CHAPTER V My dear cousin, I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all felt concerning your health. We cannot help imagining that your friend Clerval conceals the extent of your disorder, for it is now several months since we have seen your handwriting, and all this time you have been obliged to dictate your letters to Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have been exceedingly ill, and this makes us all very wretched, as much so nearly as after the death of your dear mother. My uncle was almost persuaded that you were indeed dangerously ill, and could hardly be restrained from undertaking a journey to Engelstadt. You are always right that you are getting better. I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon in your own handwriting, for indeed, indeed, Victor, we are all very miserable in this account. Relieve us from this fear, and we shall be the happiest creatures in the world. Your father's health is now so vigorous that he appears ten years younger since last winter. Ernest also is so much improved that you would hardly know him. He is now nearly sixteen, and has lost that sickly appearance which he had some years ago. He has grown quite robust and active. My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about what profession Ernest should follow. His constant illness when young has deprived him of the habits of application, and now that he enjoys good health, he is continually in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the lake. I therefore propose to that he should be a farmer, which you know, cousin, is a favourite scheme of mine. Farmers is a very healthy, happy life, and at least hurtful, or rather the most beneficial profession of any. My uncle had an idea of his being educated as an advocate, that through his interest he might become a judge. But besides that, he is not at all fitted for such an occupation. It is certainly more credible to cultivate the earth for the sustenance of man than to be the confidant and sometimes the accomplice of his vices, which is the profession of a lawyer. I said that the employments of a prosperous farmer, if they were not a more honourable, they were at least a happier species of occupation than that of a judge whose misfortune it was always to meddle with the dark side of human nature. My uncle smiled and said that I ought to be an advocate myself, which put an end to the conversation on that subject. And now I must tell you a little story that will please and perhaps amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz? Probably you do not. I will relate her history therefore in a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl had always been the favourite of her father, but, through a strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and after the death of Monsieur Moritz treated her very ill. My aunt observed this, and, when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at her house. The republican institutions of our country have produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between the several classes of its inhabitants, and the lower orders being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in France and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the duties of a servant. A condition which, in our fortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being. After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the heroine of my little tale, for Justine was a great favourite of yours, and I recollect you once remarked that if you were in an ill humour, one glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that Arioste gives concerning the beauty of Angelica, she looked so frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which she was induced to give her an education superior to that which she had at first intended.  I do not mean that she made any professions, I never heard one pass her lips, but you could see by her eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her. When my dearest aunt died, everyone was too much occupied in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness with the most anxious of action. Poor Justine was very ill, but other trials were reserved for her. One by one her brothers and sister died, and her mother, with the exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience of the woman was troubled, she began to think that the deaths of her favourites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic, and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor girl! She wept when she quitted our house. She was much altered since the death of my aunt. Grief had given softness and a winning mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance.  Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline which at first increased her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the first approach of cold weather at the beginning of this last winter. Justine has returned to us, and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty. As I mentioned before, her mean and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt. I must also say a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling William. I wish you could see him. He is very tall of his age, with sweet, laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has already had one or two little wives, but Louisa Byron is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age. Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne Esquire.  Your favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the departure of Clairville from Geneva. But he has already recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a very lively, pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older than Manoir, but she is very much admired and a favourite with everybody. I have written myself into good spirits, dear cousin, yet I cannot conclude without again anxiously inquiring concerning your health. Dear Victor, if you are not very ill, write yourself, and make your father and all of us happy, or—I cannot bear to think of the other side of the question—my tears already flow. Adieu, my dearest cousin, Elizabeth Levenza, Geneva, March 18th, 17—blank, blank. Dear, dear Elizabeth, I exclaimed, when I had read her letter. I will write instantly and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel. I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me, but my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to leave my chamber. One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clairville to the several professors of the university. In doing this I underwent a kind of rough usage, ill-befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained.  When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this and had removed all my apparatus from my view. He had also changed my apartment, for he perceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these cares of Clairville were made of no avail when I visited the professors. Monsieur Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I disliked the subject, but not guessing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement to the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of me out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view, those instruments which would be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt. Clairville, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging in excuse his total ignorance, and the conversation took a more general turn. I thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me, and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply. Monsieur Krempe was not equally docile, and in my condition at that time, of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation of Monsieur Waldman. Damn the fellow! cried he. Why, Monsieur Clairville, I assure you he is outstripped us all. I stare if you please, but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years ago, believed Cornelius Agripper as firmly as the Gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university, and if he has not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance. I, continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering. Monsieur Krempe is modest and excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be different of themselves, you know, Monsieur Clairville. I was myself when young, but that wears out in a very short time. Monsieur Krempe had now commenced a eulogy on himself, which happily turned the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me. Clairville was no natural philosopher. His imagination was too vivid for the minutiae of science. Languages were his principal study, and he sought, by acquiring their elements, to open a field for self-instruction on his return to Geneva. Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew gained his attention after he had made himself perfectly master of Greek and Latin. For my own part idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished to fly from reflection and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction, but consolation in the works of the Orientalists. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country. When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and garden of roses, in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroic poetry of Greece and Rome! Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of autumn. But being delayed by several accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay very bitterly, for I longed to see my native town and my beloved friends. My return had only been delayed so long from an unwillingness to leave Clairville in a strange place before he had become acquainted with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully, and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came, its beauty compensated for its delayteriness. The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily, which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid a personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded with pleasure to this proposition. I was fond of exercise, and Clairville had always been my favourite companion in the rambles of this nature that I had taken among the scenes of my native country. We passed a fortnight in these perambulations. My health and spirits had long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the intercourse of my fellow creatures, and rendered me unsocial. But Clairville called forth the better feelings of my heart. He again taught me to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children. Excellent friend! How sincerely did you love me, and endeavour to elevate my mind, until it was on a level with your own? A selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and affection warmed and opened my senses. I became the same happy creature, who a few years ago, loving and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful sensations, a serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstasy. The present season was indeed divine, the flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud. I was undisturbed by thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me, notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible burden. Henry rejoiced in my legality, and sincerely sympathised in my feelings. He exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly astonishing. His conversation was full of imagination, and very often, in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite poems, or drew me out into arguments which he supported with great ingenuity. We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon, the peasants were dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity. END OF SECTION X On my return I found the following letter from my father, to V. Frankenstein. My dear Victor, you have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of your return to us, and I was at first tempted to write only a few lines, merely mentioning the day on which I should expect you. But that would be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise, my son, when you expected a happy and gay welcome, to behold, on the contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to our joys and griefs. And how shall I inflict pain on an absent child? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news. But I know it is impossible, even now your eyes skimms over the page, to seek the words which are to convey to you the horrible tidings. William is dead.  Victor, he is murdered. I will not attempt to console you, but will simply relate the circumstances of the transaction. Last Thursday, May 7th, I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to walk in Plain Palais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged our walk farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of returning, and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone on before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until they should return. Presently Ernest came, and inquired if we had seen his brother. He said that they had been playing together, that William had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and afterwards waited for him a long time, but that he did not return. This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have returned to the house. He was not there. We returned again with torches, for I could not rest when I thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night. Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish. About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and active in health, stretched on the grass, livid and motionless. The print of the murderous finger was on his neck. He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to see the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent her, but she persisted, and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the victim, and, clasping her hands, exclaimed, Oh God! I have murdered my darling infant! She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again lived, it was only to weep and sigh.  This picture is gone, and was doubtless the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We have no trace of him at present, although our exertions to discover him are unremitted, but they will not restore my beloved William. Come, dearest Victor, you alone can console Elizabeth. She weeps continually, and accuses herself unjustly as to the cause of his death. Her words pierce my heart. We are all unhappy, but it will not that be an additional motive for you, my son, to return and be our comforter. Your dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say, thank God she did not live to witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling. Come, Victor, not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin, but with feelings of peace and gentleness that will heal instead of festering the wounds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my friend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not with hatred for your enemies. Your affectionate and afflicted father, Alphonse Frankenstein. Geneva, May 12, 17, blank, blank. Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was surprised to observe the despair that succeeded to the joy I at first expressed on receiving news from my friends. I threw the letter on the table, and covered my face with my hands. My dear Frankenstein, exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep with bitterness. Are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend, what has happened? I motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the room in the extremist agitation. He was also gushed from the eyes of Clerval as he read the account of my misfortune. I can offer you no consolation, my friend, said he. Your disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do? To go instantly to Geneva, come with me, Henry, to order the horses. During our walk Clerval endeavored to raise my spirits. He did not do this by common topics of consolation, but by exhibiting the truest sympathy.  His friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest. He does not now feel the murderer's grasp. A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a fit subject for pity. The survivors are the greatest sufferers, and for them time is the only consolation. Those maxims of the Stoics, that death was no evil, and that the mind of man ought to be superior to despair on the eternal absence of a beloved object, ought not to be urged. Even Cato wept over the dead body of his brother. Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets. The words impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered them afterwards in solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a cabriol, and bade farewell to my friend. My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I longed to console and sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends. But when I drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six years. How altered everything might be during that time! One sudden and desolating change had taken place, but a thousand little circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations, which, although they were done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear overcame me. I dared not advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble, although I was unable to define them. I remained two days at Lausanne in this painful state of mind. I contemplated the lake, the waters were placid, all around was calm, and the snowy mountains, the palaces of nature, were not changed. By degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my journey towards Geneva. The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the black sides of Dura and the bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept like a child. Dear mountains, my own beautiful lake, how do you welcome your wanderer? Your summits are clear, the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness? I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on these preliminary circumstances. But they were days of comparative happiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved country, who but a native can tell the delight I took in again beholding thy streams, thy mountains, and more than all thy lovely lake. Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also closed around, and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt still more gloomily.  Alas! I prophesied truly and failed only in one single circumstance. That in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure. It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva. The gates of the town were already shut, and I was obliged to pass the night at Cessarón, a village half a league to the east of the city. The sky was serene, and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at Plain Palais. During this short voyage, I saw the lightnings playing on the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly, and, on landing, I ascended a low hill that I might observe its progress. It advanced, the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly increased. I quitted my seat and walked on, although the darkness and storm increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash over my head. It was echoed from Saliv, the jurors, and the Alps of Savoy. Vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire. Then for an instant everything seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most violent storm hung exactly north of the town over that part of the lake which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Coppe. Another storm enlightened juror with faint flashes, and another darkened and sometimes disclosed the mole, a peaked mountain to the east of the lake. While I watched the storm, so beautiful, yet terrific, I wandered on with a hasty step. As noble war in the sky elevated my spirits, I clasped my hands and exclaimed aloud, William, dear angel, this is thy funeral, this thy dirge. As I said these words, I perceived in a gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me. I stood fixed, gazing intently. I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the object and discovered its shape plainly to me. Its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy demon to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be? I shuddered at the conception, the murderer of my brother. Who sooner did that idea cross my imagination than I became convinced of its truth? My teeth chattered and I was forced to lean against a tree for support. The figure passed me quickly and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in human shape could have destroyed that fair child. He was the murderer. I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing the devil, but it would have been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me, hanging among the rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont-Saliv, a hill that bounds plain Palais on the south. He soon reached the summit and disappeared. I remained motionless. The thunder ceased, but the rain still continued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I revolved in my mind the events which I had until now sought to forget. The whole train of my progress towards the creation, the appearance of the work of my own hands alive at my bedside, its departure. Two years had now nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life, and was this his first crime? Alas!  