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The event on which this fiction is founded has been supposed, by Dr.
Darwin, and some of the physiological writers of Germany, 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 supernatural 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 elementary
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 avoiding of the
enervating effects of the novels of the present day, and to the
exhibitions of the amiableness of domestic affection, and the excellence
of universal virtue. The opinions which naturally spring from the
character and situation of the hero are by no means to be conceived as
existing always in my own conviction; 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 regretted. 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. 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.
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.
FRANKENSTEIN;
OR, THE
_MODERN PROMETHEUS._
LETTER I.
_To Mrs._ SAVILLE, _England_.
St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—.
You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the
commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil
forebodings. I arrived here yesterday; and my first task is to assure my
dear sister of my welfare, and increasing confidence in the success of
my undertaking.
I am already far north of London; and as I walk in the streets of
Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which
braces my nerves, and fills me with delight. Do you understand this
feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which
I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by
this wind of promise, my 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. Its
productions and features may be without example, as the phænomena of the
heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What
may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover
the wondrous power which attracts the needle; and may regulate a
thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage to render
their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my
ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before
visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man.
These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of
danger or death, and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with
the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday
mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But, supposing
all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable
benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation, by
discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which
at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret
of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an
undertaking such as mine.
These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my
letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to
heaven; for nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind as a
steady purpose,—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.
This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have
read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been
made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the
seas which surround the pole. You may remember, that a history of all
the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our
good uncle Thomas’s 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 sea-faring life.
These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets
whose effusions entranced my soul, and lifted it to heaven. I also
became a poet, and for one year lived in a Paradise of my own creation;
I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the
names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted
with my failure, and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at
that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were
turned into the channel of their earlier bent.
Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can,
even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great
enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied
the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily
endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder
than the common sailors during the day, and devoted my nights to the
study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of
physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest
practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in
a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I
felt a little proud, when my captain offered me the second dignity in
the vessel, and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness; so
valuable did he consider my services.
And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great
purpose. My life might have been passed in ease and luxury; but I
preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh,
that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage
and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are
often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage;
the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not
only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own,
when 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 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—.
How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow;
yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel,
and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already
engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend, and are certainly
possessed of dauntless courage.
But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy; and the
absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil. I have
no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success,
there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by
disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I
shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium
for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who
could sympathize with me; whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem
me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I
have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as
well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve
or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your
poor brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too impatient of
difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am
self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a
common, and read nothing but our uncle Thomas’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 country. 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 magnificent; but they want
(as the painters call it) _keeping_; and I greatly need a friend who
would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection
enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.
Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on
the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen.
Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in
these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful
courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory. He is an
Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices,
unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of
humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel:
finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to
assist in my enterprise.
The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is remarkable in
the ship for his gentleness, and the mildness of his discipline. 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, heroically 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 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 has passed all his life on board a vessel, and has
scarcely an idea beyond the rope and the shroud.
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 fixed as fate; and my voyage is
only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The
winter has been dreadfully severe; but the spring promises well, and it
is considered as a remarkably early season; so that, perhaps, I may sail
sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly; you know me
sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the
safety of others is committed to my care.
I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my
undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the
trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am
preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to “the land of
mist and snow;” but I shall kill no albatross, therefore do not be
alarmed for my safety.
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 III.
_To Mrs._ SAVILLE, _England_.
July 7th, 17—.
MY DEAR SISTER,
I write a few lines in haste, to say that I am safe, and well advanced
on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a 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 renovating warmth which I had not
expected.
No incidents have hitherto befallen us, that would make a figure in a
letter. One or two stiff gales, and the 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.
LETTER IV.
_To Mrs._ SAVILLE, _England_.
August 5th, 17—.
So strange an accident has happened to us, that I cannot forbear
recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before
these papers can come into your possession.
Last Monday (July 31st), we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed
in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea room in which she
floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we were
compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that
some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.
About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out in
every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have
no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to grow
watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted
our attention, and diverted our solicitude from our own situation. We
perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on
towards the north, at the distance of half a mile: a being which had the
shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge,
and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller
with our telescopes, until he was lost among the distant inequalities of
the ice.
This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed,
many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote
that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in,
however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had
observed with the greatest attention.
About two hours after this occurrence, we heard the ground sea; and
before night the ice broke, and freed our ship. We, however, lay to
until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose
masses which float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of
this time to rest for a few hours.
In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck, and
found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking
to 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.”
On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a
foreign accent. “Before I come on board your vessel,” said he, “will you
have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?”
You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to
me from a man on the brink of destruction, and to whom I should have
supposed that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not
have exchanged for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I
replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the
northern pole.
Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied, and consented to come on board.
Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his
safety, your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were nearly
frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I
never saw a man in so wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him
into the cabin; but as soon as he had quitted the fresh air, he fainted.
We accordingly brought him back to the deck, and restored him to
animation by rubbing him with brandy, and forcing him to swallow a small
quantity. As soon as he shewed signs of life, we wrapped him up in
blankets, and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen-stove. By slow
degrees he recovered, and ate a little soup, which restored him
wonderfully.
Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak; and I often
feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he
had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin, and
attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more
interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of wildness,
and even madness; but there are moments when, if 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.
When my guest was a little recovered, I had great trouble to keep off
the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not
allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body
and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once,
however, the lieutenant asked, Why he had come so far upon the ice in so
strange a vehicle?
His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom; and he
replied, “To seek one who fled from me.”
“And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?”
“Yes.”
“Then I fancy we have seen him; for, the day before we picked you up, we
saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice.”
