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<header translate="no" lang="en">The following is an excerpt from Frankenstein, which is in the public domain</header>
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="letter1"></a>Letter 1</h2>
<p class="letter2">
<i>To Mrs. Saville, England.</i>
</p>
<p class="right">
St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh,
I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and
fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has
travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste
of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become
more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat
of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the
region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible, its
broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour.
There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding
navigators—there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we
may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region
hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be
without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in
those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal
light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and
may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to
render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my
ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited,
and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my
enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and
to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when
he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of
discovery up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false,
you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind,
to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those
countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by
ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be
effected by an undertaking such as mine.
</p>
<p>
These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter,
and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for
nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a steady purpose—a
point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has been
the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts of
the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the
North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember
that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the
whole of our good Uncle Thomas’ library. My education was neglected, yet I was
passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night, and my
familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt, as a child, on
learning that my father’s dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me
to embark in a seafaring life.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can, even
now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great enterprise.
I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on
several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine,
thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder than the common sailors during
the day and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of
medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer
might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as
an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must
own I felt a little proud when my captain offered me the second dignity in the
vessel and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness, so valuable
did he consider my services.
</p>
<p>
And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose? My
life might have been passed in ease and luxury, but I preferred glory to every
enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would
answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes
fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long
and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I
am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain
my own, when theirs are failing.
</p>
<p>
This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly
over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion, far
more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach. The cold is not excessive,
if you are wrapped in furs—a dress which I have already adopted, for there is a
great difference between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for
hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing in your
veins. I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St.
Petersburgh and Archangel.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p class="right">
Your affectionate brother,<br/>
R. Walton
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="letter2"></a>Letter 2</h2>
<p class="letter2">
<i>To Mrs. Saville, England.</i>
</p>
<p class="right">
Archangel, 28th March, 17—.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy, and the
absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil, I have no
friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will
be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will
endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it
is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. I desire
the company of a man who could sympathise with me, whose eyes would reply to
mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of
a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a
cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to
approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your
poor brother! I am too ardent in execution and too impatient of difficulties.
But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated: for the first
fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common and read nothing but our Uncle
Thomas’ books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated
poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power
to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction that I perceived
the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my native
country. Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality more illiterate than many
schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more and that my
daydreams are more extended and magnificent, but they want (as the painters
call it) <i>keeping;</i> 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.
</p>
<p>
Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the
wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet some
feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged
bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage and
enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or rather, to word my phrase more
characteristically, of advancement in his profession. He is an Englishman, and
in the midst of national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by
cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first became
acquainted with him on board a whale vessel; finding that he was unemployed in
this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.
</p>
<p>
The master is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable in the
ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance,
added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage, made me very desirous
to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under your
gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of my character
that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on
board ship: I have never believed it to be necessary, and when I heard of a
mariner equally noted for his kindliness of heart and the respect and obedience
paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to
secure his services. I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a
lady who owes to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story.
Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having
amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to
the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was
bathed in tears, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her,
confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he was poor, and
that her father would never consent to the union. My generous friend reassured
the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover, instantly
abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he
had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on
his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase stock, and
then himself solicited the young woman’s father to consent to her marriage with
her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour
to my friend, who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country,
nor returned until he heard that his former mistress was married according to
her inclinations. “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim. He is so; but then
he is wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant
carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct the more
astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would
command.
</p>
<p>
Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little or because I can conceive a
consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am wavering in my
resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate, and my voyage is only now delayed
until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully
severe, but the spring promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably
early season, so that perhaps I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do
nothing rashly: you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and
considerateness whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.
</p>
<p>
I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking.
It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the trembling sensation,
half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am preparing to depart. I am
going to unexplored regions, to “the land of mist and snow,” but I shall kill
no albatross; therefore do not be alarmed for my safety or if I should come
back to you as worn and woeful as the “Ancient Mariner.” You will smile at my
allusion, but I will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment
to, my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean to that
production of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something at work
in my soul which I do not understand. I am practically industrious—painstaking,
a workman to execute with perseverance and labour—but besides this there is a
love for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined in all my
projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild
sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore.
</p>
<p>
But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after having
traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or
America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the
reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to me by every
opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions when I need them most
to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection,
should you never hear from me again.