Had he not murdered my brother? No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the night, which I spent cold and wet in the open air. But I did not feel the inconvenience of the weather. My imagination was busy in scenes of evil and despair. I considered the being whom I had cast among mankind, and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes of horror, such as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light of my own vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to destroy all that was dear to me. Day dawned, and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were open, and I hastened to my father's house. My first thought was to discover what I knew of the murderer and cause instant pursuit to be made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A being whom I myself had formed and endowed with life had met me at midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered also the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at the time that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that if any other had communicated such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it as the ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal would elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my relatives to commence it. Besides, of what use would be pursuit, who could arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont-Solive? These reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain silent. It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house. I told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library to attend their usual hour of rising. Six years had elapsed, past as a dream but for one indelible trace, and I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and respectable parent, he still remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother which stood over the mantelpiece. It was a historical subject painted at my father's desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic and her cheek pale, but there was an air of dignity and beauty that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of William, and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged, Ernest entered, he had heard me arrive and hastened to welcome me. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me. Welcome, my dearest Victor, said he. Ah! I wish you had come three months ago, and then you would have found us all joyous and delighted. But now we are unhappy, and I am afraid tears instead of smiles will be your welcome. Our father looks so sorrowful. This dreadful event seems to have revived in his mind his grief on the death of Mama. Poor Elizabeth also is quite inconsolable. Ernest began to weep as he said these words. Do not, said I. Welcome me thus. Try to be more calm, that I may not be absolutely miserable the moment I enter my father's house after so long an absence. But tell me, how does my father support his misfortunes, and how is my poor Elizabeth? She indeed requires consolation. She accused herself of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched. But since the murderer has been discovered—the murderer discovered—good God! how can that be? Who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible. One might as well try to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain stream with a straw. I do not know what you mean, but we were all very unhappy when she was discovered. No one would believe it at first, and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable and fond of all the family, could all at once become so extremely wicked? Justine Moritz? Poor, poor girl! Is she the accused? But it is wrongfully. Everyone knows that. No one believes it surely earnest. No one did at first, but several circumstances came out that have almost forced conviction upon us, and her own behaviour has been so confused as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried to-day, and you will then hear all. He related that, the morning on which the murderer of poor William had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed, and, after several days, one of the servants, happening to examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly showed it to one of the others, who, without saying a word to any of the family, went to a magistrate, and upon their deposition Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her extreme confusion of manner. This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith, and I replied earnestly, You are all mistaken. I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good, Justine, is innocent. At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully, and, after we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some other topic than that of our disaster, had not earnest exclaimed. Good God, Papa! Papa says that he knows who was the murderer of poor William. We do also, unfortunately, replied my father, for indeed I had rather have been forever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and ingratitude in one I valued so highly. My dear father, You are mistaken. Justine is innocent. If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She is to be tried to-day, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted. This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. I had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be brought forward strong enough to convict her. And, in this assurance, I calmed myself, expecting the trial with eagerness, but without prognosticating an evil result. We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had made great alterations in her form since I had last beheld her. Six years before she had been a pretty, good-humoured girl whom everyone loved and caressed. She was now a woman in stature and expression of countenance, which was uncommonly lovely. An open and capacious forehead gave indications of a good understanding, joined to great frankness of disposition. Her eyes were hazel and expressive of mildness, now through recent affliction allied to sadness. Her hair was of a rich dark organ, her complexion fair, and her figure slight and graceful. She welcomed me with the greatest affection. Your arrival, my dear cousin, said she, fills me with hope. You will perhaps find some means to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! Who is safe if she be convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us. We have not only lost that lovely, darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never shall know joy more. But she will not be. I am sure she will not, and then I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my little William. She is innocent, my Elizabeth, said I, and that shall be proved. Fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of her acquittal. How kind you are! Everyone else believes in her guilt, and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible, and to see everyone else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me hopeless and despairing. She wept. Sweet niece, said my father, dry your tears. If she is, as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our judges, and the activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality. CHAPTER VII We passed a few sad hours, until eleven o'clock, when the trial was to commence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of this wretched mockery of justice, I suffered living torture. It was to be decided whether the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would cause the death of two of my fellow-beings, one a smiling babe, full of innocence and joy, the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every aggravation of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror. Justine also was a girl of merit, and possessed qualities which promised to render her life happy. Now all was to be obliterated in an anonymous grave, and I the cause. A thousand times rather would I have confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine, but I was absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have been considered as the ravings of a madman, and would not have exculpated her who suffered through me. The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in morning, and her countenance, always engaging, was rendered by the solemnity of her feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in innocence, and did not tremble, although gazed on and executed by thousands, for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have excited was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed. She