It is a melancholy object to those, who walk through this great town,
or travel in the country, when they see the streets, the roads and
cabbin-doors crowded with beggars of the female sex, followed by three,
four, or six children, all in rags, and importuning every passenger for
an alms. These mothers instead of being able to work for their honest
livelihood, are forced to employ all their time in stroling to beg
sustenance for their helpless infants who, as they grow up, either turn
thieves for want of work, or leave their dear native country, to fight
for the Pretender in Spain, or sell themselves to the Barbadoes.

I think it is agreed by all parties, that this prodigious number of
children in the arms, or on the backs, or at the heels of their mothers,
and frequently of their fathers, is in the present deplorable state of
the kingdom, a very great additional grievance; and therefore whoever
could find out a fair, cheap and easy method of making these children
sound and useful members of the common-wealth, would deserve so well of
the publick, as to have his statue set up for a preserver of the nation.

But my intention is very far from being confined to provide only for the
children of professed beggars: it is of a much greater extent, and shall
take in the whole number of infants at a certain age, who are born of
parents in effect as little able to support them, as those who demand
our charity in the streets.

As to my own part, having turned my thoughts for many years, upon this
important subject, and maturely weighed the several schemes of
our projectors, I have always found them grossly mistaken in their
computation. It is true, a child just dropt from its dam, may be
supported by her milk, for a solar year, with little other nourishment:
at most not above the value of two shillings, which the mother may
certainly get, or the value in scraps, by her lawful occupation of
begging; and it is exactly at one year old that I propose to provide for
them in such a manner, as, instead of being a charge upon their parents,
or the parish, or wanting food and raiment for the rest of their lives,
they shall, on the contrary, contribute to the feeding, and partly to
the cloathing of many thousands.

There is likewise another great advantage in my scheme, that it will
prevent those voluntary abortions, and that horrid practice of
women murdering their bastard children, alas! too frequent among us,
sacrificing the poor innocent babes, I doubt, more to avoid the expence
than the shame, which would move tears and pity in the most savage and
inhuman breast.

The number of souls in this kingdom being usually reckoned one million
and a half, of these I calculate there may be about two hundred thousand
couple whose wives are breeders; from which number I subtract thirty
thousand couple, who are able to maintain their own children, (although
I apprehend there cannot be so many, under the present distresses of
the kingdom) but this being granted, there will remain an hundred and
seventy thousand breeders. I again subtract fifty thousand, for those
women who miscarry, or whose children die by accident or disease within
the year. There only remain an hundred and twenty thousand children of
poor parents annually born. The question therefore is, How this number
shall be reared, and provided for? which, as I have already said, under
the present situation of affairs, is utterly impossible by all the
methods hitherto proposed. For we can neither employ them in handicraft
or agriculture; we neither build houses, (I mean in the country) nor
cultivate land: they can very seldom pick up a livelihood by stealing
till they arrive at six years old; except where they are of towardly
parts, although I confess they learn the rudiments much earlier;
during which time they can however be properly looked upon only as
probationers: As I have been informed by a principal gentleman in the
county of Cavan, who protested to me, that he never knew above one or
two instances under the age of six, even in a part of the kingdom so
renowned for the quickest proficiency in that art.

I am assured by our merchants, that a boy or a girl before twelve years
old, is no saleable commodity, and even when they come to this age, they
will not yield above three pounds, or three pounds and half a crown
at most, on the exchange; which cannot turn to account either to the
parents or kingdom, the charge of nutriments and rags having been at
least four times that value.

I shall now therefore humbly propose my own thoughts, which I hope will
not be liable to the least objection.

I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in
London, that a young healthy child well nursed, is, at a year old, a
most delicious nourishing and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted,
baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a
fricasie, or a ragoust.

I do therefore humbly offer it to publick consideration, that of the
hundred and twenty thousand children, already computed, twenty thousand
may be reserved for breed, whereof only one fourth part to be males;
which is more than we allow to sheep, black cattle, or swine, and my
reason is, that these children are seldom the fruits of marriage, a
circumstance not much regarded by our savages, therefore, one male will
be sufficient to serve four females. That the remaining hundred thousand
may, at a year old, be offered in sale to the persons of quality and
fortune, through the kingdom, always advising the mother to let them
suck plentifully in the last month, so as to render them plump, and fat
for a good table. A child will make two dishes at an entertainment for
friends, and when the family dines alone, the fore or hind quarter will
make a reasonable dish, and seasoned with a little pepper or salt, will
be very good boiled on the fourth day, especially in winter.

I have reckoned upon a medium, that a child just born will weigh 12
pounds, and in a solar year, if tolerably nursed, encreaseth to 28
pounds.

I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for
landlords, who, as they have already devoured most of the parents, seem
to have the best title to the children.

Infant's flesh will be in season throughout the year, but more plentiful
in March, and a little before and after; for we are told by a grave
author, an eminent French physician, that fish being a prolifick dyet,
there are more children born in Roman Catholick countries about nine
months after Lent, the markets will be more glutted than usual, because
the number of Popish infants, is at least three to one in this kingdom,
and therefore it will have one other collateral advantage, by lessening
the number of Papists among us.

I have already computed the charge of nursing a beggar's child (in which
list I reckon all cottagers, labourers, and four-fifths of the farmers)
to be about two shillings per annum, rags included; and I believe no
gentleman would repine to give ten shillings for the carcass of a good
fat child, which, as I have said, will make four dishes of excellent
nutritive meat, when he hath only some particular friend, or his
own family to dine with him. Thus the squire will learn to be a good
landlord, and grow popular among his tenants, the mother will have eight
shillings neat profit, and be fit for work till she produces another
child.

Those who are more thrifty (as I must confess the times require) may
flea the carcass; the skin of which, artificially dressed, will make
admirable gloves for ladies, and summer boots for fine gentlemen.

As to our City of Dublin, shambles may be appointed for this purpose, in
the most convenient parts of it, and butchers we may be assured will not
be wanting; although I rather recommend buying the children alive, and
dressing them hot from the knife, as we do roasting pigs.

A very worthy person, a true lover of his country, and whose virtues
I highly esteem, was lately pleased, in discoursing on this matter, to
offer a refinement upon my scheme. He said, that many gentlemen of this
kingdom, having of late destroyed their deer, he conceived that the
want of venison might be well supply'd by the bodies of young lads and
maidens, not exceeding fourteen years of age, nor under twelve; so great
a number of both sexes in every country being now ready to starve for
want of work and service: And these to be disposed of by their parents
if alive, or otherwise by their nearest relations. But with due
deference to so excellent a friend, and so deserving a patriot, I
cannot be altogether in his sentiments; for as to the males, my American
acquaintance assured me from frequent experience, that their flesh was
generally tough and lean, like that of our school-boys, by continual
exercise, and their taste disagreeable, and to fatten them would not
answer the charge. Then as to the females, it would, I think, with
humble submission, be a loss to the publick, because they soon would
become breeders themselves: And besides, it is not improbable that some
scrupulous people might be apt to censure such a practice, (although
indeed very unjustly) as a little bordering upon cruelty, which, I
confess, hath always been with me the strongest objection against any
project, how well soever intended.

But in order to justify my friend, he confessed, that this expedient
was put into his head by the famous Salmanaazor, a native of the island
Formosa, who came from thence to London, above twenty years ago, and in
conversation told my friend, that in his country, when any young person
happened to be put to death, the executioner sold the carcass to persons
of quality, as a prime dainty; and that, in his time, the body of a
plump girl of fifteen, who was crucified for an attempt to poison the
Emperor, was sold to his imperial majesty's prime minister of state, and
other great mandarins of the court in joints from the gibbet, at four
hundred crowns. Neither indeed can I deny, that if the same use were
made of several plump young girls in this town, who without one single
groat to their fortunes, cannot stir abroad without a chair, and appear
at a play-house and assemblies in foreign fineries which they never will
pay for; the kingdom would not be the worse.

Some persons of a desponding spirit are in great concern about that vast
number of poor people, who are aged, diseased, or maimed; and I have
been desired to employ my thoughts what course may be taken, to ease
the nation of so grievous an incumbrance. But I am not in the least pain
upon that matter, because it is very well known, that they are every day
dying, and rotting, by cold and famine, and filth, and vermin, as fast
as can be reasonably expected. And as to the young labourers, they
are now in almost as hopeful a condition. They cannot get work, and
consequently pine away from want of nourishment, to a degree, that if
at any time they are accidentally hired to common labour, they have not
strength to perform it, and thus the country and themselves are happily
delivered from the evils to come.

I have too long digressed, and therefore shall return to my subject. I
think the advantages by the proposal which I have made are obvious and
many, as well as of the highest importance.

For first, as I have already observed, it would greatly lessen the
number of Papists, with whom we are yearly over-run, being the principal
breeders of the nation, as well as our most dangerous enemies, and who
stay at home on purpose with a design to deliver the kingdom to the
Pretender, hoping to take their advantage by the absence of so many good
Protestants, who have chosen rather to leave their country, than stay at
home and pay tithes against their conscience to an episcopal curate.

Secondly, The poorer tenants will have something valuable of their own,
which by law may be made liable to a distress, and help to pay their
landlord's rent, their corn and cattle being already seized, and money a
thing unknown.

Thirdly, Whereas the maintainance of an hundred thousand children,
from two years old, and upwards, cannot be computed at less than
ten shillings a piece per annum, the nation's stock will be thereby
encreased fifty thousand pounds per annum, besides the profit of a
new dish, introduced to the tables of all gentlemen of fortune in the
kingdom, who have any refinement in taste. And the money will circulate
among our selves, the goods being entirely of our own growth and
manufacture.

Fourthly, The constant breeders, besides the gain of eight shillings
sterling per annum by the sale of their children, will be rid of the
charge of maintaining them after the first year.

Fifthly, This food would likewise bring great custom to taverns,
where the vintners will certainly be so prudent as to procure the best
receipts for dressing it to perfection; and consequently have their
houses frequented by all the fine gentlemen, who justly value themselves
upon their knowledge in good eating; and a skilful cook, who understands
how to oblige his guests, will contrive to make it as expensive as they
please.

Sixthly, This would be a great inducement to marriage, which all wise
nations have either encouraged by rewards, or enforced by laws and
penalties. It would encrease the care and tenderness of mothers towards
their children, when they were sure of a settlement for life to the
poor babes, provided in some sort by the publick, to their annual profit
instead of expence. We should soon see an honest emulation among the
married women, which of them could bring the fattest child to the
market. Men would become as fond of their wives, during the time of
their pregnancy, as they are now of their mares in foal, their cows in
calf, or sow when they are ready to farrow; nor offer to beat or kick
them (as is too frequent a practice) for fear of a miscarriage.

Many other advantages might be enumerated. For instance, the addition
of some thousand carcasses in our exportation of barrel'd beef: the
propagation of swine's flesh, and improvement in the art of making good
bacon, so much wanted among us by the great destruction of pigs,
too frequent at our tables; which are no way comparable in taste or
magnificence to a well grown, fat yearly child, which roasted whole will
make a considerable figure at a Lord Mayor's feast, or any other publick
entertainment. But this, and many others, I omit, being studious of
brevity.

Supposing that one thousand families in this city, would be constant
customers for infants flesh, besides others who might have it at merry
meetings, particularly at weddings and christenings, I compute that
Dublin would take off annually about twenty thousand carcasses; and the
rest of the kingdom (where probably they will be sold somewhat cheaper)
the remaining eighty thousand.

I can think of no one objection, that will possibly be raised against
this proposal, unless it should be urged, that the number of people will
be thereby much lessened in the kingdom. This I freely own, and 'twas
indeed one principal design in offering it to the world. I desire the
reader will observe, that I calculate my remedy for this one individual
Kingdom of Ireland, and for no other that ever was, is, or, I think,
ever can be upon Earth. Therefore let no man talk to me of other
expedients: Of taxing our absentees at five shillings a pound: Of using
neither cloaths, nor houshold furniture, except what is of our
own growth and manufacture: Of utterly rejecting the materials and
instruments that promote foreign luxury: Of curing the expensiveness of
pride, vanity, idleness, and gaming in our women: Of introducing a vein
of parsimony, prudence and temperance: Of learning to love our
country, wherein we differ even from Laplanders, and the inhabitants
of Topinamboo: Of quitting our animosities and factions, nor acting any
longer like the Jews, who were murdering one another at the very moment
their city was taken: Of being a little cautious not to sell our country
and consciences for nothing: Of teaching landlords to have at least one
degree of mercy towards their tenants. Lastly, of putting a spirit of
honesty, industry, and skill into our shop-keepers, who, if a resolution
could now be taken to buy only our native goods, would immediately unite
to cheat and exact upon us in the price, the measure, and the goodness,
nor could ever yet be brought to make one fair proposal of just dealing,
though often and earnestly invited to it.

Therefore I repeat, let no man talk to me of these and the like
expedients, 'till he hath at least some glympse of hope, that there will
ever be some hearty and sincere attempt to put them into practice.

But, as to my self, having been wearied out for many years with offering
vain, idle, visionary thoughts, and at length utterly despairing of
success, I fortunately fell upon this proposal, which, as it is wholly
new, so it hath something solid and real, of no expence and little
trouble, full in our own power, and whereby we can incur no danger
in disobliging England. For this kind of commodity will not bear
exportation, and flesh being of too tender a consistence, to admit a
long continuance in salt, although perhaps I could name a country, which
would be glad to eat up our whole nation without it.

After all, I am not so violently bent upon my own opinion, as to reject
any offer, proposed by wise men, which shall be found equally innocent,
cheap, easy, and effectual. But before something of that kind shall be
advanced in contradiction to my scheme, and offering a better, I desire
the author or authors will be pleased maturely to consider two points.
First, As things now stand, how they will be able to find food and
raiment for a hundred thousand useless mouths and backs. And secondly,
There being a round million of creatures in humane figure throughout
this kingdom, whose whole subsistence put into a common stock, would
leave them in debt two million of pounds sterling, adding those who are
beggars by profession, to the bulk of farmers, cottagers and labourers,
with their wives and children, who are beggars in effect; I desire
those politicians who dislike my overture, and may perhaps be so bold
to attempt an answer, that they will first ask the parents of these
mortals, whether they would not at this day think it a great happiness
to have been sold for food at a year old, in the manner I prescribe, and
thereby have avoided such a perpetual scene of misfortunes, as they have
since gone through, by the oppression of landlords, the impossibility of
paying rent without money or trade, the want of common sustenance, with
neither house nor cloaths to cover them from the inclemencies of the
weather, and the most inevitable prospect of intailing the like, or
greater miseries, upon their breed for ever.

I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, that I have not the least
personal interest in endeavouring to promote this necessary work, having
no other motive than the publick good of my country, by advancing
our trade, providing for infants, relieving the poor, and giving some
pleasure to the rich. I have no children, by which I can propose to
get a single penny; the youngest being nine years old, and my wife past
child-bearing.



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Letter 1


St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17--

TO Mrs. Saville, England

You 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


Archangel, 28th March, 17--

To Mrs. Saville, England

How 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



July 7th, 17--

To Mrs. Saville, England

My 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.  But I must
finish.  Heaven bless my beloved sister!

R.W.



Letter 4



August 5th, 17--

To Mrs. Saville, England

So 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 31st) 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 any 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, 17--

My 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 flow 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 19, 17--

Yesterday 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 ever-varied 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 full-toned 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 its 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, rough 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 certainly 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 fulfilment 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 Belrive, 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 complex 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 charnel-houses 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 slaughter-house 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 silence 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 book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I
left him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my
unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in
The Vicar of Wakefield:  'I have ten thousand florins a year without
Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.'  But his affection for me at
length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has permitted me to
undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge."

"It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left
my father, brothers, and Elizabeth."

"Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from
you so seldom.  By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their
account myself.  But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he, stopping
short and gazing full in my face, "I did not before remark how very ill
you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for
several nights."

"You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one
occupation that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see;
but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an
end and that I am at length free."

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to
allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night.  I walked with a
quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college.  I then reflected, and
the thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my
apartment might still be there, alive and walking about.  I dreaded to
behold this monster, but I feared still more that Henry should see him.
Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the
stairs, I darted up towards my own room.  My hand was already on the
lock of the door before I recollected myself.  I then paused, and a
cold shivering came over me.  I threw the door forcibly open, as
children are accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in
waiting for them on the other side; but nothing appeared.  I stepped
fearfully in:  the apartment was empty, and my 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.  It was from my
own Elizabeth:

"My dearest Cousin,

"You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear
kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account.  You are
forbidden to write--to hold a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor,
is necessary to calm our apprehensions.  For a long time I have thought
that each post would bring this line, and my persuasions have
restrained my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt.  I have
prevented his encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so
long a journey, yet how often have I regretted not being able to
perform it myself!  I figure to myself that the task of attending on
your 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, learned the duties of a servant, a condition which, in our
fortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance and a
sacrifice of the dignity of a human being.

"Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours; and I
recollect you once remarked that if you were in an ill humour, one
glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that
Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica--she looked so
frank-hearted and happy.  My aunt conceived a great attachment for her,
by which she was induced to give her an education superior to that
which she had at first intended.  This benefit was fully repaid;
Justine was the most grateful little creature in the world:  I do not
mean that she made any professions I never heard one pass her lips, but
you could see by her eyes that she almost adored her protectress.
Although her disposition was gay and in many respects inconsiderate,
yet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt.  She
thought her the model of all excellence and endeavoured to imitate her
phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.

"When my dearest aunt died every one was too much occupied in their own
grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness
with the most anxious affection.  Poor Justine was very ill; but other
trials were reserved for her.

"One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the
exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless.  The
conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the
deaths of her favourites was a judgement from heaven to chastise her
partiality.  She was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor
confirmed the idea which she had conceived.  Accordingly, a few months
after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her
repentant mother.  Poor girl!  She wept when she quitted our house; she
was much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness
and a winning mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable
for vivacity.  Nor was her residence at her mother's house of a nature
to restore her gaiety.  The poor woman was very vacillating in her
repentance.  She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness,
but much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her
brothers and sister.  Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz
into a decline, which at first increased her irritability, but she is
now at peace for ever.  She died on the first approach of cold weather,
at the beginning of this last winter.  Justine has just returned to us;
and I assure you I love her tenderly.  She is very clever and gentle,
and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien and her
expression continually remind me of my dear aunt.

"I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling
William.  I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with
sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair.  When he
smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with
health.  He has already had one or two little WIVES, but Louisa Biron
is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.

"Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little
gossip concerning the good people of Geneva.  The pretty Miss Mansfield
has already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching
marriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq.  Her ugly
sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your
favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes
since the departure of Clerval from Geneva.  But he has already
recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a
lively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier.  She is a widow, and much
older than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with
everybody.

"I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety
returns upon me as I conclude.  Write, dearest Victor,--one line--one
word will be a blessing to us.  Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his
kindness, his affection, and his many letters; we are sincerely
grateful.  Adieu!  my cousin; take care of your self; and, I entreat
you, write!

"Elizabeth Lavenza.

"Geneva, March 18, 17--."


"Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed, when I had read her letter:  "I
will write instantly and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel."
I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence
had commenced, and proceeded regularly.  In another fortnight I was
able to leave my chamber.

One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the
several professors of the university.  In doing this, I underwent a
kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had
sustained.  Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the
beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even
to the name of natural philosophy.  When I was otherwise quite restored
to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony
of my nervous symptoms.  Henry saw this, and had removed all my
apparatus from my view.  He had also changed my apartment; for he
perceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had
previously been my laboratory.  But these cares of Clerval were made of
no avail when I visited the professors.  M. Waldman inflicted torture
when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I
had made in the sciences.  He soon perceived that I disliked the
subject; but not guessing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to
modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement, to the science
itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out.  What
could I do?  He meant to please, and he tormented me.  I felt as if he
had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments which
were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death.  I
writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt.
Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the
sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his
total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn.  I
thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak.  I saw plainly
that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from
me; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence
that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide in
him that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which
I feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply.

M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of
almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me
even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman.  "D--n
the fellow!" cried he; "why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript
us all.  Ay, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true.  A
youngster who, but a few years ago, believed in Cornelius Agrippa as
firmly as in the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the
university; and if he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of
countenance.--Ay, ay," continued he, observing my face expressive of
suffering, "M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young
man.  Young men should be diffident of themselves, you know, M.
Clerval:  I was myself when young; but that wears out in a very short
time."

M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned
the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.

Clerval had never sympathized in my tastes for natural science; and his
literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me.  He
came to the university with the design of making himself complete
master of the oriental languages, and thus he should open a field for
the plan of life he had marked out for himself.  Resolved to pursue no
inglorious career, he turned his eyes toward the East, as affording
scope for his spirit of enterprise.  The Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit
languages engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on
the same studies.  Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I
wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt
great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not
only instruction but consolation in the works of the orientalists.  I
did not, like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for
I did not contemplate making any other use of them than temporary
amusement.  I read merely to understand their meaning, and they well
repaid my labours.  Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy
elevating, to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of
any other country.  When you read their writings, life appears to
consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses,--in the smiles and frowns
of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart.  How
different from the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome!

Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was
fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several
accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable,
and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring.  I felt this
delay very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town and my beloved
friends.  My return had only been delayed so long, from an
unwillingness to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become
acquainted with any of its inhabitants.  The winter, however, was spent
cheerfully; and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came
its beauty compensated for its dilatoriness.

The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily
which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a
pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid a
personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited.  I acceded
with pleasure to this proposition:  I was fond of exercise, and Clerval
had always been my favourite companion in the ramble of this nature
that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.

We passed a fortnight in these perambulations:  my health and spirits
had long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the
salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and
the conversation of my friend.  Study had before secluded me from the
intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but
Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught
me to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children.
Excellent friend!  how sincerely you did love me, and endeavour to
elevate my mind until it was on a level with your own.  A selfish
pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and
affection warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature
who, a few years ago, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care.
When happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most
delightful sensations.  A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with
ecstasy.  The present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring
bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud.  I
was undisturbed by thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed
upon me, notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an
invincible burden.

Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathised in my feelings:
he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that
filled his soul.  The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly
astonishing:  his conversation was full of imagination; and very often,
in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of
wonderful fancy and passion.  At other times he repeated my favourite
poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he supported with great
ingenuity.  We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon:  the
peasants were dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy.  My
own spirits were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled
joy and hilarity.



Chapter 7

On my return, I found the following letter from my father:--


"My dear Victor,

"You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of
your return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few
lines, merely mentioning the day on which I should expect you.  But
that would be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it.  What would be
your surprise, my son, when you expected a happy and glad welcome, to
behold, on the contrary, tears and wretchedness?  And how, Victor, can
I relate our misfortune?  Absence cannot have rendered you callous to
our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on my long absent
son?  I wish to prepare you for the woeful news, but I know it is
impossible; even now your eye skims over the page to seek the words
which are to convey to you the horrible tidings.

"William is dead!--that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed
my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay!  Victor, he is murdered!

"I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the
circumstances of the transaction.

"Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to
walk in Plainpalais.  The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged
our walk farther than usual.  It was already dusk before we thought of
returning; and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone
on before, were not to be found.  We accordingly rested on a seat until
they should return.  Presently Ernest came, and enquired if we had seen
his brother; he said, that he had been playing with him, that William
had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and
afterwards waited for a long time, but that he did not return.

"This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him
until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have
returned to the house.  He was not there.  We returned again, with
torches; for I could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had
lost himself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night;
Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish.  About five in the morning I
discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and
active in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless; the
print of the murder's finger was on his neck.

"He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my
countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth.  She was very earnest to
see the corpse.  At first I attempted to prevent her but she persisted,
and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the
victim, and clasping her hands exclaimed, 'O God!  I have murdered my
darling child!'

"She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty.  When she again
lived, it was only to weep and sigh.  She told me, that that same
evening William had teased her to let him wear a very valuable
miniature that she possessed of your mother.  This picture is gone, and
was doubtless the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed.  We
have no trace of him at present, although our exertions to discover him
are unremitted; but they will not restore my beloved William!

"Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth.  She weeps
continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his death;
her words pierce my heart.  We are all unhappy; but will not that be an
additional motive for you, my son, to return and be our comforter?
Your dear mother!  Alas, Victor!  I now say, Thank God she did not live
to witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!

"Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin,
but with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of
festering, the wounds of our minds.  Enter the house of mourning, my
friend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not
with hatred for your enemies.

               "Your affectionate and afflicted father,
                              "Alphonse Frankenstein.



"Geneva, May 12th, 17--."

Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was
surprised to observe the despair that succeeded the joy I at first
expressed on receiving new from my friends.  I threw the letter on the
table, and covered my face with my hands.

"My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep with
bitterness, "are you always to be unhappy?  My dear friend, what has
happened?"

I motioned him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the
room in the extremest agitation.  Tears also gushed from the eyes of
Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune.

"I can offer you no consolation, my friend," said he; "your disaster is
irreparable.  What do you intend to do?"

"To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses."

During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation;
he could only express his heartfelt sympathy.  "Poor William!" said he,
"dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother!  Who that had
seen him bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his
untimely loss!  To die so miserably; to feel the murderer's grasp!  How
much more a murdered that could destroy radiant innocence!  Poor little
fellow! one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep, but
he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end for ever.
A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain.  He can no longer
be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable
survivors."

Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words
impressed themselves on my mind and I remembered them afterwards in
solitude.  But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a
cabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend.

My journey was very melancholy.  At first I wished to hurry on, for I
longed to console and sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends;
but when I drew near my native town, I slackened my progress.  I could
hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind.  I
passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen
for nearly six years.  How altered every thing might be during that
time!  One sudden and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand
little circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations,
which, although they were done more tranquilly, might not be the less
decisive.  Fear overcame me; I dared no advance, dreading a thousand
nameless evils that made me tremble, although I was unable to define
them.  I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind.
I contemplated the lake:  the waters were placid; all around was calm;
and the snowy mountains, 'the palaces of nature,' were not changed.  By
degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my
journey towards Geneva.

The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I
approached my native town.  I discovered more distinctly the black
sides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc.  I wept like a
child.  "Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your
wanderer?  Your summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and
placid.  Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?"

I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on
these preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative
happiness, and I think of them with pleasure.  My country, my beloved
country! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again
beholding thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely
lake!

Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me.  Night
also closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I
felt still more gloomily.  The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of
evil, and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most
wretched of human beings.  Alas!  I prophesied truly, and failed only
in one single circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and
dreaded, I did not conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was
destined to endure.  It was completely dark when I arrived in the
environs of Geneva; the gates of the town were already shut; and I was
obliged to pass the night at Secheron, a village at the distance of
half a league from the city.  The sky was serene; and, as I was unable
to rest, I resolved to visit the spot where my poor William had been
murdered.  As I could not pass through the town, I was obliged to cross
the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais.  During this short voyage
I saw the lightning playing on the summit of Mont Blanc in the most
beautiful figures.  The storm appeared to approach rapidly, and, on
landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its progress.  It
advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming
slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly increased.

I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm
increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash
over my head.  It was echoed from Saleve, the Juras, and the Alps of
Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the
lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant
every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself
from the preceding flash.  The storm, as is often the case in
Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens.  The
most violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over the part of the
lake which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of
Copet.  Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another
darkened and sometimes disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the
east of the lake.

While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on
with a hasty step.  This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I
clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud, "William, dear angel! this is
thy funeral, this thy dirge!" As I said these words, I perceived in the
gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I
stood fixed, gazing intently:  I could not be mistaken.  A flash of
lightning illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to
me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect more hideous
than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch,
the filthy daemon, to whom I had given life.  What did he there?  Could
he be (I shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother?  No
sooner did that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of
its truth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree
for support.  The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom.

Nothing in human shape could have destroyed the fair child.  HE was the
murderer!  I could not doubt it.  The mere presence of the idea was an
irresistible proof of the fact.  I thought of pursuing the devil; but
it would have been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me
hanging among the rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont
Saleve, a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the south.  He soon reached
the summit, and disappeared.

I remained motionless.  The thunder ceased; but the rain still
continued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness.  I
revolved in my mind the events which I had until now sought to forget:
the whole train of my progress toward the creation; the appearance of
the works of my own hands at my bedside; its departure.  Two years had
now nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and
was this his first crime?  Alas!  I had turned loose into the world a
depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not
murdered my brother?

No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the
night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air.  But I did not
feel the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in
scenes of evil and despair.  I considered the being whom I had cast
among mankind, and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes
of horror, such as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light
of my own vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced
to destroy all that was dear to me.

Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town.  The gates were
open, and I hastened to my father's house.  My first thought was to
discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be
made.  But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A
being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at
midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain.  I
remembered also the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at
the time that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of
delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable.  I well knew that
if any other had communicated such a relation to me, I should have
looked upon it as the ravings of insanity.  Besides, the strange nature
of the animal would elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited
as to persuade my relatives to commence it.  And then of what use would
be pursuit?  Who could arrest a creature capable of scaling the
overhanging sides of Mont Saleve?  These reflections determined me, and
I resolved to remain silent.

It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house.  I
told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library
to attend their usual hour of rising.

Six years had elapsed, passed in a dream but for one indelible trace,
and I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father
before my departure for Ingolstadt.  Beloved and venerable parent!  He
still remained to me.  I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood
over the mantel-piece.  It was an historical subject, painted at my
father's desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of
despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead father.  Her garb was
rustic, and her cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and beauty,
that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity.  Below this picture was a
miniature of William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it.  While
I was thus engaged, Ernest entered:  he had heard me arrive, and
hastened to welcome me:  "Welcome, my dearest Victor," said he.  "Ah! I
wish you had come three months ago, and then you would have found us
all joyous and delighted.  You come to us now to share a misery which
nothing can alleviate; yet your presence will, I hope, revive our
father, who seems sinking under his misfortune; and your persuasions
will induce poor Elizabeth to cease her vain and tormenting
self-accusations.--Poor William! he was our darling and our pride!"

Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of mortal
agony crept over my frame.  Before, I had only imagined the
wretchedness of my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and
a not less terrible, disaster.  I tried to calm Ernest; I enquired more
minutely concerning my father, and here I named my cousin.

"She most of all," said Ernest, "requires consolation; she accused
herself of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her
very wretched.  But since the murderer has been discovered--"

"The murderer discovered!  Good God! how can that be? who could attempt
to pursue him?  It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the
winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw.  I saw him too; he
was free last night!"

"I do not know what you mean," replied my brother, in accents of
wonder, "but to us the discovery we have made completes our misery.  No
one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be
convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence.  Indeed, who would credit
that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family,
could suddenly become so capable of so frightful, so appalling a crime?"

"Justine Moritz!  Poor, poor girl, is she the accused?  But it is
wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?"

"No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have
almost forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour has been so
confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear,
leaves no hope for doubt.  But she will be tried today, and you will
then hear all."

He then related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William
had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her
bed for several days.  During this interval, one of the servants,
happening to examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the
murder, had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which
had been judged to be the temptation of the murderer.  The servant
instantly showed it to one of the others, who, without saying a word to
any of the family, went to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition,
Justine was apprehended.  On being charged with the fact, the poor girl
confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her extreme confusion of
manner.

This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied
earnestly, "You are all mistaken; I know the murderer.  Justine, poor,
good Justine, is innocent."

At that instant my father entered.  I saw unhappiness deeply impressed
on his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and,
after we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced
some other topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed,
"Good God, papa!  Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of
poor William."

"We do also, unfortunately," replied my father, "for indeed I had
rather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much
depravity and ungratitude in one I valued so highly."

"My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent."

"If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty.  She is to be
tried today, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted."

This speech calmed me.  I was firmly convinced in my own mind that
Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder.  I
had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be
brought forward strong enough to convict her.  My tale was not one to
announce publicly; its astounding horror would be looked upon as
madness by the vulgar.  Did any one indeed exist, except I, the
creator, who would believe, unless his senses convinced him, in the
existence of the living monument of presumption and rash ignorance
which I had let loose upon the world?

We were soon joined by Elizabeth.  Time had altered her since I last
beheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing the beauty of
her childish years.  There was the same candour, the same vivacity, but
it was allied to an expression more full of sensibility and intellect.
She welcomed me with the greatest affection.  "Your arrival, my dear
cousin," said she, "fills me with hope.  You perhaps will find some
means to justify my poor guiltless Justine.  Alas! who is safe, if she
be convicted of crime?  I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do
upon my own.  Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only
lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely
love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate.  If she is condemned, I
never shall know joy more.  But she will not, I am sure she will not;
and then I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my little
William."

"She is innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and that shall be proved;
fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of her
acquittal."

"How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt,
and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible:  and to
see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me
hopeless and despairing."  She wept.

"Dearest niece," said my father, "dry your tears.  If she is, as you
believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and the activity
with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality."



Chapter 8

We passed a few sad hours until eleven o'clock, when the trial was to
commence.  My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend
as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court.  During the whole of
this wretched mockery of justice I suffered living torture.  It was to
be decided whether the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would
cause the death of two of my fellow beings:  one a smiling babe full of
innocence and joy, the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every
aggravation of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror.
Justine also was a girl of merit and possessed qualities which promised
to render her life happy; now all was to be obliterated in an
ignominious grave, and I the cause!  A thousand times rather would I
have confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine, but I
was absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have
been considered as the ravings of a madman and would not have
exculpated her who suffered through me.

The appearance of Justine was calm.  She was dressed in mourning, and
her countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her
feelings, exquisitely beautiful.  Yet she appeared confident in
innocence and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated by
thousands, for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have
excited was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the
imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed.  She
was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as
her confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she
worked up her mind to an appearance of courage.  When she entered the
court she threw her eyes round it and quickly discovered where we were
seated.  A tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us, but she quickly
recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest
her utter guiltlessness.

The trial began, and after the advocate against her had stated the
charge, several witnesses were called.  Several strange facts combined
against her, which might have staggered anyone who had not such proof
of her innocence as I had.  She had been out the whole of the night on
which the murder had been committed and towards morning had been
perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where the body of the
murdered child had been afterwards found.  The woman asked her what she
did there, but she looked very strangely and only returned a confused
and unintelligible answer.  She returned to the house about eight
o'clock, and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she
replied that she had been looking for the child and demanded earnestly
if anything had been heard concerning him.  When shown the body, she
fell into violent hysterics and kept her bed for several days.  The
picture was then produced which the servant had found in her pocket;
and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same
which, an hour before the child had been missed, she had placed round
his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation filled the court.

Justine was called on for her defence.  As the trial had proceeded, her
countenance had altered.  Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly
expressed.  Sometimes she struggled with her tears, but when she was
desired to plead, she collected her powers and spoke in an audible
although variable voice.

"God knows," she said, "how entirely I am innocent.  But I do not
pretend that my protestations should acquit me; I rest my innocence on
a plain and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced
against me, and I hope the character I have always borne will incline
my judges to a favourable interpretation where any circumstance appears
doubtful or suspicious."

She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed
the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the
house of an aunt at Chene, a village situated at about a league from
Geneva.  On her return, at about nine o'clock, she met a man who asked
her if she had seen anything of the child who was lost.  She was
alarmed by this account and passed several hours in looking for him,
when the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced to remain
several hours of the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being
unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom she was well known.  Most
of the night she spent here watching; towards morning she believed that
she slept for a few minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she awoke.
It was dawn, and she quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavour
to find my brother.  If she had gone near the spot where his body lay,
it was without her knowledge.  That she had been bewildered when
questioned by the market-woman was not surprising, since she had passed
a sleepless night and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain.
Concerning the picture she could give no account.

"I know," continued the unhappy victim, "how heavily and fatally this
one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of explaining
it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left to
conjecture concerning the probabilities by which it might have been
placed in my pocket.  But here also I am checked.  I believe that I
have no enemy on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to
destroy me wantonly.  Did the murderer place it there?  I know of no
opportunity afforded him for so doing; or, if I had, why should he have
stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon?

"I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for
hope.  I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my
character, and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed
guilt, I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my
innocence."

Several witnesses were called who had known her for many years, and
they spoke well of her; but fear and hatred of the crime of which they
supposed her guilty rendered them timorous and unwilling to come
forward.  Elizabeth saw even this last resource, her excellent
dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused,
when, although violently agitated, she desired permission to address
the court.

"I am," said she, "the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered, or
rather his sister, for I was educated by and have lived with his
parents ever since and even long before his birth.  It may therefore be
judged indecent in me to come forward on this occasion, but when I see
a fellow creature about to perish through the cowardice of her
pretended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I
know of her character.  I am well acquainted with the accused.  I have
lived in the same house with her, at one time for five and at another
for nearly two years.  During all that period she appeared to me the
most amiable and benevolent of human creatures.  She nursed Madame
Frankenstein, my aunt, in her last illness, with the greatest affection
and care and afterwards attended her own mother during a tedious
illness, in a manner that excited the admiration of all who knew her,
after which she again lived in my uncle's house, where she was beloved
by all the family.  She was warmly attached to the child who is now
dead and acted towards him like a most affectionate mother.  For my own
part, I do not hesitate to say that, notwithstanding all the evidence
produced against her, I believe and rely on her perfect innocence.  She
had no temptation for such an action; as to the bauble on which the
chief proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it, I should have
willingly given it to her, so much do I esteem and value her."

A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth's simple and powerful
appeal, but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in
favour of poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned with
renewed violence, charging her with the blackest ingratitude.  She
herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer.  My own
agitation and anguish was extreme during the whole trial.  I believed
in her innocence; I knew it.  Could the demon who had (I did not for a
minute doubt) murdered my brother also in his hellish sport have
betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy?  I could not sustain the
horror of my situation, and when I perceived that the popular voice and
the countenances of the judges had already condemned my unhappy victim,
I rushed out of the court in agony.  The tortures of the accused did
not equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of
remorse tore my bosom and would not forgo their hold.

I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness.  In the morning I went to
the court; my lips and throat were parched.  I dared not ask the fatal
question, but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause of my
visit.  The ballots had been thrown; they were all black, and Justine
was condemned.

I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt.  I had before
experienced sensations of horror, and I have endeavoured to bestow upon
them adequate expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the
heart-sickening despair that I then endured.  The person to whom I
addressed myself added that Justine had already confessed her guilt.
"That evidence," he observed, "was hardly required in so glaring a
case, but I am glad of it, and, indeed, none of our judges like to
condemn a criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so
decisive."

This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean?  Had
my eyes deceived me?  And was I really as mad as the whole world would
believe me to be if I disclosed the object of my suspicions?  I
hastened to return home, and Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.

"My cousin," replied I, "it is decided as you may have expected; all
judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer than that one guilty
should escape.  But she has confessed."

This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness
upon Justine's innocence.  "Alas!" said she.  "How shall I ever again
believe in human goodness?  Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as my
sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray?
Her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or guile, and yet she
has committed a murder."

Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire to see
my cousin.  My father wished her not to go but said that he left it to
her own judgment and feelings to decide.  "Yes," said Elizabeth, "I
will go, although she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany me; I
cannot go alone."  The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I
could not refuse.  We entered the gloomy prison chamber and beheld
Justine sitting on some straw at the farther end; her hands were
manacled, and her head rested on her knees.  She rose on seeing us
enter, and when we were left alone with her, she threw herself at the
feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly.  My cousin wept also.

"Oh, Justine!" said she.  "Why did you rob me of my last consolation?
I relied on your innocence, and although I was then very wretched, I
was not so miserable as I am now."

"And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked?  Do you also
join with my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?" Her
voice was suffocated with sobs.

"Rise, my poor girl," said Elizabeth; "why do you kneel, if you are
innocent?  I am not one of your enemies, I believed you guiltless,
notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard that you had yourself
declared your guilt.  That report, you say, is false; and be assured,
dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a moment,
but your own confession."

"I did confess, but I confessed a lie.  I confessed, that I might
obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than
all my other sins.  The God of heaven forgive me!  Ever since I was
condemned, my confessor has besieged me; he threatened and menaced,
until I almost began to think that I was the monster that he said I
was.  He threatened excommunication and hell fire in my last moments if
I continued obdurate.  Dear lady, I had none to support me; all looked
on me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition.  What could I do?
In an evil hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly
miserable."

She paused, weeping, and then continued, "I thought with horror, my
sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed
aunt had so highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable
of a crime which none but the devil himself could have perpetrated.
Dear William! dearest blessed child!  I soon shall see you again in
heaven, where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me, going as I
am to suffer ignominy and death."

"Oh, Justine!  Forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you.
Why did you confess?  But do not mourn, dear girl.  Do not fear.  I
will proclaim, I will prove your innocence.  I will melt the stony
hearts of your enemies by my tears and prayers.  You shall not die!
You, my playfellow, my companion, my sister, perish on the scaffold!
No!  No!  I never could survive so horrible a misfortune."

Justine shook her head mournfully.  "I do not fear to die," she said;
"that pang is past.  God raises my weakness and gives me courage to
endure the worst.  I leave a sad and bitter world; and if you remember
me and think of me as of one unjustly condemned, I am resigned to the
fate awaiting me.  Learn from me, dear lady, to submit in patience to
the will of heaven!"

During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison room,
where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me.  Despair!
Who dared talk of that?  The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass
the awful boundary between life and death, felt not, as I did, such
deep and bitter agony.  I gnashed my teeth and ground them together,
uttering a groan that came from my inmost soul.  Justine started.  When
she saw who it was, she approached me and said, "Dear sir, you are very
kind to visit me; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty?"

I could not answer.  "No, Justine," said Elizabeth; "he is more
convinced of your innocence than I was, for even when he heard that you
had confessed, he did not credit it."

"I truly thank him.  In these last moments I feel the sincerest
gratitude towards those who think of me with kindness.  How sweet is
the affection of others to such a wretch as I am!  It removes more than
half my misfortune, and I feel as if I could die in peace now that my
innocence is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin."

Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself.  She indeed
gained the resignation she desired.  But I, the true murderer, felt the
never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or
consolation.  Elizabeth also wept and was unhappy, but hers also was
the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair
moon, for a while hides but cannot tarnish its brightness.  Anguish and
despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within
me which nothing could extinguish.  We stayed several hours with
Justine, and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear
herself away.  "I wish," cried she, "that I were to die with you; I
cannot live in this world of misery."

Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty
repressed her bitter tears.  She embraced Elizabeth and said in a voice
of half-suppressed emotion, "Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth,
my beloved and only friend; may heaven, in its bounty, bless and
preserve you; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever
suffer!  Live, and be happy, and make others so."

And on the morrow Justine died.  Elizabeth's heart-rending eloquence
failed to move the judges from their settled conviction in the
criminality of the saintly sufferer.  My passionate and indignant
appeals were lost upon them.  And when I received their cold answers
and heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these men, my purposed
avowal died away on my lips.  Thus I might proclaim myself a madman,
but not revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched victim.  She
perished on the scaffold as a murderess!

From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and
voiceless grief of my Elizabeth.  This also was my doing!  And my
father's woe, and the desolation of that late so smiling home all was
the work of my thrice-accursed hands!  Ye weep, unhappy ones, but these
are not your last tears!  Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and
the sound of your lamentations shall again and again be heard!
Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he
who would spend each vital drop of blood for your sakes, who has no
thought nor sense of joy except as it is mirrored also in your dear
countenances, who would fill the air with blessings and spend his life
in serving you--he bids you weep, to shed countless tears; happy beyond
his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the destruction
pause before the peace of the grave have succeeded to your sad torments!

Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair,
I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and
Justine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts.



Chapter 9

Nothing is more painful to the human mind than, after the feelings have
been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of
inaction and certainty which follows and deprives the soul both of hope
and fear.  Justine died, she rested, and I was alive.  The blood flowed
freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my
heart which nothing could remove.  Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered
like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond
description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself) was yet
behind.  Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and the love of virtue.
I had begun life with benevolent intentions and thirsted for the moment
when I should put them in practice and make myself useful to my fellow
beings.  Now all was blasted; instead of that serenity of conscience
which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and
from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and
the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures
such as no language can describe.

This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never
entirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained.  I shunned
the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me;
solitude was my only consolation--deep, dark, deathlike solitude.

My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my
disposition and habits and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the
feelings of his serene conscience and guiltless life to inspire me with
fortitude and awaken in me the courage to dispel the dark cloud which
brooded over me.  "Do you think, Victor," said he, "that I do not
suffer also?  No one could love a child more than I loved your
brother"--tears came into his eyes as he spoke--"but is it not a duty
to the survivors that we should refrain from augmenting their
unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief?  It is also a duty
owed to yourself, for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or
enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no
man is fit for society."

This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I
should have been the first to hide my grief and console my friends if
remorse had not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm, with my
other sensations.  Now I could only answer my father with a look of
despair and endeavour to hide myself from his view.

About this time we retired to our house at Belrive.  This change was
particularly agreeable to me.  The shutting of the gates regularly at
ten o'clock and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that
hour had rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome
to me.  I was now free.  Often, after the rest of the family had
retired for the night, I took the boat and passed many hours upon the
water.  Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and
sometimes, after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to
pursue its own course and gave way to my own miserable reflections.  I
was often tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only
unquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and
heavenly--if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and
interrupted croaking was heard only when I approached the shore--often,
I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters
might close over me and my calamities forever.  But I was restrained,
when I thought of the heroic and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly
loved, and whose existence was bound up in mine.  I thought also of my
father and surviving brother; should I by my base desertion leave them
exposed and unprotected to the malice of the fiend whom I had let loose
among them?

At these moments I wept bitterly and wished that peace would revisit my
mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness.  But that
could not be.  Remorse extinguished every hope.  I had been the author
of unalterable evils, and I lived in daily fear lest the monster whom I
had created should perpetrate some new wickedness.  I had an obscure
feeling that all was not over and that he would still commit some
signal crime, which by its enormity should almost efface the
recollection of the past.  There was always scope for fear so long as
anything I loved remained behind.  My abhorrence of this fiend cannot
be conceived.  When I thought of him I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became
inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I had so
thoughtlessly bestowed.  When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my
hatred and revenge burst all bounds of moderation.  I would have made a
pilgrimage to the highest peak of the Andes, could I when there have
precipitated him to their base.  I wished to see him again, that I
might wreak the utmost extent of abhorrence on his head and avenge the
deaths of William and Justine.  Our house was the house of mourning. My
father's health was deeply shaken by the horror of the recent events.
Elizabeth was sad and desponding; she no longer took delight in her
ordinary occupations; all pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the
dead; eternal woe and tears she then thought was the just tribute she
should pay to innocence so blasted and destroyed.  She was no longer
that happy creature who in earlier youth wandered with me on the banks
of the lake and talked with ecstasy of our future prospects.  The first
of those sorrows which are sent to wean us from the earth had visited
her, and its dimming influence quenched her dearest smiles.

"When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death of
Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before
appeared to me.  Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and
injustice that I read in books or heard from others as tales of ancient
days or imaginary evils; at least they were remote and more familiar to
reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come home, and men
appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood.  Yet I am
certainly unjust.  Everybody believed that poor girl to be guilty; and
if she could have committed the crime for which she suffered, assuredly
she would have been the most depraved of human creatures.  For the sake
of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend,
a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared to love as if
it had been her own!  I could not consent to the death of any human
being, but certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit to
remain in the society of men.  But she was innocent.  I know, I feel
she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me.
Alas!  Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can
assure themselves of certain happiness?  I feel as if I were walking on
the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are crowding and
endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss.  William and Justine were
assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free,
and perhaps respected.  But even if I were condemned to suffer on the
scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a
wretch."

I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony.  I, not in deed,
but in effect, was the true murderer.  Elizabeth read my anguish in my
countenance, and kindly taking my hand, said, "My dearest friend, you
must calm yourself.  These events have affected me, God knows how
deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are.  There is an expression of
despair, and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance that makes me
tremble.  Dear Victor, banish these dark passions.  Remember the
friends around you, who centre all their hopes in you.  Have we lost
the power of rendering you happy?  Ah!  While we love, while we are
true to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native
country, we may reap every tranquil blessing--what can disturb our
peace?"

And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every
other gift of fortune suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my
heart?  Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror, lest at
that very moment the destroyer had been near to rob me of her.

Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of
heaven, could redeem my soul from woe; the very accents of love were
ineffectual.  I was encompassed by a cloud which no beneficial
influence could penetrate.  The wounded deer dragging its fainting
limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had
pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me.

Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me, but
sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by bodily
exercise and by change of place, some relief from my intolerable
sensations.  It was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left
my home, and bending my steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought
in the magnificence, the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and
my ephemeral, because human, sorrows.  My wanderings were directed
towards the valley of Chamounix.  I had visited it frequently during my
boyhood.  Six years had passed since then:  _I_ was a wreck, but nought
had changed in those savage and enduring scenes.

I performed the first part of my journey on horseback.  I afterwards
hired a mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable to receive
injury on these rugged roads.  The weather was fine; it was about the
middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of
Justine, that miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe.  The
weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in
the ravine of Arve.  The immense mountains and precipices that overhung
me on every side, the sound of the river raging among the rocks, and
the dashing of the waterfalls around spoke of a power mighty as
Omnipotence--and I ceased to fear or to bend before any being less
almighty than that which had created and ruled the elements, here
displayed in their most terrific guise.  Still, as I ascended higher,
the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character.
Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains, the
impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from
among the trees formed a scene of singular beauty.  But it was
augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and
shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another
earth, the habitations of another race of beings.

I passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river
forms, opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that
overhangs it.  Soon after, I entered the valley of Chamounix.  This
valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and
picturesque as that of Servox, through which I had just passed.  The
high and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries, but I saw no
more ruined castles and fertile fields.  Immense glaciers approached
the road; I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche and
marked the smoke of its passage.  Mont Blanc, the supreme and
magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles,
and its tremendous dome overlooked the valley.

A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this
journey.  Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and
recognized, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the
lighthearted gaiety of boyhood.  The very winds whispered in soothing
accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more.  Then again the
kindly influence ceased to act--I found myself fettered again to grief
and indulging in all the misery of reflection.  Then I spurred on my
animal, striving so to forget the world, my fears, and more than all,
myself--or, in a more desperate fashion, I alighted and threw myself on
the grass, weighed down by horror and despair.

At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix.  Exhaustion succeeded
to the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured.
For a short space of time I remained at the window watching the pallid
lightnings that played above Mont Blanc and listening to the rushing of
the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath.  The same lulling sounds
acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations; when I placed my head
upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed
the giver of oblivion.



Chapter 10

I spent the following day roaming through the valley.  I stood beside
the sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacier, that
with slow pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills to
barricade the valley.  The abrupt sides of vast mountains were before
me; the icy wall of the glacier overhung me; a few shattered pines were
scattered around; and the solemn silence of this glorious
presence-chamber of imperial nature was broken only by the brawling
waves or the fall of some vast fragment, the thunder sound of the
avalanche or the cracking, reverberated along the mountains, of the
accumulated ice, which, through the silent working of immutable laws,
was ever and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a plaything in
their hands.  These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the
greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving.  They elevated me
from all littleness of feeling, and although they did not remove my
grief, they subdued and tranquillized it.  In some degree, also, they
diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the
last month.  I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it were,
waited on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes which I
had contemplated during the day.  They congregated round me; the
unstained snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods,
and ragged bare ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds--they all
gathered round me and bade me be at peace.

Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke?  All of
soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every
thought.  The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the
summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of those
mighty friends.  Still I would penetrate their misty veil and seek them
in their cloudy retreats.  What were rain and storm to me?  My mule was
brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of
Montanvert.  I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous
and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it.
It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the
soul and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy.
The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the
effect of solemnizing my mind and causing me to forget the passing
cares of life.  I determined to go without a guide, for I was well
acquainted with the path, and the presence of another would destroy the
solitary grandeur of the scene.

The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short
windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the
mountain.  It is a scene terrifically desolate.  In a thousand spots
the traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie
broken and strewed on the ground, some entirely destroyed, others bent,
leaning upon the jutting rocks of the mountain or transversely upon
other trees.  The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected by ravines
of snow, down which stones continually roll from above; one of them is
particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, such as even speaking
in a loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient to draw
destruction upon the head of the speaker.  The pines are not tall or
luxuriant, but they are sombre and add an air of severity to the scene.
I looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the rivers
which ran through it and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite
mountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain
poured from the dark sky and added to the melancholy impression I
received from the objects around me.  Alas!  Why does man boast of
sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders
them more necessary beings.  If our impulses were confined to hunger,
thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by
every wind that blows and a chance word or scene that that word may
convey to us.


  We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.
   We rise; one wand'ring thought pollutes the day.
  We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep,
   Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
  It is the same:  for, be it joy or sorrow,
   The path of its departure still is free.
  Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
   Nought may endure but mutability!


It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent.  For some
time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice.  A mist covered
both that and the surrounding mountains.  Presently a breeze dissipated
the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier.  The surface is very
uneven, rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and
interspersed by rifts that sink deep.  The field of ice is almost a
league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it.  The
opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock.  From the side where I
now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league;
and above it rose Mont Blanc, in awful majesty.  I remained in a recess
of the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene.  The sea,
or rather the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains,
whose aerial summits hung over its recesses.  Their icy and glittering
peaks shone in the sunlight over the clouds.  My heart, which was
before sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I exclaimed,
"Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest in your narrow
beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me, as your companion,
away from the joys of life."

As I said this I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance,
advancing towards me with superhuman speed.  He bounded over the
crevices in the ice, among which I had walked with caution; his
stature, also, as he approached, seemed to exceed that of man.  I was
troubled; a mist came over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me,
but I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the mountains.  I
perceived, as the shape came nearer (sight tremendous and abhorred!)
that it was the wretch whom I had created.  I trembled with rage and
horror, resolving to wait his approach and then close with him in
mortal combat.  He approached; his countenance bespoke bitter anguish,
combined with disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness
rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes.  But I scarcely
observed this; rage and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance,
and I recovered only to overwhelm him with words expressive of furious
detestation and contempt.

"Devil," I exclaimed, "do you dare approach me?  And do not you fear
the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head?  Begone,
vile insect!  Or rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust!  And,
oh!  That I could, with the extinction of your miserable existence,
restore those victims whom you have so diabolically murdered!"

"I expected this reception," said the daemon.  "All men hate the
wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all
living things!  Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature,
to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of
one of us.  You purpose to kill me.  How dare you sport thus with life?
Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of
mankind.  If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and
you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it
be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends."

"Abhorred monster!  Fiend that thou art!  The tortures of hell are too
mild a vengeance for thy crimes.  Wretched devil!  You reproach me with
your creation, come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I
so negligently bestowed."

My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the
feelings which can arm one being against the existence of another.

He easily eluded me and said,

"Be calm!  I entreat you to hear me before you give vent to your hatred
on my devoted head.  Have I not suffered enough, that you seek to
increase my misery?  Life, although it may only be an accumulation of
anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.  Remember, thou hast made
me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine, my
joints more supple.  But I will not be tempted to set myself in
opposition to thee.  I am thy creature, and I will be even mild and
docile to my natural lord and king if thou wilt also perform thy part,
the which thou owest me.  Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every
other and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy
clemency and affection, is most due.  Remember that I am thy creature;
I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou
drivest from joy for no misdeed.  Everywhere I see bliss, from which I
alone am irrevocably excluded.  I was benevolent and good; misery made
me a fiend.  Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous."

"Begone!  I will not hear you.  There can be no community between you
and me; we are enemies.  Begone, or let us try our strength in a fight,
in which one must fall."

"How can I move thee?  Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a
favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and
compassion?  Believe me, Frankenstein, I was benevolent; my soul glowed
with love and humanity; but am I not alone, miserably alone?  You, my
creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from your fellow creatures,
who owe me nothing?  They spurn and hate me.  The desert mountains and
dreary glaciers are my refuge.  I have wandered here many days; the
caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the
only one which man does not grudge.  These bleak skies I hail, for they
are kinder to me than your fellow beings.  If the multitude of mankind
knew of my existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves for
my destruction.  Shall I not then hate them who abhor me?  I will keep
no terms with my enemies.  I am miserable, and they shall share my
wretchedness.  Yet it is in your power to recompense me, and deliver
them from an evil which it only remains for you to make so great, that
not only you and your family, but thousands of others, shall be
swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage.  Let your compassion be
moved, and do not disdain me.  Listen to my tale; when you have heard
that, abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve.
But hear me.  The guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they
are, to speak in their own defence before they are condemned.  Listen
to me, Frankenstein.  You accuse me of murder, and yet you would, with
a satisfied conscience, destroy your own creature.  Oh, praise the
eternal justice of man!  Yet I ask you not to spare me; listen to me,
and then, if you can, and if you will, destroy the work of your hands."

"Why do you call to my remembrance," I rejoined, "circumstances of
which I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable origin and
author?  Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw
light!  Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that formed you!
You have made me wretched beyond expression.  You have left me no power
to consider whether I am just to you or not.  Begone!  Relieve me from
the sight of your detested form."

"Thus I relieve thee, my creator," he said, and placed his hated hands
before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; "thus I take from
thee a sight which you abhor.  Still thou canst listen to me and grant
me thy compassion.  By the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this
from you.  Hear my tale; it is long and strange, and the temperature of
this place is not fitting to your fine sensations; come to the hut upon
the mountain.  The sun is yet high in the heavens; before it descends
to hide itself behind your snowy precipices and illuminate another
world, you will have heard my story and can decide.  On you it rests,
whether I quit forever the neighbourhood of man and lead a harmless
life, or become the scourge of your fellow creatures and the author of
your own speedy ruin."

As he said this he led the way across the ice; I followed.  My heart
was full, and I did not answer him, but as I proceeded, I weighed the
various arguments that he had used and determined at least to listen to
his tale.  I was partly urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my
resolution.  I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of my
brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this opinion.
For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towards
his creature were, and that I ought to render him happy before I
complained of his wickedness.  These motives urged me to comply with
his demand.  We crossed the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite
rock.  The air was cold, and the rain again began to descend; we
entered the hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy
heart and depressed spirits.  But I consented to listen, and seating
myself by the fire which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began
his tale.



Chapter 11

"It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of
my being; all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct.
A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard,
and smelt at the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time before I
learned to distinguish between the operations of my various senses.  By
degrees, I remember, a stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so that I
was obliged to shut my eyes.  Darkness then came over me and troubled
me, but hardly had I felt this when, by opening my eyes, as I now
suppose, the light poured in upon me again.  I walked and, I believe,
descended, but I presently found a great alteration in my sensations.
Before, dark and opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to my
touch or sight; but I now found that I could wander on at liberty, with
no obstacles which I could not either surmount or avoid.  The light
became more and more oppressive to me, and the heat wearying me as I
walked, I sought a place where I could receive shade.  This was the
forest near Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook resting
from my fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst.  This
roused me from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries which I
found hanging on the trees or lying on the ground.  I slaked my thirst
at the brook, and then lying down, was overcome by sleep.

"It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half frightened, as it
were, instinctively, finding myself so desolate.  Before I had quitted
your apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had covered myself with some
clothes, but these were insufficient to secure me from the dews of
night.  I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could
distinguish, nothing; but feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat
down and wept.

"Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens and gave me a sensation of
pleasure.  I started up and beheld a radiant form rise from among the
trees.  [The moon]  I gazed with a kind of wonder.  It moved slowly,
but it enlightened my path, and I again went out in search of berries.
I was still cold when under one of the trees I found a huge cloak, with
which I covered myself, and sat down upon the ground.  No distinct
ideas occupied my mind; all was confused.  I felt light, and hunger,
and thirst, and darkness; innumerable sounds rang in my ears, and on
all sides various scents saluted me; the only object that I could
distinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes on that with
pleasure.

"Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night had
greatly lessened, when I began to distinguish my sensations from each
other.  I gradually saw plainly the clear stream that supplied me with
drink and the trees that shaded me with their foliage.  I was delighted
when I first discovered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my
ears, proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals who had
often intercepted the light from my eyes.  I began also to observe,
with greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me and to perceive the
boundaries of the radiant roof of light which canopied me.  Sometimes I
tried to imitate the pleasant songs of the birds but was unable.
Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in my own mode, but the
uncouth and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened me into
silence again.

"The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a lessened
form, showed itself, while I still remained in the forest.  My
sensations had by this time become distinct, and my mind received every
day additional ideas.  My eyes became accustomed to the light and to
perceive objects in their right forms; I distinguished the insect from
the herb, and by degrees, one herb from another.  I found that the
sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those of the blackbird and
thrush were sweet and enticing.

"One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been
left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the
warmth I experienced from it.  In my joy I thrust my hand into the live
embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain.  How strange,
I thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects!  I
examined the materials of the fire, and to my joy found it to be
composed of wood.  I quickly collected some branches, but they were wet
and would not burn.  I was pained at this and sat still watching the
operation of the fire.  The wet wood which I had placed near the heat
dried and itself became inflamed.  I reflected on this, and by touching
the various branches, I discovered the cause and busied myself in
collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it and have a
plentiful supply of fire.  When night came on and brought sleep with
it, I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished.  I
covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves and placed wet branches
upon it; and then, spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground and sank
into sleep.

"It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire.
I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame.  I
observed this also and contrived a fan of branches, which roused the
embers when they were nearly extinguished.  When night came again I
found, with pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as heat and that
the discovery of this element was useful to me in my food, for I found
some of the offals that the travellers had left had been roasted, and
tasted much more savoury than the berries I gathered from the trees.  I
tried, therefore, to dress my food in the same manner, placing it on
the live embers.  I found that the berries were spoiled by this
operation, and the nuts and roots much improved.

"Food, however, became scarce, and I often spent the whole day
searching in vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. When
I found this, I resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto
inhabited, to seek for one where the few wants I experienced would be
more easily satisfied.  In this emigration I exceedingly lamented the
loss of the fire which I had obtained through accident and knew not how
to reproduce it.  I gave several hours to the serious consideration of
this difficulty, but I was obliged to relinquish all attempt to supply
it, and wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across the wood
towards the setting sun.  I passed three days in these rambles and at
length discovered the open country.  A great fall of snow had taken
place the night before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the
appearance was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold
damp substance that covered the ground.

"It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and
shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which
had doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd.  This
was a new sight to me, and I examined the structure with great
curiosity.  Finding the door open, I entered.  An old man sat in it,
near a fire, over which he was preparing his breakfast.  He turned on
hearing a noise, and perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and quitting the
hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form
hardly appeared capable.  His appearance, different from any I had ever
before seen, and his flight somewhat surprised me.  But I was enchanted
by the appearance of the hut; here the snow and rain could not
penetrate; the ground was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite
and divine a retreat as Pandemonium appeared to the demons of hell
after their sufferings in the lake of fire.  I greedily devoured the
remnants of the shepherd's breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese,
milk, and wine; the latter, however, I did not like.  Then, overcome by
fatigue, I lay down among some straw and fell asleep.

"It was noon when I awoke, and allured by the warmth of the sun, which
shone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my
travels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant's breakfast in a
wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours, until
at sunset I arrived at a village.  How miraculous did this appear!  The
huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses engaged my admiration by
turns.  The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw
placed at the windows of some of the cottages, allured my appetite. One
of the best of these I entered, but I had hardly placed my foot within
the door before the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted.
The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me, until,
grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I
escaped to the open country and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel,
quite bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had
beheld in the village.  This hovel however, joined a cottage of a neat
and pleasant appearance, but after my late dearly bought experience, I
dared not enter it.  My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so
low that I could with difficulty sit upright in it.  No wood, however,
was placed on the earth, which formed the floor, but it was dry; and
although the wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found it an
agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.

"Here, then, I retreated and lay down happy to have found a shelter,
however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more
from the barbarity of man.  As soon as morning dawned I crept from my
kennel, that I might view the adjacent cottage and discover if I could
remain in the habitation I had found.  It was situated against the back
of the cottage and surrounded on the sides which were exposed by a pig
sty and a clear pool of water.  One part was open, and by that I had
crept in; but now I covered every crevice by which I might be perceived
with stones and wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them on
occasion to pass out; all the light I enjoyed came through the sty, and
that was sufficient for me.

"Having thus arranged my dwelling and carpeted it with clean straw, I
retired, for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered
too well my treatment the night before to trust myself in his power.  I
had first, however, provided for my sustenance for that day by a loaf
of coarse bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink
more conveniently than from my hand of the pure water which flowed by
my retreat.  The floor was a little raised, so that it was kept
perfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the chimney of the cottage it was
tolerably warm.

"Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel until
something should occur which might alter my determination.  It was
indeed a paradise compared to the bleak forest, my former residence,
the rain-dropping branches, and dank earth.  I ate my breakfast with
pleasure and was about to remove a plank to procure myself a little
water when I heard a step, and looking through a small chink, I beheld
a young creature, with a pail on her head, passing before my hovel. The
girl was young and of gentle demeanour, unlike what I have since found
cottagers and farmhouse servants to be.  Yet she was meanly dressed, a
coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her only garb; her fair
hair was plaited but not adorned:  she looked patient yet sad.  I lost
sight of her, and in about a quarter of an hour she returned bearing
the pail, which was now partly filled with milk.  As she walked along,
seemingly incommoded by the burden, a young man met her, whose
countenance expressed a deeper despondence.  Uttering a few sounds with
an air of melancholy, he took the pail from her head and bore it to the
cottage himself.  She followed, and they disappeared.  Presently I saw
the young man again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field
behind the cottage; and the girl was also busied, sometimes in the
house and sometimes in the yard.

"On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the windows of the
cottage had formerly occupied a part of it, but the panes had been
filled up with wood. In one of these was a small and almost
imperceptible chink through which the eye could just penetrate.
Through this crevice a small room was visible, whitewashed and clean
but very bare of furniture. In one corner, near a small fire, sat an
old man, leaning his head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude. The
young girl was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently she
took something out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat
down beside the old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play
and to produce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the
nightingale. It was a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch who had
never beheld aught beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent
countenance of the aged cottager won my reverence, while the gentle
manners of the girl enticed my love. He played a sweet mournful air
which I perceived drew tears from the eyes of his amiable companion, of
which the old man took no notice, until she sobbed audibly; he then
pronounced a few sounds, and the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt
at his feet. He raised her and smiled with such kindness and affection
that I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature; they were
a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before experienced,
either from hunger or cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew from the
window, unable to bear these emotions.

"Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his shoulders a
load of wood.  The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him of
his burden, and taking some of the fuel into the cottage, placed it on
the fire; then she and the youth went apart into a nook of the cottage,
and he showed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese.  She seemed
pleased and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which she
placed in water, and then upon the fire.  She afterwards continued her
work, whilst the young man went into the garden and appeared busily
employed in digging and pulling up roots.  After he had been employed
thus about an hour, the young woman joined him and they entered the
cottage together.

"The old man had, in the meantime, been pensive, but on the appearance
of his companions he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to
eat.  The meal was quickly dispatched.  The young woman was again
occupied in arranging the cottage, the old man walked before the
cottage in the sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth.
Nothing could exceed in beauty the contrast between these two excellent
creatures.  One was old, with silver hairs and a countenance beaming
with benevolence and love; the younger was slight and graceful in his
figure, and his features were moulded with the finest symmetry, yet his
eyes and attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency.  The
old man returned to the cottage, and the youth, with tools different
from those he had used in the morning, directed his steps across the
fields.

"Night quickly shut in, but to my extreme wonder, I found that the
cottagers had a means of prolonging light by the use of tapers, and was
delighted to find that the setting of the sun did not put an end to the
pleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbours.  In the evening
the young girl and her companion were employed in various occupations
which I did not understand; and the old man again took up the
instrument which produced the divine sounds that had enchanted me in
the morning.  So soon as he had finished, the youth began, not to play,
but to utter sounds that were monotonous, and neither resembling the
harmony of the old man's instrument nor the songs of the birds; I since
found that he read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of the
science of words or letters.

"The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time,
extinguished their lights and retired, as I conjectured, to rest."



Chapter 12

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



Chapter 13

"I now hasten to the more moving part of my story.  I shall relate
events that impressed me with feelings which, from what I had been,
have made me what I am.

"Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine and the skies
cloudless.  It surprised me that what before was desert and gloomy
should now bloom with the most beautiful flowers and verdure.  My
senses were gratified and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight and
a thousand sights of beauty.

"It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested
from labour--the old man played on his guitar, and the children
listened to him--that I observed the countenance of Felix was
melancholy beyond expression; he sighed frequently, and once his father
paused in his music, and I conjectured by his manner that he inquired
the cause of his son's sorrow.  Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and
the old man was recommencing his music when someone tapped at the door.

"It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a country-man as a guide.
The lady was dressed in a dark suit and covered with a thick black
veil.  Agatha asked a question, to which the stranger only replied by
pronouncing, in a sweet accent, the name of Felix.  Her voice was
musical but unlike that of either of my friends.  On hearing this word,
Felix came up hastily to the lady, who, when she saw him, threw up her
veil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and expression.  Her
hair of a shining raven black, and curiously braided; her eyes were
dark, but gentle, although animated; her features of a regular
proportion, and her complexion wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with
a lovely pink.

"Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every trait of
sorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed a degree of
ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly have believed it capable; his
eyes sparkled, as his cheek flushed with pleasure; and at that moment I
thought him as beautiful as the stranger.  She appeared affected by
different feelings; wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she held
out her hand to Felix, who kissed it rapturously and called her, as
well as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian.  She did not appear to
understand him, but smiled.  He assisted her to dismount, and
dismissing her guide, conducted her into the cottage.  Some
conversation took place between him and his father, and the young
stranger knelt at the old man's feet and would have kissed his hand,
but he raised her and embraced her affectionately.

"I soon perceived that although the stranger uttered articulate sounds
and appeared to have a language of her own, she was neither understood
by nor herself understood the cottagers.  They made many signs which I
did not comprehend, but I saw that her presence diffused gladness
through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the
morning mists.  Felix seemed peculiarly happy and with smiles of
delight welcomed his Arabian.  Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed
the hands of the lovely stranger, and pointing to her brother, made
signs which appeared to me to mean that he had been sorrowful until she
came.  Some hours passed thus, while they, by their countenances,
expressed joy, the cause of which I did not comprehend.  Presently I
found, by the frequent recurrence of some sound which the stranger
repeated after them, that she was endeavouring to learn their language;
and the idea instantly occurred to me that I should make use of the
same instructions to the same end.  The stranger learned about twenty
words at the first lesson; most of them, indeed, were those which I had
before understood, but I profited by the others.

"As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early.  When they
separated Felix kissed the hand of the stranger and said, 'Good night
sweet Safie.'  He sat up much longer, conversing with his father, and
by the frequent repetition of her name I conjectured that their lovely
guest was the subject of their conversation.  I ardently desired to
understand them, and bent every faculty towards that purpose, but found
it utterly impossible.

"The next morning Felix went out to his work, and after the usual
occupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat at the feet of the
old man, and taking his guitar, played some airs so entrancingly
beautiful that they at once drew tears of sorrow and delight from my
eyes.  She sang, and her voice flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or
dying away like a nightingale of the woods.

"When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first
declined it.  She played a simple air, and her voice accompanied it in
sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain of the stranger.  The old
man appeared enraptured and said some words which Agatha endeavoured to
explain to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to express that she
bestowed on him the greatest delight by her music.

"The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration
that joy had taken place of sadness in the countenances of my friends.
Safie was always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly in the
knowledge of language, so that in two months I began to comprehend most
of the words uttered by my protectors.

"In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage, and
the green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the
scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance among the moonlight woods;
the sun became warmer, the nights clear and balmy; and my nocturnal
rambles were an extreme pleasure to me, although they were considerably
shortened by the late setting and early rising of the sun, for I never
ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting with the same
treatment I had formerly endured in the first village which I entered.

"My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily
master the language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly than
the Arabian, who understood very little and conversed in broken
accents, whilst I comprehended and could imitate almost every word that
was spoken.

"While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters as
it was taught to the stranger, and this opened before me a wide field
for wonder and delight.

"The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney's Ruins of
Empires.  I should not have understood the purport of this book had not
Felix, in reading it, given very minute explanations.  He had chosen
this work, he said, because the declamatory style was framed in
imitation of the Eastern authors.  Through this work I obtained a
cursory knowledge of history and a view of the several empires at
present existing in the world; it gave me an insight into the manners,
governments, and religions of the different nations of the earth.  I
heard of the slothful Asiatics, of the stupendous genius and mental
activity of the Grecians, of the wars and wonderful virtue of the early
Romans--of their subsequent degenerating--of the decline of that mighty
empire, of chivalry, Christianity, and kings.  I heard of the discovery
of the American hemisphere and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of
its original inhabitants.

"These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings.  Was
man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous and magnificent, yet so
vicious and base?  He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil
principle and at another as all that can be conceived of noble and
godlike.  To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour
that can befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on
record have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more
abject than that of the blind mole or harmless worm.  For a long time I
could not conceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or
even why there were laws and governments; but when I heard details of
vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased and I turned away with disgust and
loathing.

"Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me.
While I listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the
Arabian, the strange system of human society was explained to me.  I
heard of the division of property, of immense wealth and squalid
poverty, of rank, descent, and noble blood.

"The words induced me to turn towards myself.  I learned that the
possessions most esteemed by your fellow creatures were high and
unsullied descent united with riches.  A man might be respected with
only one of these advantages, but without either he was considered,
except in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to
waste his powers for the profits of the chosen few!  And what was I? Of
my creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant, but I knew that I
possessed no money, no friends, no kind of property.  I was, besides,
endued with a figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even
of the same nature as man.  I was more agile than they and could
subsist upon coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with
less injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded theirs.  When I looked
around I saw and heard of none like me.  Was I, then, a monster, a blot
upon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men disowned?

"I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted
upon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with
knowledge.  Oh, that I had forever remained in my native wood, nor
known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!

"Of what a strange nature is knowledge!  It clings to the mind when it
has once seized on it like a lichen on the rock.  I wished sometimes to
shake off all thought and feeling, but I learned that there was but one
means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death--a state
which I feared yet did not understand.  I admired virtue and good
feelings and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my
cottagers, but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except
through means which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and
unknown, and which rather increased than satisfied the desire I had of
becoming one among my fellows.  The gentle words of Agatha and  the
animated smiles of the charming Arabian were not for me.  The mild
exhortations of the old man and the lively conversation of the loved
Felix were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!

"Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply.  I heard of the
difference of sexes, and the birth and growth of children, how the
father doted on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies of the
older child, how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapped up
in the precious charge, how the mind of youth expanded and gained
knowledge, of brother, sister, and all the various relationships which
bind one human being to another in mutual bonds.

"But where were my friends and relations?  No father had watched my
infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if
they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I
distinguished nothing.  From my earliest remembrance I had been as I
then was in height and proportion.  I had never yet seen a being
resembling me or who claimed any intercourse with me.  What was I?  The
question again recurred, to be answered only with groans.

"I will soon explain to what these feelings tended, but allow me now to
return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various
feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated
in additional love and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in
an innocent, half-painful self-deceit, to call them)."



Chapter 14

"Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends.  It was
one which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind, unfolding
as it did a number of circumstances, each interesting and wonderful to
one so utterly inexperienced as I was.

"The name of the old man was De Lacey.  He was descended from a good
family in France, where he had lived for many years in affluence,
respected by his superiors and beloved by his equals.  His son was bred
in the service of his country, and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the
highest distinction.  A few months before my arrival they had lived in
a large and luxurious city called Paris, surrounded by friends and
possessed of every enjoyment which virtue, refinement of intellect, or
taste, accompanied by a moderate fortune, could afford.

"The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin.  He was a
Turkish merchant and had inhabited Paris for many years, when, for some
reason which I could not learn, he became obnoxious to the government.
He was seized and cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from
Constantinople to join him.  He was tried and condemned to death.  The
injustice of his sentence was very flagrant; all Paris was indignant;
and it was judged that his religion and wealth rather than the crime
alleged against him had been the cause of his condemnation.

"Felix had accidentally been present at the trial; his horror and
indignation were uncontrollable when he heard the decision of the
court.  He made, at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver him and then
looked around for the means.  After many fruitless attempts to gain
admittance to the prison, he found a strongly grated window in an
unguarded part of the building, which lighted the dungeon of the
unfortunate Muhammadan, who, loaded with chains, waited in despair the
execution of the barbarous sentence.  Felix visited the grate at night
and made known to the prisoner his intentions in his favour.  The Turk,
amazed and delighted, endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his deliverer
by promises of reward and wealth.  Felix rejected his offers with
contempt, yet when he saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit
her father and who by her gestures expressed her lively gratitude, the
youth could not help owning to his own mind that the captive possessed
a treasure which would fully reward his toil and hazard.

"The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter had made
on the heart of Felix and endeavoured to secure him more entirely in
his interests by the promise of her hand in marriage so soon as he
should be conveyed to a place of safety.  Felix was too delicate to
accept this offer, yet he looked forward to the probability of the
event as to the consummation of his happiness.

"During the ensuing days, while the preparations were going forward for
the escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed by several
letters that he received from this lovely girl, who found means to
express her thoughts in the language of her lover by the aid of an old
man, a servant of her father who understood French.  She thanked him in
the most ardent terms for his intended services towards her parent, and
at the same time she gently deplored her own fate.

"I have copies of these letters, for I found means, during my residence
in the hovel, to procure the implements of writing; and the letters
were often in the hands of Felix or Agatha.  Before I depart I will
give them to you; they will prove the truth of my tale; but at present,
as the sun is already far declined, I shall only have time to repeat
the substance of them to you.

"Safie related that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized and made a
slave by the Turks; recommended by her beauty, she had won the heart of
the father of Safie, who married her.  The young girl spoke in high and
enthusiastic terms of her mother, who, born in freedom, spurned the
bondage to which she was now reduced.  She instructed her daughter in
the tenets of her religion and taught her to aspire to higher powers of
intellect and an independence of spirit forbidden to the female
followers of Muhammad.  This lady died, but her lessons were indelibly
impressed on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of again
returning to Asia and being immured within the walls of a harem,
allowed only to occupy herself with infantile amusements, ill-suited to
the temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas and a noble
emulation for virtue.  The prospect of marrying a Christian and
remaining in a country where women were allowed to take a rank in
society was enchanting to her.

"The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed, but on the night
previous to it he quitted his prison and before morning was distant
many leagues from Paris.  Felix had procured passports in the name of
his father, sister, and himself.  He had previously communicated his
plan to the former, who aided the deceit by quitting his house, under
the pretence of a journey and concealed himself, with his daughter, in
an obscure part of Paris.

"Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons and across Mont
Cenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided to wait a favourable
opportunity of passing into some part of the Turkish dominions.

"Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment of his
departure, before which time the Turk renewed his promise that she
should be united to his deliverer; and Felix remained with them in
expectation of that event; and in the meantime he enjoyed the society
of the Arabian, who exhibited towards him the simplest and tenderest
affection.  They conversed with one another through the means of an
interpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation of looks; and Safie
sang to him the divine airs of her native country.

"The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place and encouraged the hopes
of the youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed far other
plans.  He loathed the idea that his daughter should be united to a
Christian, but he feared the resentment of Felix if he should appear
lukewarm, for he knew that he was still in the power of his deliverer
if he should choose to betray him to the Italian state which they
inhabited.  He revolved a thousand plans by which he should be enabled
to prolong the deceit until it might be no longer necessary, and
secretly to take his daughter with him when he departed.  His plans
were facilitated by the news which arrived from Paris.

"The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape of their
victim and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer.  The
plot of Felix was quickly discovered, and De Lacey and Agatha were
thrown into prison.  The news reached Felix and roused him from his
dream of pleasure.  His blind and aged father and his gentle sister lay
in a noisome dungeon while he enjoyed the free air and the society of
her whom he loved.  This idea was torture to him.  He quickly arranged
with the Turk that if the latter should find a favourable opportunity
for escape before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should remain as a
boarder at a convent at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian,
he hastened to Paris and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the
law, hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.

"He did not succeed.  They remained confined for five months before the
trial took place, the result of which deprived them of their fortune
and condemned them to a perpetual exile from their native country.

"They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I
discovered them.  Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for
whom he and his family endured such unheard-of oppression, on
discovering that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and ruin,
became a traitor to good feeling and honour and had quitted Italy with
his daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money to aid him,
as he said, in some plan of future maintenance.

"Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix and rendered
him, when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family.  He could
have endured poverty, and while this distress had been the meed of his
virtue, he gloried in it; but the ingratitude of the Turk and the loss
of his beloved Safie were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable.  The
arrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his soul.

"When the news reached Leghorn that Felix was deprived of his wealth
and rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to think no more of her
lover, but to prepare to return to her native country.  The generous
nature of Safie was outraged by this command; she attempted to
expostulate with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating his
tyrannical mandate.

"A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter's apartment and told
her hastily that he had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn
had been divulged and that he should speedily be delivered up to the
French government; he had consequently hired a vessel to convey him to
Constantinople, for which city he should sail in a few hours.  He
intended to leave his daughter under the care of a confidential
servant, to follow at her leisure with the greater part of his
property, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn.

"When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct that it
would become her to pursue in this emergency.  A residence in Turkey
was abhorrent to her; her religion and her feelings were alike averse
to it.  By some papers of her father which fell into her hands she
heard of the exile of her lover and learnt the name of the spot where
he then resided.  She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her
determination.  Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her and a
sum of money, she quitted Italy with an attendant, a native of Leghorn,
but who understood the common language of Turkey, and departed for
Germany.

"She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the cottage
of De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill.  Safie nursed her
with the most devoted affection, but the poor girl died, and the
Arabian was left alone, unacquainted with the language of the country
and utterly ignorant of the customs of the world.  She fell, however,
into good hands.  The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for
which they were bound, and after her death the woman of the house in
which they had lived took care that Safie should arrive in safety at
the cottage of her lover."



Chapter 15

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I knocked.  'Who is there?' said the old man.  'Come in.'

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

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

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

"I sat down, and a silence ensued.  I knew that every minute was
precious to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to commence
the interview, when the old man addressed me.  'By your language,
stranger, I suppose you are my countryman; are you French?'

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

"'Are they Germans?'

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

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

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

"'That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless, cannot
you undeceive them?'

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

"'Where do these friends reside?'

"'Near this spot.'

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

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

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

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

"'May I know the names and residence of those friends?'

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

"'Great God!' exclaimed the old man.  'Who are you?'

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



Chapter 16

"Cursed, cursed creator!  Why did I live?  Why, in that instant, did I
not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly
bestowed?  I know not; despair had not yet taken possession of me; my
feelings were those of rage and revenge.  I could with pleasure have
destroyed the cottage and its inhabitants and have glutted myself with
their shrieks and misery.

"When night came I quitted my retreat and wandered in the wood; and
now, no longer restrained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent to my
anguish in fearful howlings.  I was like a wild beast that had broken
the toils, destroying the objects that obstructed me and ranging
through the wood with a stag-like swiftness.  Oh!  What a miserable
night I passed!  The cold stars shone in mockery, and the bare trees
waved their branches above me; now and then the sweet voice of a bird
burst forth amidst the universal stillness.  All, save I, were at rest
or in enjoyment; I, like the arch-fiend, bore a hell within me, and
finding myself unsympathized with, wished to tear up the trees, spread
havoc and destruction around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed
the ruin.

"But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure; I became
fatigued with excess of bodily exertion and sank on the damp grass in
the sick impotence of despair.  There was none among the myriads of men
that existed who would pity or assist me; and should I feel kindness
towards my enemies?  No; from that moment I declared everlasting war
against the species, and more than all, against him who had formed me
and sent me forth to this insupportable misery.

"The sun rose; I heard the voices of men and knew that it was
impossible to return to my retreat during that day.  Accordingly I hid
myself in some thick underwood, determining to devote the ensuing hours
to reflection on my situation.

"The pleasant sunshine and the pure air of day restored me to some
degree of tranquillity; and when I considered what had passed at the
cottage, I could not help believing that I had been too hasty in my
conclusions.  I had certainly acted imprudently.  It was apparent that
my conversation had interested the father in my behalf, and  I was a
fool in having exposed my person to the horror of his children.  I
ought to have familiarized the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees to
have discovered myself to the rest of his family, when they should have
been  prepared for my approach.  But I did not believe my errors to be
irretrievable, and after much consideration I resolved to return to the
cottage, seek the old man, and by my representations win him to my
party.

"These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I sank into a profound
sleep; but the fever of my blood did not allow me to be visited by
peaceful dreams.  The horrible scene of the preceding day was forever
acting before my eyes; the females were flying and the enraged Felix
tearing me from his father's feet.  I awoke exhausted, and finding that
it was already night, I crept forth from my hiding-place, and went in
search of food.

"When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps towards the
well-known path that conducted to the cottage.  All there was at peace.
I crept into my hovel and remained in silent expectation of the
accustomed hour when the family arose.  That hour passed, the sun
mounted high in the heavens, but the cottagers did not appear.  I
trembled violently, apprehending some dreadful misfortune.  The inside
of the cottage was dark, and I heard no motion; I cannot describe the
agony of this suspense.

"Presently two countrymen passed by, but pausing near the cottage, they
entered into conversation, using violent gesticulations; but I did not
understand what they said, as they spoke the language of the country,
which differed from that of my protectors.  Soon after, however, Felix
approached with another man; I was surprised, as I knew that he had not
quitted the cottage that morning, and waited anxiously to discover from
his discourse the meaning of these unusual appearances.

"'Do you consider,' said his companion to him, 'that you will be
obliged to pay three months' rent and to lose the produce of your
garden?  I do not wish to take any unfair advantage, and I beg
therefore that you will take some days to consider of your
determination.'

"'It is utterly useless,' replied Felix; 'we can never again inhabit
your cottage.  The life of my father is in the greatest danger, owing
to the dreadful circumstance that I have related.  My wife and my
sister will never recover from their horror.  I entreat you not to
reason with me any more.  Take possession of your tenement and let me
fly from this place.'

"Felix trembled violently as he said this.  He and his companion
entered the cottage, in which they remained for a few minutes, and then
departed.  I never saw any of the family of De Lacey more.

"I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state of
utter and stupid despair.  My protectors had departed and had broken
the only link that held me to the world.  For the first time the
feelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom, and I did not strive to
control them, but allowing myself to be borne away by the stream, I
bent my mind towards injury and death.  When I thought of my friends,
of the mild voice of De Lacey, the gentle eyes of Agatha, and the
exquisite beauty of the Arabian, these thoughts vanished and a gush of
tears somewhat soothed me.  But again when I reflected that they had
spurned and deserted me, anger returned, a rage of anger, and unable to
injure anything human, I turned my fury towards inanimate objects.  As
night advanced I placed a variety of combustibles around the cottage,
and after having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in the garden,
I waited with forced impatience until the moon had sunk to commence my
operations.

"As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the woods and quickly
dispersed the clouds that had loitered in the heavens; the blast tore
along like a mighty avalanche and produced a kind of insanity in my
spirits that burst all bounds of reason and reflection.  I lighted the
dry branch of a tree and danced with fury around the devoted cottage,
my eyes still fixed on the western horizon, the edge of which the moon
nearly touched.  A part of its orb was at length hid, and I waved my
brand; it sank, and with a loud scream I fired the straw, and heath,
and bushes, which I had collected.  The wind fanned the fire, and the
cottage was quickly enveloped by the flames, which clung to it and
licked it with their forked and destroying tongues.

"As soon as I was convinced that no assistance could save any part of
the habitation, I quitted the scene and sought for refuge in the woods.

"And now, with the world before me, whither should I bend my steps?  I
resolved to fly far from the scene of my misfortunes; but to me, hated
and despised, every country must be equally horrible.  At length the
thought of you crossed my mind.  I learned from your papers that you
were my father, my creator; and to whom could I apply with more fitness
than to him who had given me life?  Among the lessons that Felix had
bestowed upon Safie, geography had not been omitted; I had learned from
these the relative situations of the different countries of the earth.
You had mentioned Geneva as the name of your native town, and towards
this place I resolved to proceed.

"But how was I to direct myself?  I knew that I must travel in a
southwesterly direction to reach my destination, but the sun was my
only guide.  I did not know the names of the towns that I was to pass
through, nor could I ask information from a single human being; but I
did not despair.  From you only could I hope for succour, although
towards you I felt no sentiment but that of hatred.  Unfeeling,
heartless creator!  You had endowed me with perceptions and passions
and then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of mankind.
But on you only had I any claim for pity and redress, and from you I
determined to seek that justice which I vainly attempted to gain from
any other being that wore the human form.

"My travels were long and the sufferings I endured intense.  It was
late in autumn when I quitted the district where I had so long resided.
I travelled only at night, fearful of encountering the visage of a
human being.  Nature decayed around me, and the sun became heatless;
rain and snow poured around me; mighty rivers were frozen; the surface
of the earth was hard and chill, and bare, and I found no shelter.  Oh,
earth!  How often did I imprecate curses on the cause of my being!  The
mildness of my nature had fled, and all within me was turned to gall
and bitterness.  The nearer I approached to your habitation, the more
deeply did I feel the spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart.  Snow
fell, and the waters were hardened, but I rested not.  A few incidents
now and then directed me, and I possessed a map of the country; but I
often wandered wide from my path.  The agony of my feelings allowed me
no respite; no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could
not extract its food; but a circumstance that happened when I arrived
on the confines of Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth
and the earth again began to look green, confirmed in an especial
manner the bitterness and horror of my feelings.

"I generally rested during the day and travelled only when I was
secured by night from the view of man.  One morning, however, finding
that my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to continue my journey
after the sun had risen; the day, which was one of the first of spring,
cheered even me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of
the air.  I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long
appeared dead, revive within me.  Half surprised by the novelty of
these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and
forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy.  Soft tears
again bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised my humid eyes with
thankfulness towards the blessed sun, which bestowed such joy upon me.

"I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came to its
boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river, into which many
of the trees bent their branches, now budding with the fresh spring.
Here I paused, not exactly knowing what path to pursue, when I heard
the sound of voices, that induced me to conceal myself under the shade
of a cypress.  I was scarcely hid when a young girl came running
towards the spot where I was concealed, laughing, as if she ran from
someone in sport.  She continued her course along the precipitous sides
of the river, when suddenly her foot slipped, and she fell into the
rapid stream.  I rushed from my hiding-place and with extreme labour,
from the force of the current, saved her and dragged her to shore.  She
was senseless, and I endeavoured by every means in my power to restore
animation, when I was suddenly interrupted by the approach of a rustic,
who was probably the person from whom she had playfully fled.  On
seeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms,
hastened towards the deeper parts of the wood.  I followed speedily, I
hardly knew why; but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun,
which he carried, at my body and fired.  I sank to the ground, and my
injurer, with increased swiftness, escaped into the wood.

"This was then the reward of my benevolence!  I had saved a human being
from destruction, and as a recompense I now writhed under the miserable
pain of a wound which shattered the flesh and bone.  The feelings of
kindness and gentleness which I had entertained but a few moments
before gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth.  Inflamed by
pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind.  But the
agony of my wound overcame me; my pulses paused, and I fainted.

"For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring to
cure the wound which I had received.  The ball had entered my shoulder,
and I knew not whether it had remained there or passed through; at any
rate I had no means of extracting it.  My sufferings were augmented
also by the oppressive sense of the injustice and ingratitude of their
infliction.  My daily vows rose for revenge--a deep and deadly revenge,
such as would alone compensate for the outrages and anguish I had
endured.

"After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey.  The
labours I endured were no longer to be alleviated by the bright sun or
gentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a mockery which insulted my
desolate state and made me feel more painfully that I was not made for
the enjoyment of pleasure.

"But my toils now drew near a close, and in two months from this time I
reached the environs of Geneva.

"It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place among
the fields that surround it to meditate in what manner I should apply
to you.  I was oppressed by fatigue and hunger and far too unhappy to
enjoy the gentle breezes of evening or the prospect of the sun setting
behind the stupendous mountains of Jura.

"At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of reflection,
which was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful child, who came
running into the recess I had chosen, with all the sportiveness of
infancy.  Suddenly, as I gazed on him, an idea seized me that this
little creature was unprejudiced and had lived too short a time to have
imbibed a horror of deformity.  If, therefore, I could seize him and
educate him as my companion and friend, I should not be so desolate in
this peopled earth.

"Urged by this impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed and drew him
towards me.  As soon as he beheld my form, he placed his hands before
his eyes and uttered a shrill scream; I drew his hand forcibly from his
face and said, 'Child, what is the meaning of this?  I do not intend to
hurt you; listen to me.'

"He struggled violently.  'Let me go,' he cried; 'monster!  Ugly
wretch!  You wish to eat me and tear me to pieces.  You are an ogre.
Let me go, or I will tell my papa.'

"'Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come with me.'

"'Hideous monster!  Let me go.  My papa is a syndic--he is M.
Frankenstein--he will punish you.  You dare not keep me.'

"'Frankenstein! you belong then to my enemy--to him towards whom I have
sworn eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim.'

"The child still struggled and loaded me with epithets which carried
despair to my heart; I grasped his throat to silence him, and in a
moment he lay dead at my feet.

"I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation and hellish
triumph; clapping my hands, I exclaimed, 'I too can create desolation;
my enemy is not invulnerable; this death will carry despair to him, and
a thousand other miseries shall torment and destroy him.'

"As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering on his
breast.  I took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely woman.  In spite
of my malignity, it softened and attracted me.  For a few moments I
gazed with delight on her dark eyes, fringed by deep lashes, and her
lovely lips; but presently my rage returned; I remembered that I was
forever deprived of the delights that such beautiful creatures could
bestow and that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, in
regarding me, have changed that air of divine benignity to one
expressive of disgust and affright.

"Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with rage?  I only
wonder that at that moment, instead of venting my sensations in
exclamations and agony, I did not rush among mankind and perish in the
attempt to destroy them.

"While I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot where I had
committed the murder, and seeking a more secluded hiding-place, I
entered a barn which had appeared to me to be empty.  A woman was
sleeping on some straw; she was young, not indeed so beautiful as her
whose portrait I held, but of an agreeable aspect and blooming in the
loveliness of youth and health.  Here, I thought, is one of those whose
joy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but me.  And then I bent over
her and whispered, 'Awake, fairest, thy lover is near--he who would
give his life but to obtain one look of affection from thine eyes; my
beloved, awake!'

"The sleeper stirred; a thrill of terror ran through me.  Should she
indeed awake, and see me, and curse me, and denounce the murderer? Thus
would she assuredly act if her darkened eyes opened and she beheld me.
The thought was madness; it stirred the fiend within me--not I, but
she, shall suffer; the murder I have committed because I am forever
robbed of all that she could give me, she shall atone.  The crime had
its source in her; be hers the punishment!  Thanks to the lessons of
Felix and the sanguinary laws of man, I had learned now to work
mischief.  I bent over her and placed the portrait securely in one of
the folds of her dress.  She moved again, and I fled.

"For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place,
sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world and
its miseries forever.  At length I wandered towards these mountains,
and have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning
passion which you alone can gratify.  We may not part until you have
promised to comply with my requisition.  I am alone and miserable; man
will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself
would not deny herself to me.  My companion must be of the same species
and have the same defects.  This being you must create."



Chapter 17

The being finished speaking and fixed his looks upon me in the
expectation of a reply.  But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to
arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of his
proposition.  He continued,

"You must create a female for me with whom I can live in the
interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being.  This you alone
can do, and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse to
concede."

The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had
died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and
as he said this I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within
me.

"I do refuse it," I replied; "and no torture shall ever extort a
consent from me.  You may render me the most miserable of men, but you
shall never make me base in my own eyes.  Shall I create another like
yourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate the world.  Begone!  I
have answered you; you may torture me, but I will never consent."

"You are in the wrong," replied the fiend; "and instead of threatening,
I am content to reason with you.  I am malicious because I am
miserable.  Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind?  You, my
creator, would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell
me why I should pity man more than he pities me?  You would not call it
murder if you could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts and
destroy my frame, the work of your own hands.  Shall I respect man when
he condemns me?  Let him live with me in the interchange of kindness,
and instead of injury I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears
of gratitude at his acceptance.  But that cannot be; the human senses
are insurmountable barriers to our union.  Yet mine shall not be the
submission of abject slavery.  I will revenge my injuries; if I cannot
inspire love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy,
because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred.  Have a care; I
will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart,
so that you shall curse the hour of your birth."

A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled
into contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold; but presently
he calmed himself and proceeded--

"I intended to reason.  This passion is detrimental to me, for you do
not reflect that YOU are the cause of its excess.  If any being felt
emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them a hundred and
a hundredfold; for that one creature's sake I would make peace with the
whole kind!  But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be
realized.  What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a
creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself; the gratification is
small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me.  It
is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that
account we shall be more attached to one another.  Our lives will not
be happy, but they will be harmless and free from the misery I now
feel.  Oh!  My creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards
you for one benefit!  Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some
existing thing; do not deny me my request!"

I was moved.  I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences
of my consent, but I felt that there was some justice in his argument.
His tale and the feelings he now expressed proved him to be a creature
of fine sensations, and did I not as his maker owe him all the portion
of happiness that it was in my power to bestow?  He saw my change of
feeling and continued,

"If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see
us again; I will go to the vast wilds of South America.  My food is not
that of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid to glut my appetite;
acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment.  My companion will
be of the same nature as myself and will be content with the same fare.
We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on
man and will ripen our food.  The picture I present to you is peaceful
and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the
wantonness of power and cruelty.  Pitiless as you have been towards me,
I now see compassion in your eyes; let me seize the favourable moment
and persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire."

"You propose," replied I, "to fly from the habitations of man, to dwell
in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your only
companions.  How can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man,
persevere in this exile?  You will return and again seek their
kindness, and you will meet with their detestation; your evil passions
will be renewed, and you will then have a companion to aid you in the
task of destruction.  This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I
cannot consent."

"How inconstant are your feelings!  But a moment ago you were moved by
my representations, and why do you again harden yourself to my
complaints?  I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you
that made me, that with the companion you bestow I will quit the
neighbourhood of man and dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of
places.  My evil passions will have fled, for I shall meet with
sympathy!  My life will flow quietly away, and in my dying moments I
shall not curse my maker."

His words had a strange effect upon me.  I compassionated him and
sometimes felt a wish to console him, but when I looked upon him, when
I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened and my
feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred.  I tried to stifle
these sensations; I thought that as I could not sympathize with him, I
had no right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness which
was yet in my power to bestow.

