Frankenstein

“Such was the his­to­ry of my beloved cot­tagers. It impressed me deeply. I learned, from the views of social life which it devel­oped, to admire their virtues and to dep­re­cate the vices of mankind. 

“As yet I looked upon crime as a dis­tant evil, benev­o­lence and gen­eros­i­ty were ever present before me, incit­ing with­in me a desire to become an actor in the busy scene where so many admirable qual­i­ties were called forth and dis­played. But in giv­ing an account of the progress of my intel­lect, I must not omit a cir­cum­stance which occurred in the begin­ning of the month of August of the same year. 

“One night dur­ing my accus­tomed vis­it to the neigh­bour­ing wood where I col­lect­ed my own food and brought home fir­ing for my pro­tec­tors, I found on the ground a leath­ern port­man­teau con­tain­ing sev­er­al arti­cles of dress and some books. I eager­ly seized the prize and returned with it to my hov­el. For­tu­nate­ly the books were writ­ten in the lan­guage, the ele­ments of which I had acquired at the cot­tage; they con­sist­ed of Par­adise Lost, a vol­ume of Plutarch’s Lives, and the Sor­rows of Wert­er. The pos­ses­sion of these trea­sures gave me extreme delight; I now con­tin­u­al­ly stud­ied and exer­cised my mind upon these his­to­ries, whilst my friends were employed in their ordi­nary occupations. 

“I can hard­ly describe to you the effect of these books. They pro­duced in me an infin­i­ty of new images and feel­ings, that some­times raised me to ecsta­sy, but more fre­quent­ly sunk me into the low­est dejec­tion. In the Sor­rows of Wert­er, besides the inter­est of its sim­ple and affect­ing sto­ry, so many opin­ions are can­vassed and so many lights thrown upon what had hith­er­to been to me obscure sub­jects that I found in it a nev­er-end­ing source of spec­u­la­tion and aston­ish­ment. The gen­tle and domes­tic man­ners it described, com­bined with lofty sen­ti­ments and feel­ings, which had for their object some­thing out of self, accord­ed well with my expe­ri­ence among my pro­tec­tors and with the wants which were for ever alive in my own bosom. But I thought Wert­er him­self a more divine being than I had ever beheld or imag­ined; his char­ac­ter con­tained no pre­ten­sion, but it sank deep. The dis­qui­si­tions upon death and sui­cide were cal­cu­lat­ed to fill me with won­der. I did not pre­tend to enter into the mer­its of the case, yet I inclined towards the opin­ions of the hero, whose extinc­tion I wept, with­out pre­cise­ly under­stand­ing it. 

“As I read, how­ev­er, I applied much per­son­al­ly to my own feel­ings and con­di­tion. I found myself sim­i­lar yet at the same time strange­ly unlike to the beings con­cern­ing whom I read and to whose con­ver­sa­tion I was a lis­ten­er. I sym­pa­thised with and part­ly under­stood them, but I was unformed in mind; I was depen­dent on none and relat­ed to none. ‘The path of my depar­ture was free,’ and there was none to lament my anni­hi­la­tion. My per­son was hideous and my stature gigan­tic. What did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my des­ti­na­tion? These ques­tions con­tin­u­al­ly recurred, but I was unable to solve them. 

“The vol­ume of Plutarch’s Lives which I pos­sessed con­tained the his­to­ries of the first founders of the ancient republics. This book had a far dif­fer­ent effect upon me from the Sor­rows of Wert­er. I learned from Werter’s imag­i­na­tions despon­den­cy and gloom, but Plutarch taught me high thoughts; he ele­vat­ed me above the wretched sphere of my own reflec­tions, to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many things I read sur­passed my under­stand­ing and expe­ri­ence. I had a very con­fused knowl­edge of king­doms, wide extents of coun­try, mighty rivers, and bound­less seas. But I was per­fect­ly unac­quaint­ed with towns and large assem­blages of men. The cot­tage of my pro­tec­tors had been the only school in which I had stud­ied human nature, but this book devel­oped new and might­i­er scenes of action. I read of men con­cerned in pub­lic affairs, gov­ern­ing or mas­sacring their species. I felt the great­est ardour for virtue rise with­in me, and abhor­rence for vice, as far as I under­stood the sig­ni­fi­ca­tion of those terms, rel­a­tive as they were, as I applied them, to plea­sure and pain alone. Induced by these feel­ings, I was of course led to admire peace­able law­givers, Numa, Solon, and Lycur­gus, in pref­er­ence to Romu­lus and The­seus. The patri­ar­chal lives of my pro­tec­tors caused these impres­sions to take a firm hold on my mind; per­haps, if my first intro­duc­tion to human­i­ty had been made by a young sol­dier, burn­ing for glo­ry and slaugh­ter, I should have been imbued with dif­fer­ent sensations. 