was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained, and, as her confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she worked up her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered the court, she threw her eyes round it, and quickly discovered where we were seated. A tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us, but she quickly recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest to her utter guiltlessness. The trial began, and after the advocate against her had stated the charge several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined against her which might have staggered any one who had not such proof of her innocence as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on which the murder had been committed, and towards morning had been perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where the body of the murdered child had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she did there, but she looked very strangely, and only returned a confused and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight o'clock, and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she replied that she had been looking for the child, and demanded earnestly if anything had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, she fell into violent hysterics, and kept her bed for several days. The picture was then produced, which the servant had found in her pocket, and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same which, an hour before the child had been missed, she had placed round his neck a murmur of horror and indignation filled the court. Justine was called on for her defense. As the trial had proceeded her countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears, but when she was desired to plead she collected her powers, and spoke in an audible, although variable voice. God knows, she said, how entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend that my protestations should acquit me. I rest my innocence on a plain and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced against me, and I hope the character I have always borne will incline my judges to a favourable interpretation where any circumstance appears doubtful or suspicious. She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the house of an aunt at Chain, a village situated at about a league from Geneva. On her return, at about nine o'clock, she met a man who asked her if she had seen anything of the child who was lost. She was alarmed by this account, and passed several hours in looking for him, when the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced to remain several hours of the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being unwilling to call up the inhabitants to whom she was well known. Unable to rest or sleep, she quitted her asylum early, that she might again endeavour to find my brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it was without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered when questioned by the market woman was not surprising, since she had passed a sleepless night, and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain. Concerning the picture, she could give no account. I know, continued the unhappy victim, how heavily and fatally this one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of explaining it. And when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left to conjecture concerning the probabilities by which it might have been placed in my pocket. But here also I am checked. I believe that I have no enemy on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I know of no opportunity afforded him for so doing, or if I had, why should he have stolen the jewel, depart with it again so soon? I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for hope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my character, and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed guilt, I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my innocence. Several witnesses were called, who had known her for many years, and they spoke well of her, but fear and hatred of the crime of which they supposed her guilty rendered them timorous and unwilling to come forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource, her excellent dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused, when, although violently agitated, she desired permission to address the court. I am, said she, the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered, or rather his sister, for I was educated by and have lived with his parents ever since and even long before his birth. It may therefore be judged indecent in me to come forward on this occasion, but when I see a fellow creature about to perish through the cowardice of her pretended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I know of her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have lived in the same house with her, at one time for five and at another for nearly two years. During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable and benevolent of human creatures.  After which she again lived in my uncle's house, where she was beloved by all the family.  For my own part I do not hesitate to say that, notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I believe and rely on her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for such an action, as to the boreble on which the chief-proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it, I should have willingly given it to her, so much why esteem and value her. Excellent Elizabeth! A murmur of approbation was heard, but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in favour of poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned with renewed violence, charging her with the blackest ingratitude. She herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My own agitation and anguish was extreme during the whole trial. I believed in her innocence, I knew it. Could the demon, who had, I did not for a minute doubt, murdered my brother, also in his hellish sport, have betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy? I could not sustain the horror of my situation, and when I perceived that the popular voice, and the countenances of the judges, had already condemned my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal mine, she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore my bosom and would not forego their hold. I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning I went to the court, my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask the fatal question, but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause of my visit. The ballots had been thrown, they were all black, and Justine was condemned. I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before experienced sensations of horror, and I have endeavoured to bestow upon them adequate expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the heart-sickening despair that I then endured. The person to whom I addressed myself added that Justine had already confessed her guilt. That evidence, he observed, was hardly required in so glaring a case, but I am glad of it, and indeed none of our judges like to condemn a criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so decisive. When I returned home, Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result. My cousin, replied I, it is decided as you may have expected, all judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer, than that one guilty should escape. But she has confessed. This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness upon Justine's innocence. Alas! said she, how shall I ever again believe in human benevolence? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as my sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray? Her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or ill humour, and yet she has committed a murder. Soon after, we heard that the poor victim had expressed a wish to see my cousin. My father wished her not to go, but said that he left it to her own judgment and feelings to decide. Yes, said Elizabeth, I will go, although she is guilty, and you victor shall accompany me. I cannot go alone. The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not refuse. We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and beheld Justine sitting on some straw at the further end. Her hands were manacled, and her head rested on her knees. She rose on seeing us enter, and when we were left alone with her, she threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My cousin wept also. Oh, Justine! said she. Why did you rob me of my last consolation? I relied on your innocence, and although I was then very wretched, I was not so miserable as I am now. And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also join with my enemies to crush me? Her voice was suffocated with sobs. Rise, my poor girl! said Elizabeth, why do you kneel if you are innocent? I am not one of your enemies. I believed you guiltless, notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard that you had yourself declared your guilt. That report, you say, is false, and be assured, dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a moment but your own confession. I did confess, but I confessed a lie. I confessed that I might obtain absolution, but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my other sins. The God of Heaven forgive me. Ever since I was condemned, my confessor has besieged me. He threatened and menaced, until I almost began to think that I was the monster that he said I was. He threatened excommunication and hellfire in my last moments, if I continued obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to support me, all looked on me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition. What could I do? In an evil hour I subscribed to a lie, and now only am I truly miserable. She paused, weeping, and then continued, I thought with horror, my sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed aunt had so highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable of a crime which none but the devil himself could have perpetrated. Dear William, dear blessed child, I soon shall see you again in Heaven, where we shall all be happy, and that consoles me, going as I am to suffer ignominy and death. Oh, Justine, forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you. Why did you confess? But do not mourn, my dear girl, I will everywhere proclaim your innocence and false belief. Yet you must die.  