FRANKENSTEIN
PART 2
The Stranger’s Story
Chapter 1
I am by
birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that
republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics, and my
father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. He was
respected by all who knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to
public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs
of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early,
nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband and the father of
a family.
As the
circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain from
relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a merchant who, from a
flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man,
whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition and could not
bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly
been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts,
therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter to the
town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved
Beaufort with the truest friendship and was deeply grieved by his retreat in
these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored the false pride which led
his friend to a conduct so little worthy of the affection that united them. He
lost no time in endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him
to begin the world again through his credit and assistance.
Beaufort
had taken effectual measures to conceal himself, and it was ten months before
my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the
house, which was situated in a mean street near the Reuss. But when he entered,
misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum
of money from the wreck of his fortunes, but it was sufficient to provide him
with sustenance for some months, and in the meantime he hoped to procure some
respectable employment in a merchant's house. The interval was, consequently,
spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling when he had
leisure for reflection, and at length it took so fast hold of his mind that at
the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion.
His
daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness, but she saw with despair
that their little fund was rapidly decreasing and that there was no other
prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommon
mould, and her courage rose to support her in her adversity. She procured plain
work; she plaited straw and by various means contrived to earn a pittance
scarcely sufficient to support life.
Several
months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time was more entirely
occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth
month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar. This
last blow overcame her, and she knelt by Beaufort's coffin weeping bitterly,
when my father entered the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the
poor girl, who committed herself to his care; and after the interment of his
friend he conducted her to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a
relation. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.
There was
a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but this circumstance
seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection. There was a
sense of justice in my father's upright mind which rendered it necessary that
he should approve highly to love strongly. Perhaps during former years he had
suffered from the late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved and so was
disposed to set a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude
and worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the doting
fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues and a desire
to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her for the sorrows she had
endured, but which gave inexpressible grace to his behaviour to her. Everything
was made to yield to her wishes and her convenience. He strove to shelter her,
as a fair exotic is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind and to
surround her with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft
and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto
constant spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During the two
years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had gradually
relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after their union they
sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of scene and interest
attendant on a tour through that land of wonders, as a restorative for her
weakened frame.
From Italy
they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born at Naples, and
as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained for several years
their only child. Much as they were attached to each other, they seemed to draw
inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of love to bestow them upon
me. My mother's tender caresses and my father's smile of benevolent pleasure
while regarding me are my first recollections. I was their plaything and their
idol, and something better—their child, the innocent and helpless creature
bestowed on them by heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it
was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they
fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they
owed towards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit
of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during every
hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity, and of
self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed but one train of
enjoyment to me. For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much
desired to have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about
five years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they
passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition
often made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more
than a duty; it was a necessity, a passion—remembering what she had suffered,
and how she had been relieved—for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to
the afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale
attracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of
half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst shape. One
day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me,
visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working, bent down
by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among
these there was one which attracted my mother far above all the rest. She
appeared of a different stock. The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little
vagrants; this child was thin and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living
gold, and despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of
distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes cloudless,
and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of sensibility and
sweetness that none could behold her without looking on her as of a distinct
species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp in all her
features. The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and
admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was not
her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a German and
had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with these good people
to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been long married, and their
eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge was one of those
Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory of Italy—one among the
schiavi ognor frementi, who exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his
country. He became the victim of its weakness. Whether he had died or still
lingered in the dungeons of Austria was not known. His property was
confiscated; his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her
foster parents and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose among
dark-leaved brambles. When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with
me in the hall of our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub—a creature who
seemed to shed radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter
than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his
permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to
her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to
them, but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want when
Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They consulted their village
priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my
parents' house—my more than sister—the beautiful and adored companion of all my
occupations and my pleasures.
Everyone
loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment with which
all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride and my delight. On the
evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother had said playfully,
"I have a pretty present for my Victor—tomorrow he shall have it."
And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I,
with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally and looked upon
Elizabeth as mine—mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on
her I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other
familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body forth the
kind of relation in which she stood to me—my more than sister, since till death
she was to be mine only.
Chapter 2
We were
brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in our ages. I need
not say that we were strangers to any species of disunion or dispute. Harmony
was the soul of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast that
subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together. Elizabeth was of a calmer
and more concentrated disposition; but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a
more intense application and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for
knowledge. She busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets;
and in the majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss home —the
sublime shapes of the mountains, the changes of the seasons, tempest and calm,
the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of our Alpine summers—she
found ample scope for admiration and delight. While my companion contemplated
with a serious and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of things, I
delighted in investigating their causes. The world was to me a secret which I
desired to divine. Curiosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of
nature, gladness akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the
earliest sensations I can remember.