“But Par­adise Lost excit­ed dif­fer­ent and far deep­er emo­tions. I read it, as I had read the oth­er vol­umes which had fall­en into my hands, as a true his­to­ry. It moved every feel­ing of won­der and awe that the pic­ture of an omnipo­tent God war­ring with his crea­tures was capa­ble of excit­ing. I often referred the sev­er­al sit­u­a­tions, as their sim­i­lar­i­ty struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I was appar­ent­ly unit­ed by no link to any oth­er being in exis­tence; but his state was far dif­fer­ent from mine in every oth­er respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a per­fect crea­ture, hap­py and pros­per­ous, guard­ed by the espe­cial care of his Cre­ator; he was allowed to con­verse with and acquire knowl­edge from beings of a supe­ri­or nature, but I was wretched, help­less, and alone. Many times I con­sid­ered Satan as the fit­ter emblem of my con­di­tion, for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my pro­tec­tors, the bit­ter gall of envy rose with­in me. 

“Anoth­er cir­cum­stance strength­ened and con­firmed these feel­ings. Soon after my arrival in the hov­el I dis­cov­ered some papers in the pock­et of the dress which I had tak­en from your lab­o­ra­to­ry. At first I had neglect­ed them, but now that I was able to deci­pher the char­ac­ters in which they were writ­ten, I began to study them with dili­gence. It was your jour­nal of the four months that pre­ced­ed my cre­ation. You minute­ly described in these papers every step you took in the progress of your work; this his­to­ry was min­gled with accounts of domes­tic occur­rences. You doubt­less rec­ol­lect these papers. Here they are. Every­thing is relat­ed in them which bears ref­er­ence to my accursed ori­gin; the whole detail of that series of dis­gust­ing cir­cum­stances which pro­duced it is set in view; the minut­est descrip­tion of my odi­ous and loath­some per­son is giv­en, in lan­guage which paint­ed your own hor­rors and ren­dered mine indeli­ble. I sick­ened as I read. ‘Hate­ful day when I received life!’ I exclaimed in agony. ‘Accursed cre­ator! Why did you form a mon­ster so hideous that even you turned from me in dis­gust? God, in pity, made man beau­ti­ful and allur­ing, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more hor­rid even from the very resem­blance. Satan had his com­pan­ions, fel­low dev­ils, to admire and encour­age him, but I am soli­tary and abhorred.’ 

“These were the reflec­tions of my hours of despon­den­cy and soli­tude; but when I con­tem­plat­ed the virtues of the cot­tagers, their ami­able and benev­o­lent dis­po­si­tions, I per­suad­ed myself that when they should become acquaint­ed with my admi­ra­tion of their virtues they would com­pas­sion­ate me and over­look my per­son­al defor­mi­ty. Could they turn from their door one, how­ev­er mon­strous, who solicit­ed their com­pas­sion and friend­ship? I resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way to fit myself for an inter­view with them which would decide my fate. I post­poned this attempt for some months longer, for the impor­tance attached to its suc­cess inspired me with a dread lest I should fail. Besides, I found that my under­stand­ing improved so much with every day’s expe­ri­ence that I was unwill­ing to com­mence this under­tak­ing until a few more months should have added to my sagacity. 

“Sev­er­al changes, in the mean­time, took place in the cot­tage. The pres­ence of Safie dif­fused hap­pi­ness among its inhab­i­tants, and I also found that a greater degree of plen­ty reigned there. Felix and Agatha spent more time in amuse­ment and con­ver­sa­tion, and were assist­ed in their labours by ser­vants. They did not appear rich, but they were con­tent­ed and hap­py; their feel­ings were serene and peace­ful, while mine became every day more tumul­tuous. Increase of knowl­edge only dis­cov­ered to me more clear­ly what a wretched out­cast I was. I cher­ished hope, it is true, but it van­ished when I beheld my per­son reflect­ed in water or my shad­ow in the moon­shine, even as that frail image and that incon­stant shade. 