Dear sweet Elizabeth, do not weep. You ought to raise me with thoughts of a better life, and elevate me from the petty cares of this world of injustice and strife. Do not you, excellent friend, drive me to despair. I will try to comfort you, but this, I fear, is an evil too deep and poignant to admit of consolation, for there is no hope. Yet heaven bless thee, my dearest Justine, with resignation, and a confidence elevated beyond this world. Oh, how I hate its shows and mockeries! When one creature is murdered, another is immediately deprived of life in a slow, torturing manner. Then the executioners, their hands yet reeking with a blood of innocence, believe that they have done a great deed. They call this retribution. Hateful name. When that word is pronounced, I know greater and more horrid punishments are going to be inflicted than the gloomiest tyrant has ever invented to satiate his utmost revenge. Yet this is not consolation for you, my Justine, unless indeed that you may glory in escaping from so miserable a den. Alas! I would I wear in peace with my aunt and my lovely William, escaped from a world which is hateful to me, and the visages of men which I abhor. Justine smiled languidly. This dear lady is despair and not resignation. I must not learn the lesson that you would teach me. Talk of something else, something that will bring peace and not increase of misery. During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison room where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair! Who dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass the dreary boundary between life and death, felt not as I did, such deep and bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth and ground them together, uttering a groan that came from my inmost soul. Justine started. When she saw who it was she approached me and said, Dear sir, you are very kind to visit me. You, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty. I could not answer. No, Justine, said Elizabeth. He is more convinced of your innocence than I was, for even when he heard that you had confessed, he did not credit it. I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest gratitude towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the affection of others to such a wretch as I am. It removes more than a half my misfortune, and I feel as if I could die in peace now that my innocence is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin. Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth also wept and was unhappy, but hers also was the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair moon, for a while hides but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core of my heart. I bore a hell within me, which nothing could extinguish. We stayed several hours with Justine, and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear herself away.  I cannot live in this world of misery. Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she, with difficulty, repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth, and said in a voice of half-suppressed emotion, Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend, may heaven in its bounty bless and preserve you, may this be the last misfortune that you will ever suffer, live, and be happy, and make others so. As we returned, Elizabeth said, You know not, my dear Victor, how much I am relieved, now that I trust in the innocence of this unfortunate girl. I could never again have known peace if I had been deceived in my reliance on her. For the moment that I did believe her guilty, I felt an anguish that I could not have long sustained. Now my heart is lightened. The innocent suffers, but she, whom I thought amiable and good, has not betrayed the trust I reposed in her, and I am consoled, amiable cousin.  But I, I was a wretch, and none ever conceived of the misery that I then endured. CHAPTER I Nothing is more painful to the human mind than after the feelings have been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of inaction and certainty which follows, and deprives the soul of both hope and fear. Justine died, she rested, and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my heart, which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes. I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond description horrible, and more, much more, I persuaded myself, was yet behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and the love of virtue. I had begun life with benevolent intentions, and thirsted for the moment when I should put them in practice and make myself useful to my fellow beings. Now all was blasted. Instead of that serenity of conscience, which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures, such as no language can describe. The state of mind preyed upon my health, which had entirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man. All sound of joy or complacency was torture to me. Solitude was my only consolation. Deep, dark, deathlike solitude. My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition and habits, and endeavored to reason with me on the folly of giving way to immoderate grief.  No one could love a child more than I loved your brother. Tears came into his eyes as he spoke. But is it not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed to yourself, for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society. This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case. I should have been the first to hide my grief and console my friends if remorse had not mingled its bitterness with my other sensations. Now I could only answer my father with a look of despair, and endeavour to hide myself from his view. About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten o'clock, and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that hour, had rented our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired for the night, I took the boat and passed many hours upon the water. Sometimes with my sails set I was carried by the wind, and sometimes after rowing into the middle of the lake I left the boat to pursue its own course and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I was often tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly, if I accept some bat or the frogs whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard only when I approached the shore. Often, I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake that the waters might close over me and my calamities for ever. But I was restrained when I thought of the heroic and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was bound up in mine. I thought also of my father and surviving brother, should I by my base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the malice of the fiend whom I had let loose among them. At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that peace would revisit my mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of unalterable evils, and I lived in daily fear lest the monster whom I had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure feeling that all was not over, and that he would still commit some signal crime which, by its enormity, should almost efface the recollection of the past. There was always scope for fear, so long as anything I loved remained behind. My aburrence of this fiend cannot be conceived. When I thought of him I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I had so thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to the highest peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have precipitated him to their base. I wished to see him again that I might wreak the utmost extent of anger on his head and avenge the deaths of William and Justine. Our house was the house of mourning. My father's health was deeply shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and desponding. She no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations. All pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead. Eternal woe and tears she then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence, so blasted and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature who in earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake and talked with ecstasy of our future prospects. She had become grave, and often conversed of the inconstancy of fortune and the instability of human life. When I reflect, my dear cousin, said she, on the miserable death of Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world in its works as they before appeared to me. Before I looked upon the accounts of vice and injustice that I read in books or heard from others, as tales of ancient days or imaginary evils. At least they were remote and more familiar to reason than the imagination. But now misery has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Everybody believed that poor girl to be guilty, and if she could have committed the crime for which she suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth and appeared to love as if it had been her own. I could not consent to the death of any human being, but certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit to remain in the society of men. Yet she was innocent. I know, I feel, she was innocent. You are of the same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were walking on the edge of a precipice towards which thousands are crowding and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss. William and Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes. He walks around the