Frankenstein; Or, The Modern Prometheus
And, having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread."[1]
[Footnote 1: Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner."]
Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the
various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew
not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that
was coming towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew
nearer, I observed that it was the Swiss diligence: it stopped just
where I was standing; and, on the door being opened, I perceived Henry
Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. "My dear
Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you! how fortunate
that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!"
Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought
back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home
so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot
my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during
many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in
the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval
continued talking for some time about our mutual friends, and his own
good fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. "You may easily
believe," said he, "how great was the difficulty to persuade my father
that all necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of
book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last,
for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that
of the Dutch schoolmaster in the Vicar of Wakefield:--'I have ten
thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.'
But his affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and
he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of
knowledge."
"It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left
my father, brothers, and Elizabeth."
"Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you
so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account
myself.--But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he, stopping short, and
gazing full in my face, "I did not before remark how very ill you
appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for
several nights."
"You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one
occupation, that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see:
but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an
end, and that I am at length free."
I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to
allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick
pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the
thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my
apartment might still be there, alive, and walking about. I dreaded to
behold this monster; but I feared still more that Henry should see him.
Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the
stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock
of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused; and a cold
shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are
accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them
on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the
apartment was empty; and my bed-room was also freed from its hideous
guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good fortune could have
befallen me; but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I
clapped my hands for joy, and ran down to Clerval.
We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast;
but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed
me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse
beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same
place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud.
Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival;
but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes
for which he could not account; and my loud, unrestrained, heartless
laughter, frightened and astonished him.
"My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not
laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?"
"Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought
I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; "_he_ can tell.--Oh, save
me! save me!" I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled
furiously, and fell down in a fit.
Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he
anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was
not the witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and did not recover my
senses for a long, long time.
This was the commencement of a nervous fever, which confined me for
several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I
afterwards learned that, knowing my father's advanced age, and unfitness
for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make
Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my
disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse
than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not
doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that
he could towards them.
But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the unbounded and
unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The
form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before
my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words
surprised Henry: he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my
disturbed imagination; but the pertinacity with which I continually
recurred to the same subject, persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed
its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.
By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses, that alarmed and
grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became
capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I
perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared, and that the young
buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a
divine spring; and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I
felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my gloom
disappeared, and in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was
attacked by the fatal passion.
"Dearest Clerval," exclaimed I, "how kind, how very good you are to me.
This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised
yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you?
I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have been
the occasion; but you will forgive me."
"You will repay me entirely, if you do not discompose yourself, but get
well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I
may speak to you on one subject, may I not?"
I trembled. One subject! what could it be? Could he allude to an object
on whom I dared not even think?
"Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, "I
will not mention it, if it agitates you; but your father and cousin
would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your own
handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been, and are uneasy at
your long silence."
"Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first
thought would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love, and
who are so deserving of my love."
"If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to
see a letter that has been lying here some days for you: it is from your
cousin, I believe."
CHAPTER VI.
Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from my own
Elizabeth:--
"My dearest Cousin,
"You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear kind
Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account. You are
forbidden to write--to hold a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor,
is necessary to calm our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought
that each post would bring this line, and my persuasions have restrained
my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have prevented his
encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so long a
journey; yet how often have I regretted not being able to perform it
myself! I figure to myself that the task of attending on your sick bed
has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could never guess your
wishes, nor minister to them with the care and affection of your poor
cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes that indeed you are getting
better. I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon in
your own handwriting.
"Get well--and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home, and
friends who love you dearly. Your father's health is vigorous, and he
asks but to see you,--but to be assured that you are well; and not a
care will ever cloud his benevolent countenance. How pleased you would
be to remark the improvement of our Ernest! He is now sixteen, and full
of activity and spirit. He is desirous to be a true Swiss, and to enter
into foreign service; but we cannot part with him, at least until his
elder brother return to us. My uncle is not pleased with the idea of a
military career in a distant country; but Ernest never had your powers
of application. He looks upon study as an odious fetter;--his time is
spent in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear
that he will become an idler, unless we yield the point, and permit him
to enter on the profession which he has selected.
"Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children, has taken
place since you left us. The blue lake, and snow-clad mountains, they
never change;--and I think our placid home, and our contented hearts are
regulated by the same immutable laws. My trifling occupations take up my
time and amuse me, and I am rewarded for any exertions by seeing none
but happy, kind faces around me. Since you left us, but one change has
taken place in our little household. Do you remember on what occasion
Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably you do not; I will relate
her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a
widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl had
always been the favourite of her father; but, through a strange
perversity, her mother could not endure her, and, after the death of M.
Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this; and, when Justine
was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at
our house. The republican institutions of our country have produced
simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in the great
monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between the
several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders, being neither
so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined and moral. A
servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in France
and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the duties of
a servant; a condition which, in our fortunate country, does not include
the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being.
"Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours; and I
recollect you once remarked, that if you were in an ill-humour, one
glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that