"You swear," I said, "to be harmless; but have you not already shown a
degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust you?  May not
even this be a feint that will increase your triumph by affording a
wider scope for your revenge?"

"How is this?  I must not be trifled with, and I demand an answer.  If
I have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion;
the love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall
become a thing of whose existence everyone will be ignorant.  My vices
are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor, and my virtues will
necessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal.  I shall feel
the affections of a sensitive being and become linked to the chain of
existence and events from which I am now excluded."

I paused some time to reflect on all he had related and the various
arguments which he had employed.  I thought of the promise of virtues
which he had displayed on the opening of his existence and the
subsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which
his protectors had manifested towards him.  His power and threats were
not omitted in my calculations; a creature who could exist in the ice
caves of the glaciers and hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of
inaccessible precipices was a being possessing faculties it would be
vain to cope with.  After a long pause of reflection I concluded that
the justice due both to him and my fellow creatures demanded of me that
I should comply with his request.  Turning to him, therefore, I said,

"I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe forever,
and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall
deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile."

"I swear," he cried, "by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, and by
the fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my prayer,
while they exist you shall never behold me again.  Depart to your home
and commence your labours; I shall watch their progress with
unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready I shall
appear."

Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in
my sentiments.  I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than
the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost among the undulations of the
sea of ice.

His tale had occupied the whole day, and the sun was upon the verge of
the horizon when he departed.  I knew that I ought to hasten my descent
towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my
heart was heavy, and my steps slow.  The labour of winding among the
little paths of the mountain and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced
perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences
of the day had produced.  Night was far advanced when I came to the
halfway resting-place and seated myself beside the fountain.  The stars
shone at intervals as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines
rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the
ground; it was a scene of wonderful solemnity and stirred strange
thoughts within me.  I wept bitterly, and clasping my hands in agony, I
exclaimed, "Oh!  Stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock
me; if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as
nought; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness."

These were wild and miserable thoughts, but I cannot describe to you
how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me and how I
listened to every blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its
way to consume me.

Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no
rest, but returned immediately to Geneva.  Even in my own heart I could
give no expression to my sensations--they weighed on me with a
mountain's weight and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them.
Thus I returned home, and entering the house, presented myself to the
family.  My haggard and wild appearance awoke intense alarm, but I
answered no question, scarcely did I speak.  I felt as if I were placed
under a ban--as if I had no right to claim their sympathies--as if
never more might I enjoy companionship with them.  Yet even thus I
loved them to adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate
myself to my most abhorred task.  The prospect of such an occupation
made every other circumstance of existence pass before me like a dream,
and that thought only had to me the reality of life.



Chapter 18

Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva; and
I could not collect the courage to recommence my work.  I feared the
vengeance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable to overcome my
repugnance to the task which was enjoined me.  I found that I could not
compose a female without again devoting several months to profound
study and laborious disquisition.  I had heard of some discoveries
having been made by an English philosopher, the knowledge of which was
material to my success, and I sometimes thought of obtaining my
father's consent to visit England for this purpose; but I clung to
every pretence of delay and shrank from taking the first step in an
undertaking whose immediate necessity began to appear less absolute to
me.  A change indeed had taken place in me; my health, which had
hitherto declined, was now much restored; and my spirits, when
unchecked by the memory of my unhappy promise, rose proportionably.  My
father saw this change with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts
towards the best method of eradicating the remains of my melancholy,
which every now and then would return by fits, and with a devouring
blackness overcast the approaching sunshine.  At these moments I took
refuge in the most perfect solitude.  I passed whole days on the lake
alone in a little boat, watching the clouds and listening to the
rippling of the waves, silent and listless.  But the fresh air and
bright sun seldom failed to restore me to some degree of composure, and
on my return I met the salutations of my friends with a readier smile
and a more cheerful heart.

It was after my return from one of these rambles that my father,
calling me aside, thus addressed me,

"I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have resumed your former
pleasures and seem to be returning to yourself.  And yet you are still
unhappy and still avoid our society.  For some time I was lost in
conjecture as to the cause of this, but yesterday an idea struck me,
and if it is well founded, I conjure you to avow it.  Reserve on such a
point would be not only useless, but draw down treble misery on us all."

I trembled violently at his exordium, and my father continued--"I
confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your marriage
with our dear Elizabeth as the tie of our domestic comfort and the stay
of my declining years.  You were attached to each other from your
earliest infancy; you studied together, and appeared, in dispositions
and tastes, entirely suited to one another.  But so blind is the
experience of man that what I conceived to be the best assistants to my
plan may have entirely destroyed it.  You, perhaps, regard her as your
sister, without any wish that she might become your wife.  Nay, you may
have met with another whom you may love; and considering yourself as
bound in honour to Elizabeth, this struggle may occasion the poignant
misery which you appear to feel."

"My dear father, reassure yourself.  I love my cousin tenderly and
sincerely.  I never saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth does, my
warmest admiration and affection.  My future hopes and prospects are
entirely bound up in the expectation of our union."

"The expression of your sentiments of this subject, my dear Victor,
gives me more pleasure than I have for some time experienced.  If you
feel thus, we shall assuredly be happy, however present events may cast
a gloom over us.  But it is this gloom which appears to have taken so
strong a hold of your mind that I wish to dissipate.  Tell me,
therefore, whether you object to an immediate solemnization of the
marriage.  We have been unfortunate, and recent events have drawn us
from that everyday tranquillity befitting my years and infirmities. You
are younger; yet I do not suppose, possessed as you are of a competent
fortune, that an early marriage would at all interfere with any future
plans of honour and utility that you may have formed.  Do not suppose,
however, that I wish to dictate happiness to you or that a delay on
your part would cause me any serious uneasiness.  Interpret my words
with candour and answer me, I conjure you, with confidence and
sincerity."

I listened to my father in silence and remained for some time incapable
of offering any reply.  I revolved rapidly in my mind a multitude of
thoughts and endeavoured to arrive at some conclusion.  Alas!  To me
the idea of an immediate union with my Elizabeth was one of horror and
dismay.  I was bound by a solemn promise which I had not yet fulfilled
and dared not break, or if I did, what manifold miseries might not
impend over me and my devoted family!  Could I enter into a festival
with this deadly weight yet hanging round my neck and bowing me to the
ground?  I must perform my engagement and let the monster depart with
his mate before I allowed myself to enjoy the delight of a union from
which I expected peace.

I remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of either journeying to
England or entering into a long correspondence with those philosophers
of that country whose knowledge and discoveries were of indispensable
use to me in my present undertaking.  The latter method of obtaining
the desired intelligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory; besides, I
had an insurmountable aversion to the idea of engaging myself in my
loathsome task in my father's house while in habits of familiar
intercourse with those I loved.  I knew that a thousand fearful
accidents might occur, the slightest of which would disclose a tale to
thrill all connected with me with horror.  I was aware also that I
should often lose all self-command, all capacity of hiding the
harrowing sensations that would possess me during the progress of my
unearthly occupation.  I must absent myself from all I loved while thus
employed.  Once commenced, it would quickly be achieved, and I might be
restored to my family in peace and happiness.  My promise fulfilled,
the monster would depart forever.  Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some
accident might meanwhile occur to destroy him and put an end to my
slavery forever.

These feelings dictated my answer to my father.  I expressed a wish to
visit England, but concealing the true reasons of this request, I
clothed my desires under a guise which excited no suspicion, while I
urged my desire with an earnestness that easily induced my father to
comply.  After so long a period of an absorbing melancholy that
resembled madness in its intensity and effects, he was glad to find
that I was capable of taking pleasure in the idea of such a journey,
and he hoped that change of scene and varied amusement would, before my
return, have restored me entirely to myself.

The duration of my absence was left to my own choice; a few months, or
at most a year, was the period contemplated.  One paternal kind
precaution he had taken to ensure my having a companion.  Without
previously communicating with me, he had, in concert with Elizabeth,
arranged that Clerval should join me at Strasbourg.  This interfered
with the solitude I coveted for the prosecution of my task; yet at the
commencement of my journey the presence of my friend could in no way be
an impediment, and truly I rejoiced that thus I should be saved many
hours of lonely, maddening reflection.  Nay, Henry might stand between
me and the intrusion of my foe.  If I were alone, would he not at times
force his abhorred presence on me to remind me of my task or to
contemplate its progress?

To England, therefore, I was bound, and it was understood that my union
with Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return.  My father's
age rendered him extremely averse to delay.  For myself, there was one
reward I promised myself from my detested toils--one consolation for my
unparalleled sufferings; it was the prospect of that day when,
enfranchised from my miserable slavery, I might claim Elizabeth and
forget the past in my union with her.

I now made arrangements for my journey, but one feeling haunted me
which filled me with fear and agitation.  During my absence I should
leave my friends unconscious of the existence of their enemy and
unprotected from his attacks, exasperated as he might be by my
departure.  But he had promised to follow me wherever I might go, and
would he not accompany me to England?  This imagination was dreadful in
itself, but soothing inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my friends.
I was agonized with the idea of the possibility that the reverse of
this might happen.  But through the whole period during which I was the
slave of my creature I allowed myself to be governed by the impulses of
the moment; and my present sensations strongly intimated that the fiend
would follow me and exempt my family from the danger of his
machinations.

It was in the latter end of September that I again quitted my native
country.  My journey had been my own suggestion, and Elizabeth
therefore acquiesced, but she was filled with disquiet at the idea of
my suffering, away from her, the inroads of misery and grief.  It had
been her care which provided me a companion in Clerval--and yet a man
is blind to a thousand minute circumstances which call forth a woman's
sedulous attention.  She longed to bid me hasten my return; a thousand
conflicting emotions rendered her mute as she bade me a tearful, silent
farewell.

I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me away, hardly
knowing whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around.
I remembered only, and it was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on
it, to order that my chemical instruments should be packed to go with
me.  Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through many beautiful
and majestic scenes, but my eyes were fixed and unobserving.  I could
only think of the bourne of my travels and the work which was to occupy
me whilst they endured.

After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I traversed
many leagues, I arrived at Strasbourg, where I waited two days for
Clerval.  He came.  Alas, how great was the contrast between us!  He
was alive to every new scene, joyful when he saw the beauties of the
setting sun, and more happy when he beheld it rise and recommence a new
day.  He pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape and
the appearances of the sky.  "This is what it is to live," he cried;
"how I enjoy existence!  But you, my dear Frankenstein, wherefore are
you desponding and sorrowful!" In truth, I was occupied by gloomy
thoughts and neither saw the descent of the evening star nor the golden
sunrise reflected in the Rhine.  And you, my friend, would be far more
amused with the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery with an
eye of feeling and delight, than in listening to my reflections.  I, a
miserable wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to
enjoyment.

We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Strasbourg to
Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping for London.  During this
voyage we passed many willowy islands and saw several beautiful towns.
We stayed a day at Mannheim, and on the fifth from our departure from
Strasbourg, arrived at Mainz.  The course of the Rhine below Mainz
becomes much more picturesque.  The river descends rapidly and winds
between hills, not high, but steep, and of beautiful forms.  We saw
many ruined castles standing on the edges of precipices, surrounded by
black woods, high and inaccessible.  This part of the Rhine, indeed,
presents a singularly variegated landscape.  In one spot you view
rugged hills, ruined castles overlooking tremendous precipices, with
the dark Rhine rushing beneath; and on the sudden turn of a promontory,
flourishing vineyards with green sloping banks and a meandering river
and populous towns occupy the scene.

We travelled at the time of the vintage and heard the song of the
labourers as we glided down the stream.  Even I, depressed in mind, and
my spirits continually agitated by gloomy feelings, even I was pleased.
I lay at the bottom of the boat, and as I gazed on the cloudless blue
sky, I seemed to drink in a tranquillity to which I had long been a
stranger.  And if these were my sensations, who can describe those of
Henry?  He felt as if he had been transported to fairy-land and enjoyed
a happiness seldom tasted by man.  "I have seen," he said, "the most
beautiful scenes of my own country; I have visited the lakes of Lucerne
and Uri, where the snowy mountains descend almost perpendicularly to
the water, casting black and impenetrable shades, which would cause a
gloomy and mournful appearance were it not for the most verdant islands
that believe the eye by their gay appearance; I have seen this lake
agitated by a tempest, when the wind tore up whirlwinds of water and
gave you an idea of what the water-spout must be on the great ocean;
and the waves dash with fury the base of the mountain, where the priest
and his mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche and where their dying
voices are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the nightly wind;
I have seen the mountains of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud; but this
country, Victor, pleases me more than all those wonders.  The mountains
of Switzerland are more majestic and strange, but there is a charm in
the banks of this divine river that I never before saw equalled.  Look
at that castle which overhangs yon precipice; and that also on the
island, almost concealed amongst the foliage of those lovely trees; and
now that group of labourers coming from among their vines; and that
village half hid in the recess of the mountain.  Oh, surely the spirit
that inhabits and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man
than those who pile the glacier or retire to the inaccessible peaks of
the mountains of our own country." Clerval!  Beloved friend!  Even now
it delights me to record your words and to dwell on the praise of which
you are so eminently deserving.  He was a being formed in the "very
poetry of nature." His wild and enthusiastic imagination was chastened
by the sensibility of his heart.  His soul overflowed with ardent
affections, and his friendship was of that devoted and wondrous nature
that the world-minded teach us to look for only in the imagination. But
even human sympathies were not sufficient to satisfy his eager mind.
The scenery of external nature, which others regard only with
admiration, he loved with ardour:--


     ----The sounding cataract
     Haunted him like a passion:  the tall rock,
     The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
     Their colours and their forms, were then to him
     An appetite; a feeling, and a love,
     That had no need of a remoter charm,
     By thought supplied, or any interest
     Unborrow'd from the eye.

                    [Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey".]


And where does he now exist?  Is this gentle and lovely being lost
forever?  Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful
and magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence depended on the
life of its creator;--has this mind perished?  Does it now only exist
in my memory?  No, it is not thus; your form so divinely wrought, and
beaming with beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and
consoles your unhappy friend.

Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are but a slight
tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart,
overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates.  I will
proceed with my tale.

Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we resolved
to post the remainder of our way, for the wind was contrary and the
stream of the river was too gentle to aid us.  Our journey here lost
the interest arising from beautiful scenery, but we arrived in a few
days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England.  It was on a
clear morning, in the latter days of December, that I first saw the
white cliffs of Britain.  The banks of the Thames presented a new
scene; they were flat but fertile, and almost every town was marked by
the remembrance of some story.  We saw Tilbury Fort and remembered the
Spanish Armada, Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich--places which I had
heard of even in my country.

At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul's towering
above all, and the Tower famed in English history.



Chapter 19

London was our present point of rest; we determined to remain several
months in this wonderful and celebrated city.  Clerval desired the
intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this
time, but this was with me a secondary object; I was principally
occupied with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the
completion of my promise and quickly availed myself of the letters of
introduction that I had brought with me, addressed to the most
distinguished natural philosophers.

If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness,
it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure.  But a blight had
come over my existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of
the information they might give me on the subject in which my interest
was so terribly profound.  Company was irksome to me; when alone, I
could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of
Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory
peace.  But busy, uninteresting, joyous faces brought back despair to
my heart.  I saw an insurmountable barrier placed between me and my
fellow men; this barrier was sealed with the blood of William and
Justine, and to reflect on the events connected with those names filled
my soul with anguish.

But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive
and anxious to gain experience and instruction.  The difference of
manners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of
instruction and amusement.  He was also pursuing an object he had long
had in view.  His design was to visit India, in the belief that he had
in his knowledge of its various languages, and in the views he had
taken of its society, the means of materially assisting the progress of
European colonization and trade.  In Britain only could he further the
execution of his plan.  He was forever busy, and the only check to his
enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mind.  I tried to conceal this
as much as possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasures
natural to one who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by
any care or bitter recollection.  I often refused to accompany him,
alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone.  I now also
began to collect the materials necessary for my new creation, and this
was to me like the torture of single drops of water continually falling
on the head.  Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme
anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips
to quiver, and my heart to palpitate.

After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person
in Scotland who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva.  He mentioned
the beauties of his native country and asked us if those were not
sufficient allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north
as Perth, where he resided.  Clerval eagerly desired to accept this
invitation, and I, although I abhorred society, wished to view again
mountains and streams and all the wondrous works with which Nature
adorns her chosen dwelling-places.  We had arrived in England at the
beginning of October, and it was now February.  We accordingly
determined to commence our journey towards the north at the expiration
of another month.  In this expedition we did not intend to follow the
great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock, and the
Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion of this tour
about the end of July.  I packed up my chemical instruments and the
materials I had collected, resolving to finish my labours in some
obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland.

We quitted London on the 27th of March and remained a few days at
Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest.  This was a new scene to us
mountaineers; the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of
stately deer were all novelties to us.

From thence we proceeded to Oxford.  As we entered this city our minds
were filled with the remembrance of the events that had been transacted
there more than a century and a half before.  It was here that Charles
I. had collected his forces.  This city had remained faithful to him,
after the whole nation had forsaken his cause to join the standard of
Parliament and liberty.  The memory of that unfortunate king and his
companions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent Goring, his queen, and
son, gave a peculiar interest to every part of the city which they
might be supposed to have inhabited.  The spirit of elder days found a
dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps.  If these
feelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the appearance of
the city had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration.
The colleges are ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost
magnificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows
of exquisite verdure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters,
which reflects its majestic assemblage of towers, and spires, and
domes, embosomed among aged trees.

I enjoyed this scene, and yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the
memory of the past and the anticipation of the future.  I was formed
for peaceful happiness.  During my youthful days discontent never
visited my mind, and if I was ever overcome by ennui, the sight of what
is beautiful in nature or the study of what is excellent and sublime in
the productions of man could always interest my heart and communicate
elasticity to my spirits.  But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has
entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what
I shall soon cease to be--a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity,
pitiable to others and intolerable to myself.

We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs
and endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate to the most
animating epoch of English history.  Our little voyages of discovery
were often prolonged by the successive objects that presented
themselves.  We visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden and the
field on which that patriot fell.  For a moment my soul was elevated
from its debasing and miserable fears to contemplate the divine ideas
of liberty and self sacrifice of which these sights were the monuments
and the remembrancers.  For an instant I dared to shake off my chains
and look around me with a free and lofty spirit, but the iron had eaten
into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my
miserable self.

We left Oxford with regret and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next
place of rest.  The country in the neighbourhood of this village
resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland; but
everything is on a lower scale, and the green hills want the crown of
distant white Alps which always attend on the piny mountains of my
native country.  We visited the wondrous cave and the little cabinets
of natural history, where the curiosities are disposed in the same
manner as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix.  The latter name
made me tremble when pronounced by Henry, and I hastened to quit
Matlock, with which that terrible scene was thus associated.

From Derby, still journeying northwards, we passed two months in
Cumberland and Westmorland.  I could now almost fancy myself among the
Swiss mountains.  The little patches of snow which yet lingered on the
northern sides of the mountains, the lakes, and the dashing of the
rocky streams were all familiar and dear sights to me.  Here also we
made some acquaintances, who almost contrived to cheat me into
happiness.  The delight of Clerval was proportionably greater than
mine; his mind expanded in the company of men of talent, and he found
in his own nature greater capacities and resources than he could have
imagined himself to have possessed while he associated with his
inferiors.  "I could pass my life here," said he to me; "and among
these mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine."

But he found that a traveller's life is one that includes much pain
amidst its enjoyments.  His feelings are forever on the stretch; and
when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit
that on which he rests in pleasure for something new, which again
engages his attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties.

We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland
and conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants when the period
of our appointment with our Scotch friend approached, and we left them
to travel on.  For my own part I was not sorry.  I had now neglected my
promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the daemon's
disappointment.  He might remain in Switzerland and wreak his vengeance
on my relatives.  This idea pursued me and tormented me at every moment
from which I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace.  I waited
for my letters with feverish impatience; if they were delayed I was
miserable and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they arrived and I
saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared to
read and ascertain my fate.  Sometimes I thought that the fiend
followed me and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion.
When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment,
but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of
his destroyer.  I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the
consciousness of which haunted me.  I was guiltless, but I had indeed
drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.

I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet that city might
have interested the most unfortunate being.  Clerval did not like it so
well as Oxford, for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing
to him.  But the beauty and regularity of the new town of Edinburgh,
its romantic castle and its environs, the most delightful in the world,
Arthur's Seat, St. Bernard's Well, and the Pentland Hills compensated
him for the change and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration. But
I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey.

We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew's, and
along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us.
But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers or enter into
their feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest; and
accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland
alone.  "Do you," said I, "enjoy yourself, and let this be our
rendezvous.  I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with
my motions, I entreat you; leave me to peace and solitude for a short
time; and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more
congenial to your own temper."

Henry wished to dissuade me, but seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to
remonstrate.  He entreated me to write often.  "I had rather be with
you," he said, "in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch
people, whom I do not know; hasten, then, my dear  friend, to return,
that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in
your absence."

Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of
Scotland and finish my work in solitude.  I did not doubt but that the
monster followed me and would discover himself to me when I should have
finished, that he might receive his companion.  With this resolution I
traversed the northern highlands and fixed on one of the remotest of
the Orkneys as the scene of my labours.  It was a place fitted for such
a work, being hardly more than a rock whose high sides were continually
beaten upon by the waves.  The soil was barren, scarcely affording
pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its inhabitants,
which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave
tokens of their miserable fare.  Vegetables and bread, when they
indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured
from the mainland, which was about five miles distant.

On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of
these was vacant when I arrived.  This I hired.  It contained but two
rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable
penury.  The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the
door was off its hinges.  I ordered it to be repaired, bought some
furniture, and took possession, an incident which would doubtless have
occasioned some surprise had not all the senses of the cottagers been
benumbed by want and squalid poverty.  As it was, I lived ungazed at
and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes
which I gave, so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations
of men.

In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening,
when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea to
listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet.  It was a
monotonous yet ever-changing scene.  I thought of Switzerland; it was
far different from this desolate and appalling landscape.  Its hills
are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the
plains.  Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky, and when
troubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively
infant when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.

In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived, but
as I proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible and
irksome to me.  Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my
laboratory for several days, and at other times I toiled day and night
in order to complete my work.  It was, indeed, a filthy process in
which I was engaged.  During my first experiment, a kind of
enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my
mind was intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes
were shut to the horror of my proceedings.  But now I went to it in
cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands.

Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in
a solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from
the actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I
grew restless and nervous.  Every moment I feared to meet my
persecutor.  Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing
to raise them lest they should encounter the object which I so much
dreaded to behold.  I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow
creatures lest when alone he should come to claim his companion.

In the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already considerably
advanced.  I looked towards its completion with a tremulous and eager
hope, which I dared not trust myself to question but which was
intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil that made my heart sicken
in my bosom.



Chapter 20

I sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the moon was
just rising from the sea; I had not sufficient light for my employment,
and I remained idle, in a pause of consideration of whether I should
leave my labour for the night or hasten its conclusion by an
unremitting attention to it.  As I sat, a train of reflection occurred
to me which led me to consider the effects of what I was now doing.
Three years before, I was engaged in the same manner and had created a
fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart and filled it
forever with the bitterest remorse.  I was now about to form another
being of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant; she might become ten
thousand times more malignant than her mate and delight, for its own
sake, in murder and wretchedness.  He had sworn to quit the
neighbourhood of man and hide himself in deserts, but she had not; and
she, who in all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning
animal, might refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation.
They might even hate each other; the creature who already lived loathed
his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence for
it when it came before his eyes in the female form?  She also might
turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man; she might
quit him, and he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation
of being deserted by one of his own species.  Even if they were to
leave Europe and inhabit the deserts of the new world, yet one of the
first results of those sympathies for which the daemon thirsted would
be children, and a race of devils would be propagated upon the earth
who might make the very existence of the species of man a condition
precarious and full of terror.  Had I right, for my own benefit, to
inflict this curse upon everlasting generations?  I had before been
moved by the sophisms of the being I had created; I had been struck
senseless by his fiendish threats; but now, for the first time, the
wickedness of my promise burst upon me; I shuddered to think that
future ages might curse me as their pest, whose selfishness had not
hesitated to buy its own peace at the price, perhaps, of the existence
of the whole human race.

I trembled and my heart failed within me, when, on looking up, I saw by
the light of the moon the daemon at the casement.  A ghastly grin
wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task
which he had allotted to me.  Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he
had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide
and desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress and claim the
fulfilment of my promise.

As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of
malice and treachery.  I thought with a sensation of madness on my
promise of creating another like to him, and trembling with passion,
tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged.  The wretch saw me
destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for
happiness, and with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew.

I left the room, and locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own
heart never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling steps, I
sought my own apartment. I was alone; none were near me to dissipate
the gloom and relieve me from the sickening oppression of the most
terrible reveries.

Several hours passed, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea;
it was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature
reposed under the eye of the quiet moon.  A few fishing vessels alone
specked the water, and now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound
of voices as the fishermen called to one another.  I felt the silence,
although I was hardly conscious of its extreme profundity, until my ear
was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a
person landed close to my house.

In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one
endeavoured to open it softly.  I trembled from head to foot; I felt a
presentiment of who it was and wished to rouse one of the peasants who
dwelt in a cottage not far from mine; but I was overcome by the
sensation of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you
in vain endeavour to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to
the spot. Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage;
the door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared.

Shutting the door, he approached me and said in a smothered voice, "You
have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you intend?
Do you dare to break your promise?  I have endured toil and misery; I
left Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among
its willow islands and over the summits of its hills.  I have dwelt
many months in the heaths of England and among the deserts of Scotland.
I have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do you dare
destroy my hopes?"

"Begone!  I do break my promise; never will I create another like
yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness."

"Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself
unworthy of my condescension.  Remember that I have power; you believe
yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of
day will be hateful to you.  You are my creator, but I am your master;
obey!"

"The hour of my irresolution is past, and the period of your power is
arrived.  Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but
they confirm me in a determination of not creating you a companion in
vice.  Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a daemon whose
delight is in death and wretchedness?  Begone!  I am firm, and your
words will only exasperate my rage."

The monster saw my determination in my face and gnashed his teeth in
the impotence of anger.  "Shall each man," cried he, "find a wife for
his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone?  I had
feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn.
Man!  You may hate, but beware!  Your hours will pass in dread and
misery, and soon the bolt  will fall which must ravish from you your
happiness forever.  Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity
of my wretchedness?  You can blast my other passions, but revenge
remains--revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food!  I may die, but
first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on
your misery.  Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful.  I will
watch with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom.
Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict."

"Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice.
I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend
beneath words.  Leave me; I am inexorable."

"It is well.  I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your
wedding-night."

I started forward and exclaimed, "Villain!  Before you sign my
death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe."

I would have seized him, but he eluded me and quitted the house with
precipitation.  In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot
across the waters with an arrowy swiftness and was soon lost amidst the
waves.

All was again silent, but his words rang in my ears.  I burned with
rage to pursue the murderer of my peace and precipitate him into the
ocean.  I walked up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my
imagination conjured up a thousand images to torment and sting me.  Why
had I not followed him and closed with him in mortal strife?  But I had
suffered him to depart, and he had directed his course towards the
mainland.  I shuddered to think who might be the next victim sacrificed
to his insatiate revenge.  And then I thought again of his words--"I
WILL BE WITH YOU ON YOUR WEDDING-NIGHT."  That, then, was the period
fixed for the fulfilment of my destiny.  In that hour I should die and
at once satisfy and extinguish his malice.  The prospect did not move
me to fear; yet when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth, of her tears
and endless sorrow, when she should find her lover so barbarously
snatched from her, tears, the first I had shed for many months,
streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to fall before my enemy
without a bitter struggle.

The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings
became calmer, if it may be called calmness when the violence of rage
sinks into the depths of despair.  I left the house, the horrid scene
of the last night's contention, and walked on the beach of the sea,
which I almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my
fellow creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole
across me.

I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily, it is
true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery.  If I returned,
it was to be sacrificed or to see those whom I most loved die under the
grasp of a daemon whom I had myself created.

I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it
loved and miserable in the separation.  When it became noon, and the
sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass and was overpowered by a deep
sleep.  I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves
were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery.  The sleep
into which I now sank refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as
if I belonged to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to
reflect upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the
words of the fiend rang in my ears like a death-knell; they appeared
like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality.

The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my
appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a
fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet;
it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval entreating me to
join him.  He said that he was wearing away his time fruitlessly where
he was, that letters from the friends he had formed in London desired
his return to complete the negotiation they had entered into for his
Indian enterprise.  He could not any longer delay his departure; but as
his journey to London might be followed, even sooner than he now
conjectured, by his longer voyage, he entreated me to bestow as much of
my society on him as I could spare.  He besought me, therefore, to
leave my solitary isle and to meet him at Perth, that we might proceed
southwards together.  This letter in a degree recalled me to life, and
I determined to quit my island at the expiration of two days.  Yet,
before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered to
reflect; I must pack up my chemical instruments, and for that purpose I
must enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work, and I
must handle those utensils the sight of which was sickening to me. The
next morning, at daybreak, I summoned sufficient courage and unlocked
the door of my laboratory.  The remains of the half-finished creature,
whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost felt as
if I had mangled the living flesh of a human being.  I paused to
collect myself and then entered the chamber.  With trembling hand I
conveyed the instruments out of the room, but I reflected that I ought
not to leave the relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion
of the peasants; and I accordingly put them into a basket, with a great
quantity of stones, and laying them up, determined to throw them into
the sea that very night; and in the meantime I sat upon the beach,
employed in cleaning and arranging my chemical apparatus.

Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had taken place
in my feelings since the night of the appearance of the daemon.  I had
before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair as a thing that, with
whatever consequences, must be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film
had been taken from before my eyes and that I for the first time saw
clearly.  The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur
to me; the threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did not
reflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it.  I had resolved in
my own mind that to create another like the fiend I had first made
would be an act of the basest and most atrocious selfishness, and I
banished from my mind every thought that could lead to a different
conclusion.

Between two and three in the morning the moon rose; and I then, putting
my basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four miles from the
shore.  The scene was perfectly solitary; a few boats were returning
towards land, but I sailed away from them.  I felt as if I was about
the commission of a dreadful crime and avoided with shuddering anxiety
any encounter with my fellow creatures.  At one time the moon, which
had before been clear, was suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I
took advantage of the moment of darkness and cast my basket into the
sea; I listened to the gurgling sound as it sank and then sailed away
from the spot.  The sky became clouded, but the air was pure, although
chilled by the northeast breeze that was then rising.  But it refreshed
me and filled me with such agreeable sensations that I resolved to
prolong my stay on the water, and fixing the rudder in a direct
position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat.  Clouds hid the
moon, everything was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat as
its keel cut through the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in a short
time I slept soundly. I do not know how long I remained in this
situation, but when I awoke I found that the sun had already mounted
considerably.  The wind was high, and the waves continually threatened
the safety of my little skiff.  I found that the wind was northeast and
must have driven me far from the coast from which I had embarked.  I
endeavoured to change my course but quickly found that if I again made
the attempt the boat would be instantly filled with water.  Thus
situated, my only resource was to drive before the wind.  I confess
that I felt a few sensations of terror.  I had no compass with me and
was so slenderly acquainted with the geography of this part of the
world that the sun was of little benefit to me.  I might be driven into
the wide Atlantic and feel all the tortures of starvation or be
swallowed up in the immeasurable waters that roared and buffeted around
me.  I had already been out many hours and felt the torment of a
burning thirst, a prelude to my other sufferings.  I looked on the
heavens, which were covered by clouds that flew before the wind, only
to be replaced by others; I looked upon the sea; it was to be my grave.
"Fiend," I exclaimed, "your task is already fulfilled!"  I thought of
Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval--all left behind, on whom the
monster might satisfy his sanguinary and merciless passions.  This idea
plunged me into a reverie so despairing and frightful that even now,
when the scene is on the point of closing before me forever, I shudder
to reflect on it.

Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the
horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze and the sea became
free from breakers.  But these gave place to a heavy swell; I felt sick
and hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high
land towards the south.

Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue and the dreadful suspense I endured
for several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of
warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes.

How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we
have of life even in the excess of misery!  I constructed another sail
with a part of my dress and eagerly steered my course towards the land.
It had a wild and rocky appearance, but as I approached nearer I easily
perceived the traces of cultivation.  I saw vessels near the shore and
found myself suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood of
civilized man.  I carefully traced the windings of the land and hailed
a steeple which I at length saw issuing from behind a small promontory.
As I was in a state of extreme debility, I resolved to sail directly
towards the town, as a place where I could most easily procure
nourishment.  Fortunately I had money with me.

As I turned the promontory I perceived a small neat town and a good
harbour, which I entered, my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected
escape.

As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several
people crowded towards the spot.  They seemed much surprised at my
appearance, but instead of offering me any assistance, whispered
together with gestures that at any other time might have produced in me
a slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they
spoke English, and I therefore addressed them in that language.  "My
good friends," said I, "will you be so kind as to tell me the name of
this town and inform me where I am?"

"You will know that soon enough," replied a man with a hoarse voice.
"Maybe you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste,
but you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you."

I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a
stranger, and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning and
angry countenances of his companions.  "Why do you answer me so
roughly?"  I replied.  "Surely it is not the custom of Englishmen to
receive strangers so inhospitably."

"I do not know," said the man, "what the custom of the English may be,
but it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains." While this strange
dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly increase.  Their
faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which annoyed  and in
some degree alarmed me.

I inquired the way to the inn, but no one replied.  I then moved
forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they followed
and surrounded me, when an ill-looking man approaching tapped me on the
shoulder and said, "Come, sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kirwin's to
give an account of yourself."

"Who is Mr. Kirwin?  Why am I to give an account of myself?  Is not
this a free country?"

"Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks.  Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate,
and you are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was
found murdered here last night."

This answer startled me, but I presently recovered myself.  I was
innocent; that could easily be proved; accordingly I followed my
conductor in silence and was led to one of the best houses in the town.
I was ready to sink from fatigue and hunger, but being surrounded by a
crowd, I thought it politic to rouse all my strength, that no physical
debility might be construed into apprehension or conscious guilt.
Little did I then expect the calamity that was in a few moments to
overwhelm me and extinguish in horror and despair all fear of ignominy
or death. I must pause here, for it requires all my fortitude to recall
the memory of the frightful events which I am about to relate, in
proper detail, to my recollection.



Chapter 21

I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old
benevolent man with calm and mild manners.  He looked upon me, however,
with some degree of severity, and then, turning towards my conductors,
he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion.

About half a dozen men came forward; and, one being selected by the
magistrate, he deposed that he had been out fishing the night before
with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten
o'clock, they observed a strong northerly blast rising, and they
accordingly put in for port.  It was a very dark night, as the moon had
not yet risen; they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been
accustomed, at a creek about two miles below.  He walked on first,
carrying a part of the fishing tackle, and his companions followed him
at some distance.

As he was proceeding along the sands, he struck his foot against
something and fell at his length on the ground. His companions came up
to assist him, and by the light of their lantern they found that he had
fallen on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead.  Their
first supposition was that it was the corpse of some person who had
been drowned and was thrown on shore by the waves, but on examination
they found that the clothes were not wet and even that the body was not
then cold.  They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman
near the spot and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life.  It
appeared to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty years of
age.  He had apparently been strangled, for there was no sign of any
violence except the black mark of fingers on his neck.

The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me, but
when the mark of the fingers was mentioned I remembered the murder of
my brother and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a
mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for
support.  The magistrate observed me with a keen eye and of course drew
an unfavourable augury from my manner.

The son confirmed his father's account, but when Daniel Nugent was
called he swore positively that just before the fall of his companion,
he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the
shore; and as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was
the same boat in which I had just landed.  A woman deposed that she
lived near the beach and was standing at the door of her cottage,
waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an hour before she heard
of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat with only one man in
it push off from that part of the shore where the corpse was afterwards
found.

Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the
body into her house; it was not cold.  They put it into a bed and
rubbed it, and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was
quite gone.

Several other men were examined concerning my landing, and they agreed
that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it
was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours and had been
obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed.
Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body
from another place, and it was likely that as I did not appear to know
the shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance
of the town of ---- from the place where I had deposited the corpse.

Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken
into the room where the body lay for interment, that it might be
observed what effect the sight of it would produce upon me.  This idea
was probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when
the mode of the murder had been described.  I was accordingly
conducted, by the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn.  I
could not help being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken
place during this eventful night; but, knowing that I had been
conversing with several persons in the island I had inhabited about the
time that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the
consequences of the affair.  I entered the room where the corpse lay
and was led up to the coffin.  How can I describe my sensations on
beholding it?  I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on
that terrible moment without shuddering and agony.  The examination,
the presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream from
my memory when I saw the lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched
before me.  I gasped for breath, and throwing myself on the body, I
exclaimed, "Have my murderous machinations deprived you also, my
dearest Henry, of life?  Two I have already destroyed; other victims
await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor--"

The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and
I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions.  A fever succeeded
to this.  I lay for two months on the point of death; my ravings, as I
afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer of
William, of Justine, and of Clerval.  Sometimes I entreated my
attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was
tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already
grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror.
Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood
me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the
other witnesses.  Why did I not die?  More miserable than man ever was
before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest?  Death snatches
away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents;
how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of
health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the
tomb!  Of what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many
shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the
torture?

But I was doomed to live and in two months found myself as awaking from
a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by
jailers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon.
It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding; I had
forgotten the particulars of what had happened and only felt as if some
great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around
and saw the barred windows and the squalidness of the room in which I
was, all flashed across my memory and I groaned bitterly.

This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside
me.  She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her
countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterize
that class.  The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of
persons accustomed to see without sympathizing in sights of misery. Her
tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English,
and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings.
"Are you better now, sir?" said she.

I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe I am;
but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am
still alive to feel this misery and horror."

"For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the
gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you
were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you!  However, that's none
of my business; I am sent to nurse you and get you well; I do my duty
with a safe conscience; it were well if everybody did the same."

I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a
speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt
languid and unable to reflect on all that had passed.  The whole series
of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it
were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force
of reality.

As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew
feverish; a darkness pressed around me; no one was near me who soothed
me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me.  The
physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared
them for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the
expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the
second.  Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer but the
hangman who would gain his fee?

These were my first reflections, but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had
shown me extreme kindness.  He had caused the best room in the prison
to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who
had provided a physician and a nurse.  It is true, he seldom came to
see me, for although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of
every human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and
miserable ravings of a murderer.  He came, therefore, sometimes to see
that I was not neglected, but his visits were short and with long
intervals.  One day, while I was gradually recovering, I was seated in
a chair, my eyes half open and my cheeks livid like those in death.  I
was overcome by gloom and misery and often reflected I had better seek
death than desire to remain in a world which to me was replete with
wretchedness.  At one time I considered whether I should not declare
myself guilty and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than
poor Justine had been.  Such were my thoughts when the door of my
apartment was opened and Mr. Kirwin entered.  His countenance expressed
sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to mine and addressed me
in French, "I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do
anything to make you more comfortable?"

"I thank you, but all that you mention is nothing to me; on the whole
earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving."

"I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to
one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune.  But you will, I
hope, soon quit this melancholy abode, for doubtless evidence can
easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge."

"That is my least concern; I am, by a course of strange events, become
the most miserable of mortals.  Persecuted and tortured as I am and
have been, can death be any evil to me?"

"Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing than the
strange chances that have lately occurred.  You were thrown, by some
surprising accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality,
seized immediately, and charged with murder.  The first sight that was
presented to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so
unaccountable a manner and placed, as it were, by some fiend across
your path."

As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on
this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at
the knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me.  I suppose some
astonishment was exhibited in my countenance, for Mr. Kirwin hastened
to say, "Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers that
were on your person were brought me, and I examined them that I might
discover some trace by which I could send to your relations an account
of your misfortune and illness. I found several letters, and, among
others, one which I discovered from its commencement to be from your
father.  I instantly wrote to Geneva; nearly two months have elapsed
since the departure of my letter.  But you are ill; even now you
tremble; you are unfit for agitation of any kind."

"This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event;
tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am
now to lament?"

"Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin with gentleness; "and
someone, a friend, is come to visit you."

I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself, but it
instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my
misery and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for
me to comply with his hellish desires.  I put my hand before my eyes,
and cried out in agony, "Oh! Take him away!  I cannot see him; for
God's sake, do not let him enter!"

Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance.  He could not help
regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt and said in
rather a severe tone, "I should have thought, young man, that the
presence of your father would have been welcome instead of inspiring
such violent repugnance."

"My father!" cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed
from anguish to pleasure.  "Is my father indeed come?  How kind, how
very kind!  But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?"

My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he
thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium,
and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence.  He rose and
quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it.

Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the
arrival of my father.  I stretched out my hand to him and cried, "Are
you, then, safe--and Elizabeth--and Ernest?" My father calmed me with
assurances of their welfare and endeavoured, by dwelling on these
subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my desponding spirits;
but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness.

"What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!" said he, looking
mournfully at the barred windows and wretched appearance of the room.
"You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to pursue you.
And poor Clerval--"

The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too
great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears.  "Alas!  Yes, my
father," replied I; "some destiny of the most horrible kind hangs over
me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should have died on the
coffin of Henry."

We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the
precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that
could ensure tranquillity.  Mr. Kirwin came in and insisted that my
strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion.  But the
appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I
gradually recovered my health.

As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black
melancholy that nothing could dissipate.  The image of Clerval was
forever before me, ghastly and murdered.  More than once the agitation
into which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous
relapse.  Alas!  Why did they preserve so miserable and detested a
life?  It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now
drawing to a close.  Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these
throbbings and relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears
me to the dust; and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also
sink to rest.  Then the appearance of death was distant, although the
wish was ever present to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours
motionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution that
might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins.

The season of the assizes approached.  I had already been three months
in prison, and although I was still weak and in continual danger of a
relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the country
town where the court was held.  Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every
care of collecting witnesses and arranging my defence.  I was spared
the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not
brought before the court that decides on life and death.  The grand
jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney
Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found; and a fortnight
after my removal I was liberated from prison.

My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a
criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh
atmosphere and permitted to return to my native country.  I did not
participate in these feelings, for to me the walls of a dungeon or a
palace were alike hateful.  The cup of life was poisoned forever, and
although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I
saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by
no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me.  Sometimes
they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark
orbs nearly covered by the lids and the long black lashes that fringed
them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I
first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.

My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection.  He talked
of Geneva, which I should soon visit, of Elizabeth and Ernest; but
these words only drew deep groans from me.  Sometimes, indeed, I felt a
wish for happiness and thought with melancholy delight of my beloved
cousin or longed, with a devouring maladie du pays, to see once more
the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early
childhood; but my general state of feeling was a torpor in which a
prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and
these fits were seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of anguish and
despair.  At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the
existence I loathed, and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance
to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence.

Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally
triumphed over my selfish despair.  It was necessary that I should
return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those
I so fondly loved and to lie in wait for the murderer, that if any
chance led me to the place of his concealment, or if he dared again to
blast me by his presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to
the existence of the monstrous image which  I had endued with the
mockery of a soul still more monstrous.  My father still desired to
delay our departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues of a
journey, for I was a shattered wreck--the shadow of a human being.  My
strength was gone.  I was a mere skeleton, and fever night and day
preyed upon my wasted frame.  Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland
with such inquietude and impatience, my father thought it best to
yield.  We took our passage on board a vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace
and sailed with a fair wind from the Irish shores.  It was midnight.  I
lay on the deck looking at the stars and listening to the dashing of
the waves.  I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight, and
my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I reflected that I should soon
see Geneva.  The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream;
yet the vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested
shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me told me too forcibly
that I was deceived by no vision and that Clerval, my friend and
dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my
creation.  I repassed, in my memory, my whole life--my quiet happiness
while residing with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my
departure for Ingolstadt.  I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm
that hurried me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to
mind the night in which he first lived.  I was unable to pursue the
train of thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept
bitterly.  Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the
custom of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum, for it was
by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest
necessary for the preservation of life.  Oppressed by the recollection
of my various misfortunes, I now swallowed double my usual quantity and
soon slept profoundly.  But sleep did not afford me respite from
thought and misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects that scared
me.  Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of nightmare; I felt the
fiend's grasp in my neck and could not free myself from it; groans and
cries rang in my ears.  My father, who was watching over me, perceiving
my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves were around, the cloudy
sky above, the fiend was not here: a sense of security, a feeling that
a truce was established between the present hour and the irresistible,
disastrous future imparted to me a kind of calm forgetfulness, of which
the human mind is by its structure peculiarly susceptible.



Chapter 22

The voyage came to an end.  We landed, and proceeded to Paris.  I soon
found that I had overtaxed my strength and that I must repose before I
could continue my journey.  My father's care and attentions were
indefatigable, but he did not know the origin of my sufferings and
sought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable ill.  He wished me to
seek amusement in society.  I abhorred the face of man.  Oh, not
abhorred!  They were my brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt
attracted even to the most repulsive among them, as to creatures of an
angelic nature and celestial mechanism.  But I felt that I had no right
to share their intercourse.  I had unchained an enemy among them whose
joy it was to shed their blood and to revel in their groans.  How they
would, each and all, abhor me and hunt me from the world did they know
my unhallowed acts and the crimes which had their source in me!

My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society and strove by
various arguments to banish my despair.  Sometimes he thought that I
felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of
murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride.

"Alas!  My father," said I, "how little do you know me.  Human beings,
their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such a wretch
as I felt pride.  Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I,
and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause
of this--I murdered her.  William, Justine, and Henry--they all died by
my hands."

My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same
assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an
explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring
of delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had
presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I
preserved in my convalescence.

I avoided explanation and maintained a continual silence concerning the
wretch I had created.  I had a persuasion that I should be supposed
mad, and this in itself would forever have chained my tongue.  But,
besides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which would fill
my hearer with consternation and make fear and unnatural horror the
inmates of his breast.  I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for
sympathy and was silent when I would have given the world to have
confided the fatal secret.  Yet, still, words like those I have
recorded would burst uncontrollably from me.  I could offer no
explanation of them, but their truth in part relieved the burden of my
mysterious woe.  Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression
of unbounded wonder, "My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this?  My
dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion again."

"I am not mad," I cried energetically; "the sun and the heavens, who
have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth.  I am the
assassin of those most innocent victims; they died by my machinations.
A thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have
saved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not
sacrifice the whole human race."

The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were
deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation and
endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts.  He wished as much as
possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken place in
Ireland and never alluded to them or suffered me to speak of my
misfortunes.

As time passed away I became more calm; misery had her dwelling in my
heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own
crimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness of them.  By the utmost
self-violence I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness, which
sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world, and my manners
were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey
to the sea of ice.  A few days before we left Paris on our way to
Switzerland, I received the following letter from Elizabeth:


"My dear Friend,

"It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle
dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable distance, and I may
hope to see you in less than a fortnight.  My poor cousin, how much you
must have suffered!  I expect to see you looking even more ill than
when you quitted Geneva.  This winter has been passed most miserably,
tortured as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in
your countenance and to find that your heart is not totally void of
comfort and tranquillity.

"Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable
a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time.  I would not disturb you at
this period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you, but a
conversation that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders
some explanation necessary before we meet.   Explanation!  You may
possibly say, What can Elizabeth have to explain?  If you really say
this, my questions are answered and all my doubts satisfied.  But you
are distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread and yet be
pleased with this explanation; and in a probability of this being the
case, I dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence,
I have often wished to express to you but have never had the courage to
begin.

"You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of
your parents ever since our infancy.  We were told this when young, and
taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly take
place.  We were affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I
believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But
as brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each
other without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our
case?  Tell me, dearest Victor.  Answer me, I conjure you by our mutual
happiness, with simple truth--Do you not love another?

"You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life at
Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last
autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude from the society of every
creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our
connection and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of
your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations.
But this is false reasoning.  I confess to you, my friend, that I love
you and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant
friend and companion.   But it is your happiness I desire as well as my
own when I declare to you that our marriage would render me eternally
miserable unless it were the dictate of your own free choice.  Even now
I weep to think that, borne down as you are by the cruellest
misfortunes, you may stifle, by the word 'honour,' all hope of that
love and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself.  I, who
have so disinterested an affection for you, may increase your miseries
tenfold by being an obstacle to your wishes.  Ah! Victor, be assured
that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be
made miserable by this supposition.  Be happy, my friend; and if you
obey me in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth
will have the power to interrupt my tranquillity.

"Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer tomorrow, or the
next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain.  My uncle
will send me news of your health, and if I see but one smile on your
lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I
shall need no other happiness.

                                                "Elizabeth Lavenza


    "Geneva, May 18th, 17--"


This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, the
threat of the fiend--"I WILL BE WITH YOU ON YOUR WEDDING-NIGHT!" Such
was my sentence, and on that night would the daemon employ every art to
destroy me and tear me from the glimpse of happiness which promised
partly to console my sufferings.  On that night he had determined to
consummate his crimes by my death.  Well, be it so; a deadly struggle
would then assuredly take place, in which if he were victorious I
should be at peace and his power over me be at an end.  If he were
vanquished, I should be a free man.  Alas!  What freedom?  Such as the
peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his
cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless,
penniless, and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty except that in
my Elizabeth I possessed a treasure, alas, balanced by those horrors of
remorse and guilt which would pursue me until death.