world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a wretch. I listened to this discourse with the extremist agony. I, not indeed, but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my countenance, and kindly taking my hand said, My dearest cousin, you must calm yourself. These events have affected me. God knows how deeply, but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge in your countenance that makes me tremble. Be calm, my dear Victor. I would sacrifice my life to your peace. We surely shall be happy, quiet in our native country, and not mingling in the world. What can disturb our tranquillity? She shed tears, as she said this, distrusting the very solace that she gave, but at the same time she smiled that she might chase away the fiends that lurked in my heart. My father, who saw in the unhappiness that was painted in my face only an exaggeration of that sorrow which I might naturally feel, thought that an amusement suited to my taste would be the best means of restoring me my wanted serenity. It was from this cause that he had removed to the country, and induced by the same motive he now proposed that we should all make an excursion to the valley of Shemuni. I had been there before, but Elizabeth and Ernest never had, and both had often expressed an Ernest desire to see the scenery of this place which had been described to them as so wonderful and sublime. Accordingly we departed from Geneva on this tour about the middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of Justine. The weather was uncommonly fine, and if mine had been a sorrow to be chased away by any fleeting circumstance this excursion would certainly have had the effect intended by my father. As it was, I was somewhat interested in the scene. It sometimes lulled, although it could not extinguish my grief. During the first day we travelled in a carriage. In the morning we had seen the mountains at a distance towards which we gradually advanced. We perceived that the valley through which we wound, and which was formed by the river Arv, whose course we followed, closed in upon us by degrees, and when the sun had set we beheld immense mountains and precipices overhanging us on every side, and heard the sound of the river raging among rocks and the dashing of waterfalls around. The next day we pursued our journey upon mules, and as we ascended still higher the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piney mountains, the impetuous Arv, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from among the trees formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the habitations of another race of beings. We passed the bridge of Pellissier, where the ravine which the river forms opened before us, and we began to ascend the mountain that overhangs it. Soon after we entered the valley of Chamuny. This valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as that of Servox through which we had just passed. The high and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries, but we saw no more ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road, we heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche, and marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding Aiguille and its tremendous dome overlooked the valley. During this journey I sometimes joined Elizabeth and exerted myself to point out to her the various beauties of the scene. I often suffered my mule to lag behind and indulged in the misery of reflection. At other times I spurred on the animal before my companions, that I might forget them, the world, and more than all myself. When at distance I alighted and threw myself on the grass wade down by horror and despair. At eight in the evening I arrived at Chamuny. My father and Elizabeth were very much fatigued. Ernest, who accompanied us, was delighted and in high spirits. The only circumstance that detracted from his pleasure was the south wind and the rain that seemed to promise for the next day. We retired early to our apartments, but not to sleep. At least I did not. I remained many hours at the window, watching the pallid lightning that played above Mont Blanc, and listening to the rushing of the arve which ran below my window. End of Section 13 Section 14 of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Volume 2 Chapter 2 The next day, contrary to the prognostications of our guides, was fine, although clouded. We visited the source of the Arviran and rode about the valley until evening. These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling, and although they did not remove my grief, they subdued and tranquilized it. In some degree, also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the last month. I returned in the evening, fatigued but less unhappy, and conversed with my family with more cheerfulness than had been my custom for some time. My father was pleased, and Elizabeth overjoyed. My dear cousin, said she, you see what happiness you diffuse when you are happy, do not relapse again. The following morning the rain poured down in torrents, and thick mists hid the summits of the mountains. I rose early but felt unusually melancholy. The rain depressed me, my old feelings recurred, and I was miserable. I knew how disappointed my father would be at this sudden change, and I wished to avoid him until I had recovered myself so far as to be enabled to conceal those feelings that overpowered me. I knew that they would remain that day at the inn, and as I had ever enured myself to rain, moisture, and cold, I resolved to go alone to the summit of Montemvre. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the soul, and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the effect of solemnizing my mind, and causing me to forget the passing cares of life. I determined to go alone, for I was well acquainted with the path, and the presence of another would destroy the solitary grandeur of the scene. The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots the traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on the ground, some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning upon the jutting rocks of the mountain, or transversely upon other trees. The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected by ravines of snow, down which stones continually roll from above. One of them is particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, such as even speaking and a loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient to draw destruction upon the head of the speaker. The pines are not tall or luxuriant, but they are somber, and add an air of severity to the scene. I looked on the valley beneath. Vast mists were rising from the rivers which ran through it, and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite mountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain poured from the dark sky, and added to the melancholy impression I received from the objects around me. Alas, why does man boast of sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute, it only renders them more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger, thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free, but now we are moved by every wind that blows, and a chance word or scene that that word may convey to us. We rest, a dream has power to poison sleep. We rise, one wandering thought pollutes the day.  It is the same, for, be it joy or sorrow, the path of its departure still is free. Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow, nought may endure but mutability. It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent. For some time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered both that and the surrounding mountains. Presently a breeze dissipated the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier. The surface is very uneven, rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low and interspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is almost a league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The opposite mountain is a bare, perpendicular rock. From the side where I now stood, Montanvre was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league, and above it rose Montblanc, in awful majesty. I remained in a recess of the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea, or rather the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains, whose aerial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering peaks shone in the sunlight over the clouds. My heart, which was before sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy. I exclaimed, wandering spirits, if indeed you wonder, and do not rest in your narrow beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me as your companion away from the joys of life. As I said this, I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance, advancing towards me with superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices in the ice, among which I had walked with caution. His stature also, as he approached, seemed to exceed that of man. I was troubled, a mist came over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me, but I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the mountains. I perceived, as the shape came nearer, sight tremendous and abhorred, that it was the wretch whom I had created. I trembled with rage and horror, resolving to wait his approach, and then close with him in mortal combat. He approached. His countenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes. But I scarcely observed this. Anger and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance, and I recovered only to overwhelm him with words expressive of furious detestation and contempt. Devil, I exclaimed, do you dare approach me, and do you not fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head? Be gone, vile insect, or rather stay that I may trample you to dust, and all that I could, with the extinction of your miserable existence, restore those victims whom you have so diabolically murdered. I expected this reception, said the demon. All men hate the wretched, how then must I be hated, who are miserable beyond all living things. Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissolvable by the annihilation of one of us.  How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you at peace. But if you refuse, I will glut the more of death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends.   Come on then, that I may extinguish the spark which I so negligently bestowed. My rage was without bounds. I sprang on him, impelled by all the feelings which can arm one being against the existence of another. He easily eluded me, and said, Be calm.  Have I not suffered enough that you seek to increase my misery? Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it. Remember, thou hast made me more powerful than thyself. My height is superior to thine, my joints more supple. But I will not be tempted to set myself in opposition to thee. I am thy creature, and I will be even mild and docile to my natural lord and king, if thou wilt also perform thy part, the which thou o'est me. O Frankenstein, be not equitable to every other, and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection, is most due. Remember that I am thy creature. I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good, misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous. Be gone, I will not hear you. There can be no community between you and me, we are enemies. Be gone, or let us try our strength in a fight, in which one must fall. How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and compassion? Believe me, Frankenstein, I was benevolent, my soul glowed with love and humanity. But am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor me. What hope can I gather from your fellow creatures, who owe me nothing? They spurn and hate me. The desert mountains and dreary glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here many days. The caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the only one which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for they are kinder to me than your fellow beings. If the multitude of mankind knew of my existence, they would do as you do and arm themselves to my destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will keep no terms with my enemies. I am miserable, and they shall share my wretchedness. Yet it is in your power to recompense me, and deliver them from an evil which it only remains for you to make so great, that not only you and your family, but thousands of others, should be swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage. Let your compassion be moved, and do not disdain me. Listen to my tale, when you have heard that, abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve. But hear me. The guilty are allowed by human laws, bloody as they may be, to speak in their own defence before they are condemned. Listen to me, Frankenstein.  Oh, praise the eternal justice of man! Yet I ask you not to spare me. Listen to me. And then, if you can, and if you will, destroy the work of your hands. Why do you call to my remembrance circumstances of which I shudder to reflect that I have been the miserable origin and author?   You have made me wretched beyond expression. You have left me no power to consider whether I am just to you or not. Be gone. Relieve me from the sight of your detested form. Thus I relieve thee, my creator, he said, and placed his hated hands before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence. Thus I take from the ascite which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me and grant me thy compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed I demand this from you. Hear my tale. It is long and strange, and the temperature of this place is not fitting to your fine sensations. Come to the hut upon the mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens, before it descends to hide itself behind you on snowy precipices and illuminate another world. You will have heard my story and can decide.  As he said this, he led the way across the ice. I followed. My heart was full and I did not answer him, but as I proceeded, I weighed the various arguments that he had used, and determined at least to listen to his tale. I was partly urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my resolution. I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of my brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this opinion. For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towards his creature were, and that I ought to render him happy before I complained of his wickedness. These motives urged me to comply with his demand. We crossed the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite rock. The air was cold, and the rain again began to descend. We entered the hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, eye with a heavy heart and depressed spirits. But I consented to listen, and seating myself by the fire which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began his tale. It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of my being. All the events of that period appear confused and indistinct. A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard, and smelt at the same time, and it was indeed a long time before I learned to distinguish between the operations of my various senses.  Darkness then came over me and troubled me, but hardly had I felt this when, by opening my eyes, as I now suppose, the light poured in upon me again. I walked, and I believe, descended, but I presently found a great alteration in my sensations. Before, dark and opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to my touch or sight, but I now found that I could wander on at liberty, with no obstacles which I could not either surmount or avoid. The light became more and more oppressive to me, and the heat wearying me as I walked, I sought a place where I could receive shade. This was the forest near Ingolstadt, and here I lay by the side of a brook resting from my fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst. This roused me from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries which I found hanging on the trees or lying on the ground. I slaked my thirst at the brook, and then lying down was overcome by sleep. It was dark when I awoke. I felt cold also, and half frightened as it were instinctively, finding myself so desolate.  I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch. I knew and could distinguish nothing, but feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat down and wept. Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens, and gave me a sensation of pleasure. I started up, and beheld a radiant form rise from among the trees. I gazed with a kind of wonder. It moved slowly, but it enlightened my path, and I again went out in search of berries. I was still cold, when under one of the trees I found a huge cloak with which I covered myself, and sat down upon the ground. No distinct ideas occupied my mind, all was confused. I felt light, and hunger, and thirst, and darkness. Innumerable sounds rung in my ears, and on all sides various scents saluted me. The only object that I could distinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes on that with pleasure. Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night had greatly lessened when I began to distinguish my sensations from each other. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream that supplied me with drink, and the trees that shaded me with their foliage. I was delighted when I first discovered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my ears, proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals who had often intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also to observe, with greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me, and to perceive the boundaries of the radiant roof of light which canopied me. Sometimes I tried to imitate the pleasant songs of the birds, but was unable. Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in my own mode, but the uncouth and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened me into silence again. The moon had disappeared from the night, and again with a lessened form showed itself while I still remained in the forest. My sensations had, by this time, become distinct, and my mind received every day additional ideas. My eyes became accustomed to the light, and to perceive objects in their right forms, I distinguished the insect from the herb, and, by degrees, one herb from another. I found that the sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, while those of the blackbird and thrush were sweet and enticing. One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the warmth I experienced from it. In my joy I thrust my hand into the live embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects. I examined the materials of the fire, and to my joy found it to be composed of wood. I quickly collected some branches, but they were wet and would not burn. I was pained at this, and sat still watching the operation of the fire. The wet wood which I had placed near the heat dried, and itself became inflamed. I reflected on this, and, by touching the various branches, I discovered the cause, and busied myself in collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it and have a plentiful supply of fire. When night came on, and brought sleep with it, I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves, and placed wet branches upon it, and then, spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground and sunk into sleep. It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire. I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame. I observed this also, and contrived a fan of branches which roused the embers when they were nearly extinguished. When night came again I found with pleasure that the fire gave light as well as heat, and that the discovery of this element was useful to me in my food, for I found some of the offals that the travellers had left had been roasted, and