Frankenstein

I spent the fol­low­ing day roam­ing through the val­ley. I stood beside the sources of the Arve­iron, which take their rise in a glac­i­er, that with slow pace is advanc­ing down from the sum­mit of the hills to bar­ri­cade the val­ley. The abrupt sides of vast moun­tains were before me; the icy wall of the glac­i­er over­hung me; a few shat­tered pines were scat­tered around; and the solemn silence of this glo­ri­ous pres­ence-cham­ber of impe­r­i­al Nature was bro­ken only by the brawl­ing waves or the fall of some vast frag­ment, the thun­der sound of the avalanche or the crack­ing, rever­ber­at­ed along the moun­tains, of the accu­mu­lat­ed ice, which, through the silent work­ing of immutable laws, was ever and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a play­thing in their hands. 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 tran­quil­lised it. In some degree, also, they divert­ed my mind from the thoughts over which it had brood­ed for the last month. I retired to rest at night; my slum­bers, as it were, wait­ed on and min­is­tered to by the assem­blance of grand shapes which I had con­tem­plat­ed dur­ing the day. They con­gre­gat­ed round me; the unstained snowy moun­tain-top, the glit­ter­ing pin­na­cle, the pine woods, and ragged bare ravine, the eagle, soar­ing amidst the clouds—they all gath­ered round me and bade me be at peace. 

Where had they fled when the next morn­ing I awoke? All of soul-inspir­it­ing fled with sleep, and dark melan­choly cloud­ed every thought. The rain was pour­ing in tor­rents, and thick mists hid the sum­mits of the moun­tains, so that I even saw not the faces of those mighty friends. Still I would pen­e­trate their misty veil and seek them in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me? My mule was brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the sum­mit of Mon­tan­vert. 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 solem­nis­ing my mind and caus­ing me to for­get the pass­ing cares of life. I deter­mined to go with­out a guide, 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 in 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 som­bre 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 wand’ring thought pol­lutes the day.We feel, con­ceive, or rea­son; laugh or weep, Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;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 Mon­tan­vert was exact­ly oppo­site, at the dis­tance of a league; and above it rose Mont Blanc, 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 ye wan­der, 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; rage 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 not you fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your mis­er­able head? Begone, vile insect! Or rather, stay, that I may tram­ple you to dust! And, oh! 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 dæmon. “All men hate the wretched; how, then, must I be hat­ed, who am mis­er­able beyond all liv­ing things! Yet you, my cre­ator, detest and spurn me, thy crea­ture, to whom thou art bound by ties only dis­sol­u­ble by the anni­hi­la­tion of one of us. You pur­pose to kill me. 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 maw of death, until it be sati­at­ed with the blood of your remain­ing friends.” 

“Abhorred mon­ster! Fiend that thou art! The tor­tures of hell are too mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched dev­il! You reproach me with your cre­ation, 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! I entreat you to hear me before you give vent to your hatred on my devot­ed head. 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 owest me. Oh, 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.” 

“Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no com­mu­ni­ty between you and me; we are ene­mies. Begone, 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 for 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, shall 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 are, to speak in their own defence before they are con­demned. Lis­ten to me, Franken­stein. You accuse me of mur­der, and yet you would, with a sat­is­fied con­science, destroy your own crea­ture. 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,” I rejoined, “cir­cum­stances of which I shud­der to reflect, that I have been the mis­er­able ori­gin and author? Cursed be the day, abhorred dev­il, in which you first saw light! Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that formed you! You have made me wretched beyond expres­sion. You have left me no pow­er to con­sid­er whether I am just to you or not. Begone! 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 thee a sight 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 your snowy precipices and illu­mi­nate anoth­er world, you will have heard my sto­ry and can decide. On you it rests, whether I quit for ever the neigh­bour­hood of man and lead a harm­less life, or become the scourge of your fel­low crea­tures and the author of your own speedy ruin.” 

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, I 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.