</p>
<p class="right">
Your affectionate brother,<br/>
Robert Walton
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="letter3"></a>Letter 3</h2>
<p class="letter2">
<i>To Mrs. Saville, England.</i>
</p>
<p class="right">
July 7th, 17—.
</p>
<p>
My dear Sister,
</p>
<p>
I write a few lines in haste to say that I am safe—and well advanced on my
voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on its homeward
voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land,
perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold and
apparently firm of purpose, nor do the floating sheets of ice that continually
pass us, indicating the dangers of the region towards which we are advancing,
appear to dismay them. We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is
the height of summer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern
gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire
to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not expected.
</p>
<p>
No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a letter.
One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak are accidents which
experienced navigators scarcely remember to record, and I shall be well content
if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.
</p>
<p>
Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake, as well as yours, I
will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering, and prudent.
</p>
<p>
But success <i>shall</i> crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have
gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas, the very stars themselves
being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the
untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart and resolved
will of man?
</p>
<p>
My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must finish.
Heaven bless my beloved sister!
</p>
<p class="right">
R.W.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="letter4"></a>Letter 4</h2>
<p class="letter2">
<i>To Mrs. Saville, England.</i>
</p>
<p class="right">
August 5th, 17—.
</p>
<p>
So strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear recording it,
although it is very probable that you will see me before these papers can come
into your possession.
</p>
<p>
Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed in the
ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which she floated. Our
situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we were compassed round by a
very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place
in the atmosphere and weather.
</p>
<p>
About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out in every
direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have no end. Some
of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious
thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted our attention and diverted
our solicitude from our own situation. We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a
sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a
mile; a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature,
sat in the sledge and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the
traveller with our telescopes until he was lost among the distant inequalities
of the ice.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
About two hours after this occurrence we heard the ground sea, and before night
the ice broke and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the morning,
fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which float about
after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few
hours.
</p>
<p>
In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck and found
all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking to someone
in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen before, which had
drifted towards us in the night on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog
remained alive; but there was a human being within it whom the sailors were
persuading to enter the vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed to
be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but a European. When I
appeared on deck the master said, “Here is our captain, and he will not allow
you to perish on the open sea.”
</p>
<p>
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?”
</p>
<p>
You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to me
from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom I should have supposed that
my vessel would have been a resource which he would not have exchanged for the
most precious wealth the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we were on
a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole.
</p>
<p>
Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board. Good
God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his safety,
your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were nearly frozen, and his
body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so
wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him into the cabin, but as soon as
he had quitted the fresh air he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the
deck and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy and forcing him
to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life we wrapped him
up in blankets and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow
degrees he recovered and ate a little soup, which restored him wonderfully.
</p>
<p>
Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak, and I often feared
that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he had in some
measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin and attended on him as much as
my duty would permit. I never saw a more interesting creature: his eyes have
generally an expression of wildness, and even madness, but there are moments
when, if anyone performs an act of kindness towards him or does him any the
most trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a
beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is
generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if
impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.
</p>
<p>
When my guest was a little recovered I had great trouble to keep off the men,
who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not allow him to be
tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose
restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once, however, the
lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle.
</p>
<p>
His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom, and he
replied, “To seek one who fled from me.”
</p>
<p>
“And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?”
</p>
<p>
“Yes.”
</p>
<p>
“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.”
</p>
<p>
This aroused the stranger’s attention, and he asked a multitude of questions
concerning the route which the dæmon, as he called him, had pursued. Soon
after, when he was alone with me, he said, “I have, doubtless, excited your
curiosity, as well as that of these good people; but you are too considerate to
make inquiries.”
</p>
<p>
“Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to trouble
you with any inquisitiveness of mine.”
</p>
<p>
“And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have
benevolently restored me to life.”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the
stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck to watch for the
sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in the
cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere. I have
promised that someone should watch for him and give him instant notice if any
new object should appear in sight.
</p>
<p>
Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the present
day. The stranger has gradually improved in health but is very silent and
appears uneasy when anyone except myself enters his cabin. Yet his manners are
so conciliating and gentle that the sailors are all interested in him, although
they have had very little communication with him. For my own part, I begin to
love him as a brother, and his constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy
and compassion. He must have been a noble creature in his better days, being
even now in wreck so attractive and amiable.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals, should I have
any fresh incidents to record.
</p>
<p class="right">
August 13th, 17—.
