Python Programming Coding Exercise

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Part 1:(1) Write a Python program to remove duplicates from a dictionary.(2) Suppose we have a dictionary called grades containing exam grades for a course. Keys are student names, and values are grades (integers). Write a Python function that produces a list of all students who received a grade above 90.(3) Write a Python function to count the number of lines in a text file.(4) Write a python function to find the longest words in a text file.Note: for both (3) and (4), a filename needs to be passed to the corresponding function in order to get the output.(5) Count how many of each vowel (a, e, i, o, u) there are in a text string, and print the count for each vowel with a single formatted string. Remember that vowels can be both lower and uppercasePart 2:NOTE: two files are attached to continue this part: bloodtype.txt
frankenstein.txt(1) Write a Python function that takes the name of a text file as input and prints the number of occurences of every word in the file. Your function should be case-insensitive, i.e., “Hello” and “hello” are treated as the same word. You should ignore words of length 2 or less. Test your function on the attached file “Frankenstein.txt”. (2 Points)
(2) The file “bloodtype. txt” (see the attachment) records blood-types of patients (A, B, AB, or O) at a clinic. Write a function bldcount() that reads the file and reports (i.e., prints) how many patients there are in each bloodtype. (1 Point)
Expected output: >>> bldcount(‘bloodtype.txt’)There are 15 patients of blood type A.There is 1 patient of blood type B.There are 13 patients of blood type AB.There are 15 patients of blood type O.

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Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus
by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley
Letter 1
TO Mrs. Saville, England
St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the
commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such
evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is
to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in
the success of my undertaking.
I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of
Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks,
which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand
this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions
towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.
Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent
and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat
of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the
region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is forever visible,
its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour.
There–for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding
navigators–there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea,
we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region
hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features
may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly
are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country
of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts
the needle and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require
only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent forever.
I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world
never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the
foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer
all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage
with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday
mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But supposing all
these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit
which I shall confer on all mankind, to the last generation, by discovering
a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many
months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which,
if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.
These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter,
and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven,
for nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind as a steady purpose
–a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition
has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour
the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect
of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround
the pole. You may remember that a history of all the voyages made for
purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good Uncle Thomas’ library.
My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading.
These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiarity with them
increased that regret which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my
father’s dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark
in a seafaring life.
These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets
whose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven. I also
became a poet and for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation;
I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the
names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted
with my failure and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at
that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were
turned into the channel of their earlier bent.
Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking.
I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to
this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship.
I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea;
I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep;
I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day and devoted
my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine,
and those branches of physical science from which a naval
adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage.
Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler,
and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt a little proud
when my captain offered me the second dignity in the vessel and
entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness, so valuable
did he consider my services. And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve
to accomplish some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease
and luxury, but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed
in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative!
My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits
are often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage,
the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required
not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own,
when theirs are failing.
This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly
quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and,
in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach.
The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs–a dress which
I have already adopted, for there is a great difference between walking
the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise
prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no
ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh
and Archangel. I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight
or three weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can
easily be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage
as many sailors as I think necessary among those who are accustomed
to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail until the month of June;
and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question?
If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you
and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.
Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings
on you, and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude
for all your love and kindness.
Your affectionate brother,
R.
Walton
Letter 2
To Mrs. Saville, England
Archangel, 28th March, 17How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow!
Yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel
and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already
engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend and are certainly possessed
of dauntless courage.
But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy,
and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most
severe evil, I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the
enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy;
if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me
in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true;
but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling.
I desire the company of a man who could sympathize with me,
whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic,
my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend.
I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of
a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are
like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a
friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent
in execution and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still
greater evil to me that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen
years of my life I ran wild on a common and read nothing but our
Uncle Thomas’ books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with
the celebrated poets of our own country; but it was only when it
had ceased to be in my power to derive its most important benefits
from such a conviction that I perceived the necessity of becoming
acquainted with more languages than that of my native country.
Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality more illiterate than
many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more
and that my daydreams are more extended and magnificent, but they
want (as the painters call it) KEEPING; and I greatly need a friend
who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic,
and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.
Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find
no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel,
among merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to
the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms.
My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage
and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or rather, to word
my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his profession.
He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional
prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest
endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board
a whale vessel; finding that he was unemployed in this city,
I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise. The master
is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable in
the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline.
