Frankenstein's Bride (25 page)

You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered communication,
yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by a recital of his
misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the promised narrative, partly
from curiosity and partly from a strong desire to ameliorate his fate if it were in
my power. I expressed these feelings in my answer.

“I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is useless; my fate is
nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall repose in peace. I
understand your feeling,” continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt
him; “but you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name you;
nothing can alter my destiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how
irrevocably it is determined.”

He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when
I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have
resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to
record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during the
day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will
doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who know him, and who
hear it from his own lips—with what interest and sympathy shall I read it in
some future day! Even now, as I commence my task, his full-toned voice swells
in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; I
see his thin hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated
by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story, frightful
the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course and wrecked it—thus!

C H A PT E R 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 counselors and syndics, and my father had filled several public situations with honor 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 honorable
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 endeavoring 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 behavior 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 tranquility 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 labor, 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 molding 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.

C H A PT E R 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 ardor,
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 cam-pagne 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 sepulcher 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 ardor 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 ardor 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 labor 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 favorite 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 favorite authors, the
fulfillment 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 tranquility 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.