Sweet and beloved Elizabeth!  I read and reread her letter, and some
softened feelings stole into my heart and dared to whisper paradisiacal
dreams of love and joy; but the apple was already eaten, and the
angel's arm bared to drive me from all hope.  Yet I would die to make
her happy.  If the monster executed his threat, death was inevitable;
yet, again, I considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate.  My
destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner, but if my torturer
should suspect that I postponed it, influenced by his menaces, he would
surely find other and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge.

He had vowed TO BE WITH ME ON MY WEDDING-NIGHT, yet he did not consider
that threat as binding him to peace in the meantime, for as if to show
me that he was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval
immediately after the enunciation of his threats.  I resolved,
therefore, that if my immediate union with my cousin would conduce
either to hers or my father's happiness, my adversary's designs against
my life should not retard it a single hour.

In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth.  My letter was calm and
affectionate.  "I fear, my beloved girl," I said, "little happiness
remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is centred in
you.  Chase away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate my life
and my endeavours for contentment.  I have one secret, Elizabeth, a
dreadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with
horror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only
wonder that I survive what I have endured.  I will confide this tale of
misery and terror to you the day after our marriage shall take place,
for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us.  But
until then, I conjure you, do not mention or allude to it.  This I most
earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply."

In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth's letter we returned to
Geneva.  The sweet girl welcomed me with warm affection, yet tears were
in her eyes as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish  cheeks.  I
saw a change in her also.  She was thinner and had lost much of that
heavenly vivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness and
soft looks of compassion made her a more fit companion for one blasted
and miserable as I was.  The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not
endure.  Memory brought madness with it, and when I thought of what had
passed, a real insanity possessed me; sometimes I was furious and burnt
with rage, sometimes low and despondent.  I neither spoke nor looked at
anyone, but sat motionless, bewildered by the multitude of miseries
that overcame me.

Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her gentle
voice would soothe me when transported by passion and inspire me with
human feelings when sunk in torpor.  She wept with me and for me.  When
reason returned, she would remonstrate and endeavour to inspire me with
resignation.  Ah!  It is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but
for the guilty there is no peace.  The agonies of remorse poison the
luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of
grief.  Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate marriage
with Elizabeth.  I remained silent.

"Have you, then, some other attachment?"

"None on earth.  I love Elizabeth and look forward to our union with
delight.  Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I will consecrate
myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my cousin."

"My dear Victor, do not speak thus.  Heavy misfortunes have befallen
us, but let us only cling closer to what remains and transfer our love
for those whom we have lost to those who yet live.  Our circle will be
small but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune.
And when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of
care will be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly
deprived."

Such were the lessons of my father.  But to me the remembrance of the
threat returned; nor can you wonder that, omnipotent as the fiend had
yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as
invincible, and that when he had pronounced the words "I SHALL BE WITH
YOU ON YOUR WEDDING-NIGHT," I should regard the threatened fate as
unavoidable.  But death was no evil to me if the loss of Elizabeth were
balanced with it, and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful
countenance, agreed with my father that if my cousin would consent, the
ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined,
the seal to my fate.

Great God!  If for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish
intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself
forever from my native country and wandered a friendless outcast over
the earth than have consented to this miserable marriage.  But, as if
possessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real
intentions; and when I thought that I had prepared only my own death, I
hastened that of a far dearer victim.

As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from
cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me.  But
I concealed my feelings by an appearance of hilarity that brought
smiles and joy to the countenance of my father, but hardly deceived the
ever-watchful and nicer eye of Elizabeth.  She looked forward to our
union with placid contentment, not unmingled with a little fear, which
past misfortunes had impressed, that what now appeared certain and
tangible happiness might soon dissipate into an airy dream and leave no
trace but deep and everlasting regret.  Preparations were made for the
event, congratulatory visits were received, and all wore a smiling
appearance.  I shut up, as well as I could, in my own heart the anxiety
that preyed there and entered with seeming earnestness into the plans
of my father, although they might only serve as the decorations of my
tragedy.  Through my father's exertions a part of the inheritance of
Elizabeth had been restored to her by the Austrian government.  A small
possession on the shores of Como belonged to her.  It was agreed that,
immediately after our union, we should proceed to Villa Lavenza and
spend our first days of happiness beside the beautiful lake near which
it stood.

In the meantime I took every precaution to defend my person in case the
fiend should openly attack me.  I carried pistols and a dagger
constantly about me and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice, and
by these means gained a greater degree of tranquillity.  Indeed, as the
period approached, the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be
regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for
in my marriage wore a greater appearance of certainty as the day fixed
for its solemnization drew nearer and I heard it continually spoken of
as an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent.

Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed greatly to
calm her mind.  But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my
destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded her;
and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which I had
promised to reveal to her on the following day.  My father was in the
meantime overjoyed and in the bustle of preparation only recognized in
the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride.

After the ceremony was performed a large party assembled at my
father's, but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence our
journey by water, sleeping that night at Evian and continuing our
voyage on the following day.  The day was fair, the wind favourable;
all smiled on our nuptial embarkation.

Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the
feeling of happiness.  We passed rapidly along; the sun was hot, but we
were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy while we enjoyed the
beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the lake, where we saw
Mont Saleve, the pleasant banks of Montalegre, and at a distance,
surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blanc and the assemblage of snowy
mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her; sometimes coasting the
opposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the
ambition that would quit its native country, and an almost
insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to enslave it.

I took the hand of Elizabeth.  "You are sorrowful, my love.  Ah!  If
you knew what I have suffered and what I may yet endure, you would
endeavour to let me taste the quiet and freedom from despair that this
one day at least permits me to enjoy."

"Be happy, my dear Victor," replied Elizabeth; "there is, I hope,
nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively joy is not
painted in my face, my heart is contented.  Something whispers to me
not to depend too much on the prospect that is opened before us, but I
will not listen to such a sinister voice.  Observe how fast we move
along and how the clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise
above the dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still more
interesting.  Look also at the innumerable fish that are swimming in
the clear waters, where we can distinguish every pebble that lies at
the bottom.  What a divine day!  How happy and serene all nature
appears!"

Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from all
reflection upon melancholy subjects.  But her temper was fluctuating;
joy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually gave place
to distraction and reverie.

The sun sank lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance and
observed its path through the chasms of the higher and the glens of the
lower hills.  The Alps here come closer to the lake, and we approached
the amphitheatre of mountains which forms its eastern boundary.  The
spire of Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it and the range
of mountain above mountain by which it was overhung.

The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity,
sank at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water
and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the
shore, from which it wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and
hay.  The sun sank beneath the horizon as we landed, and as I touched
the shore I felt those cares and fears revive which soon were to clasp
me and cling to me forever.



Chapter 23

It was eight o'clock when we landed; we walked for a short time on the
shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn and
contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured
in darkness, yet still displaying their black outlines.

The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence
in the west.  The moon had reached her summit in the heavens and was
beginning to descend; the clouds swept across it swifter than the
flight of the vulture and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the
scene of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves
that were beginning to rise.  Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended.

I had been calm during the day, but so soon as night obscured the
shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind.  I was anxious
and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in
my bosom; every sound terrified me, but I resolved that I would sell my
life dearly and not shrink from the conflict until my own life or that
of my adversary was extinguished.  Elizabeth observed my agitation for
some time in timid and fearful silence, but there was something in my
glance which communicated terror to her, and trembling, she asked,
"What is it that agitates you, my dear Victor?  What is it you fear?"

"Oh!  Peace, peace, my love," replied I; "this night, and all will be
safe; but this night is dreadful, very dreadful."

I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how
fearful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife,
and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her
until I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy.

She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages
of the house and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to
my adversary.  But I discovered no trace of him and was beginning to
conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the
execution of his menaces when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful
scream.  It came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired.  As I
heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the
motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended; I could feel the blood
trickling in my veins and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This
state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed
into the room.  Great God!  Why did I not then expire!  Why am I here
to relate the destruction of the best hope and the purest creature on
earth?  She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed,
her head hanging down and her pale and distorted features half covered
by her hair.  Everywhere I turn I see the same figure--her bloodless
arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier.  Could
I behold this and live?  Alas!  Life is obstinate and clings closest
where it is most hated.  For a moment only did I lose recollection; I
fell senseless on the ground.

When I recovered I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn;
their countenances expressed a breathless terror, but the horror of
others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that
oppressed me.  I escaped from them to the room where lay the body of
Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy.  She
had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her, and
now, as she lay, her head upon her arm and a handkerchief thrown across
her face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards
her and embraced her with ardour, but the deadly languor and coldness
of the limbs told me that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be
the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished.  The murderous mark of
the fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue
from her lips.  While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I
happened to look up.  The windows of the room had before been darkened,
and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon
illuminate the chamber.  The shutters had been thrown back, and with a
sensation of horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a
figure the most hideous and abhorred.  A grin was on the face of the
monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed
towards the corpse of my wife.  I rushed towards the window, and
drawing a pistol from my bosom, fired; but he eluded me, leaped from
his station, and running with the swiftness of lightning, plunged into
the lake.

The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to
the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with
boats; nets were cast, but in vain.  After passing several hours, we
returned hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been a
form conjured up by my fancy.  After having landed, they proceeded to
search the country, parties going in different directions among the
woods and vines.

I attempted to accompany them and proceeded a short distance from the
house, but my head whirled round, my steps were like those of a drunken
man, I fell at last in a state of utter exhaustion; a film covered my
eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever.  In this state I
was carried back and placed on a bed, hardly conscious of what had
happened; my eyes wandered round the room as if to seek something that
I had lost.

After an interval I arose, and as if by instinct, crawled into the room
where the corpse of my beloved lay.  There were women weeping around; I
hung over it and joined my sad tears to theirs; all this time no
distinct idea presented itself to my mind, but my thoughts rambled to
various subjects, reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes and their
cause.  I was bewildered, in a cloud of wonder and horror.  The death
of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly
of my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining
friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now
might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his
feet.  This idea made me shudder and recalled me to action.  I started
up and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed.

There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but
the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents.  However, it
was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night.  I
hired men to row and took an oar myself, for I had always experienced
relief from mental torment in bodily exercise.  But the overflowing
misery I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured rendered
me incapable of any exertion.  I threw down the oar, and leaning my
head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose.  If I
looked up, I saw scenes which were familiar to me in my happier time
and which I had contemplated but the day before in the company of her
who was now but a shadow and a recollection.  Tears streamed from my
eyes.  The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the
waters as they had done a few hours before; they had then been observed
by Elizabeth.  Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and
sudden change.  The sun might shine or the clouds might lower, but
nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before.  A fiend had
snatched from me every hope of future happiness; no creature had ever
been so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the
history of man. But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed
this last overwhelming event?  Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have
reached their acme, and what I must now relate can but be tedious to
you.  Know that, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I was left
desolate.  My own strength is exhausted, and I must tell, in a few
words, what remains of my hideous narration. I arrived at Geneva.  My
father and Ernest yet lived, but the former sunk under the tidings that
I bore.  I see him now, excellent and venerable old man!  His eyes
wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their
delight--his Elizabeth, his more than daughter, whom he doted on with
all that affection which a man feels, who in the decline of life,
having few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain.
Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs and
doomed him to waste in wretchedness!  He could not live under the
horrors that were accumulated around him; the springs of existence
suddenly gave way; he was unable to rise from his bed, and in a few
days he died in my arms.

What then became of me?  I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and
darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me.  Sometimes,
indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales
with the friends of my youth, but I awoke and found myself in a
dungeon.  Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear
conception of my miseries and situation and was then released from my
prison.  For they had called me mad, and during many months, as I
understood, a solitary cell had been my habitation.

Liberty, however, had been a useless gift to me, had I not, as I
awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge.  As the
memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their
cause--the monster whom I had created, the miserable daemon whom I had
sent abroad into the world for my destruction.  I was possessed by a
maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed
that I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal
revenge on his cursed head.

Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to
reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this purpose, about
a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town
and told him that I had an accusation to make, that I knew the
destroyer of my family, and that I required him to exert his whole
authority for the apprehension of the murderer.  The magistrate
listened to me with attention and kindness.

"Be assured, sir," said he, "no pains or exertions on my part shall be
spared to discover the villain."

"I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposition that I
have to make.  It is indeed a tale so strange that I should fear you
would not credit it were there not something in truth which, however
wonderful, forces conviction.  The story is too connected to be
mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood." My manner as
I thus addressed him was impressive but calm; I had formed in my own
heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death, and this purpose
quieted my agony and for an interval reconciled me to life.  I now
related my history briefly but with firmness and precision, marking the
dates with accuracy and never deviating into invective or exclamation.

The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I
continued he became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes
shudder with horror; at others a lively surprise, unmingled with
disbelief, was painted on his countenance.  When I had concluded my
narration I said, "This is the being whom I accuse and for whose
seizure and punishment I call upon you to exert your whole power.  It
is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that your feelings
as a man will not revolt from the execution of those functions on this
occasion."  This address caused a considerable change in the
physiognomy of my own auditor.  He had heard my story with that half
kind of belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural
events; but when he was called upon to act officially in consequence,
the whole tide of his incredulity returned.  He, however, answered
mildly, "I would willingly afford you every aid in your pursuit, but
the creature of whom you speak appears to have powers which would put
all my exertions to defiance.  Who can follow an animal which can
traverse the sea of ice and inhabit caves and dens where no man would
venture to intrude?  Besides, some months have elapsed since the
commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture to what place he
has wandered or what region he may now inhabit."

"I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit, and if he
has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois
and destroyed as a beast of prey.  But I perceive your thoughts; you do
not credit my narrative and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the
punishment which is his desert." As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes;
the magistrate was intimidated.  "You are mistaken," said he.  "I will
exert myself, and if it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured
that he shall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes.  But I
fear, from what you have yourself described to be his properties, that
this will prove impracticable; and thus, while every proper measure is
pursued, you should make up your mind to disappointment."

"That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail.  My
revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I
confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul.  My rage
is unspeakable when I reflect that the murderer, whom I have turned
loose upon society, still exists.  You refuse my just demand; I have
but one resource, and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to
his destruction."

I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a frenzy
in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness
which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed.  But to a Genevan
magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of
devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of
madness.  He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child and
reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium.

"Man," I cried, "how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom!  Cease;
you know not what it is you say."

I broke from the house angry and disturbed and retired to meditate on
some other mode of action.



Chapter 24

My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was
swallowed up and lost.  I was hurried away by fury; revenge alone
endowed me with strength and composure; it moulded my feelings and
allowed me to be calculating and calm at periods when otherwise
delirium or death would have been my portion.

My first resolution was to quit Geneva forever; my country, which, when
I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became
hateful.  I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few
jewels which had belonged to my mother, and departed.  And now my
wanderings began which are to cease but with life.  I have traversed a
vast portion of the earth and have endured all the hardships which
travellers in deserts and barbarous countries are wont to meet.  How I
have lived I hardly know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs
upon the sandy plain and prayed for death.  But revenge kept me alive;
I dared not die and leave my adversary in being.

When I quitted Geneva my first labour was to gain some clue by which I
might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy.  But my plan was unsettled,
and I wandered many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain
what path I should pursue.  As night approached I found myself at the
entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father
reposed.  I entered it and approached the tomb which marked their
graves.  Everything was silent except the leaves of the trees, which
were gently agitated by the wind; the night was nearly dark, and the
scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested
observer.  The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around and to
cast a shadow, which was felt but not seen, around the head of the
mourner.

The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way
to rage and despair.  They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also
lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence.  I knelt
on the grass and kissed the earth and with quivering lips exclaimed,
"By the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near
me, by the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O
Night, and the spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the daemon who
caused this misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict.  For
this purpose I will preserve my life; to execute this dear revenge will
I again behold the sun and tread the green herbage of earth, which
otherwise should vanish from my eyes forever.  And I call on you,
spirits of the dead, and on you, wandering ministers of vengeance, to
aid and conduct me in my work.  Let the cursed and hellish monster
drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me."  I
had begun my adjuration with solemnity and an awe which almost assured
me that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my
devotion, but the furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choked
my utterance.

I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiendish
laugh.  It rang on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed
it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter.
Surely in that moment I should have been possessed by frenzy and have
destroyed my miserable existence but that my vow was heard and that I
was reserved for vengeance.  The laughter died away, when a well-known
and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an
audible whisper, "I am satisfied, miserable wretch!  You have
determined to live, and I am satisfied."

I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded, but the devil
eluded my grasp.  Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose and shone
full upon his ghastly and distorted shape as he fled with more than
mortal speed.

I pursued him, and for many months this has been my task.  Guided by a
slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly.  The
blue Mediterranean appeared, and by a strange chance, I saw the fiend
enter by night and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea.  I
took my passage in the same ship, but he escaped, I know not how.

Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I
have ever followed in his track.  Sometimes the peasants, scared by
this horrid apparition, informed me of his path; sometimes he himself,
who feared that if I lost all trace of him I should despair and die,
left some mark to guide me.  The snows descended on my head, and I saw
the print of his huge step on the white plain.  To you first entering
on life, to whom care is new and agony unknown, how can you understand
what I have felt and still feel?  Cold, want, and fatigue were the
least pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed by some devil
and carried about with me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good
followed and directed my steps and when I most murmured would suddenly
extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties.  Sometimes,
when nature, overcome by hunger, sank under the exhaustion, a repast
was prepared for me in the desert that restored and inspirited me.  The
fare was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate, but
I will not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had
invoked to aid me.  Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and
I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the
few drops that revived me, and vanish.

I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the daemon
generally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the
country chiefly collected.  In other places human beings were seldom
seen, and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my
path.  I had money with me and gained the friendship of the villagers
by distributing it; or I brought with me some food that I had killed,
which, after taking a small part, I always presented to those who had
provided me with fire and utensils for cooking.

My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during
sleep alone that I could taste joy.  O blessed sleep!  Often, when most
miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture.
The spirits that guarded me had provided these moments, or rather
hours, of happiness that I might retain strength to fulfil my
pilgrimage.  Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk under my
hardships.  During the day I was sustained and inspirited by the hope
of night, for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved
country; again I saw the benevolent countenance of my father, heard the
silver tones of my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying
health and youth.  Often, when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded
myself that I was dreaming until night should come and that I should
then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest friends.  What agonizing
fondness did I feel for them!  How did I cling to their dear forms, as
sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself that
they still lived!  At such moments vengeance, that burned within me,
died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the destruction of the
daemon more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of
some power of which I was unconscious, than as the ardent desire of my
soul.  What his feelings were whom I pursued I cannot know.  Sometimes,
indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of the trees or cut in
stone that guided me and instigated my fury.  "My reign is not yet
over"--these words were legible in one of these inscriptions--"you
live, and my power is complete.  Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices
of the north, where you will feel the misery of cold and frost, to
which I am impassive.  You will find near this place, if you follow not
too tardily, a dead hare; eat and be refreshed.  Come on, my enemy; we
have yet to wrestle for our lives, but many hard and miserable hours
must you endure until that period shall arrive."

Scoffing devil!  Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee,
miserable fiend, to torture and death.  Never will I give up my search
until he or I perish; and then with what ecstasy shall I join my
Elizabeth and my departed friends, who even now prepare for me the
reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage!

As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened and
the cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support.  The
peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy
ventured forth to seize the animals whom starvation had forced from
their hiding-places to seek for prey.  The rivers were covered with
ice, and no fish could be procured; and thus I was cut off from my
chief article of maintenance.  The triumph of my enemy increased with
the difficulty of my labours.  One inscription that he left was in
these words:  "Prepare!  Your toils only begin; wrap yourself in furs
and provide food, for we shall soon enter upon a journey where your
sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred."

My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I
resolved not to fail in my purpose, and calling on heaven to support
me, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts,
until the ocean appeared at a distance and formed the utmost boundary
of the horizon.  Oh!  How unlike it was to the blue seasons of the
south!  Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by
its superior wildness and ruggedness.  The Greeks wept for joy when
they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with
rapture the boundary of their toils.  I did not weep, but I knelt down
and with a full heart thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in
safety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary's gibe,
to meet and grapple with him.

Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs and thus
traversed the snows with inconceivable speed.  I know not whether the
fiend possessed the same advantages, but I found that, as before I had
daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him, so much so that
when I first saw the ocean he was but one day's journey in advance, and
I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach.  With new
courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a wretched
hamlet on the seashore.  I inquired of the inhabitants concerning the
fiend and gained accurate information.  A gigantic monster, they said,
had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols,
putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage through fear of
his terrific appearance.  He had carried off their store of winter
food, and placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a
numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same
night, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his
journey across the sea in a direction that led to no land; and they
conjectured that he must speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the
ice or frozen by the eternal  frosts.

On hearing this information I suffered a temporary access of despair.
He had escaped me, and I must commence a destructive and almost endless
journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean, amidst cold that few
of the inhabitants could long endure and which I, the native of a
genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive.  Yet at the idea
that the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance
returned, and like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling.
After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead hovered
round and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey.
I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities of
the frozen ocean, and purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I
departed from land.

I cannot guess how many days have passed since then, but I have endured
misery which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution
burning within my heart could have enabled me to support.  Immense and
rugged mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard
the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruction.  But
again the frost came and made the paths of the sea secure.

By the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should guess that
I had passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual protraction
of hope, returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of
despondency and grief from my eyes.  Despair had indeed almost secured
her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery.  Once, after
the poor animals that conveyed me had with incredible toil gained the
summit of a sloping ice mountain, and one, sinking under his fatigue,
died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when suddenly my eye
caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain.  I strained my sight to
discover what it could be and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I
distinguished a sledge and the distorted proportions of a well-known
form within.  Oh!  With what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart!
Warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might
not intercept the view I had of the daemon; but still my sight was
dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that
oppressed me, I wept aloud.

But this was not the time for delay; I disencumbered the dogs of their
dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food, and after an
hour's rest, which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly
irksome to me, I continued my route.  The sledge was still visible, nor
did I again lose sight of it except at the moments when for a short
time some ice-rock concealed it with its intervening crags.  I indeed
perceptibly gained on it, and when, after nearly two days' journey, I
beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my heart bounded within
me.

But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe, my hopes were
suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I
had ever done before.  A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its
progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every
moment more ominous and terrific.  I pressed on, but in vain.  The wind
arose; the sea roared; and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake,
it split and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming sound.  The
work was soon finished; in a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled
between me and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered piece
of ice that was continually lessening and thus preparing for me a
hideous death.  In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of
my dogs died, and I myself was about to sink under the accumulation of
distress when I saw your vessel riding at anchor and holding forth to
me hopes of succour and life.  I had no conception that vessels ever
came so far north and was astounded at the sight.  I quickly destroyed
part of my sledge to construct oars, and by these means was enabled,
with infinite fatigue, to move my ice raft in the direction of your
ship.  I had determined, if you were going southwards, still to trust
myself to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my purpose.  I
hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could pursue my
enemy.  But your direction was northwards.  You took me on board when
my vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my
multiplied hardships into a death which I still dread, for my task is
unfulfilled.

Oh!  When will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the daemon, allow
me the rest I so much desire; or must I die, and he yet live?  If I do,
swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape, that you will seek him
and satisfy my vengeance in his death.  And do I dare to ask of you to
undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone?
No; I am not so selfish.  Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear, if
the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he
shall not live--swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated
woes and survive to add to the list of his dark crimes.  He is eloquent
and persuasive, and once his words had even power over my heart; but
trust him not.  His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery
and fiend-like malice.  Hear him not; call on the names of William,
Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and
thrust your sword into his heart.  I will hover near and direct the
steel aright.


               Walton, in continuation.



                                                August 26th, 17--


You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not
feel your blood congeal with horror, like that which even now curdles
mine?  Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his
tale; at others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with
difficulty the words so replete with anguish.  His fine and lovely eyes
were now lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow
and quenched in infinite wretchedness.  Sometimes he commanded his
countenance and tones and related the most horrible incidents with a
tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a
volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression
of the wildest rage as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor.

His tale is connected and told with an appearance of the simplest
truth, yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he
showed me, and the apparition of the monster seen from our ship,
brought to me a greater conviction of the truth of his narrative than
his asseverations, however earnest and connected.  Such a monster has,
then, really existence!  I cannot doubt it, yet I am lost in surprise
and admiration.  Sometimes I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the
particulars of his creature's formation, but on this point he was
impenetrable. "Are you mad, my friend?" said he.  "Or whither does your
senseless curiosity lead you?  Would you also create for yourself and
the world a demoniacal enemy?  Peace, peace!  Learn my miseries and do
not seek to increase your own."  Frankenstein discovered that I made
notes concerning his history; he asked to see them and then himself
corrected and augmented them in many places, but principally in giving
the life and spirit to the conversations he held with his enemy. "Since
you have preserved my narration," said he, "I would not that a
mutilated one should go down to posterity."

Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest
tale that ever imagination formed.  My thoughts and every feeling of my
soul have been drunk up by the interest for my guest which this tale
and his own elevated and gentle manners have created.  I wish to soothe
him, yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of
every hope of consolation, to live?  Oh, no!  The only joy that he can
now know will be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and
death.  Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude and
delirium; he believes that when in dreams he holds converse with his
friends and derives from that communion consolation for his miseries or
excitements to his vengeance, that they are not the creations of his
fancy, but the beings themselves who visit him from the regions of a
remote world.  This faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that render
them to me almost as imposing and interesting as truth.

Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and
misfortunes.  On every point of general literature he displays
unbounded knowledge and a quick and piercing apprehension.  His
eloquence is forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when he relates
a pathetic incident or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love,
without tears.  What a glorious creature must he have been in the days
of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin!  He seems
to feel his own worth and the greatness of his fall.

"When younger," said he, "I believed myself destined for some great
enterprise.  My feelings are profound, but I possessed a  coolness of
judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements.  This sentiment
of the worth of my nature supported me when others would have been
oppressed, for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief
those talents that might be useful to my fellow creatures.  When I
reflected on the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation
of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the
herd of common projectors.  But this thought, which supported me in the
commencement of my career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the
dust.  All my speculations and hopes are as nothing, and like the
archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell.
My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application
were intense; by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea and
executed the creation of a man.  Even now I cannot recollect without
passion my reveries while the work was incomplete.  I trod heaven in my
thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their
effects.  From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty
ambition; but how am I sunk!  Oh!  My friend, if you had known me as I
once was, you would not recognize me in this state of degradation.
Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me
on, until I fell, never, never again to rise."  Must I then lose this
admirable being?  I have longed for a friend; I have sought one who
would sympathize with and love me.  Behold, on these desert seas I have
found such a one, but I fear I have gained him only to know his value
and lose him.  I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea.

"I thank you, Walton," he said, "for your kind intentions towards so
miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties and fresh
affections, think you that any can replace those who are gone?  Can any
man be to me as Clerval was, or any woman another Elizabeth?  Even
where the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence,
the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our
minds which hardly any later friend can obtain.  They know our
infantine dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified,
are never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more
certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives.  A sister or a
brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown early,
suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend,
however strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be
contemplated with suspicion.  But I enjoyed friends, dear not only
through habit and association, but from their own merits; and wherever
I am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth and the conversation of
Clerval will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead, and but one
feeling in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life.  If I
were engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught with extensive
utility to my fellow creatures, then could I live to fulfil it.  But
such is not my destiny; I must pursue and destroy the being to whom I
gave existence; then my lot on earth will be fulfilled and I may die."




September 2nd

My beloved Sister,

I write to you, encompassed by peril and ignorant whether I am ever
doomed to see again dear England and the dearer friends that inhabit
it.  I am surrounded by mountains of ice which admit of no escape and
threaten every moment to crush my vessel.  The brave fellows whom I
have persuaded to be my companions look towards me for aid, but I have
none to bestow.  There is something terribly appalling in our
situation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert me.  Yet it is
terrible to reflect that the lives of all these men are endangered
through me.  If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause.

And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind?  You will not hear
of my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return.  Years will
pass, and you will have visitings of despair and yet be tortured by
hope.  Oh!  My beloved sister, the sickening failing of your heart-felt
expectations is, in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death.

But you have a husband and lovely children; you may be happy.  Heaven
bless you and make you so!

My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion.  He
endeavours to fill me with hope and talks as if life were a possession
which he valued.  He reminds me how often the same accidents have
happened to other navigators who have attempted this sea, and in spite
of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries.  Even the sailors feel
the power of his eloquence; when he speaks, they no longer despair; he
rouses their energies, and while they hear his voice they believe these
vast mountains of ice are mole-hills which will vanish before the
resolutions of man.  These feelings are transitory; each day of
expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny
caused by this despair.



September 5th


A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest that, although it is
highly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot
forbear recording it.

We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger
of being crushed in their conflict.  The cold is excessive, and many of
my unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of
desolation.  Frankenstein has daily declined in health; a feverish fire
still glimmers in his eyes, but he is exhausted, and when suddenly
roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent
lifelessness.

I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny.
This morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend--his
eyes half closed and his limbs hanging listlessly--I was roused by half
a dozen of the sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin.  They
entered, and their leader addressed me.  He told me that he and his
companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation
to me to make me a requisition which, in justice, I could not refuse.
We were immured in ice and should probably never escape, but they
feared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate and a free
passage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage and
lead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted
this.  They insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn
promise that if the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my
course southwards.

This speech troubled me.  I had not despaired, nor had I yet conceived
the idea of returning if set free.  Yet could I, in justice, or even in
possibility, refuse this demand?  I hesitated before I answered, when
Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and indeed appeared hardly
to have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled,
and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour.  Turning towards the men,
he said, "What do you mean?  What do you demand of your captain?  Are
you, then, so easily turned from your design?  Did you not call this a
glorious expedition?

"And wherefore was it glorious?  Not because the way was smooth and
placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and
terror, because at every new incident your fortitude was to be called
forth and your courage exhibited, because danger and death surrounded
it, and these you were to brave and overcome.  For this was it a
glorious, for this was it an honourable undertaking.  You were
hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species, your names
adored as belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour and
the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first imagination of
danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific trial of your
courage, you shrink away and are content to be handed down as men who
had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls,
they were chilly and returned to their warm firesides.  Why, that
requires not this preparation; ye need not have come thus far and
dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat merely to prove
yourselves cowards.  Oh!  Be men, or be more than men.  Be steady to
your purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as
your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you if you say
that it shall not.  Do not return to your families with the stigma of
disgrace marked on your brows.  Return as heroes who have fought and
conquered and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe."
He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings
expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and
heroism, that can you wonder that these men were moved?  They looked at
one another and were unable to reply.  I spoke; I told them to retire
and consider of what had been said, that I would not lead them farther
north if they strenuously desired the contrary, but that I hoped that,
with reflection, their courage would return.  They retired and I turned
towards my friend, but he was sunk in languor and almost deprived of
life.

How all this will terminate, I know not, but I had rather die than
return shamefully, my purpose unfulfilled.  Yet I fear such will be my
fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never
willingly continue to endure their present hardships.



September 7th


The die is cast; I have consented to return if we are not destroyed.
Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back
ignorant and disappointed.  It requires more philosophy than I possess
to bear this injustice with patience.



September 12th


It is past; I am returning to England.  I have lost my hopes of utility
and glory; I have lost my friend.  But I will endeavour to detail these
bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and while I am wafted
towards England and towards you, I will not despond.

September 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were
heard at a distance as the islands split and cracked in every
direction.  We were in the most imminent peril, but as we could only
remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest
whose illness increased in such a degree that he was entirely confined
to his bed.  The ice cracked behind us and was driven with force
towards the north; a breeze sprang from the west, and on the 11th the
passage towards the south became perfectly free.  When the sailors saw
this and that their return to their native country was apparently
assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and
long-continued.  Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke and asked the
cause of the tumult.  "They shout," I said, "because they will soon
return to England."

"Do you, then, really return?"

"Alas!  Yes; I cannot withstand their demands.  I cannot lead them
unwillingly to danger, and I must return."

"Do so, if you will; but I will not.  You may give up your purpose, but
mine is assigned to me by heaven, and I dare not.  I am weak, but
surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with
sufficient strength."  Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the
bed, but the exertion was too great for him; he fell back and fainted.

It was long before he was restored, and I often thought that life was
entirely extinct.  At length he opened his eyes; he breathed with
difficulty and was unable to speak.  The surgeon gave him a composing
draught and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the meantime he
told me that my friend had certainly not many hours to live.

His sentence was pronounced, and I could only grieve and be patient.  I
sat by his bed, watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he
slept; but presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and bidding me
come near, said, "Alas!  The strength I relied on is gone; I feel that
I shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in
being.  Think not, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I
feel that burning hatred and ardent desire of revenge I once expressed;
but I feel myself justified in desiring the death of my adversary.
During these last days I have been occupied in examining my past
conduct; nor do I find it blamable.  In a fit of enthusiastic madness I
created a rational creature and was bound towards him to assure, as far
as was in my power, his happiness and well-being.

"This was my duty, but there was another still paramount to that.  My
duties towards the beings of my own species had greater claims to my
attention because they included a greater proportion of happiness or
misery.  Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to
create a companion for the first creature.  He showed unparalleled
malignity and selfishness in evil; he destroyed my friends; he devoted
to destruction beings who possessed exquisite sensations, happiness,
and wisdom; nor do I know where this thirst for vengeance may end.
Miserable himself that he may render no other wretched, he ought to
die.  The task of his destruction was mine, but I have failed.  When
actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I asked you to undertake my
unfinished work, and I renew this request now, when I am only induced
by reason and virtue.

"Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends to fulfil
this task; and now that you are returning to England, you will have
little chance of meeting with him.  But the consideration of these
points, and the well balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I
leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the near
approach of death.  I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I
may still be misled by passion.

"That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in
other respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the
only happy one which I have enjoyed for several years.  The forms of
the beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their arms.  Farewell,
Walton!  Seek happiness in tranquillity and avoid ambition, even if it
be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in
science and discoveries.  Yet why do I say this?  I have myself been
blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed."

His voice became fainter as he spoke, and at length, exhausted by his
effort, he sank into silence.  About half an hour afterwards he
attempted again to speak but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and
his eyes closed forever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed
away from his lips.

Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this
glorious spirit?  What can I say that will enable you to understand the
depth of my sorrow?  All that I should express would be inadequate and
feeble.  My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of
disappointment.  But I journey towards England, and I may there find
consolation.

I am interrupted.  What do these sounds portend?  It is midnight; the
breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir.  Again there
is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin
where the remains of Frankenstein still lie.  I must arise and examine.
Good night, my sister.

Great God! what a scene has just taken place!  I am yet dizzy with the
remembrance of it.  I hardly know whether I shall have the power to
detail it; yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete
without this final and wonderful catastrophe. I entered the cabin where
lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable friend.  Over him hung a
form which I cannot find words to describe--gigantic in stature, yet
uncouth and distorted in its proportions.  As he hung over the coffin,
his face was concealed by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand
was extended, in colour and apparent texture like that of a mummy. When
he heard the sound of my approach, he ceased to utter exclamations of
grief and horror and sprung towards the window.  Never did I behold a
vision so horrible as his face, of such loathsome yet appalling
hideousness.  I shut my eyes involuntarily and endeavoured to recollect
what were my duties with regard to this destroyer.  I called on him to
stay.

He paused, looking on me with wonder, and again turning towards the
lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and
every feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some
uncontrollable passion.

"That is also my victim!" he exclaimed.  "In his murder my crimes are
consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its close!
Oh, Frankenstein!  Generous and self-devoted being!  What does it avail
that I now ask thee to pardon me?  I, who irretrievably destroyed thee
by destroying all thou lovedst.  Alas!  He is cold, he cannot answer
me." His voice seemed suffocated, and my first impulses, which had
suggested to me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend in
destroying his enemy, were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and
compassion.  I approached this tremendous being; I dared not again
raise my eyes to his face, there was something so scaring and unearthly
in his ugliness.  I attempted to speak, but the words died away on my
lips.  The monster continued to utter wild and incoherent
self-reproaches.  At length I gathered resolution to address him in a
pause of the tempest of his passion.

"Your repentance," I said, "is now superfluous. If you had listened to
the voice of conscience and heeded the stings of remorse before you had
urged your diabolical vengeance to this extremity, Frankenstein would
yet have lived."

"And do you dream?" said the daemon.  "Do you think that I was then
dead to agony and remorse?  He," he continued, pointing to the corpse,
"he suffered not in the consummation of the deed. Oh!  Not the
ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine during the
lingering detail of its execution.  A frightful selfishness hurried me
on, while my heart was poisoned with remorse.  Think you that the
groans of Clerval were music to my ears?  My heart was fashioned to be
susceptible of love and sympathy, and when wrenched by misery to vice
and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change without
torture such as you cannot even imagine.

"After the murder of Clerval I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken
and overcome.  I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror; I
abhorred myself.  But when I discovered that he, the author at once of
my existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for
happiness, that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me
he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the
indulgence of which I was forever barred, then impotent envy and bitter
indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance.  I
recollected my threat and resolved that it should be accomplished.  I
knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture, but I was the
slave, not the master, of an impulse which I detested yet could not
disobey.  Yet when she died!  Nay, then I was not miserable.  I had
cast off all feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my
despair.  Evil thenceforth became my good.  Urged thus far, I had no
choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly
chosen.  The completion of my demoniacal design became an insatiable
passion.  And now it is ended; there is my last victim!"

I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet, when I
called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence
and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of
my friend, indignation was rekindled within me.  "Wretch!" I said.  "It
is well that you come here to whine over the desolation that you have
made.  You throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they are
consumed, you sit among the ruins and lament the fall.  Hypocritical
fiend!  If he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object,
again would he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance.  It is not
pity that you feel; you lament only because the victim of your
malignity is withdrawn from your power."

"Oh, it is not thus--not thus," interrupted the being.  "Yet such must
be the impression conveyed to you by what appears to be the purport of
my actions.  Yet I seek not a fellow feeling in my misery.  No sympathy
may I ever find.  When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue,
the feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being
overflowed, that I wished to be participated.  But now that virtue has
become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into
bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy?  I am
content to suffer alone while my sufferings shall endure; when I die, I
am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory.
Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of
enjoyment.  Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings who, pardoning my
outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was
capable of unfolding.  I was nourished with high thoughts of honour and
devotion.  But now crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No
guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to
mine.  When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot
believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled
with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of
goodness.  But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant
devil.  Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates
in his desolation; I am alone.

"You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my
crimes and his misfortunes. But in the detail which he gave you of them
he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured
wasting in impotent passions. For while I destroyed his hopes, I did
not satisfy my own desires. They were forever ardent and craving; still
I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned.  Was there no
injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all
humankind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his
friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic
who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous
and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an
abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my
blood boils at the recollection of this injustice.

"But it is true that I am a wretch.  I have murdered the lovely and the
helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept and grasped to
death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing.  I
have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of
love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to
that irremediable ruin.

"There he lies, white and cold in death.  You hate me, but your
abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself.  I look on the
hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the
imagination of it was conceived and long for the moment when these
hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts
no more.

"Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief.  My work
is nearly complete.  Neither yours nor any man's death is needed to
consummate the series of my being and accomplish that which must be
done, but it requires my own.  Do not think that I shall be slow to
perform this sacrifice.  I shall quit your vessel on the ice raft which
brought me thither and shall seek the most northern extremity of the
globe; I shall collect my funeral pile and consume to ashes this
miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious
and unhallowed wretch who would create such another as I have been.  I
shall die.  I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me or
be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched.  He is dead who
called me into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance
of us both will speedily vanish.  I shall no longer see the sun or
stars or feel the winds play on my cheeks.

"Light, feeling, and sense will pass away; and in this condition must I
find my happiness.  Some years ago, when the images which this world
affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer
and heard the rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and
these were all to me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only
consolation.  Polluted by crimes and torn by the bitterest remorse,
where can I find rest but in death?

"Farewell!  I leave you, and in you the last of humankind whom these
eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive
and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better
satiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not so; thou
didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness;
and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think
and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than
that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to
thine, for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my
wounds until death shall close them forever.

"But soon," he cried with sad and solemn enthusiasm, "I shall die, and
what I now feel be no longer felt.  Soon these burning miseries will be
extinct.  I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly and exult in the
agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will
fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds.  My spirit
will sleep in peace, or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus.
Farewell."

He sprang from the cabin window as he said this, upon the ice raft
which lay close to the vessel.  He was soon borne away by the waves and
lost in darkness and distance.










**********************************************************************************************************************

One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found
himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin.  He lay on
his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could
see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff
sections.  The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready
to slide off any moment.  His many legs, pitifully thin compared
with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he
looked.

"What's happened to me?" he thought.  It wasn't a dream.  His room,
a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully
between its four familiar walls.  A collection of textile samples
lay spread out on the table - Samsa was a travelling salesman - and
above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an
illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame.  It showed
a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright,
raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm
towards the viewer.

Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather.
Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel
quite sad.  "How about if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all
this nonsense", he thought, but that was something he was unable to
do because he was used to sleeping on his right, and in his present
state couldn't get into that position.  However hard he threw
himself onto his right, he always rolled back to where he was.  He
must have tried it a hundred times, shut his eyes so that he
wouldn't have to look at the floundering legs, and only stopped when
he began to feel a mild, dull pain there that he had never felt
before.

"Oh, God", he thought, "what a strenuous career it is that I've
chosen! Travelling day in and day out.  Doing business like this
takes much more effort than doing your own business at home, and on
top of that there's the curse of travelling, worries about making
train connections, bad and irregular food, contact with different
people all the time so that you can never get to know anyone or
become friendly with them.  It can all go to Hell!"  He felt a
slight itch up on his belly; pushed himself slowly up on his back
towards the headboard so that he could lift his head better; found
where the itch was, and saw that it was covered with lots of little
white spots which he didn't know what to make of; and when he tried
to feel the place with one of his legs he drew it quickly back
because as soon as he touched it he was overcome by a cold shudder.

He slid back into his former position.  "Getting up early all the
time", he thought, "it makes you stupid.  You've got to get enough
sleep.  Other travelling salesmen live a life of luxury.  For
instance, whenever I go back to the guest house during the morning
to copy out the contract, these gentlemen are always still sitting
there eating their breakfasts.  I ought to just try that with my
boss; I'd get kicked out on the spot.  But who knows, maybe that
would be the best thing for me.  If I didn't have my parents to
think about I'd have given in my notice a long time ago, I'd have
gone up to the boss and told him just what I think, tell him
everything I would, let him know just what I feel.  He'd fall right
off his desk! And it's a funny sort of business to be sitting up
there at your desk, talking down at your subordinates from up there,
especially when you have to go right up close because the boss is
hard of hearing.  Well, there's still some hope; once I've got the
money together to pay off my parents' debt to him - another five or
six years I suppose - that's definitely what I'll do.  That's when
I'll make the big change.  First of all though, I've got to get up,
my train leaves at five."

And he looked over at the alarm clock, ticking on the chest of
drawers.  "God in Heaven!" he thought.  It was half past six and the
hands were quietly moving forwards, it was even later than half
past, more like quarter to seven.  Had the alarm clock not rung? He
could see from the bed that it had been set for four o'clock as it
should have been; it certainly must have rung.  Yes, but was it
possible to quietly sleep through that furniture-rattling noise?
True, he had not slept peacefully, but probably all the more deeply
because of that.  What should he do now? The next train went at
seven; if he were to catch that he would have to rush like mad and
the collection of samples was still not packed, and he did not at
all feel particularly fresh and lively.  And even if he did catch
the train he would not avoid his boss's anger as the office
assistant would have been there to see the five o'clock train go, he
would have put in his report about Gregor's not being there a long
time ago.  The office assistant was the boss's man, spineless, and
with no understanding.  What about if he reported sick? But that
would be extremely strained and suspicious as in fifteen years of
service Gregor had never once yet been ill.  His boss would
certainly come round with the doctor from the medical insurance
company, accuse his parents of having a lazy son, and accept the
doctor's recommendation not to make any claim as the doctor believed
that no-one was ever ill but that many were workshy.  And what's
more, would he have been entirely wrong in this case? Gregor did in
fact, apart from excessive sleepiness after sleeping for so long,
feel completely well and even felt much hungrier than usual.

He was still hurriedly thinking all this through, unable to decide
to get out of the bed, when the clock struck quarter to seven.
There was a cautious knock at the door near his head.  "Gregor",
somebody called - it was his mother - "it's quarter to seven.
Didn't you want to go somewhere?"  That gentle voice! Gregor was
shocked when he heard his own voice answering, it could hardly be
recognised as the voice he had had before.  As if from deep inside
him, there was a painful and uncontrollable squeaking mixed in with
it, the words could be made out at first but then there was a sort
of echo which made them unclear, leaving the hearer unsure whether
he had heard properly or not.  Gregor had wanted to give a full
answer and explain everything, but in the circumstances contented
himself with saying: "Yes, mother, yes, thank-you, I'm getting up
now."  The change in Gregor's voice probably could not be noticed
outside through the wooden door, as his mother was satisfied with
this explanation and shuffled away.  But this short conversation
made the other members of the family aware that Gregor, against
their expectations was still at home, and soon his father came
knocking at one of the side doors, gently, but with his fist.
"Gregor, Gregor", he called, "what's wrong?"  And after a short
while he called again with a warning deepness in his voice: "Gregor!
Gregor!"  At the other side door his sister came plaintively:
"Gregor? Aren't you well? Do you need anything?"  Gregor answered to
both sides: "I'm ready, now", making an effort to remove all the
strangeness from his voice by enunciating very carefully and putting
long pauses between each, individual word.  His father went back to
his breakfast, but his sister whispered: "Gregor, open the door, I
beg of you."  Gregor, however, had no thought of opening the door,
and instead congratulated himself for his cautious habit, acquired
from his travelling, of locking all doors at night even when he was
at home.

The first thing he wanted to do was to get up in peace without being
disturbed, to get dressed, and most of all to have his breakfast.
Only then would he consider what to do next, as he was well aware
that he would not bring his thoughts to any sensible conclusions by
lying in bed.  He remembered that he had often felt a slight pain in
bed, perhaps caused by lying awkwardly, but that had always turned
out to be pure imagination and he wondered how his imaginings would
slowly resolve themselves today.  He did not have the slightest
doubt that the change in his voice was nothing more than the first
sign of a serious cold, which was an occupational hazard for
travelling salesmen.

It was a simple matter to throw off the covers; he only had to blow
himself up a little and they fell off by themselves.  But it became
difficult after that, especially as he was so exceptionally broad.
He would have used his arms and his hands to push himself up; but
instead of them he only had all those little legs continuously
moving in different directions, and which he was moreover unable to
control.  If he wanted to bend one of them, then that was the first
one that would stretch itself out; and if he finally managed to do
what he wanted with that leg, all the others seemed to be set free
and would move about painfully.  "This is something that can't be
done in bed", Gregor said to himself, "so don't keep trying to do
it".

The first thing he wanted to do was get the lower part of his body
out of the bed, but he had never seen this lower part, and could not
imagine what it looked like; it turned out to be too hard to move;
it went so slowly; and finally, almost in a frenzy, when he
carelessly shoved himself forwards with all the force he could
gather, he chose the wrong direction, hit hard against the lower
bedpost, and learned from the burning pain he felt that the lower
part of his body might well, at present, be the most sensitive.

So then he tried to get the top part of his body out of the bed
first, carefully turning his head to the side.  This he managed
quite easily, and despite its breadth and its weight, the bulk of
his body eventually followed slowly in the direction of the head.
But when he had at last got his head out of the bed and into the
fresh air it occurred to him that if he let himself fall it would be
a miracle if his head were not injured, so he became afraid to carry
on pushing himself forward the same way.  And he could not knock
himself out now at any price; better to stay in bed than lose
consciousness.

It took just as much effort to get back to where he had been
earlier, but when he lay there sighing, and was once more watching
his legs as they struggled against each other even harder than
before, if that was possible, he could think of no way of bringing
peace and order to this chaos.  He told himself once more that it
was not possible for him to stay in bed and that the most sensible
thing to do would be to get free of it in whatever way he could at
whatever sacrifice.  At the same time, though, he did not forget to
remind himself that calm consideration was much better than rushing
to desperate conclusions.  At times like this he would direct his
eyes to the window and look out as clearly as he could, but
unfortunately, even the other side of the narrow street was
enveloped in morning fog and the view had little confidence or cheer
to offer him.  "Seven o'clock, already", he said to himself when the
clock struck again, "seven o'clock, and there's still a fog like
this."  And he lay there quietly a while longer, breathing lightly
as if he perhaps expected the total stillness to bring things back
to their real and natural state.

But then he said to himself: "Before it strikes quarter past seven
I'll definitely have to have got properly out of bed.  And by then
somebody will have come round from work to ask what's happened to me
as well, as they open up at work before seven o'clock."  And so he
set himself to the task of swinging the entire length of his body
out of the bed all at the same time.  If he succeeded in falling out
of bed in this way and kept his head raised as he did so he could
probably avoid injuring it.  His back seemed to be quite hard, and
probably nothing would happen to it falling onto the carpet.  His
main concern was for the loud noise he was bound to make, and which
even through all the doors would probably raise concern if not
alarm.  But it was something that had to be risked.