This circumstance, added to his well-known integrity and
dauntless courage, made me very desirous to engage him.
A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under your
gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork
of my character that I cannot overcome an intense distaste
to the usual brutality exercised on board ship: I have never
believed it to be necessary, and when I heard of a mariner
equally noted for his kindliness of heart and the respect
and obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly
fortunate in being able to secure his services. I heard of him
first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him
the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story.
Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune,
and having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father
of the girl consented to the match. He saw his mistress
once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in tears,
and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her,
confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he
was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union.
My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed
of the name of her lover, instantly abandoned his pursuit.
He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had designed
to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival,
together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase stock,
and then himself solicited the young woman’s father to consent
to her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused,
thinking himself bound in honour to my friend, who, when he found
the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard
that his former mistress was married according to her inclinations.
“What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is
wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant
carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct the
more astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which
otherwise he would command.
Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little or because I
can conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know,
that I am wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate,
and my voyage is only now delayed until the weather shall permit
my embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully severe, but the spring
promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably early season, so that
perhaps I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly:
you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness
whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.
I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect
of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you
a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable
and half fearful, with which I am preparing to depart.
I am going to unexplored regions, to “the land of mist and snow,”
but I shall kill no albatross; therefore do not be alarmed
for my safety or if I should come back to you as worn and woeful
as the “Ancient Mariner.” You will smile at my allusion,
but I will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my
attachment to, my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous
mysteries of ocean to that production of the most imaginative
of modern poets. There is something at work in my soul
which I do not understand. I am practically industrious-painstaking, a workman to execute with perseverance and labour–
but besides this there is a love for the marvellous, a belief in
the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me
out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited
regions I am about to explore. But to return to dearer considerations.
Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas, and returned
by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I dare not expect such
success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the picture.
Continue for the present to write to me by every opportunity: I may
receive your letters on some occasions when I need them most to support
my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection,
should you never hear from me again.
Your affectionate brother,
Robert Walton
Letter 3
To Mrs. Saville, England
July 7th, 17My dear Sister,
I write a few lines in haste to say that I am safe–and well advanced
on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now
on its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I,
who may not see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am,
however, in good spirits: my men are bold and apparently firm
of purpose, nor do the floating sheets of ice that continually
pass us, indicating the dangers of the region towards which we
are advancing, appear to dismay them. We have already reached
a very high latitude; but it is the height of summer, and although
not so warm as in England, the southern gales, which blow us
speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire to attain,
breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not expected.
No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure
in a letter. One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak are
accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record,
and I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during
our voyage.
Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake, as well
as yours, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool,
persevering, and prudent.
But success SHALL crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I
have gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas, the very
stars themselves being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph.
Why not still proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What
can stop the determined heart and resolved will of man?
My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus.
finish. Heaven bless my beloved sister!
But must
R.W.
Letter 4
To Mrs. Saville, England
August 5th, 17So strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear
recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me
before these papers can come into your possession.
Last Monday (July 3lst) we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed
in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which
she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we
were compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to,
hoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.
About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched
out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which
seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my
own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a
strange sight suddenly attracted our attention and diverted our
solicitude from our own situation. We perceived a low carriage,
fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at
the distance of half a mile; a being which had the shape of a man,
but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge and guided
the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller with our
telescopes until he was lost among the distant inequalities of the ice.
This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed,
many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote
that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in,
however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had
observed with the greatest attention. About two hours after this
occurrence we heard the ground sea, and before night the ice broke
and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the morning,
fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which
float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this
time to rest for a few hours.
In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck
and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently
talking to someone in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that
we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night on a
large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a
human being within it whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel.
He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant
of some undiscovered island, but a European. When I appeared on deck
the master said, “Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to
perish on the open sea.”
On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with
a foreign accent. “Before I come on board your vessel,” said he,
“will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?”
You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question
addressed to me from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom
I should have supposed that my vessel would have been a resource
which he would not have exchanged for the most precious wealth the
earth can afford. I replied, however, that we were on a voyage of
discovery towards the northern pole.
Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board.
Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for
his safety, your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were
nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering.
I never saw a man in so wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him
into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted the fresh air he fainted.
We accordingly brought him back to the deck and restored him to animation
by rubbing him with brandy and forcing him to swallow a small quantity.
As soon as he showed signs of life we wrapped him up in blankets and
placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow degrees
he recovered and ate a little soup, which restored him wonderfully.
Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak, and I
often feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding.
When he had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin
and attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more
interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of wildness,
and even madness, but there are moments when, if anyone performs an act
of kindness towards him or does him the most trifling service,
his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of
benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is
generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his teeth,
as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.
When my guest was a little recovered I had great trouble to keep off the men,
who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not allow him to be
tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose
restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once, however,
the lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice in so
strange a vehicle.
His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom,
and he replied, “To seek one who fled from me.”
“And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?”
“Yes.”
“Then I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked you up
we saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice.”
This aroused the stranger’s attention, and he asked a multitude of
questions concerning the route which the demon, as he called him,
had pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said,
“I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of
these good people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries.”
“Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me
to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine.”
“And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation;
you have benevolently restored me to life.”
Soon after this he inquired if I thought that the breaking up of
the ice had destroyed the other sledge. I replied that I could not
answer with any degree of certainty, for the ice had not broken
until near midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a
place of safety before that time; but of this I could not judge.
From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of
the stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck
to watch for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have
persuaded him to remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to
sustain the rawness of the atmosphere. I have promised that
someone should watch for him and give him instant notice if
any new object should appear in sight.
Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to
the present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health but
is very silent and appears uneasy when anyone except myself enters
his cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle that the
sailors are all interested in him, although they have had very
little communication with him. For my own part, I begin to love
him as a brother, and his constant and deep grief fills me with
sympathy and compassion. He must have been a noble creature in his
better days, being even now in wreck so attractive and amiable.
I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find
no friend on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his
spirit had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have
possessed as the brother of my heart.
I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals,
should I have any fresh incidents to record.
August 13th, 17My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once
my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see
so noble a creature destroyed by misery without feeling the most
poignant grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated,
and when he speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art,
yet they How with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence. He is now much
recovered from his illness and is continually on the deck, apparently
watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although unhappy,
he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery but that he interests
himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently conversed
with me on mine, which I have communicated to him without disguise.
He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour of my eventual
success and into every minute detail of the measures I had taken to
secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he evinced to
use the language of my heart, to give utterance to the burning
ardour of my soul and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me,
how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every
hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man’s life or death
were but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge
which I sought, for the dominion I should acquire and transmit over
the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a dark gloom spread
over my listener’s countenance. At first I perceived that he tried
to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before his eyes, and
my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle fast from
between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused;
at length he spoke, in broken accents: “Unhappy man! Do you share
my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught?
Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup
from your lips!”
Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity;
but the paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger overcame
his weakened powers, and many hours of repose and tranquil
conversation were necessary to restore his composure.
Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to
despise himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the
dark tyranny of despair, he led me again to converse concerning
myself personally. He asked me the history of my earlier years.
The tale was quickly told, but it awakened various trains of reflection.
I spoke of my desire of finding a friend, of my thirst for
a more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than had ever
fallen to my lot, and expressed my conviction that a man could
boast of little happiness who did not enjoy this blessing.
“I agree with you,” replied the stranger; “we are unfashioned
creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than
ourselves–such a friend ought to be–do not lend his aid to
perfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend,
the most noble of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore,
to judge respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world
before you, and have no cause for despair. But I–I have lost
everything and cannot begin life anew.”
As he said this his countenance became expressive of a calm,
settled grief that touched me to the heart. But he was silent
and presently retired to his cabin.
Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than
he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every
sight afforded by these wonderful regions seem still to have the
power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double
existence: he may suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointments,
yet when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit
that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.
Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine
wanderer? You would not if you saw him. You have been tutored and
refined by books and retirement from the world, and you are
therefore somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more
fit to appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man.
Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which
he possesses that elevates him so immeasurably above any other
person I ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment,
a quick but never-failing power of judgment, a penetration into the
causes of things, unequalled for clearness and precision; add to
this a facility of expression and a voice whose varied intonations
are soul-subduing music.
August l9, 17Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive, Captain
Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes.
I had determined at one time that the memory of these evils
should die with me, but you have won me to alter my determination.
You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently
hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent
to sting you, as mine has been. I do not know that the relation
of my disasters will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that
you are pursuing the same course, exposing yourself to the same
dangers which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may
deduce an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct you
if you succeed in your undertaking and console you in case of
failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed
marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might fear
to encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things
will appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which
would provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the evervaried powers of nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys
in its series internal evidence of the truth of the events of which
it is composed.”