“I endeav­oured to crush these fears and to for­ti­fy myself for the tri­al which in a few months I resolved to under­go; and some­times I allowed my thoughts, unchecked by rea­son, to ram­ble in the fields of Par­adise, and dared to fan­cy ami­able and love­ly crea­tures sym­pa­this­ing with my feel­ings and cheer­ing my gloom; their angel­ic coun­te­nances breathed smiles of con­so­la­tion. But it was all a dream; no Eve soothed my sor­rows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remem­bered Adam’s sup­pli­ca­tion to his Cre­ator. But where was mine? He had aban­doned me, and in the bit­ter­ness of my heart I cursed him. 

“Autumn passed thus. I saw, with sur­prise and grief, the leaves decay and fall, and nature again assume the bar­ren and bleak appear­ance it had worn when I first beheld the woods and the love­ly moon. Yet I did not heed the bleak­ness of the weath­er; I was bet­ter fit­ted by my con­for­ma­tion for the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief delights were the sight of the flow­ers, the birds, and all the gay appar­el of sum­mer; when those desert­ed me, I turned with more atten­tion towards the cot­tagers. Their hap­pi­ness was not decreased by the absence of sum­mer. They loved and sym­pa­thised with one anoth­er; and their joys, depend­ing on each oth­er, were not inter­rupt­ed by the casu­al­ties that took place around them. The more I saw of them, the greater became my desire to claim their pro­tec­tion and kind­ness; my heart yearned to be known and loved by these ami­able crea­tures; to see their sweet looks direct­ed towards me with affec­tion was the utmost lim­it of my ambi­tion. I dared not think that they would turn them from me with dis­dain and hor­ror. The poor that stopped at their door were nev­er dri­ven away. I asked, it is true, for greater trea­sures than a lit­tle food or rest: I required kind­ness and sym­pa­thy; but I did not believe myself utter­ly unwor­thy of it. 

“The win­ter advanced, and an entire rev­o­lu­tion of the sea­sons had tak­en place since I awoke into life. My atten­tion at this time was sole­ly direct­ed towards my plan of intro­duc­ing myself into the cot­tage of my pro­tec­tors. I revolved many projects, but that on which I final­ly fixed was to enter the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had sagac­i­ty enough to dis­cov­er that the unnat­ur­al hideous­ness of my per­son was the chief object of hor­ror with those who had for­mer­ly beheld me. My voice, although harsh, had noth­ing ter­ri­ble in it; I thought, there­fore, that if in the absence of his chil­dren I could gain the good will and medi­a­tion of the old De Lacey, I might by his means be tol­er­at­ed by my younger protectors. 

“One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground and dif­fused cheer­ful­ness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix depart­ed on a long coun­try walk, and the old man, at his own desire, was left alone in the cot­tage. When his chil­dren had depart­ed, he took up his gui­tar and played sev­er­al mourn­ful but sweet airs, more sweet and mourn­ful than I had ever heard him play before. At first his coun­te­nance was illu­mi­nat­ed with plea­sure, but as he con­tin­ued, thought­ful­ness and sad­ness suc­ceed­ed; at length, lay­ing aside the instru­ment, he sat absorbed in reflection. 

“My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of tri­al, which would decide my hopes or realise my fears. The ser­vants were gone to a neigh­bour­ing fair. All was silent in and around the cot­tage; it was an excel­lent oppor­tu­ni­ty; yet, when I pro­ceed­ed to exe­cute my plan, my limbs failed me and I sank to the ground. Again I rose, and exert­ing all the firm­ness of which I was mas­ter, removed the planks which I had placed before my hov­el to con­ceal my retreat. The fresh air revived me, and with renewed deter­mi­na­tion I approached the door of their cottage. 

“I knocked. ‘Who is there?’ said the old man. ‘Come in.’ 

“I entered. ‘Par­don this intru­sion,’ said I; ‘I am a trav­eller in want of a lit­tle rest; you would great­ly oblige me if you would allow me to remain a few min­utes before the fire.’ 

“‘Enter,’ said De Lacey, ‘and I will try in what man­ner I can to relieve your wants; but, unfor­tu­nate­ly, my chil­dren are from home, and as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it dif­fi­cult to pro­cure food for you.’ 

“‘Do not trou­ble your­self, my kind host; I have food; it is warmth and rest only that I need.’ 