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
He is now much recovered from his illness and is continually on the deck,
apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although
unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery but that he interests
himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently conversed with me
on mine, which I have communicated to him without disguise. He entered
attentively into all my arguments in favour of my eventual success and into
every minute detail of the measures I had taken to secure it. I was easily led
by the sympathy which he evinced to use the language of my heart, to give
utterance to the burning ardour of my soul and to say, with all the fervour
that warmed me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every
hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man’s life or death were but a
small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the
dominion I should acquire and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As
I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my listener’s countenance. At first I
perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before his
eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle fast from
between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused; at length
he spoke, in broken accents: “Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you
drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you
will dash the cup from your lips!”
</p>
<p>
Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the paroxysm of
grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened powers, and many hours
of repose and tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his composure.
</p>
<p>
Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise himself
for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of despair, he
led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He asked me the history
of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told, but it awakened various trains
of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a friend, of my thirst for a
more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than had ever fallen to my lot, and
expressed my conviction that a man could boast of little happiness who did not
enjoy this blessing.
</p>
<p>
“I agree with you,” replied the stranger; “we are unfashioned creatures, but
half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves—such a friend ought
to be—do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I once
had a friend, the most noble of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to
judge respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world before you, and have
no cause for despair. But I—I have lost everything and cannot begin life anew.”
</p>
<p>
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.
</p>
<p>
Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the
beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these
wonderful regions seem still to have the power of elevating his soul from
earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery and be
overwhelmed by disappointments, yet when he has retired into himself, he will
be like a celestial spirit that has a halo around him, within whose circle no
grief or folly ventures.
</p>
<p>
Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine wanderer? You
would not if you saw him. You have been tutored and refined by books and
retirement from the world, and you are therefore somewhat fastidious; but this
only renders you the more fit to appreciate the extraordinary merits of this
wonderful man. Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is
which he possesses that elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I
ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment, a quick but
never-failing power of judgment, a penetration into the causes of things,
unequalled for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression
and a voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.
</p>
<p class="right">
August 19th, 17—.
</p>
<p>
Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive, Captain Walton,
that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had determined at
one time that the memory of these evils should die with me, but you have won me
to alter my determination. You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did;
and I ardently hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent
to sting you, as mine has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters
will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same
course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am,
I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct
you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you in case of failure.
Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous. Were we
among the tamer scenes of nature I might fear to encounter your unbelief,
perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear possible in these wild and
mysterious regions which would provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with
the ever-varied powers of nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in
its series internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is
composed.”
</p>
<p>
You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered communication,
yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by a recital of his
misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the promised narrative,
partly from curiosity and partly from a strong desire to ameliorate his fate if
it were in my power. I expressed these feelings in my answer.
</p>
<p>
“I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is useless; my fate is
nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall repose in peace. I
understand your feeling,” continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt
him; “but you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name you;
nothing can alter my destiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how
irrevocably it is determined.”
</p>
<p>
He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when I should
be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have resolved
every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to record, as
nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during the day. If I
should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will doubtless
afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who know him, and who hear it from
his own lips—with what interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future
day! Even now, as I commence my task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears;
his lustrous eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his
thin hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated
by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story, frightful the
storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course and wrecked it—thus!
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="chap01"></a>Chapter 1</h2>
<p>
I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of
that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics,
and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation.
He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable
attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied
by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his
marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband
and the father of a family.
</p>
<p>
As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain
from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a merchant who, from a
flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man,
whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition and could not
bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly
been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts,
therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter to the
town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved
Beaufort with the truest friendship and was deeply grieved by his retreat in
these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored the false pride which led
his friend to a conduct so little worthy of the affection that united them. He
lost no time in endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him
to begin the world again through his credit and assistance.
</p>
<p>
Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself, and it was ten months
before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened
to the house, which was situated in a mean street near the Reuss. But when he
entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very
small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes, but it was sufficient to
provide him with sustenance for some months, and in the meantime he hoped to
procure some respectable employment in a merchant’s house. The interval was,
consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling
when he had leisure for reflection, and at length it took so fast hold of his
mind that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of
any exertion.
</p>
<p>
His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness, but she saw with
despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing and that there was no
other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an
uncommon mould, and her courage rose to support her in her adversity. She
procured plain work; she plaited straw and by various means contrived to earn a
pittance scarcely sufficient to support life.