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 fulltoned 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!
Chapter 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 counsellors
and syndics, and my father had filled several public situations
with honour 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 honourable 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 endeavouring 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 behaviour 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 tranquillity 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 labour, 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
moulding 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.
Chapter 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 ardour, 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 campagne 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 sepulchre 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 it 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, through the ardour 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 certainty
have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my imagination,
warmed as it was, by returning with greater ardour 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 labour 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 favourite 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 favourite 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 Bekive,
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 tranquillity 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.
Chapter 3
When I had attained the age of seventeen my parents resolved
that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt.
I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva, but my father thought
it necessary for the completion of my education that I should be
made acquainted with other customs than those of my native country.
My departure was therefore fixed at an early date, but before the
day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life
occurred–an omen, as it were, of my future misery. Elizabeth had
caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she was in
the greatest danger. During her illness many arguments had been
urged to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her.
She had at first yielded to our entreaties, but when she heard that
the life of her favourite was menaced, she could no longer control
her anxiety. She attended her sickbed; her watchful attentions
triumphed over the malignity of the distemper–Elizabeth was saved,
but the consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver.
On the third day my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied by the
most alarming symptoms, and the looks of her medical attendants
prognosticated the worst event. On her deathbed the fortitude
and benignity of this best of women did not desert her. She joined
the hands of Elizabeth and myself. “My children,” she said,
“my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of
your union. This expectation will now be the consolation of your father.
Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to my younger children.
Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved
as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are not
thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully
to death and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world.”
She died calmly, and her countenance expressed affection even in death.
I need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent
by that most irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the soul,
and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long
before the mind can persuade itself that she whom we saw every day
and whose very existence appeared a part of our own can have departed
forever–that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished
and the sound of a voice so familiar and dear to the ear can be hushed,
never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days;
but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the
actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that
rude hand rent away some dear connection? And why should I describe
a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length
arrives when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and
the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a
sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had still
duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with
the rest and learn to think ourselves fortunate whilst one remains
whom the spoiler has not seized.
My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events,
was now again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite
of some weeks. It appeared to me sacrilege so soon to leave the repose,
akin to death, of the house of mourning and to rush into the thick of life.
I was new to sorrow, but it did not the less alarm me. I was unwilling
to quit the sight of those that remained to me, and above all, I desired
to see my sweet Elizabeth in some degree consoled.
She indeed veiled her grief and strove to act the comforter to us all.
She looked steadily on life and assumed its duties with courage and zeal.
She devoted herself to those whom she had been taught to call her
uncle and cousins. Never was she so enchanting as at this time,
when she recalled the sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us.
She forgot even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget.
The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last
evening with us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit
him to accompany me and to become my fellow student, but in vain.
His father was a narrow-minded trader and saw idleness and ruin
in the aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply felt
the misfortune of being debarred from a liberal education.
He said little, but when he spoke I read in his kindling eye
and in his animated glance a restrained but firm resolve not to
be chained to the miserable details of commerce.
We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other nor
persuade ourselves to say the word “Farewell!” It was said, and we
retired under the pretence of seeking repose, each fancying that
the other was deceived; but when at morning’s dawn I descended
to the carriage which was to convey me away, they were all there
–my father again to bless me, Clerval to press my hand once more,
my Elizabeth to renew her entreaties that I would write often and
to bestow the last feminine attentions on her playmate and friend.
I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away and
indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever
been surrounded by amiable companions, continually engaged
in endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure–I was now alone.
In the university whither I was going I must form my own friends and
be my own protector. My life had hitherto been remarkably secluded
and domestic, and this had given me invincible repugnance to new
countenances. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were
“old familiar faces,” but I believed myself totally unfitted for the
company of strangers. Such were my reflections as I commenced
my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose.
I ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had often,
when at home, thought it hard to remain during my youth
cooped up in one place and had longed to enter the world and
take my station among other human beings. Now my desires were
complied with, and it would, indeed, have been folly to repent.
I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections
during my journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing.
At length the high white steeple of the town met my eyes.
I alighted and was conducted to my solitary apartment to
spend the evening as I pleased.