When Gregor was already sticking half way out of the bed - the new
method was more of a game than an effort, all he had to do was rock
back and forth - it occurred to him how simple everything would be
if somebody came to help him.  Two strong people - he had his father
and the maid in mind - would have been more than enough; they would
only have to push their arms under the dome of his back, peel him
away from the bed, bend down with the load and then be patient and
careful as he swang over onto the floor, where, hopefully, the
little legs would find a use.  Should he really call for help
though, even apart from the fact that all the doors were locked?
Despite all the difficulty he was in, he could not suppress a smile
at this thought.

After a while he had already moved so far across that it would have
been hard for him to keep his balance if he rocked too hard.  The
time was now ten past seven and he would have to make a final
decision very soon.  Then there was a ring at the door of the flat.
"That'll be someone from work", he said to himself, and froze very
still, although his little legs only became all the more lively as
they danced around.  For a moment everything remained quiet.
"They're not opening the door", Gregor said to himself, caught in
some nonsensical hope.  But then of course, the maid's firm steps
went to the door as ever and opened it.  Gregor only needed to hear
the visitor's first words of greeting and he knew who it was - the
chief clerk himself.  Why did Gregor have to be the only one
condemned to work for a company where they immediately became highly
suspicious at the slightest shortcoming? Were all employees, every
one of them, louts, was there not one of them who was faithful and
devoted who would go so mad with pangs of conscience that he
couldn't get out of bed if he didn't spend at least a couple of
hours in the morning on company business? Was it really not enough
to let one of the trainees make enquiries - assuming enquiries were
even necessary - did the chief clerk have to come himself, and did
they have to show the whole, innocent family that this was so
suspicious that only the chief clerk could be trusted to have the
wisdom to investigate it? And more because these thoughts had made
him upset than through any proper decision, he swang himself with
all his force out of the bed.  There was a loud thump, but it wasn't
really a loud noise.  His fall was softened a little by the carpet,
and Gregor's back was also more elastic than he had thought, which
made the sound muffled and not too noticeable.  He had not held his
head carefully enough, though, and hit it as he fell; annoyed and in
pain, he turned it and rubbed it against the carpet.

"Something's fallen down in there", said the chief clerk in the room
on the left.  Gregor tried to imagine whether something of the sort
that had happened to him today could ever happen to the chief clerk
too; you had to concede that it was possible.  But as if in gruff
reply to this question, the chief clerk's firm footsteps in his
highly polished boots could now be heard in the adjoining room.
From the room on his right, Gregor's sister whispered to him to let
him know: "Gregor, the chief clerk is here."  "Yes, I know", said
Gregor to himself; but without daring to raise his voice loud enough
for his sister to hear him.

"Gregor", said his father now from the room to his left, "the chief
clerk has come round and wants to know why you didn't leave on the
early train.  We don't know what to say to him.  And anyway, he
wants to speak to you personally.  So please open up this door.  I'm
sure he'll be good enough to forgive the untidiness of your room."
Then the chief clerk called "Good morning,  Mr. Samsa". "He isn't
well", said his mother to the chief clerk, while his father
continued to speak through the door.  "He isn't well, please believe
me.  Why else would Gregor have missed a train! The lad only ever
thinks about the business.  It nearly makes me cross the way he
never goes out in the evenings; he's been in town for a week now but
stayed home every evening.  He sits with us in the kitchen and just
reads the paper or studies train timetables.  His idea of relaxation
is working with his fretsaw.  He's made a little frame, for
instance, it only took him two or three evenings, you'll be amazed
how nice it is; it's hanging up in his room; you'll see it as soon
as Gregor opens the door.  Anyway, I'm glad you're here; we wouldn't
have been able to get Gregor to open the door by ourselves; he's so
stubborn; and I'm sure he isn't well, he said this morning that he
is, but he isn't."  "I'll be there in a moment", said Gregor slowly
and thoughtfully, but without moving so that he would not miss any
word of the conversation.  "Well I can't think of any other way of
explaining it,  Mrs. Samsa", said the chief clerk, "I hope it's
nothing serious.  But on the other hand, I must say that if we
people in commerce ever become slightly unwell then, fortunately or
unfortunately as you like, we simply have to overcome it because of
business considerations."  "Can the chief clerk come in to see you
now then?", asked his father impatiently, knocking at the door
again.  "No", said Gregor.  In the room on his right there followed
a painful silence; in the room on his left his sister began to cry.

So why did his sister not go and join the others? She had probably
only just got up and had not even begun to get dressed.  And why was
she crying? Was it because he had not got up, and had not let the
chief clerk in, because he was in danger of losing his job and if
that happened his boss would once more pursue their parents with the
same demands as before? There was no need to worry about things like
that yet.  Gregor was still there and had not the slightest
intention of abandoning his family.  For the time being he just lay
there on the carpet, and no-one who knew the condition he was in
would seriously have expected him to let the chief clerk in.  It was
only a minor discourtesy, and a suitable excuse could easily be
found for it later on, it was not something for which Gregor could
be sacked on the spot.  And it seemed to Gregor much more sensible
to leave him now in peace instead of disturbing him with talking at
him and crying.  But the others didn't know what was happening, they
were worried, that would excuse their behaviour.

The chief clerk now raised his voice, "Mr. Samsa", he called to him,
"what is wrong? You barricade yourself in your room, give us no more
than yes or no for an answer, you are causing serious and
unnecessary concern to your parents and you fail - and I mention
this just by the way - you fail to carry out your business duties in
a way that is quite unheard of.  I'm speaking here on behalf of your
parents and of your employer, and really must request a clear and
immediate explanation.  I am astonished, quite astonished.  I
thought I knew you as a calm and sensible person, and now you
suddenly seem to be showing off with peculiar whims.  This morning,
your employer did suggest a possible reason for your failure to
appear, it's true - it had to do with the money that was recently
entrusted to you - but I came near to giving him my word of honour
that that could not be the right explanation.  But now that I see
your incomprehensible stubbornness I no longer feel any wish
whatsoever to intercede on your behalf.  And nor is your position
all that secure.  I had originally intended to say all this to you
in private, but since you cause me to waste my time here for no good
reason I don't see why your parents should not also learn of it.
Your turnover has been very unsatisfactory of late; I grant you that
it's not the time of year to do especially good business, we
recognise that; but there simply is no time of year to do no
business at all,  Mr. Samsa, we cannot allow there to be."

"But Sir", called Gregor, beside himself and forgetting all else in
the excitement, "I'll open up immediately, just a moment.  I'm
slightly unwell, an attack of dizziness, I haven't been able to get
up.  I'm still in bed now.  I'm quite fresh again now, though.  I'm
just getting out of bed.  Just a moment.  Be patient! It's not quite
as easy as I'd thought.  I'm quite alright now, though.  It's
shocking, what can suddenly happen to a person! I was quite alright
last night, my parents know about it, perhaps better than me, I had
a small symptom of it last night already.  They must have noticed
it.  I don't know why I didn't let you know at work! But you always
think you can get over an illness without staying at home.  Please,
don't make my parents suffer! There's no basis for any of the
accusations you're making; nobody's ever said a word to me about any
of these things.  Maybe you haven't read the latest contracts I sent
in.  I'll set off with the eight o'clock train, as well, these few
hours of rest have given me strength.  You don't need to wait, sir;
I'll be in the office soon after you, and please be so good as to
tell that to the boss and recommend me to him!"

And while Gregor gushed out these words, hardly knowing what he was
saying, he made his way over to the chest of drawers - this was
easily done, probably because of the practise he had already had in
bed - where he now tried to get himself upright.  He really did want
to open the door, really did want to let them see him and to speak
with the chief clerk; the others were being so insistent, and he was
curious to learn what they would say when they caught sight of him.
If they were shocked then it would no longer be Gregor's
responsibility and he could rest.  If, however, they took everything
calmly he would still have no reason to be upset, and if he hurried
he really could be at the station for eight o'clock.  The first few
times he tried to climb up on the smooth chest of drawers he just
slid down again, but he finally gave himself one last swing and
stood there upright; the lower part of his body was in serious pain
but he no longer gave any attention to it.  Now he let himself fall
against the back of a nearby chair and held tightly to the edges of
it with his little legs.  By now he had also calmed down, and kept
quiet so that he could listen to what the chief clerk was saying.

"Did you understand a word of all that?" the chief clerk asked his
parents, "surely he's not trying to make fools of us". "Oh, God!"
called his mother, who was already in tears, "he could be seriously
ill and we're making him suffer.  Grete! Grete!" she then cried.
"Mother?" his sister called from the other side.  They communicated
across Gregor's room.  "You'll have to go for the doctor straight
away.  Gregor is ill.  Quick, get the doctor.  Did you hear the way
Gregor spoke just now?"  "That was the voice of an animal", said the
chief clerk, with a calmness that was in contrast with his mother's
screams.  "Anna! Anna!" his father called into the kitchen through
the entrance hall, clapping his hands, "get a locksmith here, now!"
And the two girls, their skirts swishing, immediately ran out
through the hall, wrenching open the front door of the flat as they
went.  How had his sister managed to get dressed so quickly? There
was no sound of the door banging shut again; they must have left it
open;  people often do in homes where something awful has happened.

Gregor, in contrast, had become much calmer.  So they couldn't
understand his words any more, although they seemed clear enough to
him, clearer than before - perhaps his ears had become used to the
sound.  They had realised, though, that there was something wrong
with him, and were ready to help.  The first response to his
situation had been confident and wise, and that made him feel
better.  He felt that he had been drawn back in among people, and
from the doctor and the locksmith he expected great and surprising
achievements - although he did not really distinguish one from the
other.  Whatever was said next would be crucial, so, in order to
make his voice as clear as possible, he coughed a little, but taking
care to do this not too loudly as even this might well sound
different from the way that a human coughs and he was no longer sure
he could judge this for himself.  Meanwhile, it had become very
quiet in the next room.  Perhaps his parents were sat at the table
whispering with the chief clerk, or perhaps they were all pressed
against the door and listening.

Gregor slowly pushed his way over to the door with the chair.  Once
there he let go of it and threw himself onto the door, holding
himself upright against it using the adhesive on the tips of his
legs.  He rested there a little while to recover from the effort
involved and then set himself to the task of turning the key in the
lock with his mouth.  He seemed, unfortunately, to have no proper
teeth - how was he, then, to grasp the key? - but the lack of teeth
was, of course, made up for with a very strong jaw; using the jaw,
he really was able to start the key turning, ignoring the fact that
he must have been causing some kind of damage as a brown fluid came
from his mouth, flowed over the key and dripped onto the floor.
"Listen", said the chief clerk in the next room, "he's turning the
key."  Gregor was greatly encouraged by this; but they all should
have been calling to him, his father and his mother too: "Well done,
Gregor", they should have cried, "keep at it, keep hold of the
lock!"  And with the idea that they were all excitedly following his
efforts, he bit on the key with all his strength, paying no
attention to the pain he was causing himself.  As the key turned
round he turned around the lock with it, only holding himself
upright with his mouth, and hung onto the key or pushed it down
again with the whole weight of his body as needed.  The clear sound
of the lock as it snapped back was Gregor's sign that he could break
his concentration, and as he regained his breath he said to himself:
"So, I didn't need the locksmith after all". Then he lay his head on
the handle of the door to open it completely.

Because he had to open the door in this way, it was already wide
open before he could be seen.  He had first to slowly turn himself
around one of the double doors, and he had to do it very carefully
if he did not want to fall flat on his back before entering the
room.  He was still occupied with this difficult movement, unable to
pay attention to anything else, when he heard the chief clerk
exclaim a loud "Oh!", which sounded like the soughing of the wind.
Now he also saw him - he was the nearest to the door - his hand
pressed against his open mouth and slowly retreating as if driven by
a steady and invisible force.  Gregor's mother, her hair still
dishevelled from bed despite the chief clerk's being there, looked
at his father.  Then she unfolded her arms, took two steps forward
towards Gregor and sank down onto the floor into her skirts that
spread themselves out around her as her head disappeared down onto
her breast.  His father looked hostile, and clenched his fists as if
wanting to knock Gregor back into his room.  Then he looked
uncertainly round the living room, covered his eyes with his hands
and wept so that his powerful chest shook.

So Gregor did not go into the room, but leant against the inside of
the other door which was still held bolted in place.  In this way
only half of his body could be seen, along with his head above it
which he leant over to one side as he peered out at the others.
Meanwhile the day had become much lighter; part of the endless,
grey-black building on the other side of the street - which was a
hospital - could be seen quite clearly with the austere and regular
line of windows piercing its facade; the rain was still
falling, now throwing down large, individual droplets which hit the
ground one at a time.  The washing up from breakfast lay on the
table; there was so much of it because, for Gregor's father,
breakfast was the most important meal of the day and he would
stretch it out for several hours as he sat reading a number of
different newspapers.  On the wall exactly opposite there was
photograph of Gregor when he was a lieutenant in the army, his sword
in his hand and a carefree smile on his face as he called forth
respect for his uniform and bearing.  The door to the entrance hall
was open and as the front door of the flat was also open he could
see onto the landing and the stairs where they began their way down
below.

"Now, then", said Gregor, well aware that he was the only one to
have kept calm, "I'll get dressed straight away now, pack up my
samples and set off.  Will you please just let me leave? You can
see", he said to the chief clerk, "that I'm not stubborn and I
like to do my job; being a commercial traveller is arduous but
without travelling I couldn't earn my living.  So where are you
going, in to the office? Yes? Will you report everything accurately,
then? It's quite possible for someone to be temporarily unable to
work, but that's just the right time to remember what's been
achieved in the past and consider that later on, once the difficulty
has been removed, he will certainly work with all the more diligence
and concentration.  You're well aware that I'm seriously in debt to
our employer as well as having to look after my parents and my
sister, so that I'm trapped in a difficult situation, but I will
work my way out of it again.  Please don't make things any harder
for me than they are already, and don't take sides against me at the
office.  I know that nobody likes the travellers.  They think we
earn an enormous wage as well as having a soft time of it.  That's
just prejudice but they have no particular reason to think better of
it.  But you, sir, you have a better overview than the rest of the
staff, in fact, if I can say this in confidence, a better overview
than the boss himself - it's very easy for a businessman like him to
make mistakes about his employees and judge them more harshly than
he should.  And you're also well aware that we travellers spend
almost the whole year away from the office, so that we can very
easily fall victim to gossip and chance and groundless complaints,
and it's almost impossible to defend yourself from that sort of
thing, we don't usually even hear about them, or if at all it's when
we arrive back home exhausted from a trip, and that's when we feel
the harmful effects of what's been going on without even knowing
what caused them.  Please, don't go away, at least first say
something to show that you grant that I'm at least partly right!"

But the chief clerk had turned away as soon as Gregor had started to
speak, and, with protruding lips, only stared back at him over his
trembling shoulders as he left.  He did not keep still for a moment
while Gregor was speaking, but moved steadily towards the door
without taking his eyes off him.  He moved very gradually, as if
there had been some secret prohibition on leaving the room.  It was
only when he had reached the entrance hall that he made a sudden
movement, drew his foot from the living room, and rushed forward in
a panic.  In the hall, he stretched his right hand far out towards
the stairway as if out there, there were some supernatural force
waiting to save him.

Gregor realised that it was out of the question to let the chief
clerk go away in this mood if his position in the firm was not to be
put into extreme danger.  That was something his parents did not
understand very well; over the years, they had become convinced that
this job would provide for Gregor for his entire life, and besides,
they had so much to worry about at present that they had lost sight
of any thought for the future.  Gregor, though, did think about the
future.  The chief clerk had to be held back, calmed down, convinced
and finally won over; the future of Gregor and his family depended
on it! If only his sister were here! She was clever; she was already
in tears while Gregor was still lying peacefully on his back.  And
the chief clerk was a lover of women, surely she could persuade him;
she would close the front door in the entrance hall and talk him out
of his shocked state.  But his sister was not there, Gregor would
have to do the job himself.  And without considering that he still
was not familiar with how well he could move about in his present
state, or that his speech still might not - or probably would not -
be understood, he let go of the door; pushed himself through the
opening; tried to reach the chief clerk on the landing who,
ridiculously, was holding on to the banister with both hands; but
Gregor fell immediately over and, with a little scream as he sought
something to hold onto, landed on his numerous little legs.  Hardly
had that happened than, for the first time that day, he began to
feel alright with his body; the little legs had the solid ground
under them; to his pleasure, they did exactly as he told them; they
were even making the effort to carry him where he wanted to go; and
he was soon believing that all his sorrows would soon be finally at
an end.  He held back the urge to move but swayed from side to side
as he crouched there on the floor.  His mother was not far away in
front of him and seemed, at first, quite engrossed in herself, but
then she suddenly jumped up with her arms outstretched and her
fingers spread shouting: "Help, for pity's sake, Help!"  The way she
held her head suggested she wanted to see Gregor better, but the
unthinking way she was hurrying backwards showed that she did not;
she had forgotten that the table was behind her with all the
breakfast things on it; when she reached the table she sat quickly
down on it without knowing what she was doing; without even seeming
to notice that the coffee pot had been knocked over and a gush of
coffee was pouring down onto the carpet.

"Mother, mother", said Gregor gently, looking up at her.  He had
completely forgotten the chief clerk for the moment, but could not
help himself snapping in the air with his jaws at the sight of the
flow of coffee.  That set his mother screaming anew, she fled from
the table and into the arms of his father as he rushed towards her.
Gregor, though, had no time to spare for his parents now; the chief
clerk had already reached the stairs; with his chin on the banister,
he looked back for the last time.  Gregor made a run for him; he
wanted to be sure of reaching him; the chief clerk must have
expected something, as he leapt down several steps at once and
disappeared; his shouts resounding all around the staircase.  The
flight of the chief clerk seemed, unfortunately, to put Gregor's
father into a panic as well.  Until then he had been relatively self
controlled, but now, instead of running after the chief clerk
himself, or at least not impeding Gregor as he ran after him,
Gregor's father seized the chief clerk's stick in his right hand
(the chief clerk had left it behind on a chair, along with his hat
and overcoat), picked up a large newspaper from the table with his
left, and used them to drive Gregor back into his room, stamping his
foot at him as he went.  Gregor's appeals to his father were of no
help, his appeals were simply not understood, however much he humbly
turned his head his father merely stamped his foot all the harder.
Across the room, despite the chilly weather, Gregor's mother had
pulled open a window, leant far out of it and pressed her hands to
her face.  A strong draught of air flew in from the street towards
the stairway, the curtains flew up, the newspapers on the table
fluttered and some of them were blown onto the floor.  Nothing would
stop Gregor's father as he drove him back, making hissing noises at
him like a wild man.  Gregor had never had any practice in moving
backwards and was only able to go very slowly.  If Gregor had only
been allowed to turn round he would have been back in his room
straight away, but he was afraid that if he took the time to do that
his father would become impatient, and there was the threat of a
lethal blow to his back or head from the stick in his father's hand
any moment.  Eventually, though, Gregor realised that he had no
choice as he saw, to his disgust, that he was quite incapable of
going backwards in a straight line; so he began, as quickly as
possible and with frequent anxious glances at his father, to turn
himself round.  It went very slowly, but perhaps his father was able
to see his good intentions as he did nothing to hinder him, in fact
now and then he used the tip of his stick to give directions from a
distance as to which way to turn.  If only his father would stop
that unbearable hissing! It was making Gregor quite confused.  When
he had nearly finished turning round, still listening to that
hissing, he made a mistake and turned himself back a little the way
he had just come.  He was pleased when he finally had his head in
front of the doorway, but then saw that it was too narrow, and his
body was too broad to get through it without further difficulty.  In
his present mood, it obviously did not occur to his father to open
the other of the double doors so that Gregor would have enough space
to get through.  He was merely fixed on the idea that Gregor should
be got back into his room as quickly as possible.  Nor would he ever
have allowed Gregor the time to get himself upright as preparation
for getting through the doorway.  What he did, making more noise
than ever, was to drive Gregor forwards all the harder as if there
had been nothing in the way; it sounded to Gregor as if there was
now more than one father behind him; it was not a pleasant
experience, and Gregor pushed himself into the doorway without
regard for what might happen.  One side of his body lifted itself,
he lay at an angle in the doorway, one flank scraped on the white
door and was painfully injured, leaving vile brown flecks on it,
soon he was stuck fast and would not have been able to move at all
by himself, the little legs along one side hung quivering in the air
while those on the other side were pressed painfully against the
ground.  Then his father gave him a hefty shove from behind which
released him from where he was held and sent him flying, and heavily
bleeding, deep into his room.  The door was slammed shut with the
stick, then, finally, all was quiet.



II


It was not until it was getting dark that evening that Gregor awoke
from his deep and coma-like sleep.  He would have woken soon
afterwards anyway even if he hadn't been disturbed, as he had had
enough sleep and felt fully rested.  But he had the impression that
some hurried steps and the sound of the door leading into the front
room being carefully shut had woken him.  The light from the
electric street lamps shone palely here and there onto the ceiling
and tops of the furniture, but down below, where Gregor was, it was
dark.  He pushed himself over to the door, feeling his way clumsily
with his antennae - of which he was now beginning to learn the value
- in order to see what had been happening there.  The whole of his
left side seemed like one, painfully stretched scar,  and he limped
badly on his two rows of legs.  One of the legs had been badly
injured in the events of that morning - it was nearly a miracle that
only one of them had been - and dragged along lifelessly.

It was only when he had reached the door that he realised what it
actually was that had drawn him over to it; it was the smell of
something to eat.  By the door there was a dish filled with
sweetened milk with little pieces of white bread floating in it.  He
was so pleased he almost laughed, as he was even hungrier than he
had been that morning, and immediately dipped his head into the
milk, nearly covering his eyes with it.  But he soon drew his head
back again in disappointment; not only did the pain in his tender
left side make it difficult to eat the food - he was only able to
eat if his whole body worked together as a snuffling whole - but the
milk did not taste at all nice.  Milk like this was normally his
favourite drink, and his sister had certainly left it there for him
because of that, but he turned, almost against his own will, away
from the dish and crawled back into the centre of the room.

Through the crack in the door, Gregor could see that the gas had
been lit in the living room.  His father at this time would normally
be sat with his evening paper, reading it out in a loud voice to
Gregor's mother, and sometimes to his sister, but there was now not
a sound to be heard.  Gregor's sister would often write and tell him
about this reading, but maybe his father had lost the habit in
recent times.  It was so quiet all around too, even though there
must have been somebody in the flat.  "What a quiet life it is the
family lead", said Gregor to himself, and, gazing into the darkness,
felt a great pride that he was able to provide a life like that in
such a nice home for his sister and parents.  But what now, if all
this peace and wealth and comfort should come to a horrible and
frightening end? That was something that Gregor did not want to
think about too much, so he started to move about, crawling up and
down the room.

Once during that long evening, the door on one side of the room was
opened very slightly and hurriedly closed again; later on the door
on the other side did the same; it seemed that someone needed to
enter the room but thought better of it.  Gregor went and waited
immediately by the door, resolved either to bring the timorous
visitor into the room in some way or at least to find out who it
was; but the door was opened no more that night and Gregor waited in
vain.  The previous morning while the doors were locked everyone had
wanted to get in there to him, but now, now that he had opened up
one of the doors and the other had clearly been unlocked some time
during the day, no-one came, and the keys were in the other sides.

It was not until late at night that the gaslight in the living room
was put out, and now it was easy to see that his parents and sister had
stayed awake all that time, as they all could be distinctly heard as
they went away together on tip-toe.  It was clear that no-one would
come into Gregor's room any more until morning; that gave him plenty
of time to think undisturbed about how he would have to re-arrange
his life.  For some reason, the tall, empty room where he was forced
to remain made him feel uneasy as he lay there flat on the floor,
even though he had been living in it for five years.  Hardly aware
of what he was doing other than a slight feeling of shame, he
hurried under the couch.  It pressed down on his back a little, and
he was no longer able to lift his head, but he nonetheless felt
immediately at ease and his only regret was that his body was too
broad to get it all underneath.

He spent the whole night there.  Some of the time he passed in a
light sleep, although he frequently woke from it in alarm because of
his hunger, and some of the time was spent in worries and vague
hopes which, however, always led to the same conclusion: for the
time being he must remain calm, he must show patience and the
greatest consideration so that his family could bear the
unpleasantness that he, in his present condition, was forced to
impose on them.

Gregor soon had the opportunity to test the strength of his
decisions, as early the next morning, almost before the night had
ended, his sister, nearly fully dressed, opened the door from the
front room and looked anxiously in.  She did not see him straight
away, but when she did notice him under the couch - he had to be
somewhere, for God's sake, he couldn't have flown away - she was so
shocked that she lost control of herself and slammed the door shut
again from outside.  But she seemed to regret her behaviour, as she
opened the door again straight away and came in on tip-toe as if
entering the room of someone seriously ill or even of a stranger.
Gregor had pushed his head forward, right to the edge of the couch,
and watched her.  Would she notice that he had left the milk as it
was, realise that it was not from any lack of hunger and bring him
in some other food that was more suitable? If she didn't do it
herself he would rather go hungry than draw her attention to it,
although he did feel a terrible urge to rush forward from under the
couch, throw himself at his sister's feet and beg her for something
good to eat.  However, his sister noticed the full dish immediately
and looked at it and the few drops of milk splashed around it with
some surprise.  She immediately picked it up - using a rag,
not her bare hands - and carried it out.  Gregor was extremely
curious as to what she would bring in its place, imagining the
wildest possibilities, but he never could have guessed what his
sister, in her goodness, actually did bring.  In order to test his
taste, she brought him a whole selection of things, all spread out
on an old newspaper.  There were old, half-rotten vegetables; bones
from the evening meal, covered in white sauce that had gone hard; a
few raisins and almonds; some cheese that Gregor had declared
inedible two days before; a dry roll and some bread spread with
butter and salt.  As well as all that she had poured some water into
the dish, which had probably been permanently set aside for Gregor's
use, and placed it beside them.  Then, out of consideration for
Gregor's feelings, as she knew that he would not eat in front of
her, she hurried out again and even turned the key in the lock so
that Gregor would know he could make things as comfortable for
himself as he liked.  Gregor's little legs whirred, at last he could
eat.  What's more, his injuries must already have completely healed
as he found no difficulty in moving.  This amazed him, as more than
a month earlier he had cut his finger slightly with a knife, he
thought of how his finger had still hurt the day before yesterday.
"Am I less sensitive than I used to be, then?", he thought, and was
already sucking greedily at the cheese which had immediately, almost
compellingly, attracted him much more than the other foods on the
newspaper.  Quickly one after another, his eyes watering with
pleasure, he consumed the cheese, the vegetables and the sauce; the
fresh foods, on the other hand, he didn't like at all, and even
dragged the things he did want to eat a little way away from them
because he couldn't stand the smell.  Long after he had finished
eating and lay lethargic in the same place, his sister slowly turned
the key in the lock as a sign to him that he should withdraw.  He
was immediately startled, although he had been half asleep, and he
hurried back under the couch.  But he needed great self-control to
stay there even for the short time that his sister was in the room,
as eating so much food had rounded out his body a little and he
could hardly breathe in that narrow space.  Half suffocating, he
watched with bulging eyes as his sister unselfconsciously took a
broom and swept up the left-overs, mixing them in with the food he
had not even touched at all as if it could not be used any more.
She quickly dropped it all into a bin, closed it with its wooden
lid, and carried everything out.  She had hardly turned her back
before Gregor came out again from under the couch and stretched
himself.

This was how Gregor received his food each day now, once in the
morning while his parents and the maid were still asleep, and the
second time after everyone had eaten their meal at midday as his
parents would sleep for a little while then as well, and Gregor's
sister would send the maid away on some errand.  Gregor's father and
mother certainly did not want him to starve either, but perhaps it
would have been more than they could stand to have any more
experience of his feeding than being told about it, and perhaps his
sister wanted to spare them what distress she could as they were
indeed suffering enough.

It was impossible for Gregor to find out what they had told the
doctor and the locksmith that first morning to get them out of the
flat.  As nobody could understand him, nobody, not even his sister,
thought that he could understand them, so he had to be content to
hear his sister's sighs and appeals to the saints as she moved about
his room.  It was only later, when she had become a little more used
to everything - there was, of course, no question of her ever
becoming fully used to the situation - that Gregor would sometimes
catch a friendly comment, or at least a comment that could be
construed as friendly.  "He's enjoyed his dinner today", she might
say when he had diligently cleared away all the food left for him,
or if he left most of it, which slowly became more and more
frequent, she would often say, sadly, "now everything's just been
left there again".

Although Gregor wasn't able to hear any news directly he did listen
to much of what was said in the next rooms, and whenever he heard
anyone speaking he would scurry straight to the appropriate door and
press his whole body against it.  There was seldom any conversation,
especially at first, that was not about him in some way, even if
only in secret.  For two whole days, all the talk at every mealtime
was about what they should do now; but even between meals they spoke
about the same subject as there were always at least two members of
the family at home - nobody wanted to be at home by themselves and
it was out of the question to leave the flat entirely empty.  And on
the very first day the maid had fallen to her knees and begged
Gregor's mother to let her go without delay.  It was not very clear
how much she knew of what had happened but she left within a quarter
of an hour, tearfully thanking Gregor's mother for her dismissal as
if she had done her an enormous service.  She even swore
emphatically not to tell anyone the slightest about what had
happened, even though no-one had asked that of her.

Now Gregor's sister also had to help his mother with the cooking;
although that was not so much bother as no-one ate very much.
Gregor often heard how one of them would unsuccessfully urge another
to eat, and receive no more answer than "no thanks, I've had enough"
or something similar.  No-one drank very much either.  His sister
would sometimes ask his father whether he would like a beer, hoping
for the chance to go and fetch it herself.  When his father then
said nothing she would add, so that he would not feel selfish, that
she could send the housekeeper for it, but then his father would
close the matter with a big, loud "No", and no more would be said.

Even before the first day had come to an end, his father had
explained to Gregor's mother and sister what their finances and
prospects were.  Now and then he stood up from the table and took
some receipt or document from the little cash box he had saved from
his business when it had collapsed five years earlier.  Gregor heard
how he opened the complicated lock and then closed it again after he
had taken the item he wanted.  What he heard his father say was some
of the first good news that Gregor heard since he had first been
incarcerated in his room.  He had thought that nothing at all
remained from his father's business, at least he had never told him
anything different, and Gregor had never asked him about it anyway.
Their business misfortune had reduced the family to a state of total
despair, and Gregor's only concern at that time had been to arrange
things so that they could all forget about it as quickly as
possible.  So then he started working especially hard, with a fiery
vigour that raised him from a junior salesman to a travelling
representative almost overnight, bringing with it the chance to earn
money in quite different ways.  Gregor converted his success at work
straight into cash that he could lay on the table at home for the
benefit of his astonished and delighted family.  They had been good
times and they had never come again, at least not with the same
splendour, even though Gregor had later earned so much that he was
in a position to bear the costs of the whole family, and did bear
them.  They had even got used to it, both Gregor and the family,
they took the money with gratitude and he was glad to provide it,
although there was no longer much warm affection given in return.
Gregor only remained close to his sister now.  Unlike him, she was
very fond of music and a gifted and expressive violinist, it was his
secret plan to send her to the conservatory next year even though it
would cause great expense that would have to be made up for in some
other way.  During Gregor's short periods in town, conversation with
his sister would often turn to the conservatory but it was only ever
mentioned as a lovely dream that could never be realised.  Their
parents did not like to hear this innocent talk, but Gregor thought
about it quite hard and decided he would let them know what he
planned with a grand announcement of it on Christmas day.

That was the sort of totally pointless thing that went through his
mind in his present state, pressed upright against the door and
listening.  There were times when he simply became too tired to
continue listening, when his head would fall wearily against the
door and he would pull it up again with a start, as even the
slightest noise he caused would be heard next door and they would
all go silent.  "What's that he's doing now", his father would say
after a while, clearly having gone over to the door, and only then
would the interrupted conversation slowly be taken up again.

When explaining things, his father repeated himself several times,
partly because it was a long time since he had been occupied with
these matters himself and partly because Gregor's mother did not
understand everything the first time.  From these repeated explanations
Gregor learned, to his pleasure, that despite all their misfortunes
there was still some money available from the old days.  It was not
a lot, but it had not been touched in the meantime and some interest
had accumulated.  Besides that, they had not been using up all the
money that Gregor had been bringing home every month, keeping only a
little for himself, so that that, too, had been accumulating.
Behind the door, Gregor nodded with enthusiasm in his pleasure at
this unexpected thrift and caution.  He could actually have used
this surplus money to reduce his father's debt to his boss, and the
day when he could have freed himself from that job would have come
much closer, but now it was certainly better the way his father had
done things.

This money, however, was certainly not enough to enable the family
to live off the interest; it was enough to maintain them for,
perhaps, one or two years, no more.  That's to say, it was money
that should not really be touched but set aside for emergencies;
money to live on had to be earned.  His father was healthy but old,
and lacking in self confidence.  During the five years that he had
not been working - the first holiday in a life that had been full of
strain and no success - he had put on a lot of weight and become
very slow and clumsy.  Would Gregor's elderly mother now have to go
and earn money? She suffered from asthma and it was a strain for her
just to move about the home, every other day would be spent
struggling for breath on the sofa by the open window.  Would his
sister have to go and earn money? She was still a child of
seventeen, her life up till then had been very enviable, consisting
of wearing nice clothes, sleeping late, helping out in the business,
joining in with a few modest pleasures and most of all playing the
violin.  Whenever they began to talk of the need to earn money,
Gregor would always first let go of the door and then throw himself
onto the cool, leather sofa next to it, as he became quite hot with
shame and regret.

He would often lie there the whole night through, not sleeping a
wink but scratching at the leather for hours on end.  Or he might go
to all the effort of pushing a chair to the window, climbing up onto
the sill and, propped up in the chair, leaning on the window to
stare out of it.  He had used to feel a great sense of freedom from
doing this, but doing it now was obviously something more remembered
than experienced,  as what he actually saw in this way was becoming
less distinct every day, even things that were quite near; he had
used to curse the ever-present view of the hospital across the
street, but now he could not see it at all, and if he had not known
that he lived in Charlottenstrasse, which was a quiet street despite
being in the middle of the city, he could have thought that he was
looking out the window at a barren waste where the grey sky and the
grey earth mingled inseparably.  His observant sister only needed to
notice the chair twice before she would always push it back to its
exact position by the window after she had tidied up the room, and
even left the inner pane of the window open from then on.

If Gregor had only been able to speak to his sister and thank her
for all that she had to do for him it would have been easier for him
to bear it; but as it was it caused him pain.  His sister,
naturally, tried as far as possible to pretend there was nothing
burdensome about it, and the longer it went on, of course, the
better she was able to do so, but as time went by Gregor was also
able to see through it all so much better.  It had even become very
unpleasant for him, now, whenever she entered the room.  No sooner
had she come in than she would quickly close the door as a
precaution so that no-one would have to suffer the view into
Gregor's room, then she would go straight to the window and pull it
hurriedly open almost as if she were suffocating.  Even if it was
cold, she would stay at the window breathing deeply for a little
while.  She would alarm Gregor twice a day with this running about
and noise making; he would stay under the couch shivering the whole
while, knowing full well that she would certainly have liked to
spare him this ordeal, but it was impossible for her to be in the
same room with him with the windows closed.

One day, about a month after Gregor's transformation when his sister
no longer had any particular reason to be shocked at his appearance,
she came into the room a little earlier than usual and found him
still staring out the window, motionless, and just where he would be
most horrible.  In itself, his sister's not coming into the room
would have been no surprise for Gregor as it would have been
difficult for her to immediately open the window while he was still
there, but not only did she not come in, she went straight back and
closed the door behind her, a stranger would have thought he had
threatened her and tried to bite her.  Gregor went straight to hide
himself under the couch, of course, but he had to wait until midday
before his sister came back and she seemed much more uneasy than
usual.  It made him realise that she still found his appearance
unbearable and would continue to do so, she probably even had to
overcome the urge to flee when she saw the little bit of him that
protruded from under the couch.  One day, in order to spare her even
this sight, he spent four hours carrying the bedsheet over to the
couch on his back and arranged it so that he was completely covered
and his sister would not be able to see him even if she bent down.
If she did not think this sheet was necessary then all she had to do
was take it off again, as it was clear enough that it was no
pleasure for Gregor to cut himself off so completely.  She left the
sheet where it was.  Gregor even thought he glimpsed a look of
gratitude one time when he carefully looked out from under the sheet
to see how his sister liked the new arrangement.

For the first fourteen days, Gregor's parents could not bring
themselves to come into the room to see him.  He would often hear
them say how they appreciated all the new work his sister was doing
even though, before, they had seen her as a girl who was somewhat
useless and frequently been annoyed with her.  But now the two of
them, father and mother, would often both wait outside the door of
Gregor's room while his sister tidied up in there, and as soon as
she went out again she would have to tell them exactly how
everything looked, what Gregor had eaten, how he had behaved this
time and whether, perhaps, any slight improvement could be seen.
His mother also wanted to go in and visit Gregor relatively soon but
his father and sister at first persuaded her against it.  Gregor
listened very closely to all this, and approved fully.  Later,
though, she had to be held back by force, which made her call out:
"Let me go and see Gregor, he is my unfortunate son! Can't you
understand I have to see him?", and Gregor would think to himself
that maybe it would be better if his mother came in, not every day
of course, but one day a week, perhaps; she could understand
everything much better than his sister who, for all her courage, was
still just a child after all, and really might not have had an
adult's appreciation of the burdensome job she had taken on.

Gregor's wish to see his mother was soon realised.  Out of
consideration for his parents, Gregor wanted to avoid being seen at
the window during the day, the few square meters of the floor did
not give him much room to crawl about, it was hard to just lie
quietly through the night, his food soon stopped giving him any
pleasure at all, and so, to entertain himself, he got into the habit
of crawling up and down the walls and ceiling.  He was especially
fond of hanging from the ceiling; it was quite different from lying
on the floor; he could breathe more freely; his body had a light
swing to it; and up there, relaxed and almost happy, it might happen
that he would surprise even himself by letting go of the ceiling and
landing on the floor with a crash.  But now, of course, he had far
better control of his body than before and, even with a fall as
great as that, caused himself no damage.  Very soon his sister
noticed Gregor's new way of entertaining himself - he had, after
all, left traces of the adhesive from his feet as he crawled about -
and got it into her head to make it as easy as possible for him by
removing the furniture that got in his way, especially the chest of
drawers and the desk.  Now, this was not something that she would be
able to do by herself; she did not dare to ask for help from her
father; the sixteen year old maid had carried on bravely since the
cook had left but she certainly would not have helped in this, she
had even asked to be allowed to keep the kitchen locked at all times
and never to have to open the door unless it was especially
important; so his sister had no choice but to choose some time when
Gregor's father was not there and fetch his mother to help her.  As
she approached the room, Gregor could hear his mother express her
joy, but once at the door she went silent.  First, of course, his
sister came in and looked round to see that everything in the room
was alright; and only then did she let her mother enter.  Gregor had
hurriedly pulled the sheet down lower over the couch and put more
folds into it so that everything really looked as if it had just
been thrown down by chance.  Gregor also refrained, this time, from
spying out from under the sheet; he gave up the chance to see his
mother until later and was simply glad that she had come.  "You can
come in, he can't be seen", said his sister, obviously leading her
in by the hand.  The old chest of drawers was too heavy for a pair
of feeble women to be heaving about, but Gregor listened as they
pushed it from its place, his sister always taking on the heaviest
part of the work for herself and ignoring her mother's warnings that
she would strain herself.  This lasted a very long time.  After
labouring at it for fifteen minutes or more his mother said it would
be better to leave the chest where it was, for one thing it was too
heavy for them to get the job finished before Gregor's father got
home and leaving it in the middle of the room it would be in his way
even more, and for another thing it wasn't even sure that taking the
furniture away would really be any help to him.  She thought just
the opposite; the sight of the bare walls saddened her right to her
heart; and why wouldn't Gregor feel the same way about it, he'd been
used to this furniture in his room for a long time and it would make
him feel abandoned to be in an empty room like that.  Then, quietly,
almost whispering as if wanting Gregor (whose whereabouts she did
not know) to hear not even the tone of her voice, as she was
convinced that he did not understand her words, she added "and by
taking the furniture away, won't it seem like we're showing that
we've given up all hope of improvement and we're abandoning him to
cope for himself? I think it'd be best to leave the room exactly the
way it was before so that when Gregor comes back to us again he'll
find everything unchanged and he'll be able to forget the time in
between all the easier".

Hearing these words from his mother made Gregor realise that the
lack of any direct human communication, along with the monotonous
life led by the family during these two months, must have made him
confused - he could think of no other way of explaining to himself
why he had seriously wanted his room emptied out.  Had he really
wanted to transform his room into a cave, a warm room fitted out
with the nice furniture he had inherited? That would have let him
crawl around unimpeded in any direction, but it would also have let
him quickly forget his past when he had still been human.  He had
come very close to forgetting, and it had only been the voice of his
mother, unheard for so long, that had shaken him out of it.  Nothing
should be removed; everything had to stay; he could not do without
the good influence the furniture had on his condition; and if the
furniture made it difficult for him to crawl about mindlessly that
was not a loss but a great advantage.

His sister, unfortunately, did not agree; she had become used to the
idea, not without reason, that she was Gregor's spokesman to his
parents about the things that concerned him.  This meant that his
mother's advice now was sufficient reason for her to insist on
removing not only the chest of drawers and the desk, as she had
thought at first, but all the furniture apart from the all-important
couch.  It was more than childish perversity, of course, or the
unexpected confidence she had recently acquired, that made her
insist; she had indeed noticed that Gregor needed a lot of room to
crawl about in, whereas the furniture, as far as anyone could see,
was of no use to him at all.  Girls of that age, though, do become
enthusiastic about things and feel they must get their way whenever
they can.  Perhaps this was what tempted Grete to make Gregor's
situation seem even more shocking than it was so that she could do
even more for him.  Grete would probably be the only one who would
dare enter a room dominated by Gregor crawling about the bare walls
by himself.

So she refused to let her mother dissuade her.  Gregor's mother
already looked uneasy in his room, she soon stopped speaking and
helped Gregor's sister to get the chest of drawers out with what
strength she had.  The chest of drawers was something that Gregor
could do without if he had to, but the writing desk had to stay.
Hardly had the two women pushed the chest of drawers, groaning, out
of the room than Gregor poked his head out from under the couch to
see what he could do about it.  He meant to be as careful and
considerate as he could, but, unfortunately, it was his mother who
came back first while Grete in the next room had her arms round the
chest, pushing and pulling at it from side to side by herself
without, of course, moving it an inch.  His mother was not used to
the sight of Gregor, he might have made her ill, so Gregor hurried
backwards to the far end of the couch.  In his startlement, though,
he was not able to prevent the sheet at its front from moving a
little.  It was enough to attract his mother's attention.  She stood
very still, remained there a moment, and then went back out to
Grete.

Gregor kept trying to assure himself that nothing unusual was
happening, it was just a few pieces of furniture being moved after
all, but he soon had to admit that the women going to and fro, their
little calls to each other, the scraping of the furniture on the
floor, all these things made him feel as if he were being assailed
from all sides.  With his head and legs pulled in against him and
his body pressed to the floor, he was forced to admit to himself
that he could not stand all of this much longer.  They were emptying
his room out; taking away everything that was dear to him; they had
already taken out the chest containing his fretsaw and other tools;
now they threatened to remove the writing desk with its place
clearly worn into the floor, the desk where he had done his homework
as a business trainee, at high school, even while he had been at
infant school--he really could not wait any longer to see whether
the two women's intentions were good.  He had nearly forgotten they
were there anyway, as they were now too tired to say anything while
they worked and he could only hear their feet as they stepped
heavily on the floor.

So, while the women were leant against the desk in the other room
catching their breath, he sallied out, changed direction four times
not knowing what he should save first before his attention was
suddenly caught by the picture on the wall - which was already
denuded of everything else that had been on it - of the lady dressed
in copious fur.  He hurried up onto the picture and pressed himself
against its glass, it held him firmly and felt good on his hot
belly.  This picture at least, now totally covered by Gregor, would
certainly be taken away by no-one.  He turned his head to face the
door into the living room so that he could watch the women when they
came back.

They had not allowed themselves a long rest and came back quite
soon; Grete had put her arm around her mother and was nearly
carrying her.  "What shall we take now, then?", said Grete and
looked around.  Her eyes met those of Gregor on the wall.  Perhaps
only because her mother was there, she remained calm, bent her face
to her so that she would not look round and said, albeit hurriedly
and with a tremor in her voice: "Come on, let's go back in the
living room for a while?"  Gregor could see what Grete had in mind,
she wanted to take her mother somewhere safe and then chase him down
from the wall.  Well, she could certainly try it! He sat unyielding
on his picture.  He would rather jump at Grete's face.

But Grete's words had made her mother quite worried, she stepped to
one side, saw the enormous brown patch against the flowers of the
wallpaper, and before she even realised it was Gregor that she saw
screamed: "Oh God, oh God!"  Arms outstretched, she fell onto the
couch as if she had given up everything and stayed there immobile.
"Gregor!" shouted his sister, glowering at him and shaking her fist.
 That was the first word she had spoken to him directly since his
transformation.  She ran into the other room to fetch some kind of
smelling salts to bring her mother out of her faint; Gregor wanted
to help too - he could save his picture later, although he stuck
fast to the glass and had to pull himself off by force; then he,
too, ran into the next room as if he could advise his sister like in
the old days; but he had to just stand behind her doing nothing; she
was looking into various bottles, he startled her when she turned
round; a bottle fell to the ground and broke; a splinter cut
Gregor's face, some kind of caustic medicine splashed all over him;
now, without delaying any longer, Grete took hold of all the bottles
she could and ran with them in to her mother; she slammed the door
shut with her foot.  So now Gregor was shut out from his mother,
who, because of him, might be near to death; he could not open the
door if he did not want to chase his sister away, and she had to
stay with his mother; there was nothing for him to do but wait; and,
oppressed with anxiety and self-reproach, he began to crawl about,
he crawled over everything, walls, furniture, ceiling, and finally
in his confusion as the whole room began to spin around him he fell
down into the middle of the dinner table.

He lay there for a while, numb and immobile, all around him it was
quiet, maybe that was a good sign.  Then there was someone at the
door.  The maid, of course, had locked herself in her kitchen so
that Grete would have to go and answer it.  His father had arrived
home.  "What's happened?" were his first words; Grete's appearance
must have made everything clear to him.  She answered him with
subdued voice, and openly pressed her face into his chest: "Mother's
fainted, but she's better now.  Gregor got out."  "Just as I
expected", said his father, "just as I always said, but you women
wouldn't listen, would you."  It was clear to Gregor that Grete had
not said enough and that his father took it to mean that something
bad had happened, that he was responsible for some act of violence.
That meant Gregor would now have to try to calm his father, as he
did not have the time to explain things to him even if that had been
possible.  So he fled to the door of his room and pressed himself
against it so that his father, when he came in from the hall, could
see straight away that Gregor had the best intentions and would go
back into his room without delay, that it would not be necessary to
drive him back but that they had only to open the door and he would
disappear.

His father, though, was not in the mood to notice subtleties like
that; "Ah!", he shouted as he came in, sounding as if he were both
angry and glad at the same time.  Gregor drew his head back from the
door and lifted it towards his father.  He really had not imagined
his father the way he stood there now; of late, with his new habit
of crawling about, he had neglected to pay attention to what was
going on the rest of the flat the way he had done before.  He really
ought to have expected things to have changed, but still, still, was
that really his father? The same tired man as used to be laying
there entombed in his bed when Gregor came back from his business
trips, who would receive him sitting in the armchair in his
nightgown when he came back in the evenings; who was hardly even
able to stand up but, as a sign of his pleasure, would just raise
his arms and who, on the couple of times a year when they went for a
walk together on a Sunday or public holiday wrapped up tightly in
his overcoat between Gregor and his mother, would always labour his
way forward a little more slowly than them, who were already walking
slowly for his sake; who would place his stick down carefully and,
if he wanted to say something would invariably stop and gather his
companions around him.  He was standing up straight enough now;
dressed in a smart blue uniform with gold buttons, the sort worn by
the employees at the banking institute; above the high, stiff collar
of the coat his strong double-chin emerged; under the bushy
eyebrows, his piercing, dark eyes looked out fresh and alert; his
normally unkempt white hair was combed down painfully close to his
scalp.  He took his cap, with its gold monogram from, probably, some
bank, and threw it in an arc right across the room onto the sofa,
put his hands in his trouser pockets, pushing back the bottom of his
long uniform coat, and, with look of determination, walked towards
Gregor.  He probably did not even know himself what he had in mind,
but nonetheless lifted his feet unusually high.  Gregor was amazed
at the enormous size of the soles of his boots, but wasted no time
with that - he knew full well, right from the first day of his new
life, that his father thought it necessary to always be extremely
strict with him.  And so he ran up to his father, stopped when his
father stopped, scurried forwards again when he moved, even
slightly.  In this way they went round the room several times
without anything decisive happening, without even giving the
impression of a chase as everything went so slowly.  Gregor remained
all this time on the floor, largely because he feared his father
might see it as especially provoking if he fled onto the wall or
ceiling.  Whatever he did, Gregor had to admit that he certainly
would not be able to keep up this running about for long, as for
each step his father took he had to carry out countless movements.
He became noticeably short of breath, even in his earlier life his
lungs had not been very reliable.  Now, as he lurched about in his
efforts to muster all the strength he could for running he could
hardly keep his eyes open; his thoughts became too slow for him to
think of any other way of saving himself than running; he almost
forgot that the walls were there for him to use although, here, they
were concealed behind carefully carved furniture full of notches and
protrusions - then, right beside him, lightly tossed, something flew
down and rolled in front of him.  It was an apple; then another one
immediately flew at him; Gregor froze in shock; there was no longer
any point in running as his father had decided to bombard him.  He
had filled his pockets with fruit from the bowl on the sideboard and
now, without even taking the time for careful aim, threw one apple
after another.  These little, red apples rolled about on the floor,
knocking into each other as if they had electric motors.  An apple
thrown without much force glanced against Gregor's back and slid off
without doing any harm.  Another one however, immediately following
it, hit squarely and lodged in his back; Gregor wanted to drag
himself away, as if he could remove the surprising, the incredible
pain by changing his position; but he felt as if nailed to the spot
and spread himself out, all his senses in confusion.  The last thing
he saw was the door of his room being pulled open, his sister was
screaming, his mother ran out in front of her in her blouse (as his
sister had taken off some of her clothes after she had fainted to
make it easier for her to breathe), she ran to his father, her
skirts unfastened and sliding one after another to the ground,
stumbling over the skirts she pushed herself to his father, her arms
around him, uniting herself with him totally - now Gregor lost his
ability to see anything - her hands behind his father's head begging
him to spare Gregor's life.



