Frankenstein

“I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the occur­rences of the day. What chiefly struck me was the gen­tle man­ners of these peo­ple, and I longed to join them, but dared not. I remem­bered too well the treat­ment I had suf­fered the night before from the bar­barous vil­lagers, and resolved, what­ev­er course of con­duct I might here­after think it right to pur­sue, that for the present I would remain qui­et­ly in my hov­el, watch­ing and endeav­our­ing to dis­cov­er the motives which influ­enced their actions. 

“The cot­tagers arose the next morn­ing before the sun. The young woman arranged the cot­tage and pre­pared the food, and the youth depart­ed after the first meal. 

“This day was passed in the same rou­tine as that which pre­ced­ed it. The young man was con­stant­ly employed out of doors, and the girl in var­i­ous labo­ri­ous occu­pa­tions with­in. The old man, whom I soon per­ceived to be blind, employed his leisure hours on his instru­ment or in con­tem­pla­tion. Noth­ing could exceed the love and respect which the younger cot­tagers exhib­it­ed towards their ven­er­a­ble com­pan­ion. They per­formed towards him every lit­tle office of affec­tion and duty with gen­tle­ness, and he reward­ed them by his benev­o­lent smiles. 

“They were not entire­ly hap­py. The young man and his com­pan­ion often went apart and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhap­pi­ness, but I was deeply affect­ed by it. If such love­ly crea­tures were mis­er­able, it was less strange that I, an imper­fect and soli­tary being, should be wretched. Yet why were these gen­tle beings unhap­py? They pos­sessed a delight­ful house (for such it was in my eyes) and every lux­u­ry; they had a fire to warm them when chill and deli­cious viands when hun­gry; they were dressed in excel­lent clothes; and, still more, they enjoyed one another’s com­pa­ny and speech, inter­chang­ing each day looks of affec­tion and kind­ness. What did their tears imply? Did they real­ly express pain? I was at first unable to solve these ques­tions, but per­pet­u­al atten­tion and time explained to me many appear­ances which were at first enigmatic. 

“A con­sid­er­able peri­od elapsed before I dis­cov­ered one of the caus­es of the uneasi­ness of this ami­able fam­i­ly: it was pover­ty, and they suf­fered that evil in a very dis­tress­ing degree. Their nour­ish­ment con­sist­ed entire­ly of the veg­eta­bles of their gar­den and the milk of one cow, which gave very lit­tle dur­ing the win­ter, when its mas­ters could scarce­ly pro­cure food to sup­port it. They often, I believe, suf­fered the pangs of hunger very poignant­ly, espe­cial­ly the two younger cot­tagers, for sev­er­al times they placed food before the old man when they reserved none for themselves. 

“This trait of kind­ness moved me sen­si­bly. I had been accus­tomed, dur­ing the night, to steal a part of their store for my own con­sump­tion, but when I found that in doing this I inflict­ed pain on the cot­tagers, I abstained and sat­is­fied myself with berries, nuts, and roots which I gath­ered from a neigh­bour­ing wood. 

“I dis­cov­ered also anoth­er means through which I was enabled to assist their labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day in col­lect­ing wood for the fam­i­ly fire, and dur­ing the night I often took his tools, the use of which I quick­ly dis­cov­ered, and brought home fir­ing suf­fi­cient for the con­sump­tion of sev­er­al days. 

“I remem­ber, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she opened the door in the morn­ing, appeared great­ly aston­ished on see­ing a great pile of wood on the out­side. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed sur­prise. I observed, with plea­sure, that he did not go to the for­est that day, but spent it in repair­ing the cot­tage and cul­ti­vat­ing the garden. 