“I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute was pre­cious to me, yet I remained irres­olute in what man­ner to com­mence the inter­view, when the old man addressed me. 

‘By your lan­guage, stranger, I sup­pose you are my coun­try­man; are you French?’ 

“‘No; but I was edu­cat­ed by a French fam­i­ly and under­stand that lan­guage only. I am now going to claim the pro­tec­tion of some friends, whom I sin­cere­ly love, and of whose favour I have some hopes.’ 

“‘Are they Germans?’ 

“‘No, they are French. But let us change the sub­ject. I am an unfor­tu­nate and desert­ed crea­ture, I look around and I have no rela­tion or friend upon earth. These ami­able peo­ple to whom I go have nev­er seen me and know lit­tle of me. I am full of fears, for if I fail there, I am an out­cast in the world for ever.’ 

“‘Do not despair. To be friend­less is indeed to be unfor­tu­nate, but the hearts of men, when unprej­u­diced by any obvi­ous self-inter­est, are full of broth­er­ly love and char­i­ty. Rely, there­fore, on your hopes; and if these friends are good and ami­able, do not despair.’ 

“‘They are kind—they are the most excel­lent crea­tures in the world; but, unfor­tu­nate­ly, they are prej­u­diced against me. I have good dis­po­si­tions; my life has been hith­er­to harm­less and in some degree ben­e­fi­cial; but a fatal prej­u­dice clouds their eyes, and where they ought to see a feel­ing and kind friend, they behold only a detestable monster.’ 

“‘That is indeed unfor­tu­nate; but if you are real­ly blame­less, can­not you unde­ceive them?’ 

“‘I am about to under­take that task; and it is on that account that I feel so many over­whelm­ing ter­rors. I ten­der­ly love these friends; I have, unknown to them, been for many months in the habits of dai­ly kind­ness towards them; but they believe that I wish to injure them, and it is that prej­u­dice which I wish to overcome.’ 

“‘Where do these friends reside?’ 

“‘Near this spot.’ 

“The old man paused and then con­tin­ued, ‘If you will unre­served­ly con­fide to me the par­tic­u­lars of your tale, I per­haps may be of use in unde­ceiv­ing them. I am blind and can­not judge of your coun­te­nance, but there is some­thing in your words which per­suades me that you are sin­cere. I am poor and an exile, but it will afford me true plea­sure to be in any way ser­vice­able to a human creature.’ 

“‘Excel­lent man! I thank you and accept your gen­er­ous offer. You raise me from the dust by this kind­ness; and I trust that, by your aid, I shall not be dri­ven from the soci­ety and sym­pa­thy of your fel­low creatures.’ 

“‘Heav­en for­bid! Even if you were real­ly crim­i­nal, for that can only dri­ve you to des­per­a­tion, and not insti­gate you to virtue. I also am unfor­tu­nate; I and my fam­i­ly have been con­demned, although inno­cent; judge, there­fore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes.’ 

“‘How can I thank you, my best and only bene­fac­tor? From your lips first have I heard the voice of kind­ness direct­ed towards me; I shall be for ever grate­ful; and your present human­i­ty assures me of suc­cess with those friends whom I am on the point of meeting.’ 

“‘May I know the names and res­i­dence of those friends?’ 

“I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of deci­sion, which was to rob me of or bestow hap­pi­ness on me for ever. I strug­gled vain­ly for firm­ness suf­fi­cient to answer him, but the effort destroyed all my remain­ing strength; I sank on the chair and sobbed aloud. At that moment I heard the steps of my younger pro­tec­tors. I had not a moment to lose, but seiz­ing the hand of the old man, I cried, ‘Now is the time! Save and pro­tect me! You and your fam­i­ly are the friends whom I seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!’ 

“‘Great God!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Who are you?’ 

“At that instant the cot­tage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and Agatha entered. Who can describe their hor­ror and con­ster­na­tion on behold­ing me? Agatha faint­ed, and Safie, unable to attend to her friend, rushed out of the cot­tage. Felix dart­ed for­ward, and with super­nat­ur­al force tore me from his father, to whose knees I clung, in a trans­port of fury, he dashed me to the ground and struck me vio­lent­ly with a stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends the ante­lope. But my heart sank with­in me as with bit­ter sick­ness, and I refrained. I saw him on the point of repeat­ing his blow, when, over­come by pain and anguish, I quit­ted the cot­tage, and in the gen­er­al tumult escaped unper­ceived to my hovel.”