The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction and paid a
visit to some of the principal professors. Chance–or rather the
evil influence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent
sway over me from the moment I turned my reluctant steps from my
father’s door–led me first to M. Krempe, professor of natural
philosophy. He was an uncouth man, but deeply imbued in the
secrets of his science. He asked me several questions concerning
my progress in the different branches of science appertaining to
natural philosophy. I replied carelessly, and partly in contempt,
mentioned the names of my alchemists as the principal authors
I had studied. The professor stared. “Have you,” he said,
“really spent your time in studying such nonsense?”
I replied in the affirmative. “Every minute,” continued M. Krempe
with warmth, “every instant that you have wasted on those books is
utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with
exploded systems and useless names. Good God! In what desert land
have you lived, where no one was kind enough to inform you that
these fancies which you have so greedily imbibed are a thousand
years old and as musty as they are ancient? I little expected,
in this enlightened and scientific age, to find a disciple of
Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must begin
your studies entirely anew.”
So saying, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of several books
treating of natural philosophy which he desired me to procure,
and dismissed me after mentioning that in the beginning of the
following week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon
natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman,
a fellow professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days
that he omitted.
I returned home not disappointed, for I have said that I had long
considered those authors useless whom the professor reprobated;
but I returned not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies
in any shape. M. Krempe was a little squat man with a gruff voice
and a repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not
prepossess me in favour of his pursuits. In rather a too
philosophical and connected a strain, perhaps, I have given an
account of the conclusions I had come to concerning them in my
early years. As a child I had not been content with the results
promised by the modern professors of natural science. With a
confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth and
my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of
knowledge along the paths of time and exchanged the discoveries of
recent inquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchemists. Besides,
I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was
very different when the masters of the science sought immortality
and power; such views, although futile, were grand; but now the
scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit
itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest
in science was chiefly founded. I was required to exchange chimeras
of boundless grandeur for realities of little worth.
Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my
residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming
acquainted with the localities and the principal residents in my
new abode. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the
information which M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures.
And although I could not consent to go and hear that little
conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected
what he had said of M. Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had
hitherto been out of town.
Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went into
the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after.
This professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared about
fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of the greatest
benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his temples, but those at the
back of his head were nearly black. His person was short but
remarkably erect and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard.
He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry
and the various improvements made by different men of learning,
pronouncing with fervour the names of the most distinguished discoverers.
He then took a cursory view of the present state of the science
and explained many of its elementary terms. After having made a few
preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry,
the terms of which I shall never forget: “The ancient teachers of this
science,” said he, “promised impossibilities and performed nothing.
The modern masters promise very little; they know that metals cannot be
transmuted and that the elixir of life is a chimera but these philosophers,
whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over
the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate
into the recesses of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places.
They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates,
and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost
unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the
earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows.”
Such were the professor’s words–rather let me say such the words
of the fate–enounced to destroy me. As he went on I felt as if my
soul were grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one the various
keys were touched which formed the mechanism of my being; chord after
chord was sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought,
one conception, one purpose. So much has been done, exclaimed the
soul of Frankenstein–more, far more, will I achieve; treading in the
steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers,
and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.
I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was in a state
of insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence arise,
but I had no power to produce it. By degrees, after the morning’s
dawn, sleep came. I awoke, and my yesternight’s thoughts were as
a dream. There only remained a resolution to return to my ancient
studies and to devote myself to a science for which I believed
myself to possess a natural talent. On the same day I paid
M. Waldman a visit. His manners in private were even more mild and
attractive than in public, for there was a certain dignity in his
mien during his lecture which in his own house was replaced by the
greatest affability and kindness. I gave him pretty nearly the same
account of my former pursuits as I had given to his fellow professor.
He heard with attention the little narration concerning my studies
and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus, but
without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited. He said that
“These were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers
were indebted for most of the foundations of their knowledge.
They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names
and arrange in connected classifications the facts which they
in a great degree had been the instruments of bringing to light.
The labours of men of genius, however erroneously directed,
scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage
of mankind.” I listened to his statement, which was delivered
without any presumption or affectation, and then added that
his lecture had removed my prejudices against modern chemists;
I expressed myself in measured terms, with the modesty and deference
due from a youth to his instructor, without letting escape
(inexperience in life would have made me ashamed) any of the
enthusiasm which stimulated my intended labours. I requested
his advice concerning the books I ought to procure.
“I am happy,” said M. Waldman, “to have gained a disciple; and if
your application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success.
Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest
improvements have been and may be made; it is on that account
that I have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time,
I have not neglected the other branches of science. A man
would make but a very sorry chemist if he attended to that
department of human knowledge alone. If your wish is to become
really a man of science and not merely a petty experimentalist,
I should advise you to apply to every branch of natural philosophy,
including mathematics.” He then took me into his laboratory and
explained to me the uses of his various machines, instructing me as
to what I ought to procure and promising me the use of his own when
I should have advanced far enough in the science not to derange
their mechanism. He also gave me the list of books which I had
requested, and I took my leave.
Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny.
Chapter 4
From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry,
in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly
my sole occupation. I read with ardour those works, so full
of genius and discrimination, which modern inquirers have written
on these subjects. I attended the lectures and cultivated the
acquaintance of the men of science of the university, and I found
even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense and real information,
combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy and manners,
but not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I found
a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism, and his
instructions were given with an air of frankness and good nature that
banished every idea of pedantry. In a thousand ways he smoothed
for me the path of knowledge and made the most abstruse inquiries
clear and facile to my apprehension. My application was at first
fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded and
soon became so ardent and eager that the stars often disappeared
in the light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory.
As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that my progress
was rapid. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students,
and my proficiency that of the masters. Professor Krempe
often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on,
whilst M. Waldman expressed the most heartfelt exultation in
my progress. Two years passed in this manner, during which I paid
no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit
of some discoveries which I hoped to make. None but those who
have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science.
In other studies you go as far as others have gone before you,
and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit
there is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate
capacity which closely pursues one study must infallibly arrive at
great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the
attainment of one object of pursuit and was solely wrapped up in this,
improved so rapidly that at the end of two years I made some
discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments,
which procured me great esteem and admiration at the university.
When I had arrived at this point and had become as well acquainted
with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the
lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there
being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning
to my friends and my native town, when an incident happened that
protracted my stay.
One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention
was the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal
endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the
principle of life proceed? It was a bold question, and one which
has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with how many things
are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or
carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved these
circumstances in my mind and determined thenceforth to apply myself
more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which
relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost
supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have
been irksome and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life,
we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with
the science of anatomy, but this was not sufficient; I must also
observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body.
In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions
that my mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors.
I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale of superstition
or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no effect
upon my fancy, and a churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies
deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength,
had become food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause
and progress of this decay and forced to spend days and nights
in vaults and charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon every
object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings.
I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld
the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life;
I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain.
I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation,
as exemplified in the change from life to death, and death to life,
until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me
–a light so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I
became dizzy with the immensity of the prospect which it illustrated,
I was surprised that among so many men of genius who had directed
their inquiries towards the same science, that I alone should be
reserved to discover so astonishing a secret.
Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not
more certainly shine in the heavens than that which I now affirm is true.
Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery
were distinct and probable. After days and nights of incredible labour
and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life;
nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter.
The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery
soon gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in
painful labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires was
the most gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery
was so great and overwhelming that all the steps by which I had
been progressively led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only
the result. What had been the study and desire of the wisest
men since the creation of the world was now within my grasp.
Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened upon me at once:
the information I had obtained was of a nature rather to direct
my endeavours so soon as I should point them towards the object
of my search than to exhibit that object already accomplished.
I was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead and found
a passage to life, aided only by one glimmering and seemingly
ineffectual light.
I see by your eagerness and the wonder and hope which your eyes express,
my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which I am
acquainted; that cannot be; listen patiently until the end of my story,
and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that subject.
I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was,
to your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me,
if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is
the acquirement of knowledge and how much happier that man is who
believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to
become greater than his nature will allow.
When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated
a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it.
Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation,
yet to prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its
intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a
work of inconceivable difficulty and labour. I doubted at first
whether I should attempt the creation of a being like myself,
or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was
too much exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of
my ability to give life to an animal as complete and wonderful as man.
The materials at present within my command hardly appeared adequate
to so arduous an undertaking, but I doubted not that I should
ultimately succeed. I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses;
my operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be
imperfect, yet when I considered the improvement which every day
takes place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my
present attempts would at least lay the foundations of future success.
Nor could I consider the magnitude and complexity of my plan
as any argument of its impracticability. It was with these
feelings that I began the creation of a human being. As the
minuteness of the parts formed a great hindrance to my speed, I
resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the being of a
gigantic stature, that is to say, about eight feet in height, and
proportionably large. After having formed this determination and
having spent some months in successfully collecting and arranging
my materials, I began.
No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards,
like a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success.
Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first
break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world.