tasted much more savoury than the berries I gathered from the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress my food in the same manner placing it on the live embers. I found that the berries were spoiled by this operation, and the nuts and roots much improved. Food, however, became scarce, and I often spent the whole day searching in vain for a few acorns to assuage the pains of hunger. When I found this I resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto inhabited, to seek for one where the few wants I experienced would be more easily satisfied. In this emigration I exceedingly lamented the loss of the fire which I had obtained through accident, and knew not how to reproduce it. I gave several hours to the serious consideration of this difficulty, but I was obliged to relinquish all attempt to supply it, and, wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across the wood towards the setting sun. I passed three days in these rambles, and at length discovered the open country. A great fall of snow had taken place the night before, and the fields were of one uniform white. The appearance was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold damp substance that covered the ground. It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and shelter. At length I perceived a small hut on a rising ground which had doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd. This was a new sight to me, and I examined the structure with great curiosity. Finding the door open I entered. An old man sat in it near a fire over which he was preparing his breakfast. He turned on hearing a noise, and, perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and quitting the hut ran across the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form hardly appeared capable. His appearance, different from any I had ever before seen, and his flight somewhat surprised me. But I was enchanted by the appearance of the hut. Here the snow and rain could not penetrate, the ground was dry, and it presented to me then as exquisite and divine a retreat as pandemonium appeared to the demons of hell after their sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants of the shepherd's breakfast which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine—the latter, however, I did not like. Then, overcome by fatigue, I lay down amongst some straw and fell asleep. It was noon when I awoke, and allured by the warmth of the sun which shone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my travels, and, depositing the remains of the peasant's breakfast in a wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours, until at sunset I appeared at a village. How miraculous did this appear! The huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses engaged my admiration by turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw placed at the windows of some of the cottages, allured my appetite. One of the best of these I entered, but I had hardly placed my foot within the door, before the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted. The whole village was roused, some fled, some attacked me, until grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile-weapons I escaped to the open country, and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel, quite bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had beheld in the village. This hovel, however, joined a cottage of a neat and pleasant appearance, but after my late dearly bought experience I dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so low that I could with difficulty sit upright in it. No wood, however, was placed on the earth which formed the floor, but it was dry, and although the wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found it an agreeable asylum from the snow and rain. Here, then, I retreated and lay down, happy to have found a shelter, however miserable, from the inclemancy of the season, and still more from the barbarity of man. As soon as morning dawned I crept from my kennel, that I might view the adjacent cottage and discover if I could remain in the habitation I had found. It was situated against the back of the cottage, and surrounded on the sides which were exposed by a pig-stie and a clear pool of water. One part was open, and by that I had crept in, but now I covered every crevice by which I might be perceived, with stones and wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them on occasion to pass out, all the light I enjoyed came through the stie, and that was sufficient for me. Having thus arranged my dwelling, and carpeted it with clean straw, I retired, for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered too well my treatment the night before to trust myself in his power. I had first, however, provided for my sustenance for that day, by a loaf of coarse bread which I perloined, and a cup with which I could drink, more conveniently than from my hand, of the pure water which flowed by my retreat. The floor was a little raised, so that it was kept perfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the chimney of the cottage it was tolerably warm. Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel until something should occur which might alter my determination. It was indeed a paradise compared to the bleak forest, my former residence, the raindropping branches, and dank earth.  The girl was young and of gentle demeanour, unlike what I have since found cottages and farmhouse servants to be. Yet she was meanly dressed, a coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her only garb. Her fair hair was plaited, but not adorned. She looked patient, yet sad. I lost sight of her, and in about a quarter of an hour she returned, bearing the pale, which was now partly filled with milk. As she walked along, seemingly incommodated by the burden, a young man met her, whose countenance expressed a deeper despondence. Uttering a few sounds with an air of melancholy, he took the pale from her head, and bore it to the cottage himself. She followed, and they disappeared. Presently I saw the young man again, with some tools in his hand, crossed the field behind the cottage, and the girl was also busyed, sometimes in the house, and sometimes in the yard. On examining my dwelling I found that one of the windows of the cottage had formally occupied a part of it, but the panes had been filled up with wood. In one of these was a small and almost imperceptible chink, through which the eye could just penetrate. Through this crevice a small room was visible, whitewashed and clean, but very bare of furniture. In one corner, near a small fire, sat an old man, leaning his head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude. The young girl was occupied in arranging the cottage, but presently she took something out of a drawer which employed her hands, and she sat down beside the old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play, and to produce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale. It was a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch, who had never beheld ought beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent countenance of the aged cottageer won my reverence, while the gentle manners of the girl enticed my love. He played a sweet, mournful air, which I perceived drew tears from the eyes of his amiable companion, of which the old man took no notice, until she sobbed audibly. He then produced a few sounds, and the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt at his feet. He raised her, and smiled with such kindness and affection, that I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature. They were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or food, and I withdrew from the window unable to bear these emotions.  The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him of his burden, and, taking some of the fuel into the cottage, placed it on the fire. Then she and the youth went apart into a nook of the cottage, and he showed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased, and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which she placed in water, and then upon the fire. She afterwards continued her work, whilst the young man went into the garden, and appeared busily employed in digging and pulling up roots. After he had been employed thus about an hour the young woman joined him, and they entered the cottage together. The old man had, in the meantime, been pensive, but on the appearance of his companions he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to eat. The meal was quickly dispatched. The young woman was again occupied in arranging the cottage. The old man walked before the cottage in the sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth. Nothing could exceed in beauty the contrast between these two excellent creatures. One was old, with silver hairs, and a countenance beaming with benevolence and love. The younger was slight and graceful in his figure, and his features were moulded with the finest symmetry, yet his eyes and attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The old man returned to the cottage, and the youth, with tools different from those he had used in the morning, directed his steps across the fields. Night quickly shut in, but to my extreme wonder I found that the cottagers had a means of prolonging light by the use of tapers, and was delighted to find that the setting of the sun did not put an end to the pleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbours. In the evening the young girl and her companion were employed in various occupations which I did not understand, and the old man again took up the instrument which produced the divine sounds that had enchanted me in the morning. So soon as he had finished, the youth began, not to play, but to utter sounds that were monotonous, and neither resembling the harmony of the old man's instrument or the songs of the birds. I since found that he read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of the science of words or letters.