</p>
<p>
Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time was more
entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence decreased; and in
the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a
beggar. This last blow overcame her, and she knelt by Beaufort’s coffin weeping
bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit
to the poor girl, who committed herself to his care; and after the interment of
his friend he conducted her to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a
relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.
</p>
<p>
There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but this
circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection.
There was a sense of justice in my father’s upright mind which rendered it
necessary that he should approve highly to love strongly. Perhaps during former
years he had suffered from the late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved and
so was disposed to set a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of
gratitude and worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the
doting fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues and a
desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her for the sorrows she
had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace to his behaviour to her.
Everything was made to yield to her wishes and her convenience. He strove to
shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher
wind and to surround her with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion
in her soft and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her
hitherto constant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During
the two years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had
gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after their
union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of scene and
interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders, as a restorative for
her weakened frame.
</p>
<p>
From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born at
Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained for
several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each other, they
seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of love to
bestow them upon me. My mother’s tender caresses and my father’s smile of
benevolent pleasure while regarding me are my first recollections. I was their
plaything and their idol, and something better—their child, the innocent and
helpless creature bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and
whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery,
according as they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep
consciousness of what they owed towards the being to which they had given life,
added to the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined
that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience,
of charity, and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all
seemed but one train of enjoyment to me.
</p>
<p>
For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a
daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five years
old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a
week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition often made
them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty;
it was a necessity, a passion—remembering what she had suffered, and how she
had been relieved—for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the
afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale
attracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of
half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst shape. One
day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me,
visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working, bent down
by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among
these there was one which attracted my mother far above all the rest. She
appeared of a different stock. The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little
vagrants; this child was thin and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living
gold, and despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of
distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless,
and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of sensibility and
sweetness that none could behold her without looking on her as of a distinct
species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp in all her
features.
</p>
<p>
The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and
admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was not
her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a German and
had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with these good people
to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been long married, and their
eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge was one of those
Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory of Italy—one among the
<i>schiavi ognor frementi,</i> who exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his
country. He became the victim of its weakness. Whether he had died or still
lingered in the dungeons of Austria was not known. His property was
confiscated; his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her
foster parents and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose among
dark-leaved brambles.
</p>
<p>
When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of our
villa a child fairer than pictured cherub—a creature who seemed to shed
radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter than the
chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his permission my
mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They
were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them, but
it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want when Providence
afforded her such powerful protection. They consulted their village priest, and
the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents’ house—my
more than sister—the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and
my pleasures.
</p>
<p>
Everyone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment with
which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride and my delight. On
the evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother had said
playfully, “I have a pretty present for my Victor—tomorrow he shall have it.”
And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I,
with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon
Elizabeth as mine—mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on
her I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other
familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body forth the
kind of relation in which she stood to me—my more than sister, since till death
she was to be mine only.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
<div class="chapter">
<h2><a name="chap02"></a>Chapter 2</h2>
<p>
We were brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in our ages.
I need not say that we were strangers to any species of disunion or dispute.
Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast that
subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together. Elizabeth was of a calmer
and more concentrated disposition; but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a
more intense application and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for
knowledge. She busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets;
and in the majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss home —the
sublime shapes of the mountains, the changes of the seasons, tempest and calm,
the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of our Alpine summers—she
found ample scope for admiration and delight. While my companion contemplated
with a serious and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of things, I
delighted in investigating their causes. The world was to me a secret which I
desired to divine. Curiosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of
nature, gladness akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the
earliest sensations I can remember.
</p>
<p>
On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave up
entirely their wandering life and fixed themselves in their native country. We
possessed a house in Geneva, and a <i>campagne</i> on Belrive, the eastern
shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league from the city.
We resided principally in the latter, and the lives of my parents were passed
in considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd and to attach
myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore, to my school-fellows
in general; but I united myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one
among them. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of
singular talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger for
its own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He composed
heroic songs and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly
adventure. He tried to make us act plays and to enter into masquerades, in
which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles, of the Round
Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train who shed their blood to redeem
the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidels.
</p>
<p>
No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My parents
were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We felt that they
were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their caprice, but the agents
and creators of all the many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled with
other families I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and
gratitude assisted the development of filial love.
