I gazed on the pic-
ture of my mother, which stood over the mantle-piece. It was
an historical subject, painted at my father's desire, and repre-
sented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling by
the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her

i Cf. Godwin's insistence on the importance of candour and sincerity, Political Justice
1:332-33; IV.vi.

104 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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. He expressed a
sorrowful delight to see 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. But we are now
unhappy; and, I am afraid, tears instead of smiles will be your
welcome. Our father looks so sorrowful: this dreadful event
seems to have revived in his mind his grief on the death of
Mamma. Poor Elizabeth also is quite inconsolable." Ernest
began to weep as he said these words.
"Do not," said I, "welcome me thus; try to be more calm,
that I may not be absolutely miserable the moment I enter
my father's house after so long an absence. But, tell me, how
does my father support his misfortunes? and how is my poor
Elizabeth?"
"She indeed requires consolation; she accused herself of hav-
ing 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 do not know what you mean; but we were all very
unhappy when she was discovered. No one would believe it at
first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwith-
standing all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit that Jus-
tine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family,
could all at once become so extremely wicked?"
"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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 105

tried to-day, and you will then hear all."
He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor
William had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and
confined to her bed; and, after several days, 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 shewed 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 apprehend-
ed. 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! Vic-
tor 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 ingratitude 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; and, in this assurance, I calmed myself, expecting the trial
with eagerness, but without prognosticating an evil result.
We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had made great
alterations in her form since I had last beheld her. Six years
before she had been a pretty, good-humoured girl, whom every

IO6 MARY WOLLSTONECKAFT SHELLEY

one loved and caressed. She was now a woman in stature and
expression of countenance, which was uncommonly lovely. An
open and capacious forehead gave indications of a good under-
standing, joined to great frankness of disposition. Her eyes were
hazel, and expressive of mildness, now through recent affliction
allied to sadness. Her hair was of a rich dark auburn, her com-
plexion fair, and her figure slight and graceful. 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 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, ren-
dered me hopeless and despairing." She wept.
"Sweet niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is, as
you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our judges, and the
activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of par-
tiality."

CHAPTER V I I .

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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 107

 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
guilt which promised to render her life happy: now all was to be
obliterated in an ignominious grave; and I the cause! A thou-
sand times rather would I have confessed myself guilty of the
crime ascribed to Justine; but I was absent when it was com-
mitted, 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 ren-
dered, 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 kind-
ness which her beauty might otherwise have excited, was oblit-
erated in the minds of the spectators by the imagination of the
enormity she was supposed to have committed. She was tran-
quil, 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 dis-
covered 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 any one
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

IO8 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

for the child, and demanded earnestly, if any thing had been
heard concerning him. When shewn 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 pro-
ceeded, her countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and mis-
ery, 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 any
thing 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 sever-
al hours of the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being
unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom she was well
known. Unable to rest or sleep, she quitted her asylum early,
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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 109

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 proba-
bilities 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 exam-
ined 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 timo-
rous, and unwilling to come forward. Elizabeth saw even this
last resource, her excellent dispositions and irreproachable con-
duct, about to fail the accused, when, although violently agitat-
ed, 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

IIO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 inno-
cence. 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."1
Excellent Elizabeth! A murmur of approbation was heard;
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 daemon, 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 tor-
tures of the accused did not equal mine; she was sustained by
innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore my bosom, and would
not forego their hold. comparison with wolf
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

I Cf. the courtroom speeches of Falkland in Godwin, Caleb Williams 174 (II.x) and
Maria in WoUstonecraft, The Wrongs of Woman 195-98 (XVII).

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS in

glad of it; and, indeed, none of our judges like to condemn a
criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so decisive."
When I returned home, 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.1 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 benevolence? 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 inca-
pable of any severity or ill-humour, and yet she has committed
a murder."
Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a
wish 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,"! 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. guilt
We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and beheld Justine
sitting on some straw at the further end; her hands were mana-
cled, 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 con-
solation. 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?" 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;

i A sarcastic inversion of the maxim from Sir William Blackstone, Commentaries on

the Laws of England (1765-69) IV 27.

112 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 and be assured, dear Justine, that nothing can shake my con-
fidence in you for a moment, but your own confession."
fear of
"I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might lie
death/
obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my
hell
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 excommuni-
cation and hell fire in my last moments, if I continued obdu-
rate.1 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 2 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 be happy; and that consoles me, going as I am to surfer
ignominy and death."
"Oh, Justine! forgive me for having for one moment
distrusted you. Why did you confess? But do not mourn, my
dear girl; I will every where proclaim your innocence, and
force belief. Yet you must die; you, my playfellow, my com-
panion, my more than sister. I never can survive so horrible a
misfortune."
"Dear, sweet Elizabeth, do not weep. You ought to raise me
with thoughts of a better life, and elevate me from the petty
cares of this world of injustice and strife. Do not you, excellent
friend, drive me to despair."
"I will try to comfort you; but this, I fear, is an evil too deep
and poignant to admit of consolation, for there is no hope. Yet
heaven bless thee, my dearest Justine, with resignation, and a
confidence elevated beyond this world. Oh! how I hate its

1 Cf. the critique of "blind obedience" in Wollstonecraft, Vindication 133 (II).

2 Cf. Milton, Paradise Lost IX.ySo.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 113

shews and mockeries! when one creature is murdered, another
is immediately deprived of life in a slow torturing manner; then
the executioners, their hands yet reeking with the blood of
innocence, believe that they have done a great deed. They call
this retribution. Hateful name! When that word is pronounced, I
know greater and more horrid punishments are going to be
inflicted than the gloomiest tyrant has ever invented to satiate
his utmost revenge.1 Yet this is not consolation for you, my
Justine, unless indeed that you may glory in escaping from so
miserable a den. Alas! I would I were in peace with my aunt
and my lovely William, escaped from a world which is hateful
to me, and the visages of men which I abhor."
Justine smiled languidly. "This, dear lady, is despair, and not
resignation. I must not learn the lesson that you would teach
me. Talk of something else, something that will bring peace,
and not increase of misery."
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 vic-
tim, who on the morrow was to pass the dreary 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.

i Cf. Godwin's analysis of the justice system, Political Justice 2: 354-59; VII.iv.

114 MARY WOLLSTONECRAPT SHELLEY

She indeed gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true
murderer, felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom,1
which allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth also wept,
and was unhappy; but her's 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.2 We staid 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 diffi-
culty 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 misfor-
tune that you will ever suffer. Live, and be happy, and make
others so."
As we returned, Elizabeth said, "You know not, my dear
Victor, how much I am relieved, now that I trust in the inno-
cence of this unfortunate girl. I never could again have known
peace, if I had been deceived in my reliance on her. For the
moment that I did believe her guilty, I felt an anguish that I
could not have long sustained. Now my heart is lightened. The
innocent suffers; but she whom I thought amiable and good
has not betrayed the trust I reposed in her, and I am consoled."
Amiable cousin! such were your thoughts, mild and gentle as
your own dear eyes and voice. But I — I was a wretch, and none
ever conceived of the misery that I then endured.

END OF VOL. I.

1 Cf. Mark 9: 44; Milton, Paradise Lost VI.739; and Byron, The Bride ofAbydos (1813)
11.646.
2 Cf. Milton, Paradise Lost IV.75, IX.467. Falkland suffers the same fate in Godwin,
Caleb Williams 280, 284 (Ill.xii).

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 115

This page intentionally left blank
 FRANKENSTEIN;
OR, THE
MODERN PROMETHEUS.

[VOL. II.]

C H A P T E R I.

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
guilt anddeprives the soul both of hope and fear. Justine died; she rested;
shame 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 persuad-
ed myself) was yet behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kind-
ness, 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
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,
death-like solitude. isolation
My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in
my disposition and habits, and endeavoured to reason with me
on the folly of giving way to immoderate grief. "Do you think,

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 117

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 enjoy-
ment, 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 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 remain-
ing 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. Some-
times, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and some-
times, after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to
pursue its own course, and gave way to my own miserable re-
flections. 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 for ever.1 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?

I Cf. Goethe, The Sorrows of Werter 77-87; Letter XXIX (Appendix C.2.i).

Il8 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that peace
would revisit my mind only that I might afford them consola-
tion and happiness. But that could not be. Remorse extin-
guished 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 feel-
ing 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 any thing 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 anger
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 earli-
er youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake, and
talked with ecstacy of our future prospects. She had become
grave, and often conversed of the inconstancy of fortune, and
the instability of human life.
"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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 119

to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood. Yet I am
certainly unjust. Every body 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 mur-
dered 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. Yet 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 mur-
derer escapes; he walks about the world free, and perhaps
respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the scaf-
fold 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 cousin, 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. Be calm,
my dear Victor; I would sacrifice my life to your peace. We
surely shall be happy: quiet in our native country, and not min-
gling in the world, what can disturb our tranquillity?"
She shed tears as she said this, distrusting the very solace that
she gave; but at the same time she smiled, that she might chase
away the fiend that lurked in my heart. My father, who saw in
the unhappiness that was painted in my face only an exaggera-
tion of that sorrow which I might naturally feel, thought that
an amusement suited to my taste would be the best means of
restoring to me my wonted serenity. It was from this cause that
he had removed to the country; and, induced by the same

120 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

motive, he now proposed that we should all make an excursion
to the valley of Chamounix. I had been there before, but Eliza-
beth and Ernest never had; and both had often expressed an
earnest desire to see the scenery of this place, which had been
described to them as so wonderful and sublime. Accordingly
we departed from Geneva on this tour about the middle of the
month of August, nearly two months after the death of Justine.
The weather was uncommonly fine; and if mine had been a
sorrow to be chased away by any fleeting circumstance, this
excursion would certainly have had the effect intended by my
father. As it was, I was somewhat interested in the scene; it
sometimes lulled, although it could not extinguish my grief.
During the first day we travelled in a carriage. In the morning
we had seen the mountains at a distance, towards which we
gradually advanced. We perceived that the valley through
which we wound, and which was formed by the river Arve,
whose course we followed, closed in upon us by degrees; and
when the sun had set, we beheld immense mountains and
precipices overhanging us on every side, and heard the sound
of the river raging among rocks, and the dashing of waterfalls
around.
The next day we pursued our journey upon mules; and as
we ascended still 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.
We passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which
the river forms, opened before us, and we began to ascend the
mountain that overhangs it. Soon after we entered the valley of
Chamounix. This valley is more wonderful and sublime, but
not so beautiful and picturesque as that of Servox, through
which we had just passed. The high and snowy mountains
were its immediate boundaries; but we saw no more ruined
castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road;

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 121

we heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avelanche, and
marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and
magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding
aiguilles,1 and its tremendous dome overlooked the valley.
During this journey, I sometimes joined Elizabeth, and
exerted myself to point out to her the various beauties of the
scene. I often suffered my mule to lag behind, and indulged in
the misery of reflection. At other times I spurred on the animal
before my companions, that I might forget them, the world,
and, more than all, myself. When at a distance, I alighted, and
threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and
despair. At eight in the evening I arrived at Chamounix. My
father and Elizabeth were very much fatigued; Ernest, who
accompanied us, was delighted, and in high spirits: the only cir-
cumstance that detracted from his pleasure was the south wind,
and the rain it seemed to promise for the next day.
We retired early to our apartments, but not to sleep; at least I
did not. I remained many hours at the window, watching the
pallid lightning that played above Mont Blanc, and listening to
the rushing of the Arve, which ran below my window.