III


No-one dared to remove the apple lodged in Gregor's flesh, so it
remained there as a visible reminder of his injury.  He had suffered
it there for more than a month, and his condition seemed serious
enough to remind even his father that Gregor, despite his current
sad and revolting form, was a family member who could not be treated
as an enemy.  On the contrary, as a family there was a duty to
swallow any revulsion for him and to be patient, just to be patient.

Because of his injuries, Gregor had lost much of his mobility -
probably permanently.  He had been reduced to the condition of an
ancient invalid and it took him long, long minutes to crawl across
his room - crawling over the ceiling was out of the question - but
this deterioration in his condition was fully (in his opinion) made
up for by the door to the living room being left open every evening.
 He got into the habit of closely watching it for one or two hours
before it was opened and then, lying in the darkness of his room
where he could not be seen from the living room, he could watch the
family in the light of the dinner table and listen to their
conversation - with everyone's permission, in a way, and thus quite
differently from before.

They no longer held the lively conversations of earlier times, of
course, the ones that Gregor always thought about with longing when
he was tired and getting into the damp bed in some small hotel room.
 All of them were usually very quiet nowadays.  Soon after dinner,
his father would go to sleep in his chair; his mother and sister
would urge each other to be quiet; his mother, bent deeply under the
lamp, would sew fancy underwear for a fashion shop; his sister, who
had taken a sales job, learned shorthand and French in the evenings
so that she might be able to get a better position later on.
Sometimes his father would wake up and say to Gregor's mother
"you're doing so much sewing again today!", as if he did not know
that he had been dozing - and then he would go back to sleep again
while mother and sister would exchange a tired grin.

With a kind of stubbornness, Gregor's father refused to take his
uniform off even at home; while his nightgown hung unused on its peg
Gregor's father would slumber where he was, fully dressed, as if
always ready to serve and expecting to hear the voice of his
superior even here.  The uniform had not been new to start with, but
as a result of this it slowly became even shabbier despite the
efforts of Gregor's mother and sister to look after it.  Gregor
would often spend the whole evening looking at all the stains on
this coat, with its gold buttons always kept polished and shiny,
while the old man in it would sleep, highly uncomfortable but
peaceful.

As soon as it struck ten, Gregor's mother would speak gently to his
father to wake him and try to persuade him to go to bed, as he
couldn't sleep properly where he was and he really had to get his
sleep if he was to be up at six to get to work.  But since he had
been in work he had become more obstinate and would always insist on
staying longer at the table, even though he regularly fell asleep
and it was then harder than ever to persuade him to exchange the
chair for his bed.  Then, however much mother and sister would
importune him with little reproaches and warnings he would keep
slowly shaking his head for a quarter of an hour with his eyes
closed and refusing to get up.  Gregor's mother would tug at his
sleeve, whisper endearments into his ear, Gregor's sister would
leave her work to help her mother, but nothing would have any effect
on him.  He would just sink deeper into his chair.  Only when the
two women took him under the arms he would abruptly open his eyes,
look at them one after the other and say: "What a life! This is what
peace I get in my old age!"  And supported by the two women he would
lift himself up carefully as if he were carrying the greatest load
himself, let the women take him to the door, send them off and carry
on by himself while Gregor's mother would throw down her needle and
his sister her pen so that they could run after his father and
continue being of help to him.

Who, in this tired and overworked family, would have had time to
give more attention to Gregor than was absolutely necessary? The
household budget became even smaller; so now the maid was dismissed;
an enormous, thick-boned charwoman with white hair that flapped
around her head came every morning and evening to do the heaviest
work; everything else was looked after by Gregor's mother on top of
the large amount of sewing work she did.  Gregor even learned,
listening to the evening conversation about what price they had
hoped for, that several items of jewellery belonging to the family
had been sold, even though both mother and sister had been very fond
of wearing them at functions and celebrations.  But the loudest
complaint was that although the flat was much too big for their
present circumstances, they could not move out of it, there was no
imaginable way of transferring Gregor to the new address.  He could
see quite well, though, that there were more reasons than
consideration for him that made it difficult for them to move, it
would have been quite easy to transport him in any suitable crate
with a few air holes in it; the main thing holding the family back
from their decision to move was much more to do with their total
despair, and the thought that they had been struck with a misfortune
unlike anything experienced by anyone else they knew or were related
to.  They carried out absolutely everything that the world expects
from poor people, Gregor's father brought bank employees their
breakfast, his mother sacrificed herself by washing clothes for
strangers, his sister ran back and forth behind her desk at the
behest of the customers, but they just did not have the strength to
do any more.  And the injury in Gregor's back began to hurt as much
as when it was new.  After they had come back from taking his father
to bed Gregor's mother and sister would now leave their work where
it was and sit close together, cheek to cheek; his mother would
point to Gregor's room and say "Close that door, Grete", and then,
when he was in the dark again, they would sit in the next room and
their tears would mingle, or they would simply sit there staring
dry-eyed at the table.

Gregor hardly slept at all, either night or day.  Sometimes he would
think of taking over the family's affairs, just like before, the
next time the door was opened; he had long forgotten about his boss
and the chief clerk, but they would appear again in his thoughts,
the salesmen and the apprentices, that stupid teaboy, two or three
friends from other businesses, one of the chambermaids from a
provincial hotel, a tender memory that appeared and disappeared
again, a cashier from a hat shop for whom his attention had been
serious but too slow, - all of them appeared to him, mixed together
with strangers and others he had forgotten, but instead of helping
him and his family they were all of them inaccessible, and he was
glad when they disappeared.  Other times he was not at all in the
mood to look after his family, he was filled with simple rage about
the lack of attention he was shown, and although he could think of
nothing he would have wanted, he made plans of how he could get into
the pantry where he could take all the things he was entitled to,
even if he was not hungry.  Gregor's sister no longer thought about
how she could please him but would hurriedly push some food or other
into his room with her foot before she rushed out to work in the
morning and at midday, and in the evening she would sweep it away
again with the broom, indifferent as to whether it had been eaten or
- more often than not - had been left totally untouched.  She still
cleared up the room in the evening, but now she could not have been
any quicker about it.  Smears of dirt were left on the walls, here
and there were little balls of dust and filth.  At first, Gregor
went into one of the worst of these places when his sister arrived
as a reproach to her, but he could have stayed there for weeks
without his sister doing anything about it; she could see the dirt
as well as he could but she had simply decided to leave him to it.
At the same time she became touchy in a way that was quite new for
her and which everyone in the family understood - cleaning up
Gregor's room was for her and her alone.  Gregor's mother did once
thoroughly clean his room, and needed to use several bucketfuls of
water to do it - although that much dampness also made Gregor ill
and he lay flat on the couch, bitter and immobile.  But his mother
was to be punished still more for what she had done, as hardly had
his sister arrived home in the evening than she noticed the change
in Gregor's room and, highly aggrieved, ran back into the living
room where, despite her mothers raised and imploring hands, she
broke into convulsive tears.  Her father, of course, was startled
out of his chair and the two parents looked on astonished and
helpless; then they, too, became agitated; Gregor's father, standing
to the right of his mother, accused her of not leaving the cleaning
of Gregor's room to his sister; from her left, Gregor's sister
screamed at her that she was never to clean Gregor's room again;
while his mother tried to draw his father, who was beside himself
with anger, into the bedroom; his sister, quaking with tears,
thumped on the table with her small fists; and Gregor hissed in
anger that no-one had even thought of closing the door to save him
the sight of this and all its noise.

Gregor's sister was exhausted from going out to work, and looking
after Gregor as she had done before was even more work for her, but
even so his mother ought certainly not to have taken her place.
Gregor, on the other hand, ought not to be neglected.  Now, though,
the charwoman was here.  This elderly widow, with a robust bone
structure that made her able to withstand the hardest of things in
her long life, wasn't really repelled by Gregor.  Just by chance one
day, rather than any real curiosity, she opened the door to Gregor's
room and found herself face to face with him.  He was taken totally
by surprise, no-one was chasing him but he began to rush to and fro
while she just stood there in amazement with her hands crossed in
front of her.  From then on she never failed to open the door
slightly every evening and morning and look briefly in on him.  At
first she would call to him as she did so with words that she
probably considered friendly, such as "come on then, you old
dung-beetle!", or "look at the old dung-beetle there!"  Gregor never
responded to being spoken to in that way, but just remained where he
was without moving as if the door had never even been opened.  If
only they had told this charwoman to clean up his room every day
instead of letting her disturb him for no reason whenever she felt
like it! One day, early in the morning while a heavy rain struck the
windowpanes, perhaps indicating that spring was coming, she began to
speak to him in that way once again.  Gregor was so resentful of it
that he started to move toward her, he was slow and infirm, but it
was like a kind of attack.  Instead of being afraid, the charwoman
just lifted up one of the chairs from near the door and stood there
with her mouth open, clearly intending not to close her mouth until
the chair in her hand had been slammed down into Gregor's back.
"Aren't you coming any closer, then?", she asked when Gregor turned
round again, and she calmly put the chair back in the corner.

Gregor had almost entirely stopped eating.  Only if he happened to
find himself next to the food that had been prepared for him he
might take some of it into his mouth to play with it, leave it there
a few hours and then, more often than not, spit it out again.  At
first he thought it was distress at the state of his room that
stopped him eating, but he had soon got used to the changes made
there.  They had got into the habit of putting things into this room
that they had no room for anywhere else, and there were now many
such things as one of the rooms in the flat had been rented out to
three gentlemen.  These earnest gentlemen - all three of them had
full beards, as Gregor learned peering through the crack in the door
one day - were painfully insistent on things' being tidy.  This
meant not only in their own room but, since they had taken a room in
this establishment, in the entire flat and especially in the
kitchen.  Unnecessary clutter was something they could not tolerate,
especially if it was dirty.  They had moreover brought most of their
own furnishings and equipment with them.  For this reason, many
things had become superfluous which, although they could not be
sold, the family did not wish to discard.  All these things found
their way into Gregor's room.  The dustbins from the kitchen found
their way in there too.  The charwoman was always in a hurry, and
anything she couldn't use for the time being she would just chuck in
there.  He, fortunately, would usually see no more than the object
and the hand that held it.  The woman most likely meant to fetch the
things back out again when she had time and the opportunity, or to
throw everything out in one go, but what actually happened was that
they were left where they landed when they had first been thrown
unless Gregor made his way through the junk and moved it somewhere
else.  At first he moved it because, with no other room free where
he could crawl about, he was forced to, but later on he came to
enjoy it although moving about in that way left him sad and tired to
death and he would remain immobile for hours afterwards.

The gentlemen who rented the room would sometimes take their evening
meal at home in the living room that was used by everyone, and so
the door to this room was often kept closed in the evening.  But
Gregor found it easy to give up having the door open, he had, after
all, often failed to make use of it when it was open and, without
the family having noticed it, lain in his room in its darkest
corner.  One time, though, the charwoman left the door to the living
room slightly open, and it remained open when the gentlemen who
rented the room came in in the evening and the light was put on.
They sat up at the table where, formerly, Gregor had taken his meals
with his father and mother, they unfolded the serviettes and picked
up their knives and forks.  Gregor's mother immediately appeared in
the doorway with a dish of meat and soon behind her came his sister
with a dish piled high with potatoes.  The food was steaming, and
filled the room with its smell.  The gentlemen bent over the dishes
set in front of them as if they wanted to test the food before
eating it, and the gentleman in the middle, who seemed to count as
an authority for the other two, did indeed cut off a piece of meat
while it was still in its dish, clearly wishing to establish whether
it was sufficiently cooked or whether it should be sent back to the
kitchen.  It was to his satisfaction, and Gregor's mother and
sister, who had been looking on anxiously, began to breathe again
and smiled.

The family themselves ate in the kitchen.  Nonetheless, Gregor's
father came into the living room before he went into the kitchen,
bowed once with his cap in his hand and did his round of the table.
The gentlemen stood as one, and mumbled something into their beards.
 Then, once they were alone, they ate in near perfect silence.  It
seemed remarkable to Gregor that above all the various noises of
eating their chewing teeth could still be heard, as if they had
wanted to show Gregor that you need teeth in order to eat and it was
not possible to perform anything with jaws that are toothless
however nice they might be.  "I'd like to eat something", said
Gregor anxiously, "but not anything like they're eating.  They do
feed themselves.  And here I am, dying!"

Throughout all this time, Gregor could not remember having heard the
violin being played, but this evening it began to be heard from the
kitchen.  The three gentlemen had already finished their meal, the
one in the middle had produced a newspaper, given a page to each of
the others, and now they leant back in their chairs reading them and
smoking.  When the violin began playing they became attentive, stood
up and went on tip-toe over to the door of the hallway where they
stood pressed against each other.  Someone must have heard them in
the kitchen, as Gregor's father called out: "Is the playing perhaps
unpleasant for the gentlemen? We can stop it straight away."  "On
the contrary", said the middle gentleman, "would the young lady not
like to come in and play for us here in the room, where it is, after
all, much more cosy and comfortable?"  "Oh yes, we'd love to",
called back Gregor's father as if he had been the violin player
himself.  The gentlemen stepped back into the room and waited.
Gregor's father soon appeared with the music stand, his mother with
the music and his sister with the violin.  She calmly prepared
everything for her to begin playing; his parents, who had never
rented a room out before and therefore showed an exaggerated
courtesy towards the three gentlemen, did not even dare to sit on
their own chairs; his father leant against the door with his right
hand pushed in between two buttons on his uniform coat; his mother,
though, was offered a seat by one of the gentlemen and sat - leaving
the chair where the gentleman happened to have placed it - out of
the way in a corner.

His sister began to play; father and mother paid close attention,
one on each side, to the movements of her hands.  Drawn in by the
playing, Gregor had dared to come forward a little and already had
his head in the living room.  Before, he had taken great pride in
how considerate he was but now it hardly occurred to him that he had
become so thoughtless about the others.  What's more, there was now
all the more reason to keep himself hidden as he was covered in the
dust that lay everywhere in his room and flew up at the slightest
movement; he carried threads, hairs, and remains of food about on
his back and sides; he was much too indifferent to everything now to
lay on his back and wipe himself on the carpet like he had used to
do several times a day.  And despite this condition, he was not too
shy to move forward a little onto the immaculate floor of the living
room.

No-one noticed him, though.  The family was totally preoccupied with
the violin playing; at first, the three gentlemen had put their
hands in their pockets and come up far too close behind the music
stand to look at all the notes being played, and they must have
disturbed Gregor's sister, but soon, in contrast with the family,
they  withdrew back to the window with their heads sunk and talking
to each other at half volume, and they stayed by the window while
Gregor's father observed them anxiously.  It really now seemed very
obvious that they had expected to hear some beautiful or
entertaining violin playing but had been disappointed, that they had
had enough of the whole performance and it was only now out of
politeness that they allowed their peace to be disturbed.  It was
especially unnerving, the way they all blew the smoke from their
cigarettes upwards from their mouth and noses.  Yet Gregor's sister
was playing so beautifully.  Her face was leant to one side,
following the lines of music with a careful and melancholy
expression.  Gregor crawled a little further forward, keeping his
head close to the ground so that he could meet her eyes if the
chance came.  Was he an animal if music could captivate him so? It
seemed to him that he was being shown the way to the unknown
nourishment he had been yearning for.  He was determined to make his
way forward to his sister and tug at her skirt to show her she might
come into his room with her violin, as no-one appreciated her
playing here as much as he would.  He never wanted to let her out of
his room, not while he lived, anyway; his shocking appearance
should, for once, be of some use to him; he wanted to be at every
door of his room at once to hiss and spit at the attackers; his
sister should not be forced to stay with him, though, but stay of
her own free will; she would sit beside him on the couch with her
ear bent down to him while he told her how he had always intended to
send her to the conservatory, how he would have told everyone about
it last Christmas - had Christmas really come and gone already? - if
this misfortune hadn't got in the way, and refuse to let anyone
dissuade him from it.  On hearing all this, his sister would break
out in tears of emotion, and Gregor would climb up to her shoulder
and kiss her neck, which, since she had been going out to work, she
had kept free without any necklace or collar.

"Mr. Samsa!", shouted the middle gentleman to Gregor's father,
pointing, without wasting any more words, with his forefinger at
Gregor as he slowly moved forward.  The violin went silent, the
middle of the three gentlemen first smiled at his two friends,
shaking his head, and then looked back at Gregor.  His father seemed
to think it more important to calm the three gentlemen before
driving Gregor out, even though they were not at all upset and
seemed to think Gregor was more entertaining than the violin playing
had been.  He rushed up to them with his arms spread out and
attempted to drive them back into their room at the same time as
trying to block their view of Gregor with his body.  Now they did
become a little annoyed, and it was not clear whether it was his
father's behaviour that annoyed them or the dawning realisation that
they had had a neighbour like Gregor in the next room without
knowing it.  They asked Gregor's father for explanations, raised
their arms like he had, tugged excitedly at their beards and moved
back towards their room only very slowly.  Meanwhile Gregor's sister
had overcome the despair she had fallen into when her playing was
suddenly interrupted.  She had let her hands drop and let violin and
bow hang limply for a while but continued to look at the music as if
still playing, but then she suddenly pulled herself together, lay
the instrument on her mother's lap who still sat laboriously
struggling for breath where she was, and ran into the next room
which, under pressure from her father, the three gentlemen were more
quickly moving toward.  Under his sister's experienced hand, the
pillows and covers on the beds flew up and were put into order and
she had already finished making the beds and slipped out again
before the three gentlemen had reached the room.  Gregor's father
seemed so obsessed with what he was doing that he forgot all the
respect he owed to his tenants.  He urged them and pressed them
until, when he was already at the door of the room, the middle of
the three gentlemen shouted like thunder and stamped his foot and
thereby brought Gregor's father to a halt.  "I declare here and
now", he said, raising his hand and glancing at Gregor's mother and
sister to gain their attention too, "that with regard to the
repugnant conditions that prevail in this flat and with this family"
- here he looked briefly but decisively at the floor - "I give
immediate notice on my room.  For the days that I have been living
here I will, of course, pay nothing at all, on the contrary I will
consider whether to proceed with some kind of action for damages
from you, and believe me it would be very easy to set out the
grounds for such an action."  He was silent and looked straight
ahead as if waiting for something.  And indeed, his two friends
joined in with the words: "And we also give immediate notice."  With
that, he took hold of the door handle and slammed the door.

Gregor's father staggered back to his seat, feeling his way with his
hands, and fell into it; it looked as if he was stretching himself
out for his usual evening nap but from the uncontrolled way his head
kept nodding it could be seen that he was not sleeping at all.
Throughout all this, Gregor had lain still where the three gentlemen
had first seen him.  His disappointment at the failure of his plan,
and perhaps also because he was weak from hunger, made it impossible
for him to move.  He was sure that everyone would turn on him any
moment, and he waited.  He was not even startled out of this state
when the violin on his mother's lap fell from her trembling fingers
and landed loudly on the floor.

"Father, Mother", said his sister, hitting the table with her hand
as introduction, "we can't carry on like this.  Maybe you can't see
it, but I can.  I don't want to call this monster my brother, all I
can say is: we have to try and get rid of it.  We've done all that's
humanly possible to look after it and be patient, I don't think
anyone could accuse us of doing anything wrong."

"She's absolutely right", said Gregor's father to himself.  His
mother, who still had not had time to catch her breath, began to
cough dully, her hand held out in front of her and a deranged
expression in her eyes.

Gregor's sister rushed to his mother and put her hand on her
forehead.  Her words seemed to give Gregor's father some more
definite ideas.  He sat upright, played with his uniform cap between
the plates left by the three gentlemen after their meal, and
occasionally looked down at Gregor as he lay there immobile.

"We have to try and get rid of it", said Gregor's sister, now
speaking only to her father, as her mother was too occupied with
coughing to listen, "it'll be the death of both of you, I can see it
coming.  We can't all work as hard as we have to and then come home
to be tortured like this, we can't endure it.  I can't endure it any
more."  And she broke out so heavily in tears that they flowed down
the face of her mother, and she wiped them away with mechanical hand
movements.

"My child", said her father with sympathy and obvious understanding,
"what are we to do?"

His sister just shrugged her shoulders as a sign of the helplessness
and tears that had taken hold of her, displacing her earlier
certainty.

"If he could just understand us", said his father almost as a
question; his sister shook her hand vigorously through her tears as
a sign that of that there was no question.

"If he could just understand us", repeated Gregor's father, closing
his eyes in acceptance of his sister's certainty that that was quite
impossible, "then perhaps we could come to some kind of arrangement
with him.  But as it is ..."

"It's got to go", shouted his sister, "that's the only way, Father.
You've got to get rid of the idea that that's Gregor.  We've only
harmed ourselves by believing it for so long.  How can that be
Gregor? If it were Gregor he would have seen long ago that it's not
possible for human beings to live with an animal like that and he
would have gone of his own free will.  We wouldn't have a brother
any more, then, but we could carry on with our lives and remember
him with respect.  As it is this animal is persecuting us, it's
driven out our tenants, it obviously wants to take over the whole
flat and force us to sleep on the streets.  Father, look, just
look", she suddenly screamed, "he's starting again!"   In her alarm,
which was totally beyond Gregor's comprehension, his sister even
abandoned his mother as she pushed herself vigorously out of her
chair as if more willing to sacrifice her own mother than stay
anywhere near Gregor.  She rushed over to behind her father, who had
become excited merely because she was and stood up half raising his
hands in front of Gregor's sister as if to protect her.

But Gregor had had no intention of frightening anyone, least of all
his sister.  All he had done was begin to turn round so that he
could go back into his room, although that was in itself quite
startling as his pain-wracked condition meant that turning round
required a great deal of effort and he was using his head to help
himself do it, repeatedly raising it and striking it against the
floor.  He stopped and looked round.  They seemed to have realised
his good intention and had only been alarmed briefly.  Now they all
looked at him in unhappy silence.  His mother lay in her chair with
her legs stretched out and pressed against each other, her eyes
nearly closed with exhaustion; his sister sat next to his father
with her arms around his neck.

"Maybe now they'll let me turn round", thought Gregor and went back
to work.  He could not help panting loudly with the effort and had
sometimes to stop and take a rest.  No-one was making him rush any
more, everything was left up to him.  As soon as he had finally
finished turning round he began to move straight ahead.  He was
amazed at the great distance that separated him from his room, and
could not understand how he had covered that distance in his weak
state a little while before and almost without noticing it.  He
concentrated on crawling as fast as he could and hardly noticed that
there was not a word, not any cry, from his family to distract him.
He did not turn his head until he had reached the doorway.  He did
not turn it all the way round as he felt his neck becoming stiff,
but it was nonetheless enough to see that nothing behind him had
changed, only his sister had stood up.  With his last glance he saw
that his mother had now fallen completely asleep.

He was hardly inside his room before the door was hurriedly shut,
bolted and locked.  The sudden noise behind Gregor so startled him
that his little legs collapsed under him.  It was his sister who had
been in so much of a rush.  She had been standing there waiting and
sprung forward lightly, Gregor had not heard her coming at all, and
as she turned the key in the lock she said loudly to her parents "At
last!".

"What now, then?", Gregor asked himself as he looked round in the
darkness.  He soon made the discovery that he could no longer move
at all.  This was no surprise to him, it seemed rather that being
able to actually move around on those spindly little legs until then
was unnatural.  He also felt relatively comfortable.  It is true
that his entire body was aching, but the pain seemed to be slowly
getting weaker and weaker and would finally disappear altogether.
He could already hardly feel the decayed apple in his back or the
inflamed area around it, which was entirely covered in white dust.
He thought back of his family with emotion and love.  If it was
possible, he felt that he must go away even more strongly than his
sister.  He remained in this state of empty and peaceful rumination
until he heard the clock tower strike three in the morning.  He
watched as it slowly began to get light everywhere outside the
window too.  Then, without his willing it, his head sank down
completely, and his last breath flowed weakly from his nostrils.

When the cleaner came in early in the morning - they'd often asked
her not to keep slamming the doors but with her strength and in her
hurry she still did, so that everyone in the flat knew when she'd
arrived and from then on it was impossible to sleep in peace - she
made her usual brief look in on Gregor and at first found nothing
special.  She thought he was laying there so still on purpose,
playing the martyr; she attributed all possible understanding to
him.  She happened to be holding the long broom in her hand, so she
tried to tickle Gregor with it from the doorway.  When she had no
success with that she tried to make a nuisance of herself and poked
at him a little, and only when she found she could shove him across
the floor with no resistance at all did she start to pay attention.
She soon realised what had really happened, opened her eyes wide,
whistled to herself, but did not waste time to yank open the bedroom
doors and shout loudly into the darkness of the bedrooms: "Come and
'ave a look at this, it's dead, just lying there, stone dead!"

Mr. and  Mrs. Samsa sat upright there in their marriage bed and had
to make an effort to get over the shock caused by the cleaner before
they could grasp what she was saying.  But then, each from his own
side, they hurried out of bed.  Mr. Samsa threw the blanket over his
shoulders,  Mrs. Samsa just came out in her nightdress; and that is
how they went into Gregor's room.  On the way they opened the door
to the living room where Grete had been sleeping since the three
gentlemen had moved in; she was fully dressed as if she had never
been asleep, and the paleness of her face seemed to confirm this.
"Dead?", asked  Mrs. Samsa, looking at the charwoman enquiringly,
even though she could have checked for herself and could have known
it even without checking.  "That's what I said",  replied the
cleaner, and to prove it she gave Gregor's body another shove with
the broom, sending it sideways across the floor.  Mrs. Samsa made a
movement as if she wanted to hold back the broom, but did not
complete it.  "Now then", said  Mr. Samsa, "let's give thanks to God
for that". He crossed himself, and the three women followed his
example.  Grete, who had not taken her eyes from the corpse, said:
"Just look how thin he was.  He didn't eat anything for so long.
The food came out again just the same as when it went in". Gregor's
body was indeed completely dried up and flat, they had not seen it
until then, but now he was not lifted up on his little legs, nor did
he do anything to make them look away.

"Grete, come with us in here for a little while", said  Mrs. Samsa
with a pained smile, and Grete followed her parents into the bedroom
but not without looking back at the body.  The cleaner shut the door
and opened the window wide.  Although it was still early in the
morning the fresh air had something of warmth mixed in with it.  It
was already the end of March, after all.

The three gentlemen stepped out of their room and looked round in
amazement for their breakfasts;  they had been forgotten about.
"Where is our breakfast?", the middle gentleman asked the cleaner
irritably.  She just put her finger on her lips and made a quick and
silent sign to the men that they might like to come into Gregor's
room.  They did so, and stood around Gregor's corpse with their
hands in the pockets of their well-worn coats. It was now quite
light in the room.

Then the door of the bedroom opened and  Mr. Samsa appeared in his
uniform with his wife on one arm and his daughter on the other.  All
of them had been crying a little; Grete now and then pressed her
face against her father's arm.

"Leave my home.  Now!", said  Mr. Samsa, indicating the door and
without letting the women from him.  "What do you mean?", asked the
middle of the three gentlemen somewhat disconcerted, and he smiled
sweetly.  The other two held their hands behind their backs and
continually rubbed them together in gleeful anticipation of a loud
quarrel which could only end in their favour.  "I mean just what I
said", answered  Mr. Samsa, and, with his two companions, went in a
straight line towards the man.  At first, he stood there still,
looking at the ground as if the contents of his head were
rearranging themselves into new positions.  "Alright, we'll go
then", he said, and looked up at  Mr. Samsa as if he had been
suddenly overcome with humility and wanted permission again from
Mr. Samsa for his decision.  Mr. Samsa merely opened his eyes wide
and briefly nodded to him several times.  At that, and without
delay, the man actually did take long strides into the front
hallway; his two friends had stopped rubbing their hands some time
before and had been listening to what was being said.  Now they
jumped off after their friend as if taken with a sudden fear that
Mr. Samsa might go into the hallway in front of them and break the
connection with their leader.  Once there, all three took their hats
from the stand, took their sticks from the holder, bowed without a
word and left the premises.  Mr. Samsa and the two women followed
them out onto the landing; but they had had no reason to mistrust
the men's intentions and as they leaned over the landing they saw how
the three gentlemen made slow but steady progress down the many
steps.  As they turned the corner on each floor they disappeared and
would reappear a few moments later; the further down they went, the
more that the Samsa family lost interest in them; when a butcher's
boy, proud of posture with his tray on his head, passed them on his
way up and came nearer than they were,  Mr. Samsa and the women came
away from the landing and went, as if relieved, back into the flat.

They decided the best way to make use of that day was for relaxation
and to go for a walk; not only had they earned a break from work but
they were in serious need of it.  So they sat at the table and wrote
three letters of excusal,  Mr. Samsa to his employers,  Mrs. Samsa
to her contractor and Grete to her principal.  The cleaner came in
while they were writing to tell them she was going, she'd finished
her work for that morning.  The three of them at first just nodded
without looking up from what they were writing, and it was only when
the cleaner still did not seem to want to leave that they looked up
in irritation.  "Well?", asked  Mr. Samsa.  The charwoman stood in
the doorway with a smile on her face as if she had some tremendous
good news to report, but would only do it if she was clearly asked
to.  The almost vertical little ostrich feather on her hat, which
had been a source of irritation to  Mr. Samsa all the time she had
been working for them, swayed gently in all directions.  "What is it
you want then?", asked  Mrs. Samsa, whom the cleaner had the most
respect for.  "Yes", she answered, and broke into a friendly laugh
that made her unable to speak straight away, "well then, that thing
in there, you needn't worry about how you're going to get rid of it.
 That's all been sorted out."   Mrs. Samsa and Grete bent down over
their letters as if intent on continuing with what they were
writing;  Mr. Samsa saw that the cleaner wanted to start describing
everything in detail but, with outstretched hand, he made it quite
clear that she was not to.  So, as she was prevented from telling
them all about it, she suddenly remembered what a hurry she was in
and, clearly peeved, called out "Cheerio then, everyone", turned
round sharply and left, slamming the door terribly as she went.

"Tonight she gets sacked", said  Mr. Samsa, but he received no reply
from either his wife or his daughter as the charwoman seemed to have
destroyed the peace they had only just gained.  They got up and went
over to the window where they remained with their arms around each
other.  Mr. Samsa twisted round in his chair to look at them and sat
there watching for a while.  Then he called out: "Come here, then.
Let's forget about all that old stuff, shall we.  Come and give me a
bit of attention". The two women immediately did as he said,
hurrying over to him where they kissed him and hugged him and then
they quickly finished their letters.

After that, the three of them left the flat together, which was
something they had not done for months, and took the tram out to the
open country outside the town.  They had the tram, filled with warm
sunshine, all to themselves.  Leant back comfortably on their seats,
they discussed their prospects and found that on closer examination
they were not at all bad - until then they had never asked each
other about their work but all three had jobs which were very good
and held particularly good promise for the future.  The greatest
improvement for the time being, of course, would be achieved quite
easily by moving house; what they needed now was a flat that was
smaller and cheaper than the current one which had been chosen by
Gregor, one that was in a better location and, most of all, more
practical.  All the time, Grete was becoming livelier.  With all the
worry they had been having of late her cheeks had become pale, but,
while they were talking,  Mr. and  Mrs. Samsa were struck, almost
simultaneously, with the thought of how their daughter was
blossoming into a well built and beautiful young lady.  They became
quieter.  Just from each other's glance and almost without knowing
it they agreed that it would soon be time to find a good man for
her.  And, as if in confirmation of their new dreams and good
intentions, as soon as they reached their destination Grete was the
first to get up and stretch out her young body.


**********************************************************************************************************************
CHAPTER I. Down the Rabbit-Hole

Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the
bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the
book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in
it, 'and what is the use of a book,' thought Alice 'without pictures or
conversations?'

So she was considering in her own mind (as well as she could, for the
hot day made her feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure
of making a daisy-chain would be worth the trouble of getting up and
picking the daisies, when suddenly a White Rabbit with pink eyes ran
close by her.

There was nothing so VERY remarkable in that; nor did Alice think it so
VERY much out of the way to hear the Rabbit say to itself, 'Oh dear!
Oh dear! I shall be late!' (when she thought it over afterwards, it
occurred to her that she ought to have wondered at this, but at the time
it all seemed quite natural); but when the Rabbit actually TOOK A WATCH
OUT OF ITS WAISTCOAT-POCKET, and looked at it, and then hurried on,
Alice started to her feet, for it flashed across her mind that she had
never before seen a rabbit with either a waistcoat-pocket, or a watch
to take out of it, and burning with curiosity, she ran across the field
after it, and fortunately was just in time to see it pop down a large
rabbit-hole under the hedge.

In another moment down went Alice after it, never once considering how
in the world she was to get out again.

The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then
dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think
about stopping herself before she found herself falling down a very deep
well.

Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had
plenty of time as she went down to look about her and to wonder what was
going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what
she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything; then she
looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with
cupboards and book-shelves; here and there she saw maps and pictures
hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as
she passed; it was labelled 'ORANGE MARMALADE', but to her great
disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar for fear
of killing somebody, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as
she fell past it.

'Well!' thought Alice to herself, 'after such a fall as this, I shall
think nothing of tumbling down stairs! How brave they'll all think me at
home! Why, I wouldn't say anything about it, even if I fell off the top
of the house!' (Which was very likely true.)

Down, down, down. Would the fall NEVER come to an end! 'I wonder how
many miles I've fallen by this time?' she said aloud. 'I must be getting
somewhere near the centre of the earth. Let me see: that would be four
thousand miles down, I think--' (for, you see, Alice had learnt several
things of this sort in her lessons in the schoolroom, and though this
was not a VERY good opportunity for showing off her knowledge, as there
was no one to listen to her, still it was good practice to say it over)
'--yes, that's about the right distance--but then I wonder what Latitude
or Longitude I've got to?' (Alice had no idea what Latitude was, or
Longitude either, but thought they were nice grand words to say.)

Presently she began again. 'I wonder if I shall fall right THROUGH the
earth! How funny it'll seem to come out among the people that walk with
their heads downward! The Antipathies, I think--' (she was rather glad
there WAS no one listening, this time, as it didn't sound at all the
right word) '--but I shall have to ask them what the name of the country
is, you know. Please, Ma'am, is this New Zealand or Australia?' (and
she tried to curtsey as she spoke--fancy CURTSEYING as you're falling
through the air! Do you think you could manage it?) 'And what an
ignorant little girl she'll think me for asking! No, it'll never do to
ask: perhaps I shall see it written up somewhere.'

Down, down, down. There was nothing else to do, so Alice soon began
talking again. 'Dinah'll miss me very much to-night, I should think!'
(Dinah was the cat.) 'I hope they'll remember her saucer of milk at
tea-time. Dinah my dear! I wish you were down here with me! There are no
mice in the air, I'm afraid, but you might catch a bat, and that's very
like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?' And here Alice
began to get rather sleepy, and went on saying to herself, in a dreamy
sort of way, 'Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?' and sometimes, 'Do
bats eat cats?' for, you see, as she couldn't answer either question,
it didn't much matter which way she put it. She felt that she was dozing
off, and had just begun to dream that she was walking hand in hand with
Dinah, and saying to her very earnestly, 'Now, Dinah, tell me the truth:
did you ever eat a bat?' when suddenly, thump! thump! down she came upon
a heap of sticks and dry leaves, and the fall was over.

Alice was not a bit hurt, and she jumped up on to her feet in a moment:
she looked up, but it was all dark overhead; before her was another
long passage, and the White Rabbit was still in sight, hurrying down it.
There was not a moment to be lost: away went Alice like the wind, and
was just in time to hear it say, as it turned a corner, 'Oh my ears
and whiskers, how late it's getting!' She was close behind it when she
turned the corner, but the Rabbit was no longer to be seen: she found
herself in a long, low hall, which was lit up by a row of lamps hanging
from the roof.

There were doors all round the hall, but they were all locked; and when
Alice had been all the way down one side and up the other, trying every
door, she walked sadly down the middle, wondering how she was ever to
get out again.

Suddenly she came upon a little three-legged table, all made of solid
glass; there was nothing on it except a tiny golden key, and Alice's
first thought was that it might belong to one of the doors of the hall;
but, alas! either the locks were too large, or the key was too small,
but at any rate it would not open any of them. However, on the second
time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and
behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the
little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted!

Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not
much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage
into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of
that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and
those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head through the
doorway; 'and even if my head would go through,' thought poor Alice, 'it
would be of very little use without my shoulders. Oh, how I wish I could
shut up like a telescope! I think I could, if I only knew how to begin.'
For, you see, so many out-of-the-way things had happened lately,
that Alice had begun to think that very few things indeed were really
impossible.

There seemed to be no use in waiting by the little door, so she went
back to the table, half hoping she might find another key on it, or at
any rate a book of rules for shutting people up like telescopes: this
time she found a little bottle on it, ('which certainly was not here
before,' said Alice,) and round the neck of the bottle was a paper
label, with the words 'DRINK ME' beautifully printed on it in large
letters.

It was all very well to say 'Drink me,' but the wise little Alice was
not going to do THAT in a hurry. 'No, I'll look first,' she said, 'and
see whether it's marked "poison" or not'; for she had read several nice
little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild
beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they WOULD not remember
the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot
poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your
finger VERY deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never
forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked 'poison,' it is
almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later.

However, this bottle was NOT marked 'poison,' so Alice ventured to taste
it, and finding it very nice, (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavour
of cherry-tart, custard, pine-apple, roast turkey, toffee, and hot
buttered toast,) she very soon finished it off.

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

    *    *    *    *    *    *

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

'What a curious feeling!' said Alice; 'I must be shutting up like a
telescope.'

And so it was indeed: she was now only ten inches high, and her face
brightened up at the thought that she was now the right size for going
through the little door into that lovely garden. First, however, she
waited for a few minutes to see if she was going to shrink any further:
she felt a little nervous about this; 'for it might end, you know,' said
Alice to herself, 'in my going out altogether, like a candle. I wonder
what I should be like then?' And she tried to fancy what the flame of a
candle is like after the candle is blown out, for she could not remember
ever having seen such a thing.

After a while, finding that nothing more happened, she decided on going
into the garden at once; but, alas for poor Alice! when she got to the
door, she found she had forgotten the little golden key, and when she
went back to the table for it, she found she could not possibly reach
it: she could see it quite plainly through the glass, and she tried her
best to climb up one of the legs of the table, but it was too slippery;
and when she had tired herself out with trying, the poor little thing
sat down and cried.

'Come, there's no use in crying like that!' said Alice to herself,
rather sharply; 'I advise you to leave off this minute!' She generally
gave herself very good advice, (though she very seldom followed it),
and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears into
her eyes; and once she remembered trying to box her own ears for having
cheated herself in a game of croquet she was playing against herself,
for this curious child was very fond of pretending to be two people.
'But it's no use now,' thought poor Alice, 'to pretend to be two people!
Why, there's hardly enough of me left to make ONE respectable person!'

Soon her eye fell on a little glass box that was lying under the table:
she opened it, and found in it a very small cake, on which the words
'EAT ME' were beautifully marked in currants. 'Well, I'll eat it,' said
Alice, 'and if it makes me grow larger, I can reach the key; and if it
makes me grow smaller, I can creep under the door; so either way I'll
get into the garden, and I don't care which happens!'

She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, 'Which way? Which
way?', holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was
growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same
size: to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice
had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way
things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on
in the common way.

So she set to work, and very soon finished off the cake.

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

    *    *    *    *    *    *

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *




CHAPTER II. The Pool of Tears

'Curiouser and curiouser!' cried Alice (she was so much surprised, that
for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English); 'now I'm
opening out like the largest telescope that ever was! Good-bye, feet!'
(for when she looked down at her feet, they seemed to be almost out of
sight, they were getting so far off). 'Oh, my poor little feet, I wonder
who will put on your shoes and stockings for you now, dears? I'm sure
_I_ shan't be able! I shall be a great deal too far off to trouble
myself about you: you must manage the best way you can;--but I must be
kind to them,' thought Alice, 'or perhaps they won't walk the way I want
to go! Let me see: I'll give them a new pair of boots every Christmas.'

And she went on planning to herself how she would manage it. 'They must
go by the carrier,' she thought; 'and how funny it'll seem, sending
presents to one's own feet! And how odd the directions will look!

     ALICE'S RIGHT FOOT, ESQ.
       HEARTHRUG,
         NEAR THE FENDER,
           (WITH ALICE'S LOVE).

Oh dear, what nonsense I'm talking!'

Just then her head struck against the roof of the hall: in fact she was
now more than nine feet high, and she at once took up the little golden
key and hurried off to the garden door.

Poor Alice! It was as much as she could do, lying down on one side, to
look through into the garden with one eye; but to get through was more
hopeless than ever: she sat down and began to cry again.

'You ought to be ashamed of yourself,' said Alice, 'a great girl like
you,' (she might well say this), 'to go on crying in this way! Stop this
moment, I tell you!' But she went on all the same, shedding gallons of
tears, until there was a large pool all round her, about four inches
deep and reaching half down the hall.

After a time she heard a little pattering of feet in the distance, and
she hastily dried her eyes to see what was coming. It was the White
Rabbit returning, splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in
one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a great
hurry, muttering to himself as he came, 'Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess!
Oh! won't she be savage if I've kept her waiting!' Alice felt so
desperate that she was ready to ask help of any one; so, when the Rabbit
came near her, she began, in a low, timid voice, 'If you please, sir--'
The Rabbit started violently, dropped the white kid gloves and the fan,
and skurried away into the darkness as hard as he could go.

Alice took up the fan and gloves, and, as the hall was very hot, she
kept fanning herself all the time she went on talking: 'Dear, dear! How
queer everything is to-day! And yesterday things went on just as usual.
I wonder if I've been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the
same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a
little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, Who
in the world am I? Ah, THAT'S the great puzzle!' And she began thinking
over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to
see if she could have been changed for any of them.

'I'm sure I'm not Ada,' she said, 'for her hair goes in such long
ringlets, and mine doesn't go in ringlets at all; and I'm sure I can't
be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a
very little! Besides, SHE'S she, and I'm I, and--oh dear, how puzzling
it all is! I'll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me
see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and
four times seven is--oh dear! I shall never get to twenty at that rate!
However, the Multiplication Table doesn't signify: let's try Geography.
London is the capital of Paris, and Paris is the capital of Rome, and
Rome--no, THAT'S all wrong, I'm certain! I must have been changed for
Mabel! I'll try and say "How doth the little--"' and she crossed her
hands on her lap as if she were saying lessons, and began to repeat it,
but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not come the
same as they used to do:--

     'How doth the little crocodile
      Improve his shining tail,
     And pour the waters of the Nile
      On every golden scale!

     'How cheerfully he seems to grin,
      How neatly spread his claws,
     And welcome little fishes in
      With gently smiling jaws!'

'I'm sure those are not the right words,' said poor Alice, and her eyes
filled with tears again as she went on, 'I must be Mabel after all, and
I shall have to go and live in that poky little house, and have next to
no toys to play with, and oh! ever so many lessons to learn! No, I've
made up my mind about it; if I'm Mabel, I'll stay down here! It'll be no
use their putting their heads down and saying "Come up again, dear!" I
shall only look up and say "Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then,
if I like being that person, I'll come up: if not, I'll stay down here
till I'm somebody else"--but, oh dear!' cried Alice, with a sudden burst
of tears, 'I do wish they WOULD put their heads down! I am so VERY tired
of being all alone here!'

As she said this she looked down at her hands, and was surprised to see
that she had put on one of the Rabbit's little white kid gloves while
she was talking. 'How CAN I have done that?' she thought. 'I must
be growing small again.' She got up and went to the table to measure
herself by it, and found that, as nearly as she could guess, she was now
about two feet high, and was going on shrinking rapidly: she soon found
out that the cause of this was the fan she was holding, and she dropped
it hastily, just in time to avoid shrinking away altogether.

'That WAS a narrow escape!' said Alice, a good deal frightened at the
sudden change, but very glad to find herself still in existence; 'and
now for the garden!' and she ran with all speed back to the little door:
but, alas! the little door was shut again, and the little golden key was
lying on the glass table as before, 'and things are worse than ever,'
thought the poor child, 'for I never was so small as this before, never!
And I declare it's too bad, that it is!'

As she said these words her foot slipped, and in another moment, splash!
she was up to her chin in salt water. Her first idea was that she
had somehow fallen into the sea, 'and in that case I can go back by
railway,' she said to herself. (Alice had been to the seaside once in
her life, and had come to the general conclusion, that wherever you go
to on the English coast you find a number of bathing machines in the
sea, some children digging in the sand with wooden spades, then a row
of lodging houses, and behind them a railway station.) However, she soon
made out that she was in the pool of tears which she had wept when she
was nine feet high.

'I wish I hadn't cried so much!' said Alice, as she swam about, trying
to find her way out. 'I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by
being drowned in my own tears! That WILL be a queer thing, to be sure!
However, everything is queer to-day.'

Just then she heard something splashing about in the pool a little way
off, and she swam nearer to make out what it was: at first she thought
it must be a walrus or hippopotamus, but then she remembered how small
she was now, and she soon made out that it was only a mouse that had
slipped in like herself.

'Would it be of any use, now,' thought Alice, 'to speak to this mouse?
Everything is so out-of-the-way down here, that I should think very
likely it can talk: at any rate, there's no harm in trying.' So she
began: 'O Mouse, do you know the way out of this pool? I am very tired
of swimming about here, O Mouse!' (Alice thought this must be the right
way of speaking to a mouse: she had never done such a thing before, but
she remembered having seen in her brother's Latin Grammar, 'A mouse--of
a mouse--to a mouse--a mouse--O mouse!') The Mouse looked at her rather
inquisitively, and seemed to her to wink with one of its little eyes,
but it said nothing.

'Perhaps it doesn't understand English,' thought Alice; 'I daresay it's
a French mouse, come over with William the Conqueror.' (For, with all
her knowledge of history, Alice had no very clear notion how long ago
anything had happened.) So she began again: 'Ou est ma chatte?' which
was the first sentence in her French lesson-book. The Mouse gave a
sudden leap out of the water, and seemed to quiver all over with fright.
'Oh, I beg your pardon!' cried Alice hastily, afraid that she had hurt
the poor animal's feelings. 'I quite forgot you didn't like cats.'

'Not like cats!' cried the Mouse, in a shrill, passionate voice. 'Would
YOU like cats if you were me?'

'Well, perhaps not,' said Alice in a soothing tone: 'don't be angry
about it. And yet I wish I could show you our cat Dinah: I think you'd
take a fancy to cats if you could only see her. She is such a dear quiet
thing,' Alice went on, half to herself, as she swam lazily about in the
pool, 'and she sits purring so nicely by the fire, licking her paws and
washing her face--and she is such a nice soft thing to nurse--and she's
such a capital one for catching mice--oh, I beg your pardon!' cried
Alice again, for this time the Mouse was bristling all over, and she
felt certain it must be really offended. 'We won't talk about her any
more if you'd rather not.'

'We indeed!' cried the Mouse, who was trembling down to the end of his
tail. 'As if I would talk on such a subject! Our family always HATED
cats: nasty, low, vulgar things! Don't let me hear the name again!'

'I won't indeed!' said Alice, in a great hurry to change the subject of
conversation. 'Are you--are you fond--of--of dogs?' The Mouse did not
answer, so Alice went on eagerly: 'There is such a nice little dog near
our house I should like to show you! A little bright-eyed terrier, you
know, with oh, such long curly brown hair! And it'll fetch things when
you throw them, and it'll sit up and beg for its dinner, and all sorts
of things--I can't remember half of them--and it belongs to a farmer,
you know, and he says it's so useful, it's worth a hundred pounds! He
says it kills all the rats and--oh dear!' cried Alice in a sorrowful
tone, 'I'm afraid I've offended it again!' For the Mouse was swimming
away from her as hard as it could go, and making quite a commotion in
the pool as it went.