On the
birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave up entirely
their wandering life and fixed themselves in their native country. We possessed
a house in Geneva, and a campagne on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake, at
the distance of rather more than a league from the city. We resided principally
in the latter, and the lives of my parents were passed in considerable
seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd and to attach myself fervently to
a few. I was indifferent, therefore, to my school-fellows in general; but I
united myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry
Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of singular talent
and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger for its own sake. He
was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He composed heroic songs and
began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly adventure. He tried to
make us act plays and to enter into masquerades, in which the characters were
drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles, of the Round Table of King Arthur, and
the chivalrous train who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre from the
hands of the infidels.
No human
being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My parents were
possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We felt that they were
not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their caprice, but the agents and
creators of all the many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled with other
families I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and
gratitude assisted the development of filial love.
My temper
was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some law in my
temperature they were turned not towards childish pursuits but to an eager
desire to learn, and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess that
neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments, nor the politics
of various states possessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of heaven
and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of
things or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that
occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or in its
highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.
Meanwhile
Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral relations of things. The
busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men were his
theme; and his hope and his dream was to become one among those whose names are
recorded in story as the gallant and adventurous benefactors of our species.
The saintly soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our
peaceful home. Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet
glance of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was
the living spirit of love to soften and attract; I might have become sullen in
my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that she was there to
subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval—could aught ill
entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval? Yet he might not have been so
perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his generosity, so full of kindness and
tenderness amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to
him the real loveliness of beneficence and made the doing good the end and aim
of his soaring ambition.
I feel
exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before
misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of extensive
usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in drawing
the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by
insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would account to
myself for the birth of that passion which afterwards ruled my destiny I find
it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources;
but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has
swept away all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the genius that has
regulated my fate; I desire, therefore, in this narration, to state those facts
which led to my predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age
we all went on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of
the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I
chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with
apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate and the wonderful facts
which he relates soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed
to dawn upon my mind, and bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my
father. My father looked carelessly at the title page of my book and said,
"Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this;
it is sad trash."
If,
instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me that the
principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded and that a modern system of
science had been introduced which possessed much greater powers than the
ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while those of the
former were real and practical, under such circumstances I should certainly
have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was,
by returning with greater ardour to my former studies. It is even possible that
the train of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to
my ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no means
assured me that he was acquainted with its contents, and I continued to read
with the greatest avidity. When I returned home my first care was to procure
the whole works of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus
Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they
appeared to me treasures known to few besides myself. I have described myself
as always having been imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of
nature. In spite of the intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern
philosophers, I always came from my studies discontented and unsatisfied. Sir
Isaac Newton is said to have avowed that he felt like a child picking up shells
beside the great and unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors in each
branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted appeared even to my
boy's apprehensions as tyros engaged in the same pursuit.
The
untaught peasant beheld the elements around him and was acquainted with their
practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more. He had partially
unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal lineaments were still a wonder
and a mystery. He might dissect, anatomize, and give names; but, not to speak
of a final cause, causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly
unknown to him. I had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed
to keep human beings from entering the citadel of nature, and rashly and
ignorantly I had repined.
But here
were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and knew more. I took
their word for all that they averred, and I became their disciple. It may
appear strange that such should arise in the eighteenth century; but while I followed
the routine of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree,
self-taught with regard to my favourite studies. My father was not scientific,
and I was left to struggle with a child's blindness, added to a student's
thirst for knowledge. Under the guidance of my new preceptors I entered with
the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher's stone and the
elixir of life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was
an inferior object, but what glory would attend the discovery if I could banish
disease from the human frame and render man invulnerable to any but a violent
death! Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a
promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which I
most eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always unsuccessful, I
attributed the failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake than to a want
of skill or fidelity in my instructors. And thus for a time I was occupied by
exploded systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory theories
and floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious knowledge, guided
by an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident again changed
the current of my ideas. When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to
our house near Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible
thunderstorm. It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder
burst at once with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I
remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and
delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue
from an old and beautiful oak which stood about twenty yards from our house;
and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and
nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we
found the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the
shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld anything so
utterly destroyed.
Before
this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of electricity. On this
occasion a man of great research in natural philosophy was with us, and excited
by this catastrophe, he entered on the explanation of a theory which he had
formed on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new and
astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius
Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by
some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed
studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be known. All that
had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable. By one of those caprices
of the mind which we are perhaps most subject to in early youth, I at once gave
up my former occupations, set down natural history and all its progeny as a
deformed and abortive creation, and entertained the greatest disdain for a
would-be science which could never even step within the threshold of real
knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics and the
branches of study appertaining to that science as being built upon secure
foundations, and so worthy of my consideration.
Thus
strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound
to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this almost
miraculous change of inclination and will was the immediate suggestion of the
guardian angel of my life—the last effort made by the spirit of preservation to
avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars and ready to envelop
me. Her victory was announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul
which followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting studies.
It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with their prosecution,
happiness with their disregard.
It was a
strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual. Destiny was too
potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible destruction.
To be continued