CHAPTER II.

THE next day, contrary to the prognostications of our guides,

was fine, although clouded. We visited the source of the Arve-
iron, and rode about the valley until evening. These sublime
and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation
that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all lit-
tleness 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 brood-
ed for the last month. I returned in the evening, fatigued, but
less unhappy, and conversed with my family with more cheer-
fulness than had been my custom for some time. My father was
pleased, and Elizabeth overjoyed. "My dear cousin," said she,

I Peaks.

122 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

"you see what happiness you diffuse when you are happy; do
not relapse again!"
The following morning the rain poured down in torrents,
and thick mists hid the summits of the mountains. I rose early,
but felt unusually melancholy. The rain depressed me; my old
feelings recurred, and I was miserable. I knew how disappoint-
ed my father would be at this sudden change, and I wished to
avoid him until I had recovered myself so far as to be enabled
to conceal those feelings that overpowered me. I knew that
they would remain that day at the inn; and as I had ever inured
myself to rain, moisture, and cold, I resolved to go alone 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 ecstacy 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 alone, for I was well acquaint-
ed 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 per-
pendicularity of the mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate.
In a thousand spots the traces of the winter avelanche 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 higher, 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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 123

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!1

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

i Victor anachronistically quotes P. B. Shelley, "Mutability" (1816) 9-16.

124 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me, as your com-
panion, 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; anger and hatred had at first
deprived me of utterance, and I recovered only to overwhelm
him with words expressive of furious detestation and con-
tempt.
"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 dissolu-
ble 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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 125

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.
Every where 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."1
"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

I Cf. Godwin on Satan, Political Justice i: 323-25; IV.v.appendix (Appendix A.i.iii),

and the complaint of Bethlem Gabor in St. Leon 415; XLI.

126 MARY W O L L S T O N E C R A F T SHELLEY

skies I hail, for they are kinder to me than your fellow-beings.1
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 wretched-
ness. 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 may be, 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 circumstances of
which I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable ori-
gin 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 vio-
lence; "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 yon snowy precipices, and illu-

i Cf. Shakespeare, King Lear III.ii.i6.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 127

minate another world, you will have heard my story, and can
decide. On you it rests, whether I quit for ever the neighbour-
hood 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 deter-
mined at least to listen to his tale. I was partly urged by curios-
ity, 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 com-
plained of his wickedness.1 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 compan-
ion had lighted, he thus began his tale.

CHAPTER III.

"!T is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original

aera of my being: all the events of that period appear confused
and indistinct.2 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

1 Cf. Wollstonecraft's warning against parental neglect, Vindication 293; XI (Appendix

A.2.ii).
2 Cf. Plutarch's Lives I: i;"Theseus" (Appendix C.3-i).

128 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 insuffi-
cient to secure me from the dews of night. I was a poor, help-
less, miserable wretch; I knew, and could distinguish, nothing;
but, feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat down and wept.1
"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. 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 rung in my ears, and on all sides
various scents saluted me: the only object that I could dis-
tinguish 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 sen-
sations from each other. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream
that supplied me with drink, and the trees that shaded me with

i Cf. Psalm 137: i.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 129

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 inter-
cepted 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.1
"The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with
a lessened form, shewed itself, while I still remained in the for-
est. 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 over-
come 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

I Cf. Davy's philosophical history, Discourse 15-17 (Appendix B.2.v); Volney's The
Ruins 22-23 (Appendix C.i.iii); Adam's earliest memories, Milton, Paradise Los!
VIII.250-99 (Appendix C.4.i); and Godwin's account of the development of the
human infant, Political Justice i: 33; I.iv.

I3O MARY WOLLSTONECRAPT SHELLEY

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 sunk
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 re-produce
it. I gave several hours to the serious consideration of this diffi-
culty; 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

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 131

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 Pandaemonium
appeared to the daemons of hell after their sufferings in the lake
of fire.1 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 deter-
mined 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 veg-
etables 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 experi-
ence, 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.

I An allusion to Milton, Paradise Lost 1.670-732.

132 MARY WOLLSTONECEAFT SHELLEY

 "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-stye 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 stye, 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 pur-
loined, 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 for-
mer 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 cot-
tagers and farm-house 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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 133

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 win-
dows 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, white-washed 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 occu-
pied 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 sil-
ver 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 pro-
nounced 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 overpower-
ing 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 shewed her a large loaf
and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased; and went into the

134 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 busi-
ly 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 mean time, 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 cot-
tage; 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 or 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.1

I Cf. Wollstonecraft's portrait of an ideal family, Vindication 279-80; IX (Appendix

A.2.i).

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 135

 C H A P T E R IV.

" 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, what-
ever course of conduct I might hereafter think it right to pur-
sue, 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 pre-
ceded 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 gen-
tleness; 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 hun-
gry; 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

136 MARY W O L L S T O N E C R A F T SHELLEY

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, who 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 sever-
al times they placed food before the old man, when they
reserved none for themselves.
"This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accus-
tomed, during the night, to steal a part of their store for my
own consumption; but when I found that in doing this I in-
flicted pain on the cottagers, I abstained, and satisfied myself
with berries, nuts, and roots, which I gathered from a neigh-
bouring 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 out-
side. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth
joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with plea-
sure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but spent it in
repairing the cottage, and cultivating the garden.1
"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.2 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

1 Cf. the closing words of Voltaire, Candide (1759).

2 Cf. Godwin's account of the development of the human species, Political Justice i:
iio-i8;I.viii.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 137

pronunciation was quick; and the words they uttered, not hav-
ing any apparent connexion 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 ^re, 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 sym-
pathized in their joys. I saw few human beings beside 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 endeav-
oured 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 groupe; and, even to my unprac-
tised 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

i Cf. Wollstonecraft,"Lessons" (Appendix C.5).

138 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 out-house, where, to his perpetual astonish-
ment, he found his store always replenished by an invisible
hand. In the day, I believe, he -worked sometimes for a neigh-
bouring 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 conversa-
tion, 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 ter-
rified, 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.1

I Cf. Eve's first sight of herself, Milton, Paradise Lost IV449-9I (Appendix C.4.ii).

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 139

 "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-mov-
ing 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
sprung 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 remain-
der 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 neces-
sary, 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 aston-
ished them; and once or twice I heard them, on these occa-
sions, 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 dis-
cover 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.

I4O MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 "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.1
"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,2 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.

C H A P T E R V.

"I NOW hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall

relate events that impressed me with feelings which, from what
I was, 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 periodical-
ly rested from labour - the old man played on his guitar, and
the children listened to him — I observed that the countenance
of Felix was melancholy beyond expression: he sighed fre-
quently; and once his father paused in his music, and I conjec-

1 An allusion to La Fontaine, Fables IV.}.

2 An ironic allusion to Raphael's description of Hell as a fit habitation for devils, Mil-
ton, Paradise Lost Vl.Syfi.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 141

Cured by his manner that he inquired the cause of his son's sor-
row. Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and the old man was
recommencing his music, when some one tapped at the door.
"It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a countryman
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 reg-
ular 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 articu-
late sounds, and appeared to have a language of her own, she
was neither understood by, or herself understood, the cottagers.
They made many signs which I did not comprehend; but I saw
that her presence diffused gladness through the cottage, dis-
pelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the morning mists.
Felix seemed peculiarly happy, and with smiles of delight wel-
comed his Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the
hands of the lovely stranger; and, pointing to her brother, made

142 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

signs which appeared to me to mean that he had been sorrow-
ful until she came. Some hours passed thus, while they, by their
countenances, expressed joy, the cause of which I did not com-
prehend. Presently I found, by the frequent recurrence of one
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, convers-
ing 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 impos-
sible.
"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 nightin-
gale 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 counte-
nances 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.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 143

 "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 short-
ened by the late setting and early rising of the sun; for I never
ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting with the
same treatment as 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 degeneration — of the decline of
that mighty empire;1 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.2
"These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feel-
ings. Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and

1 Cf. Volney, The Ruins 33-34 (Appendix C.i.i).

2 Cf. Volney, The Ruins 166-67 (Appendix C.i.ii).

144 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

magnificent, yet so vicious and base?1 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.2
"Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new won-
ders to me. While I listened to the instructions which Felix
bestowed upon the Arabian, the strange system of human soci-
ety 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 acquisitions;
but without either he was considered, except in very rare
instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his
powers for the profit 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.3
I was, besides, endowed 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 their's. When I looked
around, I saw and heard of none like me. Was I then a monster,

1 Cf. Volney, The Ruins 23 (Appendix C.i.iii).

2 Cf. Wollstonecraft's warning against a premature knowledge of human failings, Vin-
dication 232-34; V.v (Appendix A.2.ii).
3 Cf. Godwin's many egalitarian passages, e.g., Political Justice i: 15-20 (I.iii), 2: 311-12
(V.xiii), 2: 427 (VHI.i), 2: 445-46 (VHI.ii), 2: 456-57 (VHI.iii); and WoUstonecraft,
Vindication 119;] (Appendix A.2.vi).

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 145

a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled, and whom all
men disowned?1
"I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections
inflicted upon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only
increased with knowledge.2 Oh, that I had for ever remained in
my native wood, nor known or 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 sensa-
tion 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; of the birth and growth of
children; how the father doated on the smiles of the infant, and
the lively sallies of the older child; how all the life and cares of
the mother were wrapt up in the precious charge; how the
mind of youth expanded and gained knowledge; of brother, sis-
ter, and all the various relationships which bind one human
being to another in mutual bonds.3
"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

1 Cf. Godwin, St. Leon 211 (XIX).

2 Cf. Byron, Manfred (1817) I.j.10-12.
3 Cf. Wollsconecraft on sexual and familial relations, Vindication 273-75; VIII (Appen-
dix A.2.iv) and "Lessons" (Appendix C.j);and Plutarch's Lives i: 150-52; "Compari-
son of Numa with Lycurgus" (Appendix C.3.iv).

146 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 ques-
tion 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 VI.