So she called softly after it, 'Mouse dear! Do come back again, and we
won't talk about cats or dogs either, if you don't like them!' When the
Mouse heard this, it turned round and swam slowly back to her: its
face was quite pale (with passion, Alice thought), and it said in a low
trembling voice, 'Let us get to the shore, and then I'll tell you my
history, and you'll understand why it is I hate cats and dogs.'

It was high time to go, for the pool was getting quite crowded with the
birds and animals that had fallen into it: there were a Duck and a Dodo,
a Lory and an Eaglet, and several other curious creatures. Alice led the
way, and the whole party swam to the shore.




CHAPTER III. A Caucus-Race and a Long Tale

They were indeed a queer-looking party that assembled on the bank--the
birds with draggled feathers, the animals with their fur clinging close
to them, and all dripping wet, cross, and uncomfortable.

The first question of course was, how to get dry again: they had a
consultation about this, and after a few minutes it seemed quite natural
to Alice to find herself talking familiarly with them, as if she had
known them all her life. Indeed, she had quite a long argument with the
Lory, who at last turned sulky, and would only say, 'I am older than
you, and must know better'; and this Alice would not allow without
knowing how old it was, and, as the Lory positively refused to tell its
age, there was no more to be said.

At last the Mouse, who seemed to be a person of authority among them,
called out, 'Sit down, all of you, and listen to me! I'LL soon make you
dry enough!' They all sat down at once, in a large ring, with the Mouse
in the middle. Alice kept her eyes anxiously fixed on it, for she felt
sure she would catch a bad cold if she did not get dry very soon.

'Ahem!' said the Mouse with an important air, 'are you all ready? This
is the driest thing I know. Silence all round, if you please! "William
the Conqueror, whose cause was favoured by the pope, was soon submitted
to by the English, who wanted leaders, and had been of late much
accustomed to usurpation and conquest. Edwin and Morcar, the earls of
Mercia and Northumbria--"'

'Ugh!' said the Lory, with a shiver.

'I beg your pardon!' said the Mouse, frowning, but very politely: 'Did
you speak?'

'Not I!' said the Lory hastily.

'I thought you did,' said the Mouse. '--I proceed. "Edwin and Morcar,
the earls of Mercia and Northumbria, declared for him: and even Stigand,
the patriotic archbishop of Canterbury, found it advisable--"'

'Found WHAT?' said the Duck.

'Found IT,' the Mouse replied rather crossly: 'of course you know what
"it" means.'

'I know what "it" means well enough, when I find a thing,' said the
Duck: 'it's generally a frog or a worm. The question is, what did the
archbishop find?'

The Mouse did not notice this question, but hurriedly went on, '"--found
it advisable to go with Edgar Atheling to meet William and offer him the
crown. William's conduct at first was moderate. But the insolence of his
Normans--" How are you getting on now, my dear?' it continued, turning
to Alice as it spoke.

'As wet as ever,' said Alice in a melancholy tone: 'it doesn't seem to
dry me at all.'

'In that case,' said the Dodo solemnly, rising to its feet, 'I move
that the meeting adjourn, for the immediate adoption of more energetic
remedies--'

'Speak English!' said the Eaglet. 'I don't know the meaning of half
those long words, and, what's more, I don't believe you do either!' And
the Eaglet bent down its head to hide a smile: some of the other birds
tittered audibly.

'What I was going to say,' said the Dodo in an offended tone, 'was, that
the best thing to get us dry would be a Caucus-race.'

'What IS a Caucus-race?' said Alice; not that she wanted much to know,
but the Dodo had paused as if it thought that SOMEBODY ought to speak,
and no one else seemed inclined to say anything.

'Why,' said the Dodo, 'the best way to explain it is to do it.' (And, as
you might like to try the thing yourself, some winter day, I will tell
you how the Dodo managed it.)

First it marked out a race-course, in a sort of circle, ('the exact
shape doesn't matter,' it said,) and then all the party were placed
along the course, here and there. There was no 'One, two, three, and
away,' but they began running when they liked, and left off when they
liked, so that it was not easy to know when the race was over. However,
when they had been running half an hour or so, and were quite dry again,
the Dodo suddenly called out 'The race is over!' and they all crowded
round it, panting, and asking, 'But who has won?'

This question the Dodo could not answer without a great deal of thought,
and it sat for a long time with one finger pressed upon its forehead
(the position in which you usually see Shakespeare, in the pictures
of him), while the rest waited in silence. At last the Dodo said,
'EVERYBODY has won, and all must have prizes.'

'But who is to give the prizes?' quite a chorus of voices asked.

'Why, SHE, of course,' said the Dodo, pointing to Alice with one finger;
and the whole party at once crowded round her, calling out in a confused
way, 'Prizes! Prizes!'

Alice had no idea what to do, and in despair she put her hand in her
pocket, and pulled out a box of comfits, (luckily the salt water had
not got into it), and handed them round as prizes. There was exactly one
a-piece all round.

'But she must have a prize herself, you know,' said the Mouse.

'Of course,' the Dodo replied very gravely. 'What else have you got in
your pocket?' he went on, turning to Alice.

'Only a thimble,' said Alice sadly.

'Hand it over here,' said the Dodo.

Then they all crowded round her once more, while the Dodo solemnly
presented the thimble, saying 'We beg your acceptance of this elegant
thimble'; and, when it had finished this short speech, they all cheered.

Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave
that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything
to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she
could.

The next thing was to eat the comfits: this caused some noise and
confusion, as the large birds complained that they could not taste
theirs, and the small ones choked and had to be patted on the back.
However, it was over at last, and they sat down again in a ring, and
begged the Mouse to tell them something more.

'You promised to tell me your history, you know,' said Alice, 'and why
it is you hate--C and D,' she added in a whisper, half afraid that it
would be offended again.

'Mine is a long and a sad tale!' said the Mouse, turning to Alice, and
sighing.

'It IS a long tail, certainly,' said Alice, looking down with wonder at
the Mouse's tail; 'but why do you call it sad?' And she kept on puzzling
about it while the Mouse was speaking, so that her idea of the tale was
something like this:--

         'Fury said to a
         mouse, That he
        met in the
       house,
     "Let us
      both go to
       law: I will
        prosecute
         YOU.--Come,
           I'll take no
           denial; We
          must have a
        trial: For
      really this
     morning I've
    nothing
    to do."
     Said the
      mouse to the
       cur, "Such
        a trial,
         dear Sir,
            With
          no jury
        or judge,
       would be
      wasting
      our
      breath."
       "I'll be
        judge, I'll
         be jury,"
            Said
         cunning
          old Fury:
          "I'll
          try the
            whole
            cause,
              and
           condemn
           you
          to
           death."'


'You are not attending!' said the Mouse to Alice severely. 'What are you
thinking of?'

'I beg your pardon,' said Alice very humbly: 'you had got to the fifth
bend, I think?'

'I had NOT!' cried the Mouse, sharply and very angrily.

'A knot!' said Alice, always ready to make herself useful, and looking
anxiously about her. 'Oh, do let me help to undo it!'

'I shall do nothing of the sort,' said the Mouse, getting up and walking
away. 'You insult me by talking such nonsense!'

'I didn't mean it!' pleaded poor Alice. 'But you're so easily offended,
you know!'

The Mouse only growled in reply.

'Please come back and finish your story!' Alice called after it; and the
others all joined in chorus, 'Yes, please do!' but the Mouse only shook
its head impatiently, and walked a little quicker.

'What a pity it wouldn't stay!' sighed the Lory, as soon as it was quite
out of sight; and an old Crab took the opportunity of saying to her
daughter 'Ah, my dear! Let this be a lesson to you never to lose
YOUR temper!' 'Hold your tongue, Ma!' said the young Crab, a little
snappishly. 'You're enough to try the patience of an oyster!'

'I wish I had our Dinah here, I know I do!' said Alice aloud, addressing
nobody in particular. 'She'd soon fetch it back!'

'And who is Dinah, if I might venture to ask the question?' said the
Lory.

Alice replied eagerly, for she was always ready to talk about her pet:
'Dinah's our cat. And she's such a capital one for catching mice you
can't think! And oh, I wish you could see her after the birds! Why,
she'll eat a little bird as soon as look at it!'

This speech caused a remarkable sensation among the party. Some of the
birds hurried off at once: one old Magpie began wrapping itself up very
carefully, remarking, 'I really must be getting home; the night-air
doesn't suit my throat!' and a Canary called out in a trembling voice to
its children, 'Come away, my dears! It's high time you were all in bed!'
On various pretexts they all moved off, and Alice was soon left alone.

'I wish I hadn't mentioned Dinah!' she said to herself in a melancholy
tone. 'Nobody seems to like her, down here, and I'm sure she's the best
cat in the world! Oh, my dear Dinah! I wonder if I shall ever see you
any more!' And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very
lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard
a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up
eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming
back to finish his story.




CHAPTER IV. The Rabbit Sends in a Little Bill

It was the White Rabbit, trotting slowly back again, and looking
anxiously about as it went, as if it had lost something; and she heard
it muttering to itself 'The Duchess! The Duchess! Oh my dear paws! Oh
my fur and whiskers! She'll get me executed, as sure as ferrets are
ferrets! Where CAN I have dropped them, I wonder?' Alice guessed in a
moment that it was looking for the fan and the pair of white kid gloves,
and she very good-naturedly began hunting about for them, but they were
nowhere to be seen--everything seemed to have changed since her swim in
the pool, and the great hall, with the glass table and the little door,
had vanished completely.

Very soon the Rabbit noticed Alice, as she went hunting about, and
called out to her in an angry tone, 'Why, Mary Ann, what ARE you doing
out here? Run home this moment, and fetch me a pair of gloves and a fan!
Quick, now!' And Alice was so much frightened that she ran off at once
in the direction it pointed to, without trying to explain the mistake it
had made.

'He took me for his housemaid,' she said to herself as she ran. 'How
surprised he'll be when he finds out who I am! But I'd better take him
his fan and gloves--that is, if I can find them.' As she said this, she
came upon a neat little house, on the door of which was a bright brass
plate with the name 'W. RABBIT' engraved upon it. She went in without
knocking, and hurried upstairs, in great fear lest she should meet the
real Mary Ann, and be turned out of the house before she had found the
fan and gloves.

'How queer it seems,' Alice said to herself, 'to be going messages for
a rabbit! I suppose Dinah'll be sending me on messages next!' And she
began fancying the sort of thing that would happen: '"Miss Alice! Come
here directly, and get ready for your walk!" "Coming in a minute,
nurse! But I've got to see that the mouse doesn't get out." Only I don't
think,' Alice went on, 'that they'd let Dinah stop in the house if it
began ordering people about like that!'

By this time she had found her way into a tidy little room with a table
in the window, and on it (as she had hoped) a fan and two or three pairs
of tiny white kid gloves: she took up the fan and a pair of the gloves,
and was just going to leave the room, when her eye fell upon a little
bottle that stood near the looking-glass. There was no label this time
with the words 'DRINK ME,' but nevertheless she uncorked it and put it
to her lips. 'I know SOMETHING interesting is sure to happen,' she said
to herself, 'whenever I eat or drink anything; so I'll just see what
this bottle does. I do hope it'll make me grow large again, for really
I'm quite tired of being such a tiny little thing!'

It did so indeed, and much sooner than she had expected: before she had
drunk half the bottle, she found her head pressing against the ceiling,
and had to stoop to save her neck from being broken. She hastily put
down the bottle, saying to herself 'That's quite enough--I hope I shan't
grow any more--As it is, I can't get out at the door--I do wish I hadn't
drunk quite so much!'

Alas! it was too late to wish that! She went on growing, and growing,
and very soon had to kneel down on the floor: in another minute there
was not even room for this, and she tried the effect of lying down with
one elbow against the door, and the other arm curled round her head.
Still she went on growing, and, as a last resource, she put one arm out
of the window, and one foot up the chimney, and said to herself 'Now I
can do no more, whatever happens. What WILL become of me?'

Luckily for Alice, the little magic bottle had now had its full effect,
and she grew no larger: still it was very uncomfortable, and, as there
seemed to be no sort of chance of her ever getting out of the room
again, no wonder she felt unhappy.

'It was much pleasanter at home,' thought poor Alice, 'when one wasn't
always growing larger and smaller, and being ordered about by mice and
rabbits. I almost wish I hadn't gone down that rabbit-hole--and yet--and
yet--it's rather curious, you know, this sort of life! I do wonder what
CAN have happened to me! When I used to read fairy-tales, I fancied that
kind of thing never happened, and now here I am in the middle of one!
There ought to be a book written about me, that there ought! And when I
grow up, I'll write one--but I'm grown up now,' she added in a sorrowful
tone; 'at least there's no room to grow up any more HERE.'

'But then,' thought Alice, 'shall I NEVER get any older than I am
now? That'll be a comfort, one way--never to be an old woman--but
then--always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like THAT!'

'Oh, you foolish Alice!' she answered herself. 'How can you learn
lessons in here? Why, there's hardly room for YOU, and no room at all
for any lesson-books!'

And so she went on, taking first one side and then the other, and making
quite a conversation of it altogether; but after a few minutes she heard
a voice outside, and stopped to listen.

'Mary Ann! Mary Ann!' said the voice. 'Fetch me my gloves this moment!'
Then came a little pattering of feet on the stairs. Alice knew it was
the Rabbit coming to look for her, and she trembled till she shook the
house, quite forgetting that she was now about a thousand times as large
as the Rabbit, and had no reason to be afraid of it.

Presently the Rabbit came up to the door, and tried to open it; but, as
the door opened inwards, and Alice's elbow was pressed hard against it,
that attempt proved a failure. Alice heard it say to itself 'Then I'll
go round and get in at the window.'

'THAT you won't' thought Alice, and, after waiting till she fancied
she heard the Rabbit just under the window, she suddenly spread out her
hand, and made a snatch in the air. She did not get hold of anything,
but she heard a little shriek and a fall, and a crash of broken glass,
from which she concluded that it was just possible it had fallen into a
cucumber-frame, or something of the sort.

Next came an angry voice--the Rabbit's--'Pat! Pat! Where are you?' And
then a voice she had never heard before, 'Sure then I'm here! Digging
for apples, yer honour!'

'Digging for apples, indeed!' said the Rabbit angrily. 'Here! Come and
help me out of THIS!' (Sounds of more broken glass.)

'Now tell me, Pat, what's that in the window?'

'Sure, it's an arm, yer honour!' (He pronounced it 'arrum.')

'An arm, you goose! Who ever saw one that size? Why, it fills the whole
window!'

'Sure, it does, yer honour: but it's an arm for all that.'

'Well, it's got no business there, at any rate: go and take it away!'

There was a long silence after this, and Alice could only hear whispers
now and then; such as, 'Sure, I don't like it, yer honour, at all, at
all!' 'Do as I tell you, you coward!' and at last she spread out her
hand again, and made another snatch in the air. This time there were
TWO little shrieks, and more sounds of broken glass. 'What a number of
cucumber-frames there must be!' thought Alice. 'I wonder what they'll do
next! As for pulling me out of the window, I only wish they COULD! I'm
sure I don't want to stay in here any longer!'

She waited for some time without hearing anything more: at last came a
rumbling of little cartwheels, and the sound of a good many voices
all talking together: she made out the words: 'Where's the other
ladder?--Why, I hadn't to bring but one; Bill's got the other--Bill!
fetch it here, lad!--Here, put 'em up at this corner--No, tie 'em
together first--they don't reach half high enough yet--Oh! they'll
do well enough; don't be particular--Here, Bill! catch hold of this
rope--Will the roof bear?--Mind that loose slate--Oh, it's coming
down! Heads below!' (a loud crash)--'Now, who did that?--It was Bill, I
fancy--Who's to go down the chimney?--Nay, I shan't! YOU do it!--That I
won't, then!--Bill's to go down--Here, Bill! the master says you're to
go down the chimney!'

'Oh! So Bill's got to come down the chimney, has he?' said Alice to
herself. 'Shy, they seem to put everything upon Bill! I wouldn't be in
Bill's place for a good deal: this fireplace is narrow, to be sure; but
I THINK I can kick a little!'

She drew her foot as far down the chimney as she could, and waited
till she heard a little animal (she couldn't guess of what sort it was)
scratching and scrambling about in the chimney close above her: then,
saying to herself 'This is Bill,' she gave one sharp kick, and waited to
see what would happen next.

The first thing she heard was a general chorus of 'There goes Bill!'
then the Rabbit's voice along--'Catch him, you by the hedge!' then
silence, and then another confusion of voices--'Hold up his head--Brandy
now--Don't choke him--How was it, old fellow? What happened to you? Tell
us all about it!'

Last came a little feeble, squeaking voice, ('That's Bill,' thought
Alice,) 'Well, I hardly know--No more, thank ye; I'm better now--but I'm
a deal too flustered to tell you--all I know is, something comes at me
like a Jack-in-the-box, and up I goes like a sky-rocket!'

'So you did, old fellow!' said the others.

'We must burn the house down!' said the Rabbit's voice; and Alice called
out as loud as she could, 'If you do. I'll set Dinah at you!'

There was a dead silence instantly, and Alice thought to herself, 'I
wonder what they WILL do next! If they had any sense, they'd take the
roof off.' After a minute or two, they began moving about again, and
Alice heard the Rabbit say, 'A barrowful will do, to begin with.'

'A barrowful of WHAT?' thought Alice; but she had not long to doubt,
for the next moment a shower of little pebbles came rattling in at the
window, and some of them hit her in the face. 'I'll put a stop to this,'
she said to herself, and shouted out, 'You'd better not do that again!'
which produced another dead silence.

Alice noticed with some surprise that the pebbles were all turning into
little cakes as they lay on the floor, and a bright idea came into her
head. 'If I eat one of these cakes,' she thought, 'it's sure to make
SOME change in my size; and as it can't possibly make me larger, it must
make me smaller, I suppose.'

So she swallowed one of the cakes, and was delighted to find that she
began shrinking directly. As soon as she was small enough to get through
the door, she ran out of the house, and found quite a crowd of little
animals and birds waiting outside. The poor little Lizard, Bill, was
in the middle, being held up by two guinea-pigs, who were giving it
something out of a bottle. They all made a rush at Alice the moment she
appeared; but she ran off as hard as she could, and soon found herself
safe in a thick wood.

'The first thing I've got to do,' said Alice to herself, as she wandered
about in the wood, 'is to grow to my right size again; and the second
thing is to find my way into that lovely garden. I think that will be
the best plan.'

It sounded an excellent plan, no doubt, and very neatly and simply
arranged; the only difficulty was, that she had not the smallest idea
how to set about it; and while she was peering about anxiously among
the trees, a little sharp bark just over her head made her look up in a
great hurry.

An enormous puppy was looking down at her with large round eyes, and
feebly stretching out one paw, trying to touch her. 'Poor little thing!'
said Alice, in a coaxing tone, and she tried hard to whistle to it; but
she was terribly frightened all the time at the thought that it might be
hungry, in which case it would be very likely to eat her up in spite of
all her coaxing.

Hardly knowing what she did, she picked up a little bit of stick, and
held it out to the puppy; whereupon the puppy jumped into the air off
all its feet at once, with a yelp of delight, and rushed at the stick,
and made believe to worry it; then Alice dodged behind a great thistle,
to keep herself from being run over; and the moment she appeared on the
other side, the puppy made another rush at the stick, and tumbled head
over heels in its hurry to get hold of it; then Alice, thinking it was
very like having a game of play with a cart-horse, and expecting every
moment to be trampled under its feet, ran round the thistle again; then
the puppy began a series of short charges at the stick, running a very
little way forwards each time and a long way back, and barking hoarsely
all the while, till at last it sat down a good way off, panting, with
its tongue hanging out of its mouth, and its great eyes half shut.

This seemed to Alice a good opportunity for making her escape; so she
set off at once, and ran till she was quite tired and out of breath, and
till the puppy's bark sounded quite faint in the distance.

'And yet what a dear little puppy it was!' said Alice, as she leant
against a buttercup to rest herself, and fanned herself with one of the
leaves: 'I should have liked teaching it tricks very much, if--if I'd
only been the right size to do it! Oh dear! I'd nearly forgotten that
I've got to grow up again! Let me see--how IS it to be managed? I
suppose I ought to eat or drink something or other; but the great
question is, what?'

The great question certainly was, what? Alice looked all round her at
the flowers and the blades of grass, but she did not see anything that
looked like the right thing to eat or drink under the circumstances.
There was a large mushroom growing near her, about the same height as
herself; and when she had looked under it, and on both sides of it, and
behind it, it occurred to her that she might as well look and see what
was on the top of it.

She stretched herself up on tiptoe, and peeped over the edge of the
mushroom, and her eyes immediately met those of a large caterpillar,
that was sitting on the top with its arms folded, quietly smoking a long
hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of her or of anything else.




CHAPTER V. Advice from a Caterpillar

The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence:
at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed
her in a languid, sleepy voice.

'Who are YOU?' said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied,
rather shyly, 'I--I hardly know, sir, just at present--at least I know
who I WAS when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been
changed several times since then.'

'What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. 'Explain
yourself!'

'I can't explain MYSELF, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, 'because I'm not
myself, you see.'

'I don't see,' said the Caterpillar.

'I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,' Alice replied very politely,
'for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many
different sizes in a day is very confusing.'

'It isn't,' said the Caterpillar.

'Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet,' said Alice; 'but when you
have to turn into a chrysalis--you will some day, you know--and then
after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little
queer, won't you?'

'Not a bit,' said the Caterpillar.

'Well, perhaps your feelings may be different,' said Alice; 'all I know
is, it would feel very queer to ME.'

'You!' said the Caterpillar contemptuously. 'Who are YOU?'

Which brought them back again to the beginning of the conversation.
Alice felt a little irritated at the Caterpillar's making such VERY
short remarks, and she drew herself up and said, very gravely, 'I think,
you ought to tell me who YOU are, first.'

'Why?' said the Caterpillar.

Here was another puzzling question; and as Alice could not think of any
good reason, and as the Caterpillar seemed to be in a VERY unpleasant
state of mind, she turned away.

'Come back!' the Caterpillar called after her. 'I've something important
to say!'

This sounded promising, certainly: Alice turned and came back again.

'Keep your temper,' said the Caterpillar.

'Is that all?' said Alice, swallowing down her anger as well as she
could.

'No,' said the Caterpillar.

Alice thought she might as well wait, as she had nothing else to do, and
perhaps after all it might tell her something worth hearing. For some
minutes it puffed away without speaking, but at last it unfolded its
arms, took the hookah out of its mouth again, and said, 'So you think
you're changed, do you?'

'I'm afraid I am, sir,' said Alice; 'I can't remember things as I
used--and I don't keep the same size for ten minutes together!'

'Can't remember WHAT things?' said the Caterpillar.

'Well, I've tried to say "HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE," but it all came
different!' Alice replied in a very melancholy voice.

'Repeat, "YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,"' said the Caterpillar.

Alice folded her hands, and began:--

   'You are old, Father William,' the young man said,
    'And your hair has become very white;
   And yet you incessantly stand on your head--
    Do you think, at your age, it is right?'

   'In my youth,' Father William replied to his son,
    'I feared it might injure the brain;
   But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
    Why, I do it again and again.'

   'You are old,' said the youth, 'as I mentioned before,
    And have grown most uncommonly fat;
   Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
    Pray, what is the reason of that?'

   'In my youth,' said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
    'I kept all my limbs very supple
   By the use of this ointment--one shilling the box--
    Allow me to sell you a couple?'

   'You are old,' said the youth, 'and your jaws are too weak
    For anything tougher than suet;
   Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak--
    Pray how did you manage to do it?'

   'In my youth,' said his father, 'I took to the law,
    And argued each case with my wife;
   And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
    Has lasted the rest of my life.'

   'You are old,' said the youth, 'one would hardly suppose
    That your eye was as steady as ever;
   Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
    What made you so awfully clever?'

   'I have answered three questions, and that is enough,'
    Said his father; 'don't give yourself airs!
   Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
    Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!'


'That is not said right,' said the Caterpillar.

'Not QUITE right, I'm afraid,' said Alice, timidly; 'some of the words
have got altered.'

'It is wrong from beginning to end,' said the Caterpillar decidedly, and
there was silence for some minutes.

The Caterpillar was the first to speak.

'What size do you want to be?' it asked.

'Oh, I'm not particular as to size,' Alice hastily replied; 'only one
doesn't like changing so often, you know.'

'I DON'T know,' said the Caterpillar.

Alice said nothing: she had never been so much contradicted in her life
before, and she felt that she was losing her temper.

'Are you content now?' said the Caterpillar.

'Well, I should like to be a LITTLE larger, sir, if you wouldn't mind,'
said Alice: 'three inches is such a wretched height to be.'

'It is a very good height indeed!' said the Caterpillar angrily, rearing
itself upright as it spoke (it was exactly three inches high).

'But I'm not used to it!' pleaded poor Alice in a piteous tone. And
she thought of herself, 'I wish the creatures wouldn't be so easily
offended!'

'You'll get used to it in time,' said the Caterpillar; and it put the
hookah into its mouth and began smoking again.

This time Alice waited patiently until it chose to speak again. In
a minute or two the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth
and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the
mushroom, and crawled away in the grass, merely remarking as it went,
'One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you
grow shorter.'

'One side of WHAT? The other side of WHAT?' thought Alice to herself.

'Of the mushroom,' said the Caterpillar, just as if she had asked it
aloud; and in another moment it was out of sight.

Alice remained looking thoughtfully at the mushroom for a minute, trying
to make out which were the two sides of it; and as it was perfectly
round, she found this a very difficult question. However, at last she
stretched her arms round it as far as they would go, and broke off a bit
of the edge with each hand.

'And now which is which?' she said to herself, and nibbled a little of
the right-hand bit to try the effect: the next moment she felt a violent
blow underneath her chin: it had struck her foot!

She was a good deal frightened by this very sudden change, but she felt
that there was no time to be lost, as she was shrinking rapidly; so she
set to work at once to eat some of the other bit. Her chin was pressed
so closely against her foot, that there was hardly room to open her
mouth; but she did it at last, and managed to swallow a morsel of the
lefthand bit.


  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

    *    *    *    *    *    *

  *    *    *    *    *    *    *

'Come, my head's free at last!' said Alice in a tone of delight, which
changed into alarm in another moment, when she found that her shoulders
were nowhere to be found: all she could see, when she looked down, was
an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a
sea of green leaves that lay far below her.

'What CAN all that green stuff be?' said Alice. 'And where HAVE my
shoulders got to? And oh, my poor hands, how is it I can't see you?'
She was moving them about as she spoke, but no result seemed to follow,
except a little shaking among the distant green leaves.

As there seemed to be no chance of getting her hands up to her head, she
tried to get her head down to them, and was delighted to find that her
neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent. She had
just succeeded in curving it down into a graceful zigzag, and was going
to dive in among the leaves, which she found to be nothing but the tops
of the trees under which she had been wandering, when a sharp hiss made
her draw back in a hurry: a large pigeon had flown into her face, and
was beating her violently with its wings.

'Serpent!' screamed the Pigeon.

'I'm NOT a serpent!' said Alice indignantly. 'Let me alone!'

'Serpent, I say again!' repeated the Pigeon, but in a more subdued tone,
and added with a kind of sob, 'I've tried every way, and nothing seems
to suit them!'

'I haven't the least idea what you're talking about,' said Alice.

'I've tried the roots of trees, and I've tried banks, and I've tried
hedges,' the Pigeon went on, without attending to her; 'but those
serpents! There's no pleasing them!'

Alice was more and more puzzled, but she thought there was no use in
saying anything more till the Pigeon had finished.

'As if it wasn't trouble enough hatching the eggs,' said the Pigeon;
'but I must be on the look-out for serpents night and day! Why, I
haven't had a wink of sleep these three weeks!'

'I'm very sorry you've been annoyed,' said Alice, who was beginning to
see its meaning.

'And just as I'd taken the highest tree in the wood,' continued the
Pigeon, raising its voice to a shriek, 'and just as I was thinking I
should be free of them at last, they must needs come wriggling down from
the sky! Ugh, Serpent!'

'But I'm NOT a serpent, I tell you!' said Alice. 'I'm a--I'm a--'

'Well! WHAT are you?' said the Pigeon. 'I can see you're trying to
invent something!'

'I--I'm a little girl,' said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered
the number of changes she had gone through that day.

'A likely story indeed!' said the Pigeon in a tone of the deepest
contempt. 'I've seen a good many little girls in my time, but never ONE
with such a neck as that! No, no! You're a serpent; and there's no use
denying it. I suppose you'll be telling me next that you never tasted an
egg!'

'I HAVE tasted eggs, certainly,' said Alice, who was a very truthful
child; 'but little girls eat eggs quite as much as serpents do, you
know.'

'I don't believe it,' said the Pigeon; 'but if they do, why then they're
a kind of serpent, that's all I can say.'

This was such a new idea to Alice, that she was quite silent for a
minute or two, which gave the Pigeon the opportunity of adding, 'You're
looking for eggs, I know THAT well enough; and what does it matter to me
whether you're a little girl or a serpent?'

'It matters a good deal to ME,' said Alice hastily; 'but I'm not looking
for eggs, as it happens; and if I was, I shouldn't want YOURS: I don't
like them raw.'

'Well, be off, then!' said the Pigeon in a sulky tone, as it settled
down again into its nest. Alice crouched down among the trees as well as
she could, for her neck kept getting entangled among the branches, and
every now and then she had to stop and untwist it. After a while she
remembered that she still held the pieces of mushroom in her hands, and
she set to work very carefully, nibbling first at one and then at the
other, and growing sometimes taller and sometimes shorter, until she had
succeeded in bringing herself down to her usual height.

It was so long since she had been anything near the right size, that it
felt quite strange at first; but she got used to it in a few minutes,
and began talking to herself, as usual. 'Come, there's half my plan done
now! How puzzling all these changes are! I'm never sure what I'm going
to be, from one minute to another! However, I've got back to my right
size: the next thing is, to get into that beautiful garden--how IS that
to be done, I wonder?' As she said this, she came suddenly upon an open
place, with a little house in it about four feet high. 'Whoever lives
there,' thought Alice, 'it'll never do to come upon them THIS size: why,
I should frighten them out of their wits!' So she began nibbling at the
righthand bit again, and did not venture to go near the house till she
had brought herself down to nine inches high.




CHAPTER VI. Pig and Pepper

For a minute or two she stood looking at the house, and wondering what
to do next, when suddenly a footman in livery came running out of the
wood--(she considered him to be a footman because he was in livery:
otherwise, judging by his face only, she would have called him a
fish)--and rapped loudly at the door with his knuckles. It was opened
by another footman in livery, with a round face, and large eyes like a
frog; and both footmen, Alice noticed, had powdered hair that curled all
over their heads. She felt very curious to know what it was all about,
and crept a little way out of the wood to listen.

The Fish-Footman began by producing from under his arm a great letter,
nearly as large as himself, and this he handed over to the other,
saying, in a solemn tone, 'For the Duchess. An invitation from the Queen
to play croquet.' The Frog-Footman repeated, in the same solemn tone,
only changing the order of the words a little, 'From the Queen. An
invitation for the Duchess to play croquet.'

Then they both bowed low, and their curls got entangled together.

Alice laughed so much at this, that she had to run back into the
wood for fear of their hearing her; and when she next peeped out the
Fish-Footman was gone, and the other was sitting on the ground near the
door, staring stupidly up into the sky.

Alice went timidly up to the door, and knocked.

'There's no sort of use in knocking,' said the Footman, 'and that for
two reasons. First, because I'm on the same side of the door as you
are; secondly, because they're making such a noise inside, no one could
possibly hear you.' And certainly there was a most extraordinary noise
going on within--a constant howling and sneezing, and every now and then
a great crash, as if a dish or kettle had been broken to pieces.

'Please, then,' said Alice, 'how am I to get in?'

'There might be some sense in your knocking,' the Footman went on
without attending to her, 'if we had the door between us. For instance,
if you were INSIDE, you might knock, and I could let you out, you know.'
He was looking up into the sky all the time he was speaking, and this
Alice thought decidedly uncivil. 'But perhaps he can't help it,' she
said to herself; 'his eyes are so VERY nearly at the top of his head.
But at any rate he might answer questions.--How am I to get in?' she
repeated, aloud.

'I shall sit here,' the Footman remarked, 'till tomorrow--'

At this moment the door of the house opened, and a large plate came
skimming out, straight at the Footman's head: it just grazed his nose,
and broke to pieces against one of the trees behind him.

'--or next day, maybe,' the Footman continued in the same tone, exactly
as if nothing had happened.

'How am I to get in?' asked Alice again, in a louder tone.

'ARE you to get in at all?' said the Footman. 'That's the first
question, you know.'

It was, no doubt: only Alice did not like to be told so. 'It's really
dreadful,' she muttered to herself, 'the way all the creatures argue.
It's enough to drive one crazy!'

The Footman seemed to think this a good opportunity for repeating his
remark, with variations. 'I shall sit here,' he said, 'on and off, for
days and days.'

'But what am I to do?' said Alice.

'Anything you like,' said the Footman, and began whistling.

'Oh, there's no use in talking to him,' said Alice desperately: 'he's
perfectly idiotic!' And she opened the door and went in.

The door led right into a large kitchen, which was full of smoke from
one end to the other: the Duchess was sitting on a three-legged stool in
the middle, nursing a baby; the cook was leaning over the fire, stirring
a large cauldron which seemed to be full of soup.

'There's certainly too much pepper in that soup!' Alice said to herself,
as well as she could for sneezing.

There was certainly too much of it in the air. Even the Duchess
sneezed occasionally; and as for the baby, it was sneezing and howling
alternately without a moment's pause. The only things in the kitchen
that did not sneeze, were the cook, and a large cat which was sitting on
the hearth and grinning from ear to ear.

'Please would you tell me,' said Alice, a little timidly, for she was
not quite sure whether it was good manners for her to speak first, 'why
your cat grins like that?'

'It's a Cheshire cat,' said the Duchess, 'and that's why. Pig!'

She said the last word with such sudden violence that Alice quite
jumped; but she saw in another moment that it was addressed to the baby,
and not to her, so she took courage, and went on again:--

'I didn't know that Cheshire cats always grinned; in fact, I didn't know
that cats COULD grin.'

'They all can,' said the Duchess; 'and most of 'em do.'

'I don't know of any that do,' Alice said very politely, feeling quite
pleased to have got into a conversation.

'You don't know much,' said the Duchess; 'and that's a fact.'

Alice did not at all like the tone of this remark, and thought it would
be as well to introduce some other subject of conversation. While she
was trying to fix on one, the cook took the cauldron of soup off the
fire, and at once set to work throwing everything within her reach at
the Duchess and the baby--the fire-irons came first; then followed a
shower of saucepans, plates, and dishes. The Duchess took no notice of
them even when they hit her; and the baby was howling so much already,
that it was quite impossible to say whether the blows hurt it or not.

'Oh, PLEASE mind what you're doing!' cried Alice, jumping up and down in
an agony of terror. 'Oh, there goes his PRECIOUS nose'; as an unusually
large saucepan flew close by it, and very nearly carried it off.

'If everybody minded their own business,' the Duchess said in a hoarse
growl, 'the world would go round a deal faster than it does.'

'Which would NOT be an advantage,' said Alice, who felt very glad to get
an opportunity of showing off a little of her knowledge. 'Just think of
what work it would make with the day and night! You see the earth takes
twenty-four hours to turn round on its axis--'

'Talking of axes,' said the Duchess, 'chop off her head!'

Alice glanced rather anxiously at the cook, to see if she meant to take
the hint; but the cook was busily stirring the soup, and seemed not to
be listening, so she went on again: 'Twenty-four hours, I THINK; or is
it twelve? I--'

'Oh, don't bother ME,' said the Duchess; 'I never could abide figures!'
And with that she began nursing her child again, singing a sort of
lullaby to it as she did so, and giving it a violent shake at the end of
every line:

   'Speak roughly to your little boy,
    And beat him when he sneezes:
   He only does it to annoy,
    Because he knows it teases.'

         CHORUS.

 (In which the cook and the baby joined):--

       'Wow! wow! wow!'

While the Duchess sang the second verse of the song, she kept tossing
the baby violently up and down, and the poor little thing howled so,
that Alice could hardly hear the words:--

   'I speak severely to my boy,
    I beat him when he sneezes;
   For he can thoroughly enjoy
    The pepper when he pleases!'

         CHORUS.

       'Wow! wow! wow!'

'Here! you may nurse it a bit, if you like!' the Duchess said to Alice,
flinging the baby at her as she spoke. 'I must go and get ready to play
croquet with the Queen,' and she hurried out of the room. The cook threw
a frying-pan after her as she went out, but it just missed her.

Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer-shaped
little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, 'just
like a star-fish,' thought Alice. The poor little thing was snorting
like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and
straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first minute
or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it.

As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it, (which was to
twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right
ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried
it out into the open air. 'IF I don't take this child away with me,'
thought Alice, 'they're sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn't it be
murder to leave it behind?' She said the last words out loud, and the
little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time).
'Don't grunt,' said Alice; 'that's not at all a proper way of expressing
yourself.'

The baby grunted again, and Alice looked very anxiously into its face to
see what was the matter with it. There could be no doubt that it had
a VERY turn-up nose, much more like a snout than a real nose; also its
eyes were getting extremely small for a baby: altogether Alice did not
like the look of the thing at all. 'But perhaps it was only sobbing,'
she thought, and looked into its eyes again, to see if there were any
tears.

No, there were no tears. 'If you're going to turn into a pig, my dear,'
said Alice, seriously, 'I'll have nothing more to do with you. Mind
now!' The poor little thing sobbed again (or grunted, it was impossible
to say which), and they went on for some while in silence.

Alice was just beginning to think to herself, 'Now, what am I to do with
this creature when I get it home?' when it grunted again, so violently,
that she looked down into its face in some alarm. This time there could
be NO mistake about it: it was neither more nor less than a pig, and she
felt that it would be quite absurd for her to carry it further.

So she set the little creature down, and felt quite relieved to see
it trot away quietly into the wood. 'If it had grown up,' she said
to herself, 'it would have made a dreadfully ugly child: but it makes
rather a handsome pig, I think.' And she began thinking over other
children she knew, who might do very well as pigs, and was just saying
to herself, 'if one only knew the right way to change them--' when she
was a little startled by seeing the Cheshire Cat sitting on a bough of a
tree a few yards off.

The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she
thought: still it had VERY long claws and a great many teeth, so she
felt that it ought to be treated with respect.

'Cheshire Puss,' she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know
whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider.
'Come, it's pleased so far,' thought Alice, and she went on. 'Would you
tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'

'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.

'I don't much care where--' said Alice.

'Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.

'--so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation.

'Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, 'if you only walk long
enough.'

Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question.
'What sort of people live about here?'

'In THAT direction,' the Cat said, waving its right paw round, 'lives
a Hatter: and in THAT direction,' waving the other paw, 'lives a March
Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad.'

'But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.

'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: 'we're all mad here. I'm mad.
You're mad.'

'How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.

'You must be,' said the Cat, 'or you wouldn't have come here.'

Alice didn't think that proved it at all; however, she went on 'And how
do you know that you're mad?'

'To begin with,' said the Cat, 'a dog's not mad. You grant that?'

'I suppose so,' said Alice.

'Well, then,' the Cat went on, 'you see, a dog growls when it's angry,
and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now I growl when I'm pleased, and
wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad.'

'I call it purring, not growling,' said Alice.

'Call it what you like,' said the Cat. 'Do you play croquet with the
Queen to-day?'

'I should like it very much,' said Alice, 'but I haven't been invited
yet.'

'You'll see me there,' said the Cat, and vanished.

Alice was not much surprised at this, she was getting so used to queer
things happening. While she was looking at the place where it had been,
it suddenly appeared again.

'By-the-bye, what became of the baby?' said the Cat. 'I'd nearly
forgotten to ask.'

'It turned into a pig,' Alice quietly said, just as if it had come back
in a natural way.

'I thought it would,' said the Cat, and vanished again.

Alice waited a little, half expecting to see it again, but it did not
appear, and after a minute or two she walked on in the direction in
which the March Hare was said to live. 'I've seen hatters before,' she
said to herself; 'the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and
perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as
it was in March.' As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat
again, sitting on a branch of a tree.

'Did you say pig, or fig?' said the Cat.

'I said pig,' replied Alice; 'and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and
vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy.'

'All right,' said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly,
beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which
remained some time after the rest of it had gone.

'Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin,' thought Alice; 'but a grin
without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!'

She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house
of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the
chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It
was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had
nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to
about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly,
saying to herself 'Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost
wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!'




CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party

There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the
March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting
between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a
cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. 'Very
uncomfortable for the Dormouse,' thought Alice; 'only, as it's asleep, I
suppose it doesn't mind.'

The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at
one corner of it: 'No room! No room!' they cried out when they saw Alice
coming. 'There's PLENTY of room!' said Alice indignantly, and she sat
down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table.

'Have some wine,' the March Hare said in an encouraging tone.

Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea.
'I don't see any wine,' she remarked.

'There isn't any,' said the March Hare.

'Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it,' said Alice angrily.

'It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited,' said
the March Hare.

'I didn't know it was YOUR table,' said Alice; 'it's laid for a great
many more than three.'

'Your hair wants cutting,' said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice
for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech.

'You should learn not to make personal remarks,' Alice said with some
severity; 'it's very rude.'

The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he SAID
was, 'Why is a raven like a writing-desk?'

'Come, we shall have some fun now!' thought Alice. 'I'm glad they've
begun asking riddles.--I believe I can guess that,' she added aloud.

'Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?' said the
March Hare.

'Exactly so,' said Alice.

'Then you should say what you mean,' the March Hare went on.

'I do,' Alice hastily replied; 'at least--at least I mean what I
say--that's the same thing, you know.'

'Not the same thing a bit!' said the Hatter. 'You might just as well say
that "I see what I eat" is the same thing as "I eat what I see"!'

'You might just as well say,' added the March Hare, 'that "I like what I
get" is the same thing as "I get what I like"!'

'You might just as well say,' added the Dormouse, who seemed to be
talking in his sleep, 'that "I breathe when I sleep" is the same thing
as "I sleep when I breathe"!'

'It IS the same thing with you,' said the Hatter, and here the
conversation dropped, and the party sat silent for a minute, while Alice
thought over all she could remember about ravens and writing-desks,
which wasn't much.

The Hatter was the first to break the silence. 'What day of the month
is it?' he said, turning to Alice: he had taken his watch out of his
pocket, and was looking at it uneasily, shaking it every now and then,
and holding it to his ear.

Alice considered a little, and then said 'The fourth.'

'Two days wrong!' sighed the Hatter. 'I told you butter wouldn't suit
the works!' he added looking angrily at the March Hare.

'It was the BEST butter,' the March Hare meekly replied.

'Yes, but some crumbs must have got in as well,' the Hatter grumbled:
'you shouldn't have put it in with the bread-knife.'

The March Hare took the watch and looked at it gloomily: then he dipped
it into his cup of tea, and looked at it again: but he could think of
nothing better to say than his first remark, 'It was the BEST butter,
you know.'

Alice had been looking over his shoulder with some curiosity. 'What a
funny watch!' she remarked. 'It tells the day of the month, and doesn't
tell what o'clock it is!'

'Why should it?' muttered the Hatter. 'Does YOUR watch tell you what
year it is?'

'Of course not,' Alice replied very readily: 'but that's because it
stays the same year for such a long time together.'

'Which is just the case with MINE,' said the Hatter.

Alice felt dreadfully puzzled. The Hatter's remark seemed to have no
sort of meaning in it, and yet it was certainly English. 'I don't quite
understand you,' she said, as politely as she could.

'The Dormouse is asleep again,' said the Hatter, and he poured a little
hot tea upon its nose.

The Dormouse shook its head impatiently, and said, without opening its
eyes, 'Of course, of course; just what I was going to remark myself.'

'Have you guessed the riddle yet?' the Hatter said, turning to Alice
again.

'No, I give it up,' Alice replied: 'what's the answer?'

'I haven't the slightest idea,' said the Hatter.

'Nor I,' said the March Hare.

Alice sighed wearily. 'I think you might do something better with the
time,' she said, 'than waste it in asking riddles that have no answers.'

'If you knew Time as well as I do,' said the Hatter, 'you wouldn't talk
about wasting IT. It's HIM.'

'I don't know what you mean,' said Alice.

'Of course you don't!' the Hatter said, tossing his head contemptuously.
'I dare say you never even spoke to Time!'

'Perhaps not,' Alice cautiously replied: 'but I know I have to beat time
when I learn music.'

'Ah! that accounts for it,' said the Hatter. 'He won't stand beating.
Now, if you only kept on good terms with him, he'd do almost anything
you liked with the clock. For instance, suppose it were nine o'clock in
the morning, just time to begin lessons: you'd only have to whisper a
hint to Time, and round goes the clock in a twinkling! Half-past one,
time for dinner!'

('I only wish it was,' the March Hare said to itself in a whisper.)

'That would be grand, certainly,' said Alice thoughtfully: 'but then--I
shouldn't be hungry for it, you know.'

'Not at first, perhaps,' said the Hatter: 'but you could keep it to
half-past one as long as you liked.'

'Is that the way YOU manage?' Alice asked.

The Hatter shook his head mournfully. 'Not I!' he replied. 'We
quarrelled last March--just before HE went mad, you know--' (pointing
with his tea spoon at the March Hare,) '--it was at the great concert
given by the Queen of Hearts, and I had to sing

     "Twinkle, twinkle, little bat!
     How I wonder what you're at!"

You know the song, perhaps?'

'I've heard something like it,' said Alice.

'It goes on, you know,' the Hatter continued, 'in this way:--

     "Up above the world you fly,
     Like a tea-tray in the sky.
         Twinkle, twinkle--"'

Here the Dormouse shook itself, and began singing in its sleep 'Twinkle,
twinkle, twinkle, twinkle--' and went on so long that they had to pinch
it to make it stop.

'Well, I'd hardly finished the first verse,' said the Hatter, 'when the
Queen jumped up and bawled out, "He's murdering the time! Off with his
head!"'

'How dreadfully savage!' exclaimed Alice.

'And ever since that,' the Hatter went on in a mournful tone, 'he won't
do a thing I ask! It's always six o'clock now.'

A bright idea came into Alice's head. 'Is that the reason so many
tea-things are put out here?' she asked.

'Yes, that's it,' said the Hatter with a sigh: 'it's always tea-time,
and we've no time to wash the things between whiles.'

'Then you keep moving round, I suppose?' said Alice.

'Exactly so,' said the Hatter: 'as the things get used up.'

'But what happens when you come to the beginning again?' Alice ventured
to ask.

'Suppose we change the subject,' the March Hare interrupted, yawning.
'I'm getting tired of this. I vote the young lady tells us a story.'

'I'm afraid I don't know one,' said Alice, rather alarmed at the
proposal.

'Then the Dormouse shall!' they both cried. 'Wake up, Dormouse!' And
they pinched it on both sides at once.

The Dormouse slowly opened his eyes. 'I wasn't asleep,' he said in a
hoarse, feeble voice: 'I heard every word you fellows were saying.'

'Tell us a story!' said the March Hare.

'Yes, please do!' pleaded Alice.

'And be quick about it,' added the Hatter, 'or you'll be asleep again
before it's done.'

'Once upon a time there were three little sisters,' the Dormouse began
in a great hurry; 'and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and
they lived at the bottom of a well--'

'What did they live on?' said Alice, who always took a great interest in
questions of eating and drinking.

'They lived on treacle,' said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or
two.

'They couldn't have done that, you know,' Alice gently remarked; 'they'd
have been ill.'

'So they were,' said the Dormouse; 'VERY ill.'

Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of
living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: 'But
why did they live at the bottom of a well?'

'Take some more tea,' the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.

'I've had nothing yet,' Alice replied in an offended tone, 'so I can't
take more.'

'You mean you can't take LESS,' said the Hatter: 'it's very easy to take
MORE than nothing.'

'Nobody asked YOUR opinion,' said Alice.

'Who's making personal remarks now?' the Hatter asked triumphantly.

Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself
to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and
repeated her question. 'Why did they live at the bottom of a well?'

The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then
said, 'It was a treacle-well.'

'There's no such thing!' Alice was beginning very angrily, but the
Hatter and the March Hare went 'Sh! sh!' and the Dormouse sulkily
remarked, 'If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for
yourself.'

'No, please go on!' Alice said very humbly; 'I won't interrupt again. I
dare say there may be ONE.'

'One, indeed!' said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to
go on. 'And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw,
you know--'

'What did they draw?' said Alice, quite forgetting her promise.

'Treacle,' said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time.

'I want a clean cup,' interrupted the Hatter: 'let's all move one place
on.'

He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare
moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took
the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any
advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than
before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate.

Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very
cautiously: 'But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle
from?'

'You can draw water out of a water-well,' said the Hatter; 'so I should
think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?'

'But they were IN the well,' Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to
notice this last remark.

'Of course they were', said the Dormouse; '--well in.'

This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for
some time without interrupting it.

'They were learning to draw,' the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing
its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; 'and they drew all manner of
things--everything that begins with an M--'

'Why with an M?' said Alice.

'Why not?' said the March Hare.

Alice was silent.

The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into
a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with
a little shriek, and went on: '--that begins with an M, such as
mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness--you know you say
things are "much of a muchness"--did you ever see such a thing as a
drawing of a muchness?'