“By degrees I made a dis­cov­ery of still greater moment. I found that these peo­ple pos­sessed a method of com­mu­ni­cat­ing their expe­ri­ence and feel­ings to one anoth­er by artic­u­late sounds. I per­ceived that the words they spoke some­times pro­duced plea­sure or pain, smiles or sad­ness, in the minds and coun­te­nances of the hear­ers. This was indeed a god­like sci­ence, and I ardent­ly desired to become acquaint­ed with it. But I was baf­fled in every attempt I made for this pur­pose. Their pro­nun­ci­a­tion was quick, and the words they uttered, not hav­ing any appar­ent con­nec­tion with vis­i­ble objects, I was unable to dis­cov­er any clue by which I could unrav­el the mys­tery of their ref­er­ence. By great appli­ca­tion, how­ev­er, and after hav­ing remained dur­ing the space of sev­er­al rev­o­lu­tions of the moon in my hov­el, I dis­cov­ered the names that were giv­en to some of the most famil­iar objects of dis­course; I learned and applied the words, fire, milk, bread, and wood. I learned also the names of the cot­tagers them­selves. The youth and his com­pan­ion had each of them sev­er­al names, but the old man had only one, which was father. The girl was called sis­ter or Agatha, and the youth Felix, broth­er, or son. I can­not describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas appro­pri­at­ed to each of these sounds and was able to pro­nounce them. I dis­tin­guished sev­er­al oth­er words with­out being able as yet to under­stand or apply them, such as good, dear­est, unhap­py.

“I spent the win­ter in this man­ner. The gen­tle man­ners and beau­ty of the cot­tagers great­ly endeared them to me; when they were unhap­py, I felt depressed; when they rejoiced, I sym­pa­thised in their joys. I saw few human beings besides them, and if any oth­er hap­pened to enter the cot­tage, their harsh man­ners and rude gait only enhanced to me the supe­ri­or accom­plish­ments of my friends. The old man, I could per­ceive, often endeav­oured to encour­age his chil­dren, as some­times I found that he called them, to cast off their melan­choly. He would talk in a cheer­ful accent, with an expres­sion of good­ness that bestowed plea­sure even upon me. Agatha lis­tened with respect, her eyes some­times filled with tears, which she endeav­oured to wipe away unper­ceived; but I gen­er­al­ly found that her coun­te­nance and tone were more cheer­ful after hav­ing lis­tened to the exhor­ta­tions of her father. It was not thus with Felix. He was always the sad­dest of the group, and even to my unprac­tised sens­es, he appeared to have suf­fered more deeply than his friends. But if his coun­te­nance was more sor­row­ful, his voice was more cheer­ful than that of his sis­ter, espe­cial­ly when he addressed the old man. 

“I could men­tion innu­mer­able instances which, although slight, marked the dis­po­si­tions of these ami­able cot­tagers. In the midst of pover­ty and want, Felix car­ried with plea­sure to his sis­ter the first lit­tle white flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground. Ear­ly in the morn­ing, before she had risen, he cleared away the snow that obstruct­ed her path to the milk-house, drew water from the well, and brought the wood from the out­house, where, to his per­pet­u­al aston­ish­ment, he found his store always replen­ished by an invis­i­ble hand. In the day, I believe, he worked some­times for a neigh­bour­ing farmer, because he often went forth and did not return until din­ner, yet brought no wood with him. At oth­er times he worked in the gar­den, but as there was lit­tle to do in the frosty sea­son, he read to the old man and Agatha. 

“This read­ing had puz­zled me extreme­ly at first, but by degrees I dis­cov­ered that he uttered many of the same sounds when he read as when he talked. I con­jec­tured, there­fore, that he found on the paper signs for speech which he under­stood, and I ardent­ly longed to com­pre­hend these also; but how was that pos­si­ble when I did not even under­stand the sounds for which they stood as signs? I improved, how­ev­er, sen­si­bly in this sci­ence, but not suf­fi­cient­ly to fol­low up any kind of con­ver­sa­tion, although I applied my whole mind to the endeav­our, for I eas­i­ly per­ceived that, although I eager­ly longed to dis­cov­er myself to the cot­tagers, I ought not to make the attempt until I had first become mas­ter of their lan­guage, which knowl­edge might enable me to make them over­look the defor­mi­ty of my fig­ure, for with this also the con­trast per­pet­u­al­ly pre­sent­ed to my eyes had made me acquainted. 