"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 inter-
esting and wonderful to one so utterly inexperienced as I was.
"The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descend-
ed 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 luxuri-
ous 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 injus-
tice 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 condem-
nation.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 147

 "Felix had been present at the trial; his horror and indigna-
tion 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 Mahometan; who,
loaded with chains, waited in despair the execution of the bar-
barous 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 daugh-
ter 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 for-
ward to the probability of that 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's, who
understood French. She thanked him in the most ardent terms
for his intended services towards her father; 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.

148 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 "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 Mahomet.1 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 the being immured
within the walls of a haram, allowed only to occupy herself
with puerile 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.2
"The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed; but, on
the night previous to it, he had quitted prison, and before
morning was distant many leagues from Paris. Felix had pro-
cured 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 de-
cided 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
mean time he enjoyed the society of the Arabian, who exhibit-

1 Cf. Wollstonecraft's orientalism, Vindication 109,113 (Introd.), 126 (II), 138 (II), 191
(IV),3i7(XI!),335(Xni.iii).
2 Cf. Plutarch's Lives i: i50-52;"Comparison of Numa with Lycurgus" (Appendix
C.3.iv).

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 149

ed towards him the simplest and tenderest affection. They con-
versed 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 encour-
aged 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 great-
ly 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 De
Lacey 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 treacher-
ous Turk, for whom he and his family endured such unheard-
of oppression, on discovering that his deliverer was thus
reduced to poverty and impotence, became a traitor to good

I5O MARY W O L L S T O N E C R A F T SHELLEY

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 when this distress
had been the meed of his virtue, he would have 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 with
him 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 man-
date.
"A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter's apartment,
and told her hastily, that he had reason to believe that his resi-
dence at Leghorn had been divulged, and that he should speed-
ily 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
feelings were alike adverse to it. By some papers of her father's,
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 determina-
tion. Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her, and a
small 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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 15!

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 safe-
ty at the cottage of her lover.

CHAPTER VII.

"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 giv-
ing 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 neighbour-
ing wood, where I collected my own food, and brought home
firing for my protectors, I found on the ground a leathern port-
manteau, containing several articles of dress and some books. I
eagerly seized the prize, and returned with it to my hovel. For-
tunately the books were written in the language the elements
of which I had acquired at the cottage; they consisted of Par-
adise 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

152 MARY W O L L S T O N E C R A F T SHELLEY

sometimes raised me to ecstacy, 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 for ever 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 preten-
sion, but it sunk deep. The disquisitions upon death and suicide
were calculated to fill me with wonder.1 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 precise-
ly 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 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;'2 and there was none to lament my annihi-
lation. 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

1 Cf. Goethe, The Sorrows of Werter 77-87; Letter XXIX (Appendix C.2.i).
2 The monster, like Victor, quotes P. B. Shelley's "Mutability" 14.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 153

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 gov-
erning or massacring their species. I felt the greatest ardour for
virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as far as I under-
stood the signification of those terms, relative as they were, as I
applied them, to pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these feel-
ings, I was of course led to admire peaceable law-givers,
Numa,1 Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus and
Theseus.2 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 sever-
al situations, as their similarity struck me, to my own. Like
Adam, I was created 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 espe-
cial 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.3

1 Cf. Plutarch's Lives i: 126-27, i37-38;"Numa Pompilius" (Appendix C.3.iii).

2 Cf. Plutarch's Lives i: 73-75; "Comparison of Romulus with Theseus" (Appendix
C.3.H).
3 Cf. Milton, Paradise Lost IV.358-92, 502-11; and Godwin, St. Leon 302; XXIX.

154 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 "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 decypher 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. Every thing is related in them which bears reference to my
accursed origin; the whole detail of that series of disgusting cir-
cumstances which produced it is set in view; the minutest
description of my odious and loathsome person is given, in lan-
guage which painted your own horrors, and rendered mine
ineffaceable. I sickened as I read. 'Hateful day when I received
life!' I exclaimed in agony. 'Cursed 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 your's, more horrid from
its very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow-devils,
to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and detested.'
"These were the reflections of my hours of despondency
and solitude; but when I contemplated the virtues of the cot-
tagers, 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 under-
standing 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 wisdom.
"Several changes, in the mean time, took place in the

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 155

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 dis-
covered 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 moon-shine,
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 con-
solation. But it was all a dream: no Eve soothed my sorrows, or
shared my thoughts; I was alone.1 I remembered Adam's suppli-
cation to his Creator;2 but where was mine? he had abandoned
me, and, in the bitterness of my heart, I cursed him.3
"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 sum-
mer; 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

1 Unlike Adam's dream (or Victor's), the monster's does not come true. Cf. Milton,
Paradise Lost VIII.46o-8g (Appendix C.4.iv).
2 Milton, Paradise Lost VIII.379-97 (see Appendix A.2.v).
3 Cf. Job i: 11,2:9.

156 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to be known
and loved by these amiable creatures: to see their sweet looks
turned 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 trea-
sures than a little food or rest; I required kindness and sympa-
thy; but I did not believe myself utterly unworthy of it.
"The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the sea-
sons 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 pro-
jects; but that on which I finally fixed was, to enter the
dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had sagac-
ity enough to discover, that the unnatural hideousness of my
person was the chief object of horror with those who had for-
merly beheld me. My voice, although harsh, had nothing terri-
ble 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 contin-
ued, 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 sunk
to the ground. Again I rose; and, exerting all the firmness of

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 157

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
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 country-
man; — 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 these 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 for ever.'
'"Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortu-
nate; but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious
self-interest, are full of brotherly love and charity. Rely, there-
fore, 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

158 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 unre-
servedly 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 dust1 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.2 I also am unfortunate; I and my family have been con-
demned, 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 for ever 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,

1 Cf. Milton, Paradise Lost IV. 416.

2 Cf. Godwin on solitary confinement, Political Justice 2: 386-88; VII. vi (Appendix
A. i .iv).

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 159

which was to rob me of, or bestow happiness on me for ever. 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 pro-
tect 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 sunk 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 V I I I .

"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 pos-
session of me; my feelings were those of rage and revenge. I
could with pleasure have destroyed the cottage and its inhabi-
tants, 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 discov-
ery, I gave vent to my anguish in fearful bowlings. I was like a
wild beast that had broken the toils; destroying the objects that
obstructed me, and ranging through the wood with a stag-like
swiftness. Oh! what a miserable night I passed! the cold stars
shone in mockery, and the bare trees waved their branches

I6O MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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;1 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.2
"The sun rose; I heard the voices of men, and knew that it
was impossible to return to my retreat during that day. Accord-
ingly 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 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 cot-
tage, 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 for ever acting before my eyes; the females

1 Cf. Milton, Paradise Lost 1X445-79 (Appendix C.4.iii); Victor has already alluded
to IX.46y.
2 Cf. Milton, Paradise Lost 11.660-63.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 161

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 past, 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 sus-
pence.
"Presently two countrymen passed by; but, pausing near the
cottage, they entered into conversation, using violent gesticula-
tions; but I did not understand what they said, as they spoke the
language of the country, which differed from that of my protec-
tors. 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 dis-
course, 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 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 com-
panion 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

162 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

the first time the feelings of revenge and hatred filled my
bosom, and I did not strive to controul 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 any thing human, I turned my fury
towards inanimate objects. As night advanced, I placed a vari-
ety 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 avelanche, and pro-
duced 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.1 A part of its orb was at length hid, and I
waved my brand; it sunk, 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,2 whither should I
bend my steps? I resolved to fly far from the scene of my mis-
fortunes; but to me, hated and despised, every country must be
equally horrible. At length the thought of you crossed my

1 Cf. William Wordsworth (1770-1850), "Strange fits of passion I have known"

(i799).
2 An allusion to Milton, Paradise Lost XII. 646. Victor has made an ironic allusion to
the same line.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 163

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 Sane geography had not been omitted: I had
learned from these the relative situations of the different coun-
tries 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 south-westerly 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 inci-
dent 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,

164 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 ven-
tured 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 voic-
es, 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 some one in sport. She continued her course along the
precipitous sides of the river, when suddenly her foot slipt, 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 endeav-
oured, 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 fol-
lowed 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 sunk 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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 165

human being from destruction, and, as a recompence, 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.1
"For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeav-
ouring 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 extract-
ing 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 plea-
sure.
"But my toils now drew near a close; and, 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 stupen-
dous mountains of Jura.
"At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of re-
flection, 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,

I Cf. the death of Charon the dog in Godwin, S(. Leon 272; XXV

166 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 would 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,'!, too, can
create desolation; my enemy is not impregnable; this death will
carry despair to him, and a thousand other miseries shall tor-
ment 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 for ever 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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 167

sensations in exclamations and agony, I did not rush among
mankind, and perish in the attempt to destroy them.
"While I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot
where I had committed the murder, and was seeking a more
secluded hiding-place, when I perceived a woman passing near
me. She was young, not indeed so beautiful as her whose por-
trait I held, but of an agreeable aspect, and blooming in the
loveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought, is one of those
whose smiles are bestowed on all but me; she shall not escape:
thanks to the lessons of Felix, and the sanguinary laws of man, I
have learned how to work mischief. I approached her unper-
ceived, and placed the portrait securely in one of the folds of
her dress.1
"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 for ever. At length I wan-
dered 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 IX.

THE being finished speaking, and fixed his looks upon me in

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.

I Cf. the use of planted evidence in Godwin, Caleb Williams 104 (I.xii), 167-68 (II.x).

168 MARY WOILSTONECEAFT SHELLEY

This you alone can do; and I demand it of you as a right which
you must not refuse."1
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 des-
olate 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 tri-
umph; 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 contemns 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 slav-
ery. I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will
cause fear; and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, 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 curse the hour of your birth."2
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

1 Cf. Godwin, Political Justice r. 386-88; VII. vi (Appendix A.i.iv).

2 An allusion to Job 3: i-io.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 169

being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return
them an hundred and an hundred fold; for that one creature's
sake, I would make peace with the whole kind!1 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 sym-
pathy 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 jus-
tice 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 feel-
ing, 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. 2 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."

1 Cf. Genesis 18:23-33.

2 Cf. P.B. Shelley's defense of vegetarianism in Queen Mab (1813) VIII.21 i-i2n. The
note includes an attack on Prometheus for giving humanity fire and thus making
meat-eating possible.