'Really, now you ask me,' said Alice, very much confused, 'I don't
think--'

'Then you shouldn't talk,' said the Hatter.

This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in
great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and
neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she
looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her:
the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into
the teapot.

'At any rate I'll never go THERE again!' said Alice as she picked her
way through the wood. 'It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all
my life!'

Just as she said this, she noticed that one of the trees had a door
leading right into it. 'That's very curious!' she thought. 'But
everything's curious today. I think I may as well go in at once.' And in
she went.

Once more she found herself in the long hall, and close to the little
glass table. 'Now, I'll manage better this time,' she said to herself,
and began by taking the little golden key, and unlocking the door that
led into the garden. Then she went to work nibbling at the mushroom (she
had kept a piece of it in her pocket) till she was about a foot high:
then she walked down the little passage: and THEN--she found herself at
last in the beautiful garden, among the bright flower-beds and the cool
fountains.




CHAPTER VIII. The Queen's Croquet-Ground

A large rose-tree stood near the entrance of the garden: the roses
growing on it were white, but there were three gardeners at it, busily
painting them red. Alice thought this a very curious thing, and she went
nearer to watch them, and just as she came up to them she heard one of
them say, 'Look out now, Five! Don't go splashing paint over me like
that!'

'I couldn't help it,' said Five, in a sulky tone; 'Seven jogged my
elbow.'

On which Seven looked up and said, 'That's right, Five! Always lay the
blame on others!'

'YOU'D better not talk!' said Five. 'I heard the Queen say only
yesterday you deserved to be beheaded!'

'What for?' said the one who had spoken first.

'That's none of YOUR business, Two!' said Seven.

'Yes, it IS his business!' said Five, 'and I'll tell him--it was for
bringing the cook tulip-roots instead of onions.'

Seven flung down his brush, and had just begun 'Well, of all the unjust
things--' when his eye chanced to fall upon Alice, as she stood watching
them, and he checked himself suddenly: the others looked round also, and
all of them bowed low.

'Would you tell me,' said Alice, a little timidly, 'why you are painting
those roses?'

Five and Seven said nothing, but looked at Two. Two began in a low
voice, 'Why the fact is, you see, Miss, this here ought to have been a
RED rose-tree, and we put a white one in by mistake; and if the Queen
was to find it out, we should all have our heads cut off, you know.
So you see, Miss, we're doing our best, afore she comes, to--' At this
moment Five, who had been anxiously looking across the garden, called
out 'The Queen! The Queen!' and the three gardeners instantly threw
themselves flat upon their faces. There was a sound of many footsteps,
and Alice looked round, eager to see the Queen.

First came ten soldiers carrying clubs; these were all shaped like
the three gardeners, oblong and flat, with their hands and feet at the
corners: next the ten courtiers; these were ornamented all over with
diamonds, and walked two and two, as the soldiers did. After these came
the royal children; there were ten of them, and the little dears came
jumping merrily along hand in hand, in couples: they were all ornamented
with hearts. Next came the guests, mostly Kings and Queens, and among
them Alice recognised the White Rabbit: it was talking in a hurried
nervous manner, smiling at everything that was said, and went by without
noticing her. Then followed the Knave of Hearts, carrying the King's
crown on a crimson velvet cushion; and, last of all this grand
procession, came THE KING AND QUEEN OF HEARTS.

Alice was rather doubtful whether she ought not to lie down on her face
like the three gardeners, but she could not remember ever having heard
of such a rule at processions; 'and besides, what would be the use of
a procession,' thought she, 'if people had all to lie down upon their
faces, so that they couldn't see it?' So she stood still where she was,
and waited.

When the procession came opposite to Alice, they all stopped and looked
at her, and the Queen said severely 'Who is this?' She said it to the
Knave of Hearts, who only bowed and smiled in reply.

'Idiot!' said the Queen, tossing her head impatiently; and, turning to
Alice, she went on, 'What's your name, child?'

'My name is Alice, so please your Majesty,' said Alice very politely;
but she added, to herself, 'Why, they're only a pack of cards, after
all. I needn't be afraid of them!'

'And who are THESE?' said the Queen, pointing to the three gardeners who
were lying round the rosetree; for, you see, as they were lying on their
faces, and the pattern on their backs was the same as the rest of the
pack, she could not tell whether they were gardeners, or soldiers, or
courtiers, or three of her own children.

'How should I know?' said Alice, surprised at her own courage. 'It's no
business of MINE.'

The Queen turned crimson with fury, and, after glaring at her for a
moment like a wild beast, screamed 'Off with her head! Off--'

'Nonsense!' said Alice, very loudly and decidedly, and the Queen was
silent.

The King laid his hand upon her arm, and timidly said 'Consider, my
dear: she is only a child!'

The Queen turned angrily away from him, and said to the Knave 'Turn them
over!'

The Knave did so, very carefully, with one foot.

'Get up!' said the Queen, in a shrill, loud voice, and the three
gardeners instantly jumped up, and began bowing to the King, the Queen,
the royal children, and everybody else.

'Leave off that!' screamed the Queen. 'You make me giddy.' And then,
turning to the rose-tree, she went on, 'What HAVE you been doing here?'

'May it please your Majesty,' said Two, in a very humble tone, going
down on one knee as he spoke, 'we were trying--'

'I see!' said the Queen, who had meanwhile been examining the roses.
'Off with their heads!' and the procession moved on, three of the
soldiers remaining behind to execute the unfortunate gardeners, who ran
to Alice for protection.

'You shan't be beheaded!' said Alice, and she put them into a large
flower-pot that stood near. The three soldiers wandered about for a
minute or two, looking for them, and then quietly marched off after the
others.

'Are their heads off?' shouted the Queen.

'Their heads are gone, if it please your Majesty!' the soldiers shouted
in reply.

'That's right!' shouted the Queen. 'Can you play croquet?'

The soldiers were silent, and looked at Alice, as the question was
evidently meant for her.

'Yes!' shouted Alice.

'Come on, then!' roared the Queen, and Alice joined the procession,
wondering very much what would happen next.

'It's--it's a very fine day!' said a timid voice at her side. She was
walking by the White Rabbit, who was peeping anxiously into her face.

'Very,' said Alice: '--where's the Duchess?'

'Hush! Hush!' said the Rabbit in a low, hurried tone. He looked
anxiously over his shoulder as he spoke, and then raised himself upon
tiptoe, put his mouth close to her ear, and whispered 'She's under
sentence of execution.'

'What for?' said Alice.

'Did you say "What a pity!"?' the Rabbit asked.

'No, I didn't,' said Alice: 'I don't think it's at all a pity. I said
"What for?"'

'She boxed the Queen's ears--' the Rabbit began. Alice gave a little
scream of laughter. 'Oh, hush!' the Rabbit whispered in a frightened
tone. 'The Queen will hear you! You see, she came rather late, and the
Queen said--'

'Get to your places!' shouted the Queen in a voice of thunder, and
people began running about in all directions, tumbling up against each
other; however, they got settled down in a minute or two, and the game
began. Alice thought she had never seen such a curious croquet-ground in
her life; it was all ridges and furrows; the balls were live hedgehogs,
the mallets live flamingoes, and the soldiers had to double themselves
up and to stand on their hands and feet, to make the arches.

The chief difficulty Alice found at first was in managing her flamingo:
she succeeded in getting its body tucked away, comfortably enough, under
her arm, with its legs hanging down, but generally, just as she had got
its neck nicely straightened out, and was going to give the hedgehog a
blow with its head, it WOULD twist itself round and look up in her face,
with such a puzzled expression that she could not help bursting out
laughing: and when she had got its head down, and was going to begin
again, it was very provoking to find that the hedgehog had unrolled
itself, and was in the act of crawling away: besides all this, there was
generally a ridge or furrow in the way wherever she wanted to send the
hedgehog to, and, as the doubled-up soldiers were always getting up
and walking off to other parts of the ground, Alice soon came to the
conclusion that it was a very difficult game indeed.

The players all played at once without waiting for turns, quarrelling
all the while, and fighting for the hedgehogs; and in a very short
time the Queen was in a furious passion, and went stamping about, and
shouting 'Off with his head!' or 'Off with her head!' about once in a
minute.

Alice began to feel very uneasy: to be sure, she had not as yet had any
dispute with the Queen, but she knew that it might happen any minute,
'and then,' thought she, 'what would become of me? They're dreadfully
fond of beheading people here; the great wonder is, that there's any one
left alive!'

She was looking about for some way of escape, and wondering whether she
could get away without being seen, when she noticed a curious appearance
in the air: it puzzled her very much at first, but, after watching it
a minute or two, she made it out to be a grin, and she said to herself
'It's the Cheshire Cat: now I shall have somebody to talk to.'

'How are you getting on?' said the Cat, as soon as there was mouth
enough for it to speak with.

Alice waited till the eyes appeared, and then nodded. 'It's no use
speaking to it,' she thought, 'till its ears have come, or at least one
of them.' In another minute the whole head appeared, and then Alice put
down her flamingo, and began an account of the game, feeling very glad
she had someone to listen to her. The Cat seemed to think that there was
enough of it now in sight, and no more of it appeared.

'I don't think they play at all fairly,' Alice began, in rather a
complaining tone, 'and they all quarrel so dreadfully one can't hear
oneself speak--and they don't seem to have any rules in particular;
at least, if there are, nobody attends to them--and you've no idea how
confusing it is all the things being alive; for instance, there's the
arch I've got to go through next walking about at the other end of the
ground--and I should have croqueted the Queen's hedgehog just now, only
it ran away when it saw mine coming!'

'How do you like the Queen?' said the Cat in a low voice.

'Not at all,' said Alice: 'she's so extremely--' Just then she noticed
that the Queen was close behind her, listening: so she went on,
'--likely to win, that it's hardly worth while finishing the game.'

The Queen smiled and passed on.

'Who ARE you talking to?' said the King, going up to Alice, and looking
at the Cat's head with great curiosity.

'It's a friend of mine--a Cheshire Cat,' said Alice: 'allow me to
introduce it.'

'I don't like the look of it at all,' said the King: 'however, it may
kiss my hand if it likes.'

'I'd rather not,' the Cat remarked.

'Don't be impertinent,' said the King, 'and don't look at me like that!'
He got behind Alice as he spoke.

'A cat may look at a king,' said Alice. 'I've read that in some book,
but I don't remember where.'

'Well, it must be removed,' said the King very decidedly, and he called
the Queen, who was passing at the moment, 'My dear! I wish you would
have this cat removed!'

The Queen had only one way of settling all difficulties, great or small.
'Off with his head!' she said, without even looking round.

'I'll fetch the executioner myself,' said the King eagerly, and he
hurried off.

Alice thought she might as well go back, and see how the game was going
on, as she heard the Queen's voice in the distance, screaming with
passion. She had already heard her sentence three of the players to be
executed for having missed their turns, and she did not like the look
of things at all, as the game was in such confusion that she never knew
whether it was her turn or not. So she went in search of her hedgehog.

The hedgehog was engaged in a fight with another hedgehog, which seemed
to Alice an excellent opportunity for croqueting one of them with the
other: the only difficulty was, that her flamingo was gone across to the
other side of the garden, where Alice could see it trying in a helpless
sort of way to fly up into a tree.

By the time she had caught the flamingo and brought it back, the fight
was over, and both the hedgehogs were out of sight: 'but it doesn't
matter much,' thought Alice, 'as all the arches are gone from this side
of the ground.' So she tucked it away under her arm, that it might not
escape again, and went back for a little more conversation with her
friend.

When she got back to the Cheshire Cat, she was surprised to find quite a
large crowd collected round it: there was a dispute going on between
the executioner, the King, and the Queen, who were all talking at once,
while all the rest were quite silent, and looked very uncomfortable.

The moment Alice appeared, she was appealed to by all three to settle
the question, and they repeated their arguments to her, though, as they
all spoke at once, she found it very hard indeed to make out exactly
what they said.

The executioner's argument was, that you couldn't cut off a head unless
there was a body to cut it off from: that he had never had to do such a
thing before, and he wasn't going to begin at HIS time of life.

The King's argument was, that anything that had a head could be
beheaded, and that you weren't to talk nonsense.

The Queen's argument was, that if something wasn't done about it in less
than no time she'd have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last
remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.)

Alice could think of nothing else to say but 'It belongs to the Duchess:
you'd better ask HER about it.'

'She's in prison,' the Queen said to the executioner: 'fetch her here.'
And the executioner went off like an arrow.

 The Cat's head began fading away the moment he was gone, and,
by the time he had come back with the Duchess, it had entirely
disappeared; so the King and the executioner ran wildly up and down
looking for it, while the rest of the party went back to the game.




CHAPTER IX. The Mock Turtle's Story

'You can't think how glad I am to see you again, you dear old thing!'
said the Duchess, as she tucked her arm affectionately into Alice's, and
they walked off together.

Alice was very glad to find her in such a pleasant temper, and thought
to herself that perhaps it was only the pepper that had made her so
savage when they met in the kitchen.

'When I'M a Duchess,' she said to herself, (not in a very hopeful tone
though), 'I won't have any pepper in my kitchen AT ALL. Soup does very
well without--Maybe it's always pepper that makes people hot-tempered,'
she went on, very much pleased at having found out a new kind of
rule, 'and vinegar that makes them sour--and camomile that makes
them bitter--and--and barley-sugar and such things that make children
sweet-tempered. I only wish people knew that: then they wouldn't be so
stingy about it, you know--'

She had quite forgotten the Duchess by this time, and was a little
startled when she heard her voice close to her ear. 'You're thinking
about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can't
tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in
a bit.'

'Perhaps it hasn't one,' Alice ventured to remark.

'Tut, tut, child!' said the Duchess. 'Everything's got a moral, if only
you can find it.' And she squeezed herself up closer to Alice's side as
she spoke.

Alice did not much like keeping so close to her: first, because the
Duchess was VERY ugly; and secondly, because she was exactly the
right height to rest her chin upon Alice's shoulder, and it was an
uncomfortably sharp chin. However, she did not like to be rude, so she
bore it as well as she could.

'The game's going on rather better now,' she said, by way of keeping up
the conversation a little.

''Tis so,' said the Duchess: 'and the moral of that is--"Oh, 'tis love,
'tis love, that makes the world go round!"'

'Somebody said,' Alice whispered, 'that it's done by everybody minding
their own business!'

'Ah, well! It means much the same thing,' said the Duchess, digging her
sharp little chin into Alice's shoulder as she added, 'and the moral
of THAT is--"Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of
themselves."'

'How fond she is of finding morals in things!' Alice thought to herself.

'I dare say you're wondering why I don't put my arm round your waist,'
the Duchess said after a pause: 'the reason is, that I'm doubtful about
the temper of your flamingo. Shall I try the experiment?'

'HE might bite,' Alice cautiously replied, not feeling at all anxious to
have the experiment tried.

'Very true,' said the Duchess: 'flamingoes and mustard both bite. And
the moral of that is--"Birds of a feather flock together."'

'Only mustard isn't a bird,' Alice remarked.

'Right, as usual,' said the Duchess: 'what a clear way you have of
putting things!'

'It's a mineral, I THINK,' said Alice.

'Of course it is,' said the Duchess, who seemed ready to agree to
everything that Alice said; 'there's a large mustard-mine near here. And
the moral of that is--"The more there is of mine, the less there is of
yours."'

'Oh, I know!' exclaimed Alice, who had not attended to this last remark,
'it's a vegetable. It doesn't look like one, but it is.'

'I quite agree with you,' said the Duchess; 'and the moral of that
is--"Be what you would seem to be"--or if you'd like it put more
simply--"Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might
appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise
than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise."'

'I think I should understand that better,' Alice said very politely, 'if
I had it written down: but I can't quite follow it as you say it.'

'That's nothing to what I could say if I chose,' the Duchess replied, in
a pleased tone.

'Pray don't trouble yourself to say it any longer than that,' said
Alice.

'Oh, don't talk about trouble!' said the Duchess. 'I make you a present
of everything I've said as yet.'

'A cheap sort of present!' thought Alice. 'I'm glad they don't give
birthday presents like that!' But she did not venture to say it out
loud.

'Thinking again?' the Duchess asked, with another dig of her sharp
little chin.

'I've a right to think,' said Alice sharply, for she was beginning to
feel a little worried.

'Just about as much right,' said the Duchess, 'as pigs have to fly; and
the m--'

But here, to Alice's great surprise, the Duchess's voice died away, even
in the middle of her favourite word 'moral,' and the arm that was linked
into hers began to tremble. Alice looked up, and there stood the Queen
in front of them, with her arms folded, frowning like a thunderstorm.

'A fine day, your Majesty!' the Duchess began in a low, weak voice.

'Now, I give you fair warning,' shouted the Queen, stamping on the
ground as she spoke; 'either you or your head must be off, and that in
about half no time! Take your choice!'

The Duchess took her choice, and was gone in a moment.

'Let's go on with the game,' the Queen said to Alice; and Alice was
too much frightened to say a word, but slowly followed her back to the
croquet-ground.

The other guests had taken advantage of the Queen's absence, and were
resting in the shade: however, the moment they saw her, they hurried
back to the game, the Queen merely remarking that a moment's delay would
cost them their lives.

All the time they were playing the Queen never left off quarrelling with
the other players, and shouting 'Off with his head!' or 'Off with her
head!' Those whom she sentenced were taken into custody by the soldiers,
who of course had to leave off being arches to do this, so that by
the end of half an hour or so there were no arches left, and all the
players, except the King, the Queen, and Alice, were in custody and
under sentence of execution.

Then the Queen left off, quite out of breath, and said to Alice, 'Have
you seen the Mock Turtle yet?'

'No,' said Alice. 'I don't even know what a Mock Turtle is.'

'It's the thing Mock Turtle Soup is made from,' said the Queen.

'I never saw one, or heard of one,' said Alice.

'Come on, then,' said the Queen, 'and he shall tell you his history,'

As they walked off together, Alice heard the King say in a low voice,
to the company generally, 'You are all pardoned.' 'Come, THAT'S a good
thing!' she said to herself, for she had felt quite unhappy at the
number of executions the Queen had ordered.

They very soon came upon a Gryphon, lying fast asleep in the sun.
(IF you don't know what a Gryphon is, look at the picture.) 'Up, lazy
thing!' said the Queen, 'and take this young lady to see the Mock
Turtle, and to hear his history. I must go back and see after some
executions I have ordered'; and she walked off, leaving Alice alone with
the Gryphon. Alice did not quite like the look of the creature, but on
the whole she thought it would be quite as safe to stay with it as to go
after that savage Queen: so she waited.

The Gryphon sat up and rubbed its eyes: then it watched the Queen till
she was out of sight: then it chuckled. 'What fun!' said the Gryphon,
half to itself, half to Alice.

'What IS the fun?' said Alice.

'Why, SHE,' said the Gryphon. 'It's all her fancy, that: they never
executes nobody, you know. Come on!'

'Everybody says "come on!" here,' thought Alice, as she went slowly
after it: 'I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!'

They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance,
sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came
nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She
pitied him deeply. 'What is his sorrow?' she asked the Gryphon, and the
Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, 'It's all his
fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!'

So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes
full of tears, but said nothing.

'This here young lady,' said the Gryphon, 'she wants for to know your
history, she do.'

'I'll tell it her,' said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: 'sit
down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've finished.'

So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to
herself, 'I don't see how he can EVEN finish, if he doesn't begin.' But
she waited patiently.

'Once,' said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, 'I was a real
Turtle.'

These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an
occasional exclamation of 'Hjckrrh!' from the Gryphon, and the constant
heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and
saying, 'Thank you, sir, for your interesting story,' but she could
not help thinking there MUST be more to come, so she sat still and said
nothing.

'When we were little,' the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly,
though still sobbing a little now and then, 'we went to school in the
sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--'

'Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?' Alice asked.

'We called him Tortoise because he taught us,' said the Mock Turtle
angrily: 'really you are very dull!'

'You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question,'
added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor
Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said
to the Mock Turtle, 'Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!'
and he went on in these words:

'Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--'

'I never said I didn't!' interrupted Alice.

'You did,' said the Mock Turtle.

'Hold your tongue!' added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again.
The Mock Turtle went on.

'We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--'

'I'VE been to a day-school, too,' said Alice; 'you needn't be so proud
as all that.'

'With extras?' asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously.

'Yes,' said Alice, 'we learned French and music.'

'And washing?' said the Mock Turtle.

'Certainly not!' said Alice indignantly.

'Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school,' said the Mock Turtle in
a tone of great relief. 'Now at OURS they had at the end of the bill,
"French, music, AND WASHING--extra."'

'You couldn't have wanted it much,' said Alice; 'living at the bottom of
the sea.'

'I couldn't afford to learn it.' said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. 'I
only took the regular course.'

'What was that?' inquired Alice.

'Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with,' the Mock Turtle
replied; 'and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition,
Distraction, Uglification, and Derision.'

'I never heard of "Uglification,"' Alice ventured to say. 'What is it?'

The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. 'What! Never heard of
uglifying!' it exclaimed. 'You know what to beautify is, I suppose?'

'Yes,' said Alice doubtfully: 'it means--to--make--anything--prettier.'

'Well, then,' the Gryphon went on, 'if you don't know what to uglify is,
you ARE a simpleton.'

Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she
turned to the Mock Turtle, and said 'What else had you to learn?'

'Well, there was Mystery,' the Mock Turtle replied, counting off
the subjects on his flappers, '--Mystery, ancient and modern, with
Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel,
that used to come once a week: HE taught us Drawling, Stretching, and
Fainting in Coils.'

'What was THAT like?' said Alice.

'Well, I can't show it you myself,' the Mock Turtle said: 'I'm too
stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it.'

'Hadn't time,' said the Gryphon: 'I went to the Classics master, though.
He was an old crab, HE was.'

'I never went to him,' the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: 'he taught
Laughing and Grief, they used to say.'

'So he did, so he did,' said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both
creatures hid their faces in their paws.

'And how many hours a day did you do lessons?' said Alice, in a hurry to
change the subject.

'Ten hours the first day,' said the Mock Turtle: 'nine the next, and so
on.'

'What a curious plan!' exclaimed Alice.

'That's the reason they're called lessons,' the Gryphon remarked:
'because they lessen from day to day.'

This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little
before she made her next remark. 'Then the eleventh day must have been a
holiday?'

'Of course it was,' said the Mock Turtle.

'And how did you manage on the twelfth?' Alice went on eagerly.

'That's enough about lessons,' the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided
tone: 'tell her something about the games now.'




CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille

The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across
his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or
two sobs choked his voice. 'Same as if he had a bone in his throat,'
said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in
the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears
running down his cheeks, he went on again:--

'You may not have lived much under the sea--' ('I haven't,' said
Alice)--'and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--'
(Alice began to say 'I once tasted--' but checked herself hastily, and
said 'No, never') '--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a
Lobster Quadrille is!'

'No, indeed,' said Alice. 'What sort of a dance is it?'

'Why,' said the Gryphon, 'you first form into a line along the
sea-shore--'

'Two lines!' cried the Mock Turtle. 'Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on;
then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--'

'THAT generally takes some time,' interrupted the Gryphon.

'--you advance twice--'

'Each with a lobster as a partner!' cried the Gryphon.

'Of course,' the Mock Turtle said: 'advance twice, set to partners--'

'--change lobsters, and retire in same order,' continued the Gryphon.

'Then, you know,' the Mock Turtle went on, 'you throw the--'

'The lobsters!' shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air.

'--as far out to sea as you can--'

'Swim after them!' screamed the Gryphon.

'Turn a somersault in the sea!' cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly
about.

'Change lobsters again!' yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice.

'Back to land again, and that's all the first figure,' said the Mock
Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been
jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly
and quietly, and looked at Alice.

'It must be a very pretty dance,' said Alice timidly.

'Would you like to see a little of it?' said the Mock Turtle.

'Very much indeed,' said Alice.

'Come, let's try the first figure!' said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon.
'We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?'

'Oh, YOU sing,' said the Gryphon. 'I've forgotten the words.'

So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and
then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their
forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly
and sadly:--

 '"Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail.
 "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail.

 See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
 They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance?

 Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
 Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?

 "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be
 When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"
 But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance--
 Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.

 Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance.
 Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.

 '"What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied.
 "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
 The further off from England the nearer is to France--
 Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.

 Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
 Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"'

'Thank you, it's a very interesting dance to watch,' said Alice, feeling
very glad that it was over at last: 'and I do so like that curious song
about the whiting!'

'Oh, as to the whiting,' said the Mock Turtle, 'they--you've seen them,
of course?'

'Yes,' said Alice, 'I've often seen them at dinn--' she checked herself
hastily.

'I don't know where Dinn may be,' said the Mock Turtle, 'but if you've
seen them so often, of course you know what they're like.'

'I believe so,' Alice replied thoughtfully. 'They have their tails in
their mouths--and they're all over crumbs.'

'You're wrong about the crumbs,' said the Mock Turtle: 'crumbs would all
wash off in the sea. But they HAVE their tails in their mouths; and the
reason is--' here the Mock Turtle yawned and shut his eyes.--'Tell her
about the reason and all that,' he said to the Gryphon.

'The reason is,' said the Gryphon, 'that they WOULD go with the lobsters
to the dance. So they got thrown out to sea. So they had to fall a long
way. So they got their tails fast in their mouths. So they couldn't get
them out again. That's all.'

'Thank you,' said Alice, 'it's very interesting. I never knew so much
about a whiting before.'

'I can tell you more than that, if you like,' said the Gryphon. 'Do you
know why it's called a whiting?'

'I never thought about it,' said Alice. 'Why?'

'IT DOES THE BOOTS AND SHOES.' the Gryphon replied very solemnly.

Alice was thoroughly puzzled. 'Does the boots and shoes!' she repeated
in a wondering tone.

'Why, what are YOUR shoes done with?' said the Gryphon. 'I mean, what
makes them so shiny?'

Alice looked down at them, and considered a little before she gave her
answer. 'They're done with blacking, I believe.'

'Boots and shoes under the sea,' the Gryphon went on in a deep voice,
'are done with a whiting. Now you know.'

'And what are they made of?' Alice asked in a tone of great curiosity.

'Soles and eels, of course,' the Gryphon replied rather impatiently:
'any shrimp could have told you that.'

'If I'd been the whiting,' said Alice, whose thoughts were still running
on the song, 'I'd have said to the porpoise, "Keep back, please: we
don't want YOU with us!"'

'They were obliged to have him with them,' the Mock Turtle said: 'no
wise fish would go anywhere without a porpoise.'

'Wouldn't it really?' said Alice in a tone of great surprise.

'Of course not,' said the Mock Turtle: 'why, if a fish came to ME, and
told me he was going a journey, I should say "With what porpoise?"'

'Don't you mean "purpose"?' said Alice.

'I mean what I say,' the Mock Turtle replied in an offended tone. And
the Gryphon added 'Come, let's hear some of YOUR adventures.'

'I could tell you my adventures--beginning from this morning,' said
Alice a little timidly: 'but it's no use going back to yesterday,
because I was a different person then.'

'Explain all that,' said the Mock Turtle.

'No, no! The adventures first,' said the Gryphon in an impatient tone:
'explanations take such a dreadful time.'

So Alice began telling them her adventures from the time when she first
saw the White Rabbit. She was a little nervous about it just at first,
the two creatures got so close to her, one on each side, and opened
their eyes and mouths so VERY wide, but she gained courage as she went
on. Her listeners were perfectly quiet till she got to the part about
her repeating 'YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM,' to the Caterpillar, and the
words all coming different, and then the Mock Turtle drew a long breath,
and said 'That's very curious.'

'It's all about as curious as it can be,' said the Gryphon.

'It all came different!' the Mock Turtle repeated thoughtfully. 'I
should like to hear her try and repeat something now. Tell her to
begin.' He looked at the Gryphon as if he thought it had some kind of
authority over Alice.

'Stand up and repeat "'TIS THE VOICE OF THE SLUGGARD,"' said the
Gryphon.

'How the creatures order one about, and make one repeat lessons!'
thought Alice; 'I might as well be at school at once.' However, she
got up, and began to repeat it, but her head was so full of the Lobster
Quadrille, that she hardly knew what she was saying, and the words came
very queer indeed:--

  ''Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare,
  "You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair."
  As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose
  Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.'

       [later editions continued as follows
  When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
  And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark,
  But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,
  His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.]

'That's different from what I used to say when I was a child,' said the
Gryphon.

'Well, I never heard it before,' said the Mock Turtle; 'but it sounds
uncommon nonsense.'

Alice said nothing; she had sat down with her face in her hands,
wondering if anything would EVER happen in a natural way again.

'I should like to have it explained,' said the Mock Turtle.

'She can't explain it,' said the Gryphon hastily. 'Go on with the next
verse.'

'But about his toes?' the Mock Turtle persisted. 'How COULD he turn them
out with his nose, you know?'

'It's the first position in dancing.' Alice said; but was dreadfully
puzzled by the whole thing, and longed to change the subject.

'Go on with the next verse,' the Gryphon repeated impatiently: 'it
begins "I passed by his garden."'

Alice did not dare to disobey, though she felt sure it would all come
wrong, and she went on in a trembling voice:--

  'I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,
  How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie--'

    [later editions continued as follows
  The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,
  While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat.
  When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,
  Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon:
  While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,
  And concluded the banquet--]

'What IS the use of repeating all that stuff,' the Mock Turtle
interrupted, 'if you don't explain it as you go on? It's by far the most
confusing thing I ever heard!'

'Yes, I think you'd better leave off,' said the Gryphon: and Alice was
only too glad to do so.

'Shall we try another figure of the Lobster Quadrille?' the Gryphon went
on. 'Or would you like the Mock Turtle to sing you a song?'

'Oh, a song, please, if the Mock Turtle would be so kind,' Alice
replied, so eagerly that the Gryphon said, in a rather offended tone,
'Hm! No accounting for tastes! Sing her "Turtle Soup," will you, old
fellow?'

The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and began, in a voice sometimes choked
with sobs, to sing this:--

   'Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,
   Waiting in a hot tureen!
   Who for such dainties would not stoop?
   Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
   Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
     Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
     Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
   Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
     Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

   'Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
   Game, or any other dish?
   Who would not give all else for two
   Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
   Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?
     Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
     Beau--ootiful Soo--oop!
   Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
     Beautiful, beauti--FUL SOUP!'

'Chorus again!' cried the Gryphon, and the Mock Turtle had just begun
to repeat it, when a cry of 'The trial's beginning!' was heard in the
distance.

'Come on!' cried the Gryphon, and, taking Alice by the hand, it hurried
off, without waiting for the end of the song.

'What trial is it?' Alice panted as she ran; but the Gryphon only
answered 'Come on!' and ran the faster, while more and more faintly
came, carried on the breeze that followed them, the melancholy words:--

   'Soo--oop of the e--e--evening,
     Beautiful, beautiful Soup!'




CHAPTER XI. Who Stole the Tarts?

The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their throne when they
arrived, with a great crowd assembled about them--all sorts of little
birds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards: the Knave was
standing before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard
him; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand,
and a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the court
was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good,
that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them--'I wish they'd get the
trial done,' she thought, 'and hand round the refreshments!' But there
seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about
her, to pass away the time.

Alice had never been in a court of justice before, but she had read
about them in books, and she was quite pleased to find that she knew
the name of nearly everything there. 'That's the judge,' she said to
herself, 'because of his great wig.'

The judge, by the way, was the King; and as he wore his crown over the
wig, (look at the frontispiece if you want to see how he did it,) he did
not look at all comfortable, and it was certainly not becoming.

'And that's the jury-box,' thought Alice, 'and those twelve creatures,'
(she was obliged to say 'creatures,' you see, because some of them were
animals, and some were birds,) 'I suppose they are the jurors.' She said
this last word two or three times over to herself, being rather proud of
it: for she thought, and rightly too, that very few little girls of her
age knew the meaning of it at all. However, 'jury-men' would have done
just as well.

The twelve jurors were all writing very busily on slates. 'What are they
doing?' Alice whispered to the Gryphon. 'They can't have anything to put
down yet, before the trial's begun.'

'They're putting down their names,' the Gryphon whispered in reply, 'for
fear they should forget them before the end of the trial.'

'Stupid things!' Alice began in a loud, indignant voice, but she stopped
hastily, for the White Rabbit cried out, 'Silence in the court!' and the
King put on his spectacles and looked anxiously round, to make out who
was talking.

Alice could see, as well as if she were looking over their shoulders,
that all the jurors were writing down 'stupid things!' on their slates,
and she could even make out that one of them didn't know how to spell
'stupid,' and that he had to ask his neighbour to tell him. 'A nice
muddle their slates'll be in before the trial's over!' thought Alice.

One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This of course, Alice
could not stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and
very soon found an opportunity of taking it away. She did it so quickly
that the poor little juror (it was Bill, the Lizard) could not make out
at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was
obliged to write with one finger for the rest of the day; and this was
of very little use, as it left no mark on the slate.

'Herald, read the accusation!' said the King.

On this the White Rabbit blew three blasts on the trumpet, and then
unrolled the parchment scroll, and read as follows:--

   'The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts,
      All on a summer day:
    The Knave of Hearts, he stole those tarts,
      And took them quite away!'

'Consider your verdict,' the King said to the jury.

'Not yet, not yet!' the Rabbit hastily interrupted. 'There's a great
deal to come before that!'

'Call the first witness,' said the King; and the White Rabbit blew three
blasts on the trumpet, and called out, 'First witness!'

The first witness was the Hatter. He came in with a teacup in one
hand and a piece of bread-and-butter in the other. 'I beg pardon, your
Majesty,' he began, 'for bringing these in: but I hadn't quite finished
my tea when I was sent for.'

'You ought to have finished,' said the King. 'When did you begin?'

The Hatter looked at the March Hare, who had followed him into the
court, arm-in-arm with the Dormouse. 'Fourteenth of March, I think it
was,' he said.

'Fifteenth,' said the March Hare.

'Sixteenth,' added the Dormouse.

'Write that down,' the King said to the jury, and the jury eagerly
wrote down all three dates on their slates, and then added them up, and
reduced the answer to shillings and pence.

'Take off your hat,' the King said to the Hatter.

'It isn't mine,' said the Hatter.

'Stolen!' the King exclaimed, turning to the jury, who instantly made a
memorandum of the fact.

'I keep them to sell,' the Hatter added as an explanation; 'I've none of
my own. I'm a hatter.'

Here the Queen put on her spectacles, and began staring at the Hatter,
who turned pale and fidgeted.

'Give your evidence,' said the King; 'and don't be nervous, or I'll have
you executed on the spot.'

This did not seem to encourage the witness at all: he kept shifting
from one foot to the other, looking uneasily at the Queen, and in
his confusion he bit a large piece out of his teacup instead of the
bread-and-butter.

Just at this moment Alice felt a very curious sensation, which puzzled
her a good deal until she made out what it was: she was beginning to
grow larger again, and she thought at first she would get up and leave
the court; but on second thoughts she decided to remain where she was as
long as there was room for her.

'I wish you wouldn't squeeze so.' said the Dormouse, who was sitting
next to her. 'I can hardly breathe.'

'I can't help it,' said Alice very meekly: 'I'm growing.'

'You've no right to grow here,' said the Dormouse.

'Don't talk nonsense,' said Alice more boldly: 'you know you're growing
too.'

'Yes, but I grow at a reasonable pace,' said the Dormouse: 'not in that
ridiculous fashion.' And he got up very sulkily and crossed over to the
other side of the court.

All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and,
just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers
of the court, 'Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert!' on
which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his shoes off.

'Give your evidence,' the King repeated angrily, 'or I'll have you
executed, whether you're nervous or not.'

'I'm a poor man, your Majesty,' the Hatter began, in a trembling voice,
'--and I hadn't begun my tea--not above a week or so--and what with the
bread-and-butter getting so thin--and the twinkling of the tea--'

'The twinkling of the what?' said the King.

'It began with the tea,' the Hatter replied.

'Of course twinkling begins with a T!' said the King sharply. 'Do you
take me for a dunce? Go on!'

'I'm a poor man,' the Hatter went on, 'and most things twinkled after
that--only the March Hare said--'

'I didn't!' the March Hare interrupted in a great hurry.

'You did!' said the Hatter.

'I deny it!' said the March Hare.

'He denies it,' said the King: 'leave out that part.'

'Well, at any rate, the Dormouse said--' the Hatter went on, looking
anxiously round to see if he would deny it too: but the Dormouse denied
nothing, being fast asleep.

'After that,' continued the Hatter, 'I cut some more bread-and-butter--'

'But what did the Dormouse say?' one of the jury asked.

'That I can't remember,' said the Hatter.

'You MUST remember,' remarked the King, 'or I'll have you executed.'

The miserable Hatter dropped his teacup and bread-and-butter, and went
down on one knee. 'I'm a poor man, your Majesty,' he began.

'You're a very poor speaker,' said the King.

Here one of the guinea-pigs cheered, and was immediately suppressed by
the officers of the court. (As that is rather a hard word, I will just
explain to you how it was done. They had a large canvas bag, which tied
up at the mouth with strings: into this they slipped the guinea-pig,
head first, and then sat upon it.)

'I'm glad I've seen that done,' thought Alice. 'I've so often read
in the newspapers, at the end of trials, "There was some attempts
at applause, which was immediately suppressed by the officers of the
court," and I never understood what it meant till now.'

'If that's all you know about it, you may stand down,' continued the
King.

'I can't go no lower,' said the Hatter: 'I'm on the floor, as it is.'

'Then you may SIT down,' the King replied.

Here the other guinea-pig cheered, and was suppressed.

'Come, that finished the guinea-pigs!' thought Alice. 'Now we shall get
on better.'

'I'd rather finish my tea,' said the Hatter, with an anxious look at the
Queen, who was reading the list of singers.

'You may go,' said the King, and the Hatter hurriedly left the court,
without even waiting to put his shoes on.

'--and just take his head off outside,' the Queen added to one of the
officers: but the Hatter was out of sight before the officer could get
to the door.

'Call the next witness!' said the King.

The next witness was the Duchess's cook. She carried the pepper-box in
her hand, and Alice guessed who it was, even before she got into the
court, by the way the people near the door began sneezing all at once.

'Give your evidence,' said the King.

'Shan't,' said the cook.

The King looked anxiously at the White Rabbit, who said in a low voice,
'Your Majesty must cross-examine THIS witness.'

'Well, if I must, I must,' the King said, with a melancholy air, and,
after folding his arms and frowning at the cook till his eyes were
nearly out of sight, he said in a deep voice, 'What are tarts made of?'

'Pepper, mostly,' said the cook.

'Treacle,' said a sleepy voice behind her.

'Collar that Dormouse,' the Queen shrieked out. 'Behead that Dormouse!
Turn that Dormouse out of court! Suppress him! Pinch him! Off with his
whiskers!'

For some minutes the whole court was in confusion, getting the Dormouse
turned out, and, by the time they had settled down again, the cook had
disappeared.

'Never mind!' said the King, with an air of great relief. 'Call the next
witness.' And he added in an undertone to the Queen, 'Really, my dear,
YOU must cross-examine the next witness. It quite makes my forehead
ache!'

Alice watched the White Rabbit as he fumbled over the list, feeling very
curious to see what the next witness would be like, '--for they haven't
got much evidence YET,' she said to herself. Imagine her surprise, when
the White Rabbit read out, at the top of his shrill little voice, the
name 'Alice!'




CHAPTER XII. Alice's Evidence


'Here!' cried Alice, quite forgetting in the flurry of the moment how
large she had grown in the last few minutes, and she jumped up in such
a hurry that she tipped over the jury-box with the edge of her skirt,
upsetting all the jurymen on to the heads of the crowd below, and there
they lay sprawling about, reminding her very much of a globe of goldfish
she had accidentally upset the week before.

'Oh, I BEG your pardon!' she exclaimed in a tone of great dismay, and
began picking them up again as quickly as she could, for the accident of
the goldfish kept running in her head, and she had a vague sort of idea
that they must be collected at once and put back into the jury-box, or
they would die.

'The trial cannot proceed,' said the King in a very grave voice, 'until
all the jurymen are back in their proper places--ALL,' he repeated with
great emphasis, looking hard at Alice as he said do.

Alice looked at the jury-box, and saw that, in her haste, she had put
the Lizard in head downwards, and the poor little thing was waving its
tail about in a melancholy way, being quite unable to move. She soon got
it out again, and put it right; 'not that it signifies much,' she said
to herself; 'I should think it would be QUITE as much use in the trial
one way up as the other.'

As soon as the jury had a little recovered from the shock of being
upset, and their slates and pencils had been found and handed back to
them, they set to work very diligently to write out a history of the
accident, all except the Lizard, who seemed too much overcome to do
anything but sit with its mouth open, gazing up into the roof of the
court.

'What do you know about this business?' the King said to Alice.

'Nothing,' said Alice.

'Nothing WHATEVER?' persisted the King.

'Nothing whatever,' said Alice.

'That's very important,' the King said, turning to the jury. They were
just beginning to write this down on their slates, when the White Rabbit
interrupted: 'UNimportant, your Majesty means, of course,' he said in a
very respectful tone, but frowning and making faces at him as he spoke.

'UNimportant, of course, I meant,' the King hastily said, and went on
to himself in an undertone,

'important--unimportant--unimportant--important--' as if he were trying
which word sounded best.

Some of the jury wrote it down 'important,' and some 'unimportant.'
Alice could see this, as she was near enough to look over their slates;
'but it doesn't matter a bit,' she thought to herself.

At this moment the King, who had been for some time busily writing in
his note-book, cackled out 'Silence!' and read out from his book, 'Rule
Forty-two. ALL PERSONS MORE THAN A MILE HIGH TO LEAVE THE COURT.'

Everybody looked at Alice.

'I'M not a mile high,' said Alice.

'You are,' said the King.

'Nearly two miles high,' added the Queen.

'Well, I shan't go, at any rate,' said Alice: 'besides, that's not a
regular rule: you invented it just now.'

'It's the oldest rule in the book,' said the King.

'Then it ought to be Number One,' said Alice.

The King turned pale, and shut his note-book hastily. 'Consider your
verdict,' he said to the jury, in a low, trembling voice.

'There's more evidence to come yet, please your Majesty,' said the White
Rabbit, jumping up in a great hurry; 'this paper has just been picked
up.'

'What's in it?' said the Queen.

'I haven't opened it yet,' said the White Rabbit, 'but it seems to be a
letter, written by the prisoner to--to somebody.'

'It must have been that,' said the King, 'unless it was written to
nobody, which isn't usual, you know.'

'Who is it directed to?' said one of the jurymen.

'It isn't directed at all,' said the White Rabbit; 'in fact, there's
nothing written on the OUTSIDE.' He unfolded the paper as he spoke, and
added 'It isn't a letter, after all: it's a set of verses.'

'Are they in the prisoner's handwriting?' asked another of the jurymen.

'No, they're not,' said the White Rabbit, 'and that's the queerest thing
about it.' (The jury all looked puzzled.)

'He must have imitated somebody else's hand,' said the King. (The jury
all brightened up again.)

'Please your Majesty,' said the Knave, 'I didn't write it, and they
can't prove I did: there's no name signed at the end.'

'If you didn't sign it,' said the King, 'that only makes the matter
worse. You MUST have meant some mischief, or else you'd have signed your
name like an honest man.'

There was a general clapping of hands at this: it was the first really
clever thing the King had said that day.

'That PROVES his guilt,' said the Queen.

'It proves nothing of the sort!' said Alice. 'Why, you don't even know
what they're about!'

'Read them,' said the King.

The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. 'Where shall I begin, please
your Majesty?' he asked.

'Begin at the beginning,' the King said gravely, 'and go on till you
come to the end: then stop.'

These were the verses the White Rabbit read:--

   'They told me you had been to her,
    And mentioned me to him:
   She gave me a good character,
    But said I could not swim.

   He sent them word I had not gone
    (We know it to be true):
   If she should push the matter on,
    What would become of you?

   I gave her one, they gave him two,
    You gave us three or more;
   They all returned from him to you,
    Though they were mine before.

   If I or she should chance to be
    Involved in this affair,
   He trusts to you to set them free,
    Exactly as we were.

   My notion was that you had been
    (Before she had this fit)
   An obstacle that came between
    Him, and ourselves, and it.

   Don't let him know she liked them best,
    For this must ever be
   A secret, kept from all the rest,
    Between yourself and me.'

'That's the most important piece of evidence we've heard yet,' said the
King, rubbing his hands; 'so now let the jury--'

'If any one of them can explain it,' said Alice, (she had grown so large
in the last few minutes that she wasn't a bit afraid of interrupting
him,) 'I'll give him sixpence. _I_ don't believe there's an atom of
meaning in it.'

The jury all wrote down on their slates, 'SHE doesn't believe there's an
atom of meaning in it,' but none of them attempted to explain the paper.

'If there's no meaning in it,' said the King, 'that saves a world of
trouble, you know, as we needn't try to find any. And yet I don't know,'
he went on, spreading out the verses on his knee, and looking at them
with one eye; 'I seem to see some meaning in them, after all. "--SAID
I COULD NOT SWIM--" you can't swim, can you?' he added, turning to the
Knave.

The Knave shook his head sadly. 'Do I look like it?' he said. (Which he
certainly did NOT, being made entirely of cardboard.)

'All right, so far,' said the King, and he went on muttering over
the verses to himself: '"WE KNOW IT TO BE TRUE--" that's the jury, of
course--"I GAVE HER ONE, THEY GAVE HIM TWO--" why, that must be what he
did with the tarts, you know--'

'But, it goes on "THEY ALL RETURNED FROM HIM TO YOU,"' said Alice.

'Why, there they are!' said the King triumphantly, pointing to the tarts
on the table. 'Nothing can be clearer than THAT. Then again--"BEFORE SHE
HAD THIS FIT--" you never had fits, my dear, I think?' he said to the
Queen.

'Never!' said the Queen furiously, throwing an inkstand at the Lizard
as she spoke. (The unfortunate little Bill had left off writing on his
slate with one finger, as he found it made no mark; but he now hastily
began again, using the ink, that was trickling down his face, as long as
it lasted.)

'Then the words don't FIT you,' said the King, looking round the court
with a smile. There was a dead silence.

'It's a pun!' the King added in an offended tone, and everybody laughed,
'Let the jury consider their verdict,' the King said, for about the
twentieth time that day.

'No, no!' said the Queen. 'Sentence first--verdict afterwards.'

'Stuff and nonsense!' said Alice loudly. 'The idea of having the
sentence first!'

'Hold your tongue!' said the Queen, turning purple.

'I won't!' said Alice.

'Off with her head!' the Queen shouted at the top of her voice. Nobody
moved.

'Who cares for you?' said Alice, (she had grown to her full size by this
time.) 'You're nothing but a pack of cards!'

At this the whole pack rose up into the air, and came flying down upon
her: she gave a little scream, half of fright and half of anger, and
tried to beat them off, and found herself lying on the bank, with her
head in the lap of her sister, who was gently brushing away some dead
leaves that had fluttered down from the trees upon her face.

'Wake up, Alice dear!' said her sister; 'Why, what a long sleep you've
had!'

'Oh, I've had such a curious dream!' said Alice, and she told her
sister, as well as she could remember them, all these strange Adventures
of hers that you have just been reading about; and when she had
finished, her sister kissed her, and said, 'It WAS a curious dream,
dear, certainly: but now run in to your tea; it's getting late.' So
Alice got up and ran off, thinking while she ran, as well she might,
what a wonderful dream it had been.

But her sister sat still just as she left her, leaning her head on her
hand, watching the setting sun, and thinking of little Alice and all her
wonderful Adventures, till she too began dreaming after a fashion, and
this was her dream:--

First, she dreamed of little Alice herself, and once again the tiny
hands were clasped upon her knee, and the bright eager eyes were looking
up into hers--she could hear the very tones of her voice, and see that
queer little toss of her head to keep back the wandering hair that
WOULD always get into her eyes--and still as she listened, or seemed to
listen, the whole place around her became alive with the strange creatures
of her little sister's dream.

The long grass rustled at her feet as the White Rabbit hurried by--the
frightened Mouse splashed his way through the neighbouring pool--she
could hear the rattle of the teacups as the March Hare and his friends
shared their never-ending meal, and the shrill voice of the Queen
ordering off her unfortunate guests to execution--once more the pig-baby
was sneezing on the Duchess's knee, while plates and dishes crashed
around it--once more the shriek of the Gryphon, the squeaking of the
Lizard's slate-pencil, and the choking of the suppressed guinea-pigs,
filled the air, mixed up with the distant sobs of the miserable Mock
Turtle.

So she sat on, with closed eyes, and half believed herself in
Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all
would change to dull reality--the grass would be only rustling in the
wind, and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds--the rattling
teacups would change to tinkling sheep-bells, and the Queen's shrill
cries to the voice of the shepherd boy--and the sneeze of the baby, the
shriek of the Gryphon, and all the other queer noises, would change (she
knew) to the confused clamour of the busy farm-yard--while the lowing
of the cattle in the distance would take the place of the Mock Turtle's
heavy sobs.

Lastly, she pictured to herself how this same little sister of hers
would, in the after-time, be herself a grown woman; and how she would
keep, through all her riper years, the simple and loving heart of her
childhood: and how she would gather about her other little children, and
make THEIR eyes bright and eager with many a strange tale, perhaps even
with the dream of Wonderland of long ago: and how she would feel with
all their simple sorrows, and find a pleasure in all their simple joys,
remembering her own child-life, and the happy summer days.

              THE END