his fallen foe, suddenly found himself in his grasp. He unloosed the
sword belt in which the Knight of the Leopard had fixed his hold,
mounted, and again rode off. But the loss of his sword and quiver of
arrows seemed to incline the Muslim to a truce; he again approached the
Christian, but no longer menacingly.
"There is truce betwixt our nations," he said. "Let there be peace
betwixt us."
"I am well content," answered he of the couchant leopard, and the late
foes, without an angry look or a gesture of doubt, rode side by side to
the palm trees; where each relieved his horse from saddle, bit, and
rein, and permitted them to drink ere they refreshed themselves. As they
sat down together on the turf, and proceeded to their scanty meal, they
eyed each other with curiosity, and each was compelled to acknowledge
that had he fallen in the combat, it had been by a noble foe. The
warriors arose from their brief rest, and courteously aided each other
while they replaced the harness of their trusty steeds, and pursued
their way, the Saracen performing the part of guide, to the cavern of
the hermit, Theodorich of England, with whom Sir Kenneth was to pass the
night in penitence and prayer.
-II.--Richard Coeur-de-Lion-
The scene must change to the camp of King Richard of England, who,
afflicted with a slow and wasting fever, lay on his couch of sickness,
loathing it as much in mind as his illness made it irksome to his body.
"Hark, what trumpets are there?" he said, endeavouring to start up. "By
heaven! the Turks are in the camp, I hear their lelies!" Breathless and
exhausted he sank back. "Go, I pray thee, De Vaux, and bring me word
what strangers are in the camp." Sir Thomas de Vaux had not made many
steps from the royal pavilion when he met the Knight of the Leopard,
who, accosting him with formal courtesy, desired to see the king; he had
brought back with him a Moorish physician, who had undertaken to work a
cure. Sir Thomas answered haughtily that no leech should approach the
sick bed without his, the Baron of Gilsland's, consent, and turned
loftily away; but the Scot, though not without expressing his share of
pride, solemnly assured him that he desired but the safety of Richard,
and Saladin himself had sent thither this Muslim physician. Sir
Kenneth's squire had been suffering dangerously under the same fever,
and the leech, El Hakim, had ministered to him not two hours before, and
already he was in a refreshing sleep.
"May I see your sick squire, fair sir?" at length said the Englishman.
The Scottish knight hesitated and coloured, yet answered at last:
"Willingly, my lord of Gilsland, but I am poorly lodged," and led the
way to his temporary abode.
"This is a strange tale, Sir Thomas," said the king, when he had heard
the report. "Art thou sure that this Scottish man is a tall man and
true?"
"I cannot say, my lord," replied the jealous borderer; "I have ever
found the Scots fair and false, but the man's bearing is that of a true
man, and I warrant you have noted the manner in which he bears himself
as a knight. He hath been fully well spoken of."
"And justly, Thomas," said the king. "Yes, I have indeed marked the
manner in which this knight does his devoir, and he had ere now tasted
your bounty but that I have also marked his audacious presumption."
"My liege," said the Baron of Gilsland, "your majesty will pardon me to
remind you that I have by mine office right to grant liberty to men of
gentle blood, to keep a hound or two within the camp, and besides, it
were a sin to harm a thing so noble as this gentleman's dog, the most
perfect creature of heaven, of the noblest northern breed."
The king laughed.
"Well, thou hast given him leave to keep the hound, so there is an end
of it. But to this piece of learned heathenness--say'st thou the Scot
met him in the desert?"
"No, my liege, the Scot's tale runs thus: He was dispatched to the old
hermit of Engaddi--"
"'Sdeath and hell!" said Richard, starting up, "by whom dispatched, and
for what? Who would send anyone thither when our queen was in the
convent of Engaddi?"
"The Council of the Crusade sent him, my lord," the baron answered, "but
for what purpose he declined to account to me."
"Well, it shall be looked into," said Richard. "So this envoy met with a
wandering physician at Engaddi, ha!"
"Not so, my liege, but he met a Saracen Emir, who understood that
Saladin should send his own leech to you. He is attended as if he were a
prince, and brings with him letters of credence from Saladin."
Richard took the scroll and read.
"Hold, hold," he said. "I will have no more of this dog of a prophet.
Yes, I will put myself in charge of this Hakim--I will repay the noble
Soldan his generosity--I will meet him in the field as he proposes.
Haste, De Vaux, fetch the Hakim hither."
Scarcely had De Vaux left the royal pavilion when the king, to soothe
his impatience, sent a messenger to command the attendance of the Knight
of the Leopard, that he might obtain an account of the cause of his
absence from the camp.
"Hark thee, Sir Knight," said the king, "I require you to remember that,
as a principal member of the Christian League, I have a right to know
the negotiations of my confederates. Do me, therefore, the justice to
tell me the purport of thine errand."
"My lord," replied the Scot, "I will speak the truth. Be pleased,
therefore, to know my charge was to propose through the medium of the
hermit--a holy man, respected and protected by Saladin himself--the
establishment of a lasting peace, and the withdrawing of our armies from
Palestine."
"Saint George!" said Richard. "Ill as I have thought of them, I could
not have dreamed of such dishonour. On what conditions was this hopeful
peace to be contracted?"
"They were not entrusted to me, my lord," said Sir Kenneth. "I delivered
them sealed to the hermit. Might I so far presume, my lord king, this
discourse but heats your disease, the enemy from which Christendom
dreads more evil than from armed hosts of infidels."
"You can flatter, Sir Knight," said the king, "but you escape me not. Saw
you my royal consort at Engaddi?"
"To my knowledge, no, my lord," said Sir Kenneth in some perturbation.
"I beheld a choir of ladies do homage to a relic of the highest
sanctity, but I saw not their faces."
"I ask you," said Richard, raising himself on his elbow, "as a knight
and a gentleman, did you or did you not, know any lady amongst that band
of worshippers?"