A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy
and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could
claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve theirs.
Pursuing these reflections, I thought that if I could bestow animation
upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now
found it impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted
the body to corruption.
These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking
with unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study,
and my person had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes,
on the very brink of certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to
the hope which the next day or the next hour might realize.
One secret which I alone possessed was the hope to which
I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight labours,
while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to
her hiding-places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret
toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave or
tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay?
My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance;
but then a resistless and almost frantic impulse urged me forward;
I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit.
It was indeed but a passing trance, that only made me feel with
renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate,
I had returned to my old habits. I collected bones from charnelhouses and disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets
of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the
top of the house, and separated from all the other apartments by
a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation;
my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in attending to the
details of my employment. The dissecting room and the slaughterhouse furnished many of my materials; and often did my human nature turn
with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by an eagerness
which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a conclusion.
The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul,
in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow
a more plentiful harvest or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage,
but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same feelings
which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to forget those
friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not seen for so
long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them, and I well remembered
the words of my father: “I know that while you are pleased with yourself
you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear regularly from you.
You must pardon me if I regard any interruption in your correspondence
as a proof that your other duties are equally neglected.”
I knew well therefore what would be my father’s feelings, but I
could not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself,
but which had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I
wished, as it were, to procrastinate all that related to my
feelings of affection until the great object, which swallowed up
every habit of my nature, should be completed.
I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my
neglect to vice or faultiness on my part, but I am now convinced
that he was justified in conceiving that I should not be
altogether free from blame. A human being in perfection ought
always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind and never to allow
passion or a transitory desire to disturb his tranquillity. I do
not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an exception to this rule.
If the study to which you apply yourself has a tendency to
weaken your affections and to destroy your taste for those simple
pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is
certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind.
If this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit
whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic
affections, Greece had not been enslaved, Caesar would have spared
his country, America would have been discovered more gradually,
and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.
But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of
my tale, and your looks remind me to proceed. My father made no
reproach in his letters and only took notice of my science by
inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before.
Winter, spring, and summer passed away during my labours; but I did
not watch the blossom or the expanding leaves–sights which before
always yielded me supreme delight–so deeply was I engrossed in my
occupation. The leaves of that year had withered before my work
drew near to a close, and now every day showed me more plainly how
well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety,
and I appeared rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines,
or any other unwholesome trade than an artist occupied by his
favourite employment. Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever,
and I became nervous to a most painful degree; the fall of
a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow creatures as if I had
been guilty of a crime. Sometimes I grew alarmed at the wreck
I perceived that I had become; the energy of my purpose alone
sustained me: my labours would soon end, and I believed that
exercise and amusement would then drive away incipient disease; and
I promised myself both of these when my creation should be complete.
Chapter 5
It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the
accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost
amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me,
that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that
lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered
dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when,
by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull
yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive
motion agitated its limbs.
How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how
delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had
endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had
selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God!
His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries
beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth
of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more
horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the
same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were set,
his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.
The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the
feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years,
for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body.
For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it
with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had
finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror
and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the
being I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued a long
time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep.
At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured,
and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek
a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain; I slept,
indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw
Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt.
Delighted and surprised, I embraced her, but as I imprinted the
first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death;
her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse
of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw
the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from
my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered,
and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon,
as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch
–the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed;
and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened,
and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks.
He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out,
seemingly to detain me, but I escaped and rushed downstairs.
I took refuge in the courtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited,
where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the
greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound
as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which
I had so miserably given life.
Oh! No mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy
again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch.
I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then, but when
those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion,
it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived.
I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly
and hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others,
I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness.
Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment;
dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space
were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid,
the overthrow so complete!
Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned and discovered to my
sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white
steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter
opened the gates of the court, which had that night been my asylum,
and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if
I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning of the
street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the
apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on,
although drenched by the rain which poured from a black and
comfortless sky.
I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring
by bodily exercise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind.
I traversed the streets without any clear conception of where I was
or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear,
and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:
Like one who, on a lonely road,
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And, having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
[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
bookkeeping; 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
in one occupation
as you see; but I
are now at an end
right; I have lately been so deeply engaged
that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest,
hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments
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 bedroom 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
forever 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 6
Clerval then put the following letter into my hands.
my own Elizabeth:
It was from
“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 sickbed 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 returns 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,
lear…

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