This aroused the stranger’s attention; and he asked a multitude of
questions concerning the route which the dæmon, as he called him, had
pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said, “I have,
doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good people;
but you are too considerate to make inquiries.”
“Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to
trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine.”
“And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have
benevolently restored me to life.”
Soon after this he inquired, if I thought that the breaking up of the
ice had destroyed the other sledge? I replied, that I could not answer
with any degree of certainty; for the ice had not broken until near
midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety
before that time; but of this I could not judge.
From this time 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 health, but is very
silent, and appears uneasy when any one except myself enters his cabin.
Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle, that the sailors are all
interested in him, although they have had very little communication with
him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother; and his constant
and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must have been
a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so
attractive and amiable.
I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no
friend on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit
had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as
the brother of my heart.
I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals, should
I have any fresh incidents to record.
* * * * *
August 13th, 17—.
My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my
admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noble
a creature destroyed by misery without feeling the most poignant grief?
He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated; and when he
speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they
flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.
He is now much recovered from his illness, and is continually on the
deck, apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet,
although unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery, but
that he interests himself deeply in the 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 instinctively 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 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,
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
suffer misery, and be overwhelmed by disappointments; yet when he has
retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit, that has a
halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.
Will you 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 19th, 17—.
Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive, Captain
Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had
determined, once, 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 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 accustomed 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 useless; my
fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall
repose in peace. I understand your feeling,” continued he, perceiving
that I wished to interrupt him; “but you are mistaken, my friend, if
thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my destiny: listen
to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined.”
He then told me, that he would commence his narrative the next day when
I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I
have resolved every night, when I am not 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!
FRANKENSTEIN;
OR,
THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.
CHAPTER 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; 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; 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 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 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 decreasing, and that there
was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind
of an uncommon mould; and her courage rose to support her in her
adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw; and by various
means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life.
Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time
was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence
decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving
her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow overcame her; and she knelt
by Beaufort’s coffin, weeping bitterly, when my father entered the
chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who
committed herself to his care, and after the interment of his friend he
conducted her to Geneva, and placed her under the protection of a
relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.
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 continue my
narrative, I must record an incident which took place when I was four
years of age.
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 her native country, and for some years my
father had very little communication with her. About the time I
mentioned she died; and a few months afterwards he received a letter
from her husband, 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.
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 luxuriant,
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 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 philosophical than my companion; yet my temper was not so
yielding. 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 aërial
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.
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 singular 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 Orlando, Robin Hood, Amadis, and St.
George.
No youth could have passed more happily than mine. My parents were
indulgent, and my companions amiable. Our studies were never forced; and
by some means we always had an end placed in view, which excited us to
ardour in the prosecution 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 outstrip her;
but through the desire of pleasing her aunt, by the 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 amusements 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 methods; 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 reflections 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 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. I cannot help remarking
here the many opportunities instructors possess of directing the
attention of their pupils to useful knowledge, which they utterly
neglect. My father looked carelessly at the title-page of my book, and
said, “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time
upon this; it is sad trash.”
If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains, to explain to
me, that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded, and that
a modern system of science had been introduced, which possessed much
greater powers than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were
chimerical, while those of the former were real and practical; under
such circumstances, I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside, and,
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. 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 communicate 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 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 philosopher’s stone
and the elixir of life. But the latter obtained my most undivided
attention: wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend
the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame, and
render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!
Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a
promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the 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.
The natural phænomena that take place every day before our eyes did not
escape my examinations. Distillation, and the wonderful effects of
steam, 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 several 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 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
ribbands of wood. I never beheld any thing so utterly destroyed.
The catastrophe of this tree excited my extreme astonishment; 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 constructed a small electrical
machine, and exhibited a few experiments; he made also a kite, with a
wire and string, which drew down that fluid from the clouds.
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 lectures
upon natural philosophy, to which I cheerfully consented. Some accident
prevented my attending these lectures until the course was nearly
finished. The lecture, being therefore one of the last, was entirely
incomprehensible to me. The professor discoursed with the greatest
fluency of potassium and boron, of sulphates and oxyds, terms to which I
could affix no idea; and I became disgusted with the science of natural
philosophy, although I still read Pliny and Buffon with delight,
authors, in my estimation, of nearly equal interest and utility.
My occupations at this age were principally the mathematics, 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 understood English and German. This is the
list of my accomplishments 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 health 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 endearing
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 command 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. I had hitherto
attended the schools of Geneva; but my father thought it necessary, for
the completion of my education, that I should be made acquainted with
other customs than those of my native country. My departure was
therefore fixed at an early date; but, before the day resolved upon
could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred—an omen, as it
were, of my future misery.
Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; but her illness was not severe,
and she quickly recovered. During her confinement, 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 recovering, 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.”
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 commences. 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 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 contribute 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 business, 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 understanding.
We sat late, listening to his complaints, and making many little
arrangements for the future. The next morning early I departed. Tears
gushed from the eyes of Elizabeth; they proceeded 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 chaise that was to convey me away, and indulged
in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by
amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow
mutual pleasure, I was now alone. In the university, whither I was
going, I must form my own friends, and be my own protector. My life had
hitherto been remarkably secluded and domestic; and this had given me
invincible repugnance to new countenances. I loved my brothers,
Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were “old familiar faces;” but I believed
myself totally unfitted for the company of strangers. Such were my
reflections as I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits
and hopes rose. I ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had
often, when at home, thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up
in one place, and had longed to enter the world, and take my station
among other human beings. Now my desires were complied with, and it
would, indeed, have been folly to repent.
I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my
journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At length the high
white steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted, and was conducted to
my solitary apartment, to spend the evening as I pleased.
The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction, and paid a
visit to some of the principal professors, 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?”