</p>
<p>
My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some law in
my temperature they were turned not towards childish pursuits but to an eager
desire to learn, and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess that
neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments, nor the
politics of various states possessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of
heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward
substance of things or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of
man that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or
in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.
</p>
<p>
Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral relations of
things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men
were his theme; and his hope and his dream was to become one among those whose
names are recorded in story as the gallant and adventurous benefactors of our
species. The saintly soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in
our peaceful home. Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet
glance of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was
the living spirit of love to soften and attract; I might have become sullen in
my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that she was there to
subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval—could aught ill
entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval? Yet he might not have been so
perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his generosity, so full of kindness and
tenderness amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to
him the real loveliness of beneficence and made the doing good the end and aim
of his soaring ambition.
</p>
<p>
I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before
misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of extensive
usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in drawing
the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by
insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would account to
myself for the birth of that passion which afterwards ruled my destiny I find
it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources;
but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has
swept away all my hopes and joys.
</p>
<p>
Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire,
therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my predilection
for that science. When I was thirteen years of age we all went on a party of
pleasure to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of the weather obliged us to
remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I chanced to find a volume of
the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the theory which he
attempts to demonstrate and the wonderful facts which he relates soon changed
this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind, and
bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my father. My father looked
carelessly at the title page of my book and said, “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My
dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash.”
</p>
<p>
If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me that
the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded and that a modern system
of science had been introduced which possessed much greater powers than the
ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while those of the
former were real and practical, under such circumstances I should certainly
have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was,
by returning with greater ardour to my former studies. It is even possible that
the train of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to
my ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no means
assured me that he was acquainted with its contents, and I continued to read
with the greatest avidity.
</p>
<p>
When I returned home my first care was to procure the whole works of this
author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied
the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures
known to few besides myself. I have described myself as always having been
imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature. In spite of
the intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern philosophers, I always
came from my studies discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to
have avowed that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great and
unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors in each branch of natural
philosophy with whom I was acquainted appeared even to my boy’s apprehensions
as tyros engaged in the same pursuit.
</p>
<p>
The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him and was acquainted with
their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more. He had
partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal lineaments were still a
wonder and a mystery. He might dissect, anatomise, and give names; but, not to
speak of a final cause, causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were
utterly unknown to him. I had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments
that seemed to keep human beings from entering the citadel of nature, and
rashly and ignorantly I had repined.
</p>
<p>
But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and knew more.
I took their word for all that they averred, and I became their disciple. It
may appear strange that such should arise in the eighteenth century; but while
I followed the routine of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great
degree, self-taught with regard to my favourite studies. My father was not
scientific, and I was left to struggle with a child’s blindness, added to a
student’s thirst for knowledge. Under the guidance of my new preceptors I
entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone
and the elixir of life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention.
Wealth was an inferior object, but what glory would attend the discovery if I
could banish disease from the human frame and render man invulnerable to any
but a violent death!
</p>
<p>
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 failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake than to a want of skill
or fidelity in my instructors. And thus for a time I was occupied by exploded
systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory theories and
floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious knowledge, guided by
an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident again changed
the current of my ideas.
</p>
<p>
When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near Belrive,
when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It advanced from
behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder burst at once with frightful
loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained, while the storm
lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the
door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak
which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling
light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted
stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a
singular manner. It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to
thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld anything so utterly destroyed.
</p>
<p>
Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of electricity.
On this occasion a man of great research in natural philosophy was with us, and
excited by this catastrophe, he entered on the explanation of a theory which he
had formed on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new
and astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius
Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by
some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed
studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be known. All that
had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable. By one of those
caprices of the mind which we are perhaps most subject to in early youth, I at
once gave up my former occupations, set down natural history and all its
progeny as a deformed and abortive creation, and entertained the greatest
disdain for a would-be science which could never even step within the threshold
of real knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics and
the branches of study appertaining to that science as being built upon secure
foundations, and so worthy of my consideration.
</p>
<p>
Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we
bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this almost
miraculous change of inclination and will was the immediate suggestion of the
guardian angel of my life—the last effort made by the spirit of preservation to
avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars and ready to envelop
me. Her victory was announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul
which followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting studies.
It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with their prosecution,
happiness with their disregard.
</p>
<p>
It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual. Destiny
was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible
destruction.
</p>
</div><!--end chapter-->
</body>