“I had admired the per­fect forms of my cottagers—their grace, beau­ty, and del­i­cate com­plex­ions; but how was I ter­ri­fied when I viewed myself in a trans­par­ent pool! At first I start­ed back, unable to believe that it was indeed I who was reflect­ed in the mir­ror; and when I became ful­ly con­vinced that I was in real­i­ty the mon­ster that I am, I was filled with the bit­ter­est sen­sa­tions of despon­dence and mor­ti­fi­ca­tion. Alas! I did not yet entire­ly know the fatal effects of this mis­er­able deformity. 

“As the sun became warmer and the light of day longer, the snow van­ished, and I beheld the bare trees and the black earth. From this time Felix was more employed, and the heart-mov­ing indi­ca­tions of impend­ing famine dis­ap­peared. Their food, as I after­wards found, was coarse, but it was whole­some; and they pro­cured a suf­fi­cien­cy of it. Sev­er­al new kinds of plants sprang up in the gar­den, which they dressed; and these signs of com­fort increased dai­ly as the sea­son advanced. 

“The old man, lean­ing on his son, walked each day at noon, when it did not rain, as I found it was called when the heav­ens poured forth its waters. This fre­quent­ly took place, but a high wind quick­ly dried the earth, and the sea­son became far more pleas­ant than it had been. 

“My mode of life in my hov­el was uni­form. Dur­ing the morn­ing I attend­ed the motions of the cot­tagers, and when they were dis­persed in var­i­ous occu­pa­tions, I slept; the remain­der of the day was spent in observ­ing my friends. When they had retired to rest, if there was any moon or the night was star-light, I went into the woods and col­lect­ed my own food and fuel for the cot­tage. When I returned, as often as it was nec­es­sary, I cleared their path from the snow and per­formed those offices that I had seen done by Felix. I after­wards found that these labours, per­formed by an invis­i­ble hand, great­ly aston­ished them; and once or twice I heard them, on these occa­sions, utter the words good spir­it, won­der­ful; but I did not then under­stand the sig­ni­fi­ca­tion of these terms. 

“My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to dis­cov­er the motives and feel­ings of these love­ly crea­tures; I was inquis­i­tive to know why Felix appeared so mis­er­able and so sad. I thought (fool­ish wretch!) that it might be in my pow­er to restore hap­pi­ness to these deserv­ing peo­ple. When I slept or was absent, the forms of the ven­er­a­ble blind father, the gen­tle Agatha, and the excel­lent Felix flit­ted before me. I looked upon them as supe­ri­or beings who would be the arbiters of my future des­tiny. I formed in my imag­i­na­tion a thou­sand pic­tures of pre­sent­ing myself to them, and their recep­tion of me. I imag­ined that they would be dis­gust­ed, until, by my gen­tle demeanour and con­cil­i­at­ing words, I should first win their favour and after­wards their love. 

“These thoughts exhil­a­rat­ed me and led me to apply with fresh ardour to the acquir­ing the art of lan­guage. My organs were indeed harsh, but sup­ple; and although my voice was very unlike the soft music of their tones, yet I pro­nounced such words as I under­stood with tol­er­a­ble ease. It was as the ass and the lap-dog; yet sure­ly the gen­tle ass whose inten­tions were affec­tion­ate, although his man­ners were rude, deserved bet­ter treat­ment than blows and execration. 

“The pleas­ant show­ers and genial warmth of spring great­ly altered the aspect of the earth. Men who before this change seemed to have been hid in caves dis­persed them­selves and were employed in var­i­ous arts of cul­ti­va­tion. The birds sang in more cheer­ful notes, and the leaves began to bud forth on the trees. Hap­py, hap­py earth! Fit habi­ta­tion for gods, which, so short a time before, was bleak, damp, and unwhole­some. My spir­its were ele­vat­ed by the enchant­i­ng appear­ance of nature; the past was blot­ted from my mem­o­ry, the present was tran­quil, and the future gild­ed by bright rays of hope and antic­i­pa­tions of joy.”