I7O MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 "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 con-
sent."
"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 com-
panion 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
shewn a degree of malice that should reasonably make me dis-
trust 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 thought I had moved your compassion, and
yet you still refuse to bestow on me the only benefit that can
soften my heart, and render me harmless. 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 every one will be ignorant. My
vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor; and my

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 171

virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion with an
equal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive being, and become
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 con-
cluded, 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 for ever, 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, 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 anxi-
ety; 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
him 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
mountains, and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced, perplexed
me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences

172 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

of the day had produced. Night was far advanced, when I came
to the half-way 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 won-
derful 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 siroc1 on its way to consume me.
Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of
Chamounix; but my presence, so haggard and strange, hardly
calmed the fears of my family, who had waited the whole night
in anxious expectation of my return.
The following day we returned to Geneva. The intention of
my father in coming had been to divert my mind, and to
restore me to my lost tranquillity; but the medicine had been
fatal. And, unable to account for the excess of misery I
appeared to suffer, he hastened to return home, hoping the
quiet and monotony of a domestic life would by degrees allevi-
ate my sufferings from whatsoever cause they might spring.
For myself, I was passive in all their arrangements; and the
gentle affection of my beloved Elizabeth was inadequate to
draw me from the depth of my despair. The promise I had
made to the daemon weighed upon my mind, like Dante's iron
cowl on the heads of the hellish hypocrites.2 All pleasures of
earth and sky passed before me like a dream, and that thought
only had to me the reality of life. Can you wonder, that some-
times a kind of insanity possessed me, or that I saw continually

1 The sirocco, an oppressive and traditionally destructive wind that blows from Africa
across the Mediterranean and southern Europe.
2 Inferno XXIII.58-67. Cf. Godwin's denunciation of promises as fundamentally
unjust, Political Justice i: I97;lII.iii.

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 173

about me a multitude of filthy animals inflicting on me inces-
sant torture, that often extorted screams and bitter groans?
By degrees, however, these feelings became calmed. I
entered again into the every-day scene of life, if not with inter-
est, at least with some degree of tranquillity.

E N D O F VOL. I I .

174 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 FRANKENSTEIN;
OR, THE
MODERN PROMETHEUS.

[VOL. I I I . ]

C H A P T E R I.

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 obtain-
ing my father's consent to visit England for this purpose; but I
clung to every pretence of delay, and could not resolve to inter-
rupt my returning tranquillity. My health, which had hitherto
declined, was now much restored; and my spirits, when
unchecked by the memory of my unhappy promise, rose pro-
portionably. 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: —

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 175

 "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 this exordium, and my father contin-
ued —
"I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your
marriage with your cousin 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 your cousin, this struggle may occasion the
poignant misery which you appear to feel."
"My dear father, re-assure yourself. I love my cousin tender-
ly and sincerely. I never saw any woman who excited, as Eliza-
beth 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 on this subject, my dear
Victor, gives me more pleasure than I have for some time expe-
rienced. 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 every-
day tranquillity befitting my years and infirmities. You are
younger; yet I do not suppose, possessed as you are of a compe-
tent fortune, that an early marriage would at all interfere with
any future plans of honour and utility that you may have

176 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

formed.1 Do not suppose, however, that I wish to dictate hap-
piness 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 cousin was one of horror and dismay. I was bound by
a solemn promise, which I had not yet fulfilled, and dared not
break;2 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 bow-
ing me to the ground.31 must perform my engagement, and let
the monster depart with his mate, before I allowed myself to
enjoy the delight of an 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 intel-
ligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory: besides, any variation
was agreeable to me, and I was delighted with the idea of
spending a year or two in change of scene and variety of occu-
pation, in absence from my family; during which period some
event might happen which would restore me to them in peace
and happiness: my promise might be fulfilled, and the monster
have departed; or some accident might occur to destroy him,
and put an end to my slavery for ever.
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 the guise of wishing to
travel and see the world before I sat down for life within the
walls of my native town.
I urged my entreaty with earnestness, and my father was

1 Cf. Wollstonecraft's defense of early marriages, Vindication 311-12; XII.

2 Cf. Cf. Godwin, Political Justice i: 197; IH.iii.
3 Cf. Coleridge, "The Rime of the Ancyenc Marinere" 137-38.

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 177

 easily induced to comply; for a more indulgent and less dictato-
rial parent did not exist upon earth. Our plan was soon
arranged. I should travel to Strasburgh, where Clerval would
join me. Some short time would be spent in the towns of Hol-
land, and our principal stay would be in England. We should
return by France; and it was agreed that the tour should occupy
the space of two years.
My father pleased himself with the reflection, that my union
with Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return to
Geneva. "These two years," said he, "will pass swiftly, and it will
be the last delay that will oppose itself to your happiness. And,
indeed, I earnestly desire that period to arrive, when we shall all
be united, and neither hopes or fears arise to disturb our
domestic calm."
"I am content," I replied, "with your arrangement. By that
time we shall both have become wiser, and I hope happier,1
than we at present are." I sighed; but my father kindly forbore
to question me further concerning the cause of my dejection.
He hoped that new scenes, and the amusement of travelling,
would restore my tranquillity.
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 exis-
tence of their enemy, and unprotected from his attacks, exasper-
ated 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 sen-
sations 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 August that I departed, to pass two

i That is, they will be better off than the wedding-guest in Coleridge, "Rime" 657.

178 MARY W O L L S T O N E C R A F T SHE1LEY

years of exile. Elizabeth approved of the reasons of my depar-
ture, and only regretted that she had not the same opportuni-
ties of enlarging her experience, and cultivating her
understanding.1 She wept, however, as she bade me farewell,
and entreated me to return happy and tranquil. "We all," said
she, "depend upon you; and if you are miserable, what must be
our feelings?"
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 instru-
ments should be packed to go with me: for I resolved to fulfil
my promise while abroad, and return, if possible, a free man.
Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through many beauti-
ful and majestic scenes; but my eyes were fixed and unobserv-
ing. 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 Strasburgh, where I waited
two days for Clerval. He came. Alas, how great was the con-
trast 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, "now 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 sun-rise 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 to listen to my reflections. I, a miserable
wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to enjoy-
ment.
We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from

i Cf. Wollstonecraft, Vindication 130-3i;II (Appendix A.2,iii).

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 179

Strasburgh to Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping for
London. During this voyage, we passed by many willowy
islands, and saw several beautiful towns. We staid a day at
Manheim, and, on the fifth from our departure from
Strasburgh, arrived at Mayence.1 The course of the Rhine
below Mayence 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 tranquil-
lity 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 beauti-
ful 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 relieve 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

i Shelley may have taken the name of her hero from the Castle Frankenstein, which
is to the East of the Rhine, between Mannheim and Mainz. See Floiescu, In Search
of Frankenstein.

ISO MARY WOLLSTONECHAFT SHELLEY

where their dying voices are still said to be heard amid the
pauses of the nightly wind;1 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 moun-
tain.2 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."3 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 worldly-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,

1 In her first prose work, History of a Six Weeks' Tour (1817), Shelley writes: "opposite
Brunen, they tell the story of a priest and his mistress, who, flying from persecution,
inhabited a cottage at the foot of the snows. One winter night an avalanche over-
whelmed them, but their plaintive voices are still heard in stormy nights, calling for
succour from the peasants" (48-49).
2 Cf. Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage Ill.xlvi.
3 Leigh Hunt's "Rimini." [Shelley's note: Leigh Hunt (1784-1859), The Story of Rimi-
ni (1816) 11.47.]

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 181

 That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye."1

And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being
lost for ever? Has this mind so replete with ideas, imaginations
fanciful and magnificent, which formed a world, whose exis-
tence depended on the life of its creator; has this mind per-
ished? 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 unhap-
py 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 post2 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 remem-
bered the Spanish armada; Gravesend, Woolwich, and Green-
wich, 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 his-
tory.

1 Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey." [Shelley's note: the passage is adapted from "Lines
Written a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey" (1798) 77-84.]
2 "To travel with relays of horses" (OED).

182 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 CHAPTER II.

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 nourished 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 nat-
ural 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 pro-
found. 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 transi-
tory 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 for
ever busy; and the only check to his enjoyments was my sor-
rowful and dejected mien. 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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 183

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.1 We accordingly determined to com-
mence 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 my
chemical instruments, and the materials I had collected, resolv-
ing to finish my labours in some obscure nook in the northern
highlands of Scotland.
We quitted London on the 2yth 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.2 The spirit of elder days found a

1 I.e., 1796
2 Lucius Gary, second Viscount Falkland (1610-43), was the secretary of state foi
Charles I (1600-49), and, later, the model for the chivalrous Ferdinando Falkland in

184 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps. If these
feelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the appear-
ance 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 youth-
ful 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 elas-
ticity 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 abhorrent 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.1 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 monu-
ments 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, trem-
bling 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 neigh-

Godwin's Caleb Williams. George, Baron Goring (1608-57) was one of Charles's
generals in the Civil War.
I John Hampden (1594-1643), cousin and supporter of Oliver Cromwell, was killed
in a skirmish near Oxford.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 185

bourhood of this village resembled, to a greater degree, the
scenery of Switzerland; but every thing 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 his-
tory, 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 associ-
ated.
From Derby still journeying northward, we passed two
months in Cumberland and Westmoreland. I could now almost
fancy myself among the Swiss mountains. The little patches of
snow which yet lingered on the northern sides of the moun-
tains, 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 happi-
ness. The delight of Clerval was proportionably greater than
mine; his mind expanded in the company of men of talent,1
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 for ever 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 for-
sakes for other novelties.
We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and
Westmoreland, 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

i Shelley seems to be thinking anachronistically of the Lake Poets, Wordsworth (who

moved to the Lake District in 1799), Coleridge (who moved there in 1800), and
Southey (who moved there in 1807). The abolitionist Thomas Clarkson (1760-
1846) also lived there from 1794 to 1804.

186 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 disap-
pointment. He might remain in Switzerland, and wreak his
vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued me, and tor-
mented 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 mur-
dering 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 envi-
rons, 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.
Andrews, 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."

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 187

 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 some-
what 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 dis-
cover 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 con-
sisted 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 pro-
cured from the main land, 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 squalid-
ness 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 pos-
session; 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

188 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 pre-
vail 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 sequel 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-crea-
tures, 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 III.

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 considera-

F H A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 189

tion 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 for
ever 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 probabil-
ity 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 abhorence 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 a right, for my own benefit, to inflict
this curse upon everlasting generations?1 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 shud-
dered 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 case-

i Cf. Godwin on the impersonality of justice, Political Justice i: 126-29; HJi (Appen-
dix A. i.v).

I9O MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

ment. 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 fulfilment 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 past, and I remained near my window gazing
on the sea; it was almost motionless, for the winds were1
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.1
Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage;
the door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared.

I Cf. Darwin on the nightmare, The Loves of the Plants (1789) 111.51-78.

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 191

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 weakness 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 resolution 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 wretched-
ness. Begone! I am firm, and your words will only exasperate
my rage."1
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 for ever. 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

I Cf. the confrontations between Caleb and Falkland in Godwin, Caleb Williams
280-84 (IH.xii), and between St. Leon and Bethlem Gaboi in St. Leon 420 (XLI).

192 MARY WOLLSTONECHAFT SHELLEY

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 cow-
ard 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 rung 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 main land. I
shuddered to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to
his insatiate revenge. And then I thought again of his words -
"7 will be with you on your wedding-night" That then was the
period fixed for the fulfilment 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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 193

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 in-
flamed by watching and misery. The sleep into which I now
sunk 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 rung 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, satis-
fying 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 near-
ly a year had elapsed since we had quitted Switzerland, and
France was yet unvisited. He entreated me, therefore, to leave
my solitary isle, and meet him at Perth, in a week from that
time, when we might arrange the plan of our future proceed-
ings. This letter in a degree recalled me to life, and I deter-
mined 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 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 day-
break, 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

194 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

excite the horror and suspicion of the peasants, and I accord-
ingly 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 mean time 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 appear-
ance 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 sunk,
and then sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded;
but the air was pure, although chilled by the north-east 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, every
thing 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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 195

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 north-east, 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 little 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 Eliza-
beth, of my father, and of Clerval; and sunk into a reverie, so
despairing and frightful, that even now, when the scene is on
the point of closing before me for ever, 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 cling-
ing love we have of life even in the excess of misery! I con-
structed another sail with a part of my dress, and eagerly steered
my course towards the land. It had a wild and rocky appear-
ance; but as I approached nearer, I easily perceived the traces of
cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore, and found myself sud-
denly transported back to the neighbourhood of civilized man.

196 MARY WOLLSTONECEAFT SHELLEY

I eagerly 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 har-
bour, 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 very
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
gruff voice. "May be 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 cus-
tom 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 vil-
lains."
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-look-
ing 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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 197

myself? Is not this a free country?"
"Aye, Sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a mag-
istrate; and you are to give an account of the death of a gentle-
man 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 fol-
lowed 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 con-
strued 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.

C H A P T E R IV.

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 wit-
nesses 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 all his length on the ground.
His companions came up to assist him; and, by the light of their

198 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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, upon 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. He 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
oif from that part of the shore where the corpse was afterwards
found.
Another woman confirmed the account of the fisherman
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

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 199

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 agi-
tation 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 con-
sequences 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, that faintly reminds
me of the anguish of the recognition. The trial, 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 agonizing
suffering 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

2OO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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
doating 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 gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miser-
able apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember,
when I thus awoke to understanding: I had forgotten the par-
ticulars 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,"! 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 gendeman you murdered, I believe that it were better
for you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you;

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 201

but you will be hung when the next sessions come on. How-
ever, 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
every body 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 pre-
sented 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 medi-
cines, and the old woman prepared them for me; but utter care-
lessness 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 shewn 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 physi-
cian 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, some-
times to see that I was not neglected; but his visits were short,
and at long intervals.
One day, when 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 remain miserably pent up only to
be let loose in a world 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

202 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 any
thing 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 mur-
der. 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 consider-
able surprise at the knowledge he seemed to possess concern-
ing me. I suppose some astonishment was exhibited in my
countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say —
"It was not until a day or two after your illness that I
thought of examining your dress, 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 hor-
rible event: tell me what new scene of death has been acted,

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN P R O M E T H E U S 203

and whose murder I am now to lament."
"Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin, with gentle-
ness; "and some one, 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 hell-
ish 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 momen-
tary return of delirium, and now he instantly resumed his for-
mer 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 plea-
sure 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 - "

2O4 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 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 sure-
ly 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 insure 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 for ever 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 assizes1 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 county-town, where the court was held.
Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every care of collecting wit-
nesses, 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.

i County court sessions.

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 205

 My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vex-
ations of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe
the fresh atmosphere, and allowed to return to my native coun-
try. 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 for ever; 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.1 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,2 to see once more the blue lake
and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early child-
hood: 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 parox-
ysms of anguish and despair. At these moments I often endeav-
oured to put an end to the existence I loathed; and it required
unceasing attendance and vigilance to restrain me from com-
mitting some dreadful act of violence.
I remember, as I quitted the prison, I heard one of the men
say, "He may be innocent of the murder, but he has certainly a
bad conscience." These words struck me. A bad conscience!
yes, surely I had one. William, Justine, and Clerval, had died
through my infernal machinations; "And whose death," cried I,
"is to finish the tragedy? Ah! my father, do not remain in this
wretched country; take me where I may forget myself, my exis-
tence, and all the world."
My father easily acceded to my desire; and, after having

1 Cf. P. B. Shelley, "Alastor" 489-92.

2 Homesickness.

2O6 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

taken leave of Mr. Kirwin, we hastened to Dublin. I felt as if I
was relieved from a heavy weight, when the packet sailed with
a fair wind from Ireland, and I had quitted for ever the country
which had been to me the scene of so much misery.
It was midnight. My father slept in the cabin; and I lay on
the deck, looking at the stars, and listening to the dashing of
the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my
sight, and my pulse beat with a feverish joy, when I reflected
that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the
light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in which I was, the
wind that blew me from the detested shore of Ireland, and the
sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly that I was
deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend and dearest
companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my
creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole life; my quiet
happiness while residing with my family in Geneva, the death
of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered
shuddering at the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to the
creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night
during which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of
thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bit-
terly.
Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the cus-
tom of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum;1 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 rec-
ollection of my various misfortunes, I now took a double dose,
and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite
from thought and misery; my dreams presented a thousand
objects that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by a
kind of night-mare; I felt the fiend's grasp in my neck, and
could not free myself from it; groans and cries rung in my ears.
My father, who was watching over me, perceiving my restless-
ness, awoke me, and pointed to the port of Holyhead, which
we were now entering.

i A tincture of opium in alcohol, the form in which the drug was taken by
Coleridge and Thomas De Quincey (1785-1859), author of Confessions of an Eng-
lish Opium-Eater (1821).

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 207

 C H A P T E R V.

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

to Portsmouth, and thence to embark for Havre. I preferred
this plan principally because I dreaded to see again those places
in which I had enjoyed a few moments of tranquillity with my
beloved Clerval. I thought with horror of seeing again those
persons whom we had been accustomed to visit together, and
who might make inquiries concerning an event, the very
remembrance of which made me again feel the pang I endured
when I gazed on his lifeless form in the inn at .
As for my father, his desires and exertions were bounded to
the again seeing me restored to health and peace of mind. His
tenderness and attentions were unremitting; my grief and
gloom was obstinate, but he would not despair. Sometimes he
thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to
answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me
the futility of pride.
"Alas! my father," said I, "how little do you know me.
Human beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be
degraded, if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy
Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge;
she died for it; and I am the cause of this - I murdered her.
William, Justine, and Henry - they all died by my hands."
My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me
make the same assertion; when I thus accused myself, he some-
times seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he
appeared to consider it as caused by delirium, and that, during
my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to my
imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my
convalescence. I avoided explanation, and maintained a contin-
ual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a feeling
that I should be supposed mad, and this for ever chained my
tongue, when I would have given the whole world to have
confided the fatal secret.
Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of
unbounded wonder, "What do you mean, Victor? are you mad?
My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion
again."

2O8 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 "I am not mad," I cried energetically; "the sun and the heav-
ens, 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 misfor-
tunes.
As time passed away I became more calm: misery had her
dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same inco-
herent 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.1
We arrived at Havre on the 8th of May, and instantly pro-
ceeded to Paris, where my father had some business which
detained us a few weeks. In this city, I received the following
letter from Elizabeth: —

"To VICTOR FRANKENSTEIN.

"MY DEAREST F R I E N D ,
"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

i The Mer de Glace, at Chamounix, the setting of Victor's long conversation with
the monster.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 209

winter has been passed most miserably, tortured as I have been
by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in your counte-
nance, and to find that your heart is not totally devoid of com-
fort and tranquillity.
"Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so
miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would
not disturb you at this period, when so many misfortunes
weigh upon you; but a conversation that I had with my uncle
previous to his departure renders some explanation necessary
before we meet.
"Explanation! you may possibly say; what can Elizabeth have
to explain? If you really say this, my questions are answered, and
I have no more to do than to sign myself your affectionate
cousin. But you are distant from me, and it is possible that you
may dread, and yet be pleased with this explanation; and, in a
probability of this being the case, I dare not any longer post-
pone 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 sis-
ter 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 anoth-
er?
"You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life
at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw
you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude, from the society
of every creature, I could not help supposing that you might
regret our connexion, and believe yourself bound in honour to
fulfil the wishes of your parents, although they opposed them-
selves to your inclinations. But this is false reasoning. I confess
to you, my cousin, that I love you, and that in my airy dreams of
futurity you have been my constant friend and companion. But

2IO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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 crudest mis-
fortunes, you may stifle, by the word honour, all hope of that
love and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself.
I, who have so interested an affection for you, may increase
your miseries ten-fold, by being an obstacle to your wishes.
Ah, Victor, be assured that your cousin and playmate has too
sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this suppo-
sition. Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me in this one
request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the
power to interrupt my tranquillity.
"Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer it to-mor-
row, 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 iSth, 17—."

This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgot-

ten, the threat of the fiend — "/ 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 was victorious, I
should be at peace, and his power over me be at an end. If he
were vanquished, I should be a free man. Alas! what freedom?
such as the peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred
before his eyes, his cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is
turned adrift, homeless, pennyless, and alone, but free. Such
would be my liberty, except that in my Elizabeth I possessed a
treasure; alas! balanced by those horrors of remorse and guilt,
which would pursue me until death.
Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and re-read her letter,
and some softened feelings stole into my heart, and dared to

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 211

whisper paradisaical dreams of love and joy; but the apple was
already eaten, and the angel's arm bared to drive me from all
hope.1 Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster exe-
cuted 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, jet
he did not consider that threat as binding him to peace in the
mean time; for, as if to shew me that he was not yet satiated
with blood, he had murdered Clerval immediately after the
enunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my
immediate union with my cousin would conduce either to
her's or my father's happiness, my adversary's designs against my
life should not retard it a single hour.
In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was
calm and affectionate. "I fear, my beloved girl," I said, "little
happiness remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day
enjoy is concentered in you. Chase away your idle fears; to you
alone do I consecrate my life, and my endeavours for content-
ment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one; when
revealed to you, it will chill your frame with horror, and then,
far from being surprised at my misery, you will only wonder
that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this tale of
misery and terror to you the day after our marriage shall take
place; for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence
between us. But until then, I conjure you, do not mention or
allude to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I know you will
comply."
In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth's letter, we
returned to Geneva. My cousin welcomed me with warm
affection; yet tears were in her eyes, as she beheld my emaciated
frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her also. She was
thinner, and had lost much of that heavenly vivacity that had
before charmed me; but her gentleness, and soft looks of com-

i Cf. Genesis 3:24 and Milton, Paradise Last XII. 632-40.

212 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

passion, made her a more fit companion for one blasted and
miserable as I was.
The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure.
Memory brought madness with it; and when I thought on
what had passed, a real insanity possessed me; sometimes I was
furious, and burnt with rage, sometimes low and despondent. I
neither spoke or looked, but sat motionless, bewildered by the
multitude of miseries that overcame me.
Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits;
her gentle voice would soothe me when transported by pas-
sion, 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 resigna-
tion. Ah! it is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for
the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the
luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the
excess of grief.
Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate
marriage with my cousin. I remained silent.
"Have you, then, some other attachment?"
"None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look forward to our
union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I
will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my
cousin."
"My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have
befallen us; but let us only cling closer to what remains, and
transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet
live. Our circle will be small, but bound close by the ties of
affection and mutual misfortune. And when time shall have
softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will be
born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly
deprived."
Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remem-
brance 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,"/ shall be with you on your wedding-
night" I should regard the threatened fate as unavoidable. But

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 213

death was no evil to me, if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced
with it; and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful
countenance, agreed with my father, that if my cousin would
consent, the ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus
put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate.
Great God! if for one instant I had thought what might be
the hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather
have banished myself for ever from my native country, and
wandered a friendless outcast over the earth, than have consent-
ed to this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of magic
powers, the monster had blinded me to his real intentions; and
when I thought that I prepared only my own death, I hastened
that of a far dearer victim.
As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether
from cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink
within me. But I concealed my feelings by an appearance of
hilarity, that brought smiles and joy to the countenance of my
father, but hardly deceived the ever-watchful and nicer eye of
Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid con-
tentment, not unmingled with a little fear, which past misfor-
tunes had impressed, that what now appeared certain and
tangible happiness, might soon dissipate into an airy dream, and
leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret.
Preparations were made for the event; congratulatory visits
were received; and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up, as
well as I could, in my own heart the anxiety that preyed there,
and entered with seeming earnestness into the plans of my
father, although they might only serve as the decorations of my
tragedy. A house was purchased for us near Cologny, by which
we should enjoy the pleasures of the country, and yet be so near
Geneva as to see my father every day; who would still reside
within the walls, for the benefit of Ernest, that he might follow
his studies at the schools.
In the mean time I took every precaution to defend my per-
son, 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

214 MARY WOLLSTONECRAPT SHEILEY

appeared more as a delusion, not to be regarded as worthy to
disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for in my mar-
riage 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 con-
tributed greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to
fulfil my wishes and my destiny, she was melancholy, and a pre-
sentiment of evil pervaded her; and perhaps also she thought of
the dreadful secret, which I had promised to reveal to her the
following day. My father was in the mean time overjoyed, and,
in the bustle of preparation, only observed in the melancholy
of his niece the diffidence of a bride.
After the ceremony was performed, a large party assembled
at my father's; but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should pass
the afternoon and night at Evian, and return to Cologny the
next morning. As the day was fair, and the wind favourable, we
resolved to go by water.
Those were the last moments of my life during which I
enjoyed the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along: the
sun was hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of
canopy, while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, sometimes
on one side of the lake, where we saw Mont Saleve, the pleas-
ant 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.1
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."

I The French invasion of Switzerland in 1798, a disillusionment for British sympa-

thizers with the Revolution, provides the historical setting for the first part of Poli-
dori's Ernestus Berchtold.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 215

 "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 sunk lower in the heavens; we passed the river
Drance, and observed its path through the chasms of the high-
er, 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 amaz-
ing rapidity, sunk at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just
ruffled the water, and caused a pleasant motion among the trees
as we approached the shore, from which it wafted the most
delightful scent of flowers and hay. The sun sunk beneath the
horizon as we landed; and as I touched the shore, I felt those
cares and fears revive, which soon were to clasp me, and cling
to me for ever.

2l6 M A R Y W O L L S T O N E C R A F TS H E L L E Y
 CHAPTER VI.

IT was eight o'clock when we landed; we walked for a short

time on the shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then
retired to the inn, and contemplated the lovely scene of waters,
woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displaying
their black outlines.
The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with
great violence in the west. The moon had reached her summit
in the heavens, and was beginning to descend; the clouds swept
across it swifter than the flight of the vulture, and dimmed her
rays, while the lake reflected the scene of the busy heavens, ren-
dered still busier by the restless waves that were beginning to
rise.1 Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended.
I had been calm during the day; but so soon as night
obscured the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my
mind. I was anxious and watchful, while my right hand grasped
a pistol which was hidden in my bosom; every sound terrified
me; but I resolved that I would sell my life dearly, and not relax
the impending conflict until my own life, or that of my adver-
sary, were extinguished.
Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and
fearful silence; at length she said, "What is it that agitates you,
my dear Victor? What is it you fear?"
"Oh! peace, peace, my love," replied I, "this night, and all will
be safe: but this night is dreadful, very dreadful."
I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I
reflected how dreadful the combat which I momentarily
expected would be to my wife, and I earnestly entreated her to
retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some
knowledge as to the situation of my enemy.
She left me, and I continued some time walking up and
down the passages of the house, and inspecting every corner
that might afford a retreat to my adversary. But I discovered no
trace of him, and was beginning to conjecture that some fortu-
nate chance had intervened to prevent the execution of his

i Cf. Wordsworth, "There was a Boy" (1798) 24-25.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 217

menaces; when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It
came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I
heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms
dropped, the motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended; I
could feel the blood trickling in my veins, and tingling in the
extremities of my limbs. This state lasted but for an instant; the
scream was repeated, and I rushed into the room.
Great God! why did I not then expire! Why am I here to
relate the destruction of the best hope, and the purest creature
of earth. She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the
bed, her head hanging down, and her pale and distorted fea-
tures half covered by her hair. Every where I turn I see the
same figure — her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the
murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this, and live? Alas!
life is obstinate, and clings closest where it is most hated. For a
moment only did I lose recollection; I fainted.
When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the people
of the inn; their countenances expressed a breathless terror: but
the horror of others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of
the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from them to the
room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so
lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the
posture in which I had first beheld her; and now, as she lay, her
head upon her arm, and a handkerchief thrown across her face
and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards
her, and embraced her with ardour; but the deathly languor and
coldness of the limbs told me, that what I now held in my arms
had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cher-
ished. 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 hap-
pened 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

2l8 MAHY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the window, and draw-
ing a pistol from my bosom, shot; but he eluded me, leaped
from his station, and, running with the swiftness of lightning,
plunged into the lake.
The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I
pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed
the track with boats; nets were cast, but in vain. After passing
several hours, we returned hopeless, most of my companions
believing it to have been a form conjured by my fancy. After
having landed, they proceeded to search the country, parties
going in different directions among the woods and vines.
I did not accompany them; I was exhausted: a film covered
my eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this
state I lay on a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my
eyes wandered round the room, as if to seek something that I
had lost.
At length I remembered that my father would anxiously
expect the return of Elizabeth and myself, and that I must
return alone. This reflection brought tears into my eyes, and I
wept for a long time; but my thoughts rambled to various sub-
jects, reflecting on my misfortunes, and their cause. I was
bewildered in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of
William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and
lastly of my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only
remaining friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my
father even now might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest
might be dead at his feet. This idea made me shudder, and
recalled me to action. I started up, and resolved to return to
Geneva with all possible speed.
There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by
the lake; but the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in tor-
rents. 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 tor-
ment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt,
and the excess of agitation that I endured, rendered me inca-
pable of any exertion. I threw down the oar; and, leaning my
head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N PROMETHEUS 219

If I looked up, I saw the scenes which were familiar to me in
my happier time, and which I had contemplated but the day
before in the company of her who was now but a shadow and a
recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain had ceased
for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the waters as they had
done a few hours before; they had then been observed by Eliz-
abeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and
sudden change. The sun might shine, or the clouds might lour;
but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before.
A fiend had snatched from me every hope of future happiness:
no creature had ever been so miserable as I was; so frightful an
event is single in the history of man.
But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this
last overwhelming event. Mine has been a tale of horrors; I
have reached their acme, and what I must now relate can but be
tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends were
snatched away; I was left desolate. My own strength is exhaust-
ed; 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, excel-
lent and venerable old man! his eyes wandered in vacancy, for
they had lost their charm and their delight - his niece, his more
than daughter, whom he doated on with all that affection
which a man feels, who, in the decline of life, having few affec-
tions, clings more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed,
cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs, and
doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could not live
under the horrors that were accumulated around him; an
apoplectic fit was brought on, and in a few days he died in my
arms.
What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and
chains and darkness were the only objects that pressed upon
me. Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery
meadows and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth; but
awoke, and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed,
but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my miseries and
situation, and was then released from my prison. For they had

22O MARY W O L L S T O N E C R A F T SHELLEY

called me mad; and during many months, as I understood, a
solitary cell had been my habitation.
But liberty had been a useless gift to me had I not, as I
awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As
the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to
reflect on their cause - the monster whom I had created, the
miserable 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 crimi-
nal judge in the town, and told him that I had an accusation to
make; that I knew the destroyer of my family; and that I
required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehension
of the murderer.
The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness:
"Be assured, sir," said he, "no pains or exertions on my part shall
be spared to discover the villain."
"I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposition
that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange, that I should
fear you would not credit it, were there not something in truth
which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too
connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for
falsehood." My manner, as I thus addressed him, was impressive,
but calm; I had formed in my own heart a resolution to pursue
my destroyer to death; and this purpose quieted my agony, and
provisionally reconciled me to life. I now related my history
briefly, but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with
accuracy, and never deviating into invective or exclamation.
The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as
I continued he became more attentive and interested; I saw
him sometimes shudder with horror, at others a lively surprise,
unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his countenance.
When I had concluded my narration, I said, "This is the
being whom I accuse, and for whose detection and punishment

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 221

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 physiogno-
my of my auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of
belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events;1
but when he was called upon to act officially in consequence,
the whole tide of his incredulity returned. He, however,
answered mildly,"! 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 commis-
sion 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 inhab-
it; and if he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be
hunted like the chamois, and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I
perceive your thoughts: you do not credit my narrative, and do
not intend to pursue my enemy with the punishment which is
his desert."
As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was
intimidated; "You are mistaken," said he, "I will exert myself;
and if it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured that he
shall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear,
from what you have yourself described to be his properties, that
this will prove impracticable, and that, while every proper mea-
sure is pursued, you should endeavour to make up your mind
to disappointment."
"That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail.
My revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be
a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my
soul. My rage is unspeakable, when I reflect that the murderer,
whom I have turned loose upon society, still exists. You refuse

I Cf. Coleridge on the "willing suspension of disbelief," Biographia Literaria (1817)

XIV.

222 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

my just demand: I have but one resource; and I devote myself,
either in my life or death, to his destruction."
I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a
phrenzy in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that
haughty fierceness, which the martyrs of old are said to have
possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occu-
pied 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 wis-
dom! 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 V I I .

MY present situation was one in which all voluntary thought

was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge
alone endowed me with strength and composure; it modelled
my feelings, and allowed me to be calculating and calm, at peri-
ods when otherwise delirium or death would have been my
portion.
My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country,
which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in
my adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of
money, together with a few jewels which had belonged to my
mother, and departed.
And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but with
life.1 I have traversed a vast portion of the earth, and have
endured all the hardships which travellers, in deserts and bar-
barous 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.

i Cf. P. B. Shelley, "Alastor" 224-671.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE M O D E R N P R O M E T H E U S 223

 When I quitted Geneva, my first labour was to gain some
clue by which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy.
But my plan was unsettled; and I wandered many hours around
the confines of the town, uncertain what path I should pursue.
As night approached, I found myself at the entrance of the
cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father, reposed. I
entered it, and approached the tomb which marked their
graves. Every thing was silent, except the leaves of the trees,
which were gently agitated by the wind; the night was nearly
dark; and the scene would have been solemn and affecting even
to an uninterested observer. The spirits of the departed seemed
to flit around, and to cast a shadow, which was felt but seen not,
around the head of the mourner.
The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly
gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their
murderer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my
weary existence. I knelt on the grass, and kissed the earth, and
with quivering lips exclaimed, "By the sacred earth on which I
kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the deep and eter-
nal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and by the
spirits that preside over thee, I swear 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
for ever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead; and on you,
wandering ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in
my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of
agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me."
I had begun my adjuration with solemnity, and an awe
which almost assured me that the shades of my murdered
friends heard and approved my devotion; but the furies 1
possessed me as I concluded, and rage choaked my utterance.
I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and
fiendish laugh. It rung on my ears long and heavily; the moun-
tains re-echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with

i The Eumenides, Greek spirits of vengeance.

224 MARY W O L L S T O N E C R A F T SHELLEY

mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I should have
been possessed by phrenzy, and have destroyed my miserable
existence, but that my vow was heard, and that I was reserved
for vengeance. The laughter died away; when a well-known
and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in
an audible whisper - "I am satisfied: miserable wretch! you
have determined to live, and I am satisfied."
I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded;
but the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the
moon arose, and shone full upon his ghastly and distorted
shape, as he fled with more than mortal speed.
I pursued him; and for many months this has been my task.
Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone,
but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared; and, by a strange
chance, I saw the fiend enter by night, and hide himself in a
vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my passage in the same
ship; but he escaped, I know not how.
Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still
evaded me, I have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the
peasants, scared by this horrid apparition, informed me of his
path; sometimes he himself, who feared that if I lost all trace I
should despair and die, often left some mark to guide me. The
snows descended on my head, and I saw the print of his huge
step on the white plain. To you first entering on life, to whom
care is new, and agony unknown, how can you understand
what I have felt, and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue, were the
least pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed by
some devil, and carried about with me my eternal hell;1 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, over-
come by hunger, sunk under the exhaustion, a repast was pre-
pared for me in the desert, that restored and inspirited me. The
fare was indeed coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate;
but I may not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I
had invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens

i Another allusion to Milton, Paradise Lost IV.75 and IX.467.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 225

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 popula-
tion of the country chiefly collected. In other places human
beings were seldom seen; and I generally subsisted on the wild
animals that crossed my path. I had money with me, and gained
the friendship of the villagers by distributing it, or bringing
with me some food that I had killed, which, after taking a small
part, I always presented to those who had provided me with fire
and utensils for cooking.
My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was
during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! often,
when most miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled
me even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me had provided
these moments, or rather hours, of happiness, that I might
retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite,
I should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was
sustained and inspirited by the hope of night: for in sleep I saw
my friends, my wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the
benevolent countenance of my father, heard the silver tones of
my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and
youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded
myself that I was dreaming until night should come, and that I
should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest friends.
What agonizing fondness did I feel for them! how did I cling to
their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking
hours, and persuade myself that they still lived! At such
moments vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart,
and I pursued my path towards the destruction of the 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

226 MARY W O L L S T O N E C R A F T SHELLEY

me; I seek the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel
the misery of cold and frost, to which I am impassive. You will
find near this place, if you follow not too tardily, a dead hare;
eat, and be refreshed. Come on, my enemy; we have yet to
wrestle for our lives; but many hard and miserable hours must
you endure, until that period shall arrive."
Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote
thee, miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I omit
my search, until he or I perish; and then with what ecstacy shall
I join my Elizabeth, and those who even now prepare for me
the reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage.
As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows
thickened, and the cold increased in a degree almost too severe
to support. The peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only
a few of the most hardy ventured forth to seize the animals
whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places to seek
for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be
procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief article of main-
tenance.
The triumph of my ene^my 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 pro-
vide 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 dis-
tance, and formed the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh!
how unlike it was to the blue seas of the south! Covered with
ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by its superior
wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when they
beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed
with rapture the boundary of their toils.1 I did not weep; but I
knelt down, and, with a full heart, thanked my guiding spirit

I An allusion to the famous incident in Xenophon's Anabasis IViv.24, an account of

the retreat of an army of Greek mercenaries through Armenia to the sea at
Trebizond.

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 227

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 sea-shore. 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 con-
jectured 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.

228 MARY WOLLSTONECRAPT SHELLEY

 I cannot guess how many days have passed since then; but I
have endured misery, which nothing but the eternal sentiment
of a just retribution burning within my heart could have
enabled me to support. Immense and rugged mountains of ice
often barred up my passage, and I often heard the thunder of
the ground sea, which threatened my destruction. But again
the frost came, and made the paths of the sea secure.
By the quantity of provision which I had consumed I should
guess that I had passed three weeks in this journey; and the
continual protraction of hope, returning back upon the heart,
often wrung bitter drops of despondency and grief from my
eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her prey, and I should
soon have sunk beneath this misery; when once, after the poor
animals that carried me had with incredible toil gained the
summit of a sloping ice mountain, and one sinking under his
fatigue died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish,
when suddenly my eye caught a dark speck upon the dusky
plain. I strained my sight to discover what it could be, and
uttered a wild cry of ecstacy when I distinguished a sledge, and
the distorted proportions of a well-known form within. Oh!
with what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart! warm
tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might
not intercept the view I had of the 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 enemy,
my hopes were suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 229

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 accumula-
tion of distress, when I saw your vessel riding at anchor, and
holding forth to me hopes of succour and life. I had no con-
ception 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 deter-
mined, if you were going southward, still to trust myself to the
mercy of the seas, rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to
induce you to grant me a boat with which I could still pursue
my enemy. But your direction was northward. You took me on
board when my vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have
sunk under my multiplied hardships into a death, which I still
dread, — for my task is unfulfilled.
Oh! when will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the
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. Yet, do I dare ask you to undertake my pilgrimage, to
endure the hardships that I have undergone? No; I am not so
selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear; if the minis-
ters of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he
shall not live — swear that he shall not triumph over my accu-
mulated woes, and live to make another such a wretch as I am.
He is eloquent and persuasive; and once his words had even
power over my heart: but trust him not. His soul is as hellish as
his form, full of treachery and fiend-like malice. Hear him not;

230 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

call on the manes1 of William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my
father, and of the wretched Victor, and thrust your sword into
his heart. I will hover near, and direct the steel aright.

WALTON, in continuation.
August 26th, 17—.

You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do
you not feel your blood congealed with horror, like that which
even now curdles mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony,
he could not continue his tale; at others, his voice broken, yet
piercing, uttered with difficulty the words so replete with
agony. His fine and lovely eyes were now lighted up with
indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow, and quenched
in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his coun-
tenance and tones, and related the most horrible incidents with
a tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like
a volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an
expression of the wildest rage, as he shrieked out imprecations
on his persecutor.
His tale is connected, and told with an appearance of the
simplest truth; yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and
Safie, which he shewed me, and the apparition of the monster,
seen from our ship, brought to me a greater conviction of the
truth of his narrative than his asseverations, however earnest
and connected. Such a monster has then really existence; I can-
not doubt it; yet I am lost in surprise and admiration. Some-
times I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the particulars
of his creature's formation; but on this point he was impen-
etrable.
"Are you mad, my friend?" said he, "or whither does your
senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for yourself
and the world a demoniacal enemy? Or to what do your ques-
tions tend? Peace, peace! learn my miseries, and do not seek to
increase your own."2

1 Ghosts (Latin).
2 Cf. St. Leon's refusal to "furnish the remotest hint respecting the science of which I
am the depository" in Godwin, St. Leon 214; XIX.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 231

 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 man-
ners have created. I wish to soothe him; yet can I counsel one
so infinitely miserable, so destitute of every hope of consola-
tion, to live? Oh, no! the only joy that he can now know will
be when he composes his shattered feelings to peace and death.
Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude and deliri-
um: he believes, that, when in dreams he holds converse with
his friends, and derives from that communion consolation for
his miseries, or excitements to his vengeance, that they are not
the creations of his fancy, but the real beings who visit him
from the regions of a remote world. This faith gives a solemni-
ty to his reveries that render them to me almost as imposing
and interesting as truth.
Our conversations are not always confined to his own histo-
ry and misfortunes. On every point of general literature he dis-
plays 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 glori-
ous creature must he have been in the days of his prosperity,
when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin. He seems to feel his
own worth, and the greatness of his fall.
"When younger," said he, "I felt as if I were destined for
some great enterprise. My feelings are profound; but I pos-
sessed a coolness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious
achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my nature sup-
ported 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

232 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

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.1 But this feeling, which supported
me in the commencement of my career, now serves only to
plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes are
as nothing; and, like the archangel who aspired to omnipo-
tence, I am chained in an eternal hell.2 My imagination was
vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were intense;
by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea, and exe-
cuted 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. Despon-
dency 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

1 The OED defines a projector as "One who forms a project, who plans or designs
some enterprise or undertaking".
2 Cf. Milton, Paradise Lost 1.40-49.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 233

symptoms have been shewn early, suspect the other of fraud or
false dealing, when another friend, however strongly he may be
attached, may, in spite of himself, be invaded with suspicion.
But I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit and associa-
tion, but from their own merits; and, wherever I am, the sooth-
ing voice of my Elizabeth, and the conversation of Clerval, will
be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead; and but one feel-
ing in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life. If I
were engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught with
extensive utility to my fellow-creatures, then could I live to
fulfil it. But such is not my destiny; I must pursue and destroy
the being to whom I gave existence; then my lot on earth will
be fulfilled, and I may die."

September id.
MY BELOVED SISTER,

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

am ever doomed to see again dear England, and the dearer
friends that inhabit it. I am surrounded by mountains of ice,
which admit of no escape, and threaten every moment to crush
my vessel. The brave fellows, whom I have persuaded to be my
companions, look towards me for aid; but I have none to
bestow. There is something terribly appalling in our situation,
yet my courage and hopes do not desert me. We may survive;
and if we do not, I will repeat the lessons of my Seneca,1 and
die with a good heart.
Yet what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will
not hear of my destruction, and you will anxiously await my
return. Years will pass, and you will have visitings of despair,
and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! my beloved sister, the sicken-
ing failings of your heart-felt expectations are, in prospect,
more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a hus-
band, and lovely children; you may be happy: heaven bless you,
and make you so!

I Lucius Annaeus Seneca (3? BCE-65 CE), Roman tragedian, Stoic philosopher, and
tutor of the Emperor Nero, who eventually ordered him to commit suicide.

234 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest com-
passion. 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 elo-
quence: when he speaks, they no longer despair; he rouses their
energies, and, while they hear his voice, they believe these vast
mountains of ice are mole-hills, which will vanish before the
resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day's
expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a
mutiny caused by this despair.

September 5th.
A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest, that
although it is highly probable that these papers may never reach
you, yet I cannot forbear recording it.
We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in immi-
nent 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 exer-
tion, 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 list-
lessly, - I was roused by half a dozen of the sailors, who desired
admission into the cabin. They entered; and their leader
addressed me. He told me that he and his companions had
been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation to me,
to make me a demand, which, injustice, I could not refuse. We
were immured in ice, and should probably never escape; but
they feared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate, and a
free passage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue
my voyage, and lead them into fresh dangers, after they might
happily have surmounted this. They desired, therefore, that I

FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 235

should engage with a solemn promise, that if the vessel should
be freed, I would instantly direct my course southward.
This speech troubled me. I had not despaired; nor had I yet
conceived the idea of returning, if set free. Yet could I, injus-
tice, or even in possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before
I answered; when Frankenstein, who had at first been silent,
and, indeed, appeared hardly to have force enough to attend,
now roused himself; his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed
with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men, he said —
"What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain?
Are you then so easily turned from your design? Did you not
call this a glorious expedition? and wherefore was it glorious?
Not because the way was smooth and placid as a southern sea,
but because it was full of dangers and terror; because, at every
new incident, your fortitude was to be called forth, and your
courage exhibited; because danger and death surrounded, and
these dangers you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a
glorious, for this was it an honourable undertaking. You were
hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species; your
name adored, as belonging to brave men who encountered
death for honour and the benefit of mankind. And now,
behold, with the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the
first mighty and terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away,
and are content to be handed down as men who had not
strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls,
they were chilly, and returned to their warm fire-sides. Why,
that requires not this preparation; ye need not have come thus
far, and dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat, merely
to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! be men, or be more than
men. Be steady to your purposes, and firm as a rock. This ice is
not made of such stuff as your hearts might be; it is mutable,
cannot withstand you, if you say that it shall not. Do not return
to your families with the stigma of disgrace marked on your
brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered, and
who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe."1
He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different
feelings expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty

I An echo of the speech of Ulysses in Dante, Inferno XXVI. 112-20, on which Alfred,
Lord Tennyson (1809-92) later based his famous poem "Ulysses" (1833).

236 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

design and heroism, that can you wonder that these men were
moved. They looked at one another, and were unable to reply.
I spoke; I told them to retire, and consider of what had been
said: that I would not lead them further north, if they strenu-
ously desired the contrary; but that I hoped that, with reflec-
tion, 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 pre-
sent hardships.

September yth.
The die is cast;1 I have consented to return, if we are not
destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indeci-
sion; I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires more
philosophy than I possess, to bear this injustice with patience.

September I2th.
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 pth,2 the ice began to move, and roarings like
thunder were heard at a distance, as the islands split and cracked
in every direction. We were in the most imminent peril; but, as
we could only remain passive, my chief attention was occupied
by my unfortunate guest, whose illness increased in such a
degree, that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice
cracked behind us, and was driven with force towards the
north; a breeze sprung from the west, and on the nth the
passage towards the south became perfectly free. When the
sailors saw this, and that their return to their native country was

1 An ironic allusion to the famous remark of Julius Caesar on crossing the Rubicon;
see Suetonius, Life of Caesar I.xxxi.
2 Wollstonecraft died on 10 September 1797.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 237

 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 endeav-
oured to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too great for
him; he fell back, and fainted.
It was long before he was restored; and I often thought that
life was entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes, but he
breathed with difficulty, and was unable to speak. The surgeon
gave him a composing draught, and ordered us to leave him
undisturbed. In the mean time he told me, that my friend had
certainly not many hours to live.
His sentence was pronounced; and I could only grieve, and
be patient. I sat by his bed watching him; his eyes were closed,
and I thought he slept; but presently he called to me in a feeble
voice, and, bidding me come near, said - "Alas! the strength I
relied on is gone; I feel that I shall soon die, and he, my enemy
and persecutor, may still be in being. Think not, Walton, that in
the last moments of my existence I feel that burning hatred,
and ardent desire of revenge, I once expressed, but I feel myself
justified in desiring the death of my adversary. During these last
days I have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor
do I find it blameable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created
a rational creature, and was bound towards him, to assure, as far
as was in my power, his happiness and well-being. This was my
duty; but there was another still paramount to that. My duties
towards my fellow-creatures had greater claims to my attention,
because they included a greater proportion of happiness or
misery.1 Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right in refus-
ing, to create a companion for the first creature. He shewed

i Cf. Godwin, Political Justice i: 126-29; '!•" (Appendix A.i.v).

238 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

 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 actu-
ated 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 con-
sideration 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 dis-
turbs 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 apparent-
ly innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and dis-
coveries. 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, exhaust-
ed by his effort, he sunk into silence. About half an hour after-
wards he attempted again to speak, but was unable; he pressed
my hand feebly, and his eyes closed for ever, while the irradia-
tion 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 mid-
night; the breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 239

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 dis-
torted 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-devot-
ed being! what does it avail that I now ask thee to pardon me?
I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by destroying all thou
lovedst. Alas! he is cold; he may not answer me."
His voice seemed suffocated; and my first impulses, which
had suggested to me the duty of obeying the dying request of
my friend, in destroying his enemy, were now suspended by a
mixture of curiosity and compassion. I approached this
tremendous being; I dared not again raise my looks upon his
face, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his ugli-
ness. 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

240 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

pause of the tempest of his passion: "Your repentance," I said, "is
now superfluous. If you had listened to the voice of con-
science, 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 more in the consum-
mation of the deed; - oh! not the ten-thousandth portion of
the anguish that was mine during the lingering detail of its
execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me on, while my
heart was poisoned with remorse. Think ye that the groans of
Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be
susceptible of love and sympathy; and, when wrenched by mis-
ery 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 unspeak-
able torments, dared to hope for happiness; that while he accu-
mulated wretchedness and despair upon me, he sought his own
enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence of
which I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter
indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I
recollected my threat, and resolved that it should be accom-
plished. 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.1 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 pas-
sion. And now it is ended; there is my last victim!"
I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet

I Adapted from Milton, Paradise Last IV. 110.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 241

when I called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his
powers of eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast my
eyes on the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was re-
kindled within me. "Wretch!" I said, "it is well that you come
here to whine over the desolation that you have made. You
throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they are con-
sumed you sit among the ruins, and lament the fall. Hypocriti-
cal fiend! if he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be
the object, again would he become the prey of your accursed
vengeance. It is not pity that you feel; you lament only because
the victim of your malignity is withdrawn from your power."
"Oh, it is not thus — not thus," interrupted the being; "yet
such must be the impression conveyed to you by what appears
to be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow-feeling
in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I first
sought it, it was the love of virtue, the feelings of happiness and
affection with which my whole being overflowed, that I wished
to be participated. But now, that virtue has become to me a
shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into bitter
and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am
content to suffer alone, while my sufferings shall endure: when
I die, I am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium
should load my memory. Once my fancy was soothed with
dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment. Once I falsely
hoped to meet with beings, who, pardoning my outward form,
would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable
of bringing forth. I was nourished with high thoughts of hon-
our and devotion. But now vice has degraded me beneath the
meanest animal. No crime, no mischief, no malignity, no mis-
ery, can be found comparable to mine. When I call over the
frightful catalogue of my deeds, I cannot believe that I am he
whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcen-
dent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is
even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even
that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his
desolation; I am quite alone.
"You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a
knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes. But, in the detail
which he gave you of them, he could not sum up the hours and

242 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

months of misery which I endured, wasting in impotent pas-
sions. For whilst I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own
desires. They were for ever ardent and craving; still I desired
love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there no injus-
tice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all
human kind sinned against me?1 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 love-
ly 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 speci-
men of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to
misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin.
There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me; but your
abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I
look on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the
heart in which the imagination of it was conceived, and long
for the moment when they will meet my eyes, when it will
haunt my thoughts, no more.
"Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief.
My work is nearly complete. Neither your's nor any man's
death is needed to consummate the series of my being, and
accomplish that which must be done; but it requires my own.
Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I
shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft which brought me hither,
and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall
collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this miserable
frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and
unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have
been.2 I shall die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now
consume me, or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet

1 Cf. Shakespeare, King Lear III.ii.6o.

2 Cf. the immolation of Leon and Cythna in P. B. Shelley, The Remit of Islam XII. i-
xvi.

F R A N K E N S T E I N ; OR, THE MODERN PROMETHEUS 243

unquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and when I
shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both will speed-
ily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel the
winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and sense, will pass
away; and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some
years ago, when the images which this world affords first
opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer,
and heard the rustling of the leaves and the chirping of the
birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to die; now
it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes, and torn by the
bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death?
"Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of human kind
whom these eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If
thou wert yet alive, and yet cherished a desire of revenge against
me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my destruc-
tion. But it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction, that I
might not cause greater wretchedness; and if yet, in some mode
unknown to me, thou hast not yet ceased to think and feel,
thou desirest not my life for my own misery. Blasted as thou
wert, my agony was still superior to thine; for the bitter sting of
remorse may not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall
close them for ever.
"But soon," he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, "I
shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these
burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile
triumphantly, and exult in the agony of the torturing flames.
The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be
swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace;
or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell."
He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the
ice-raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away
by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance.

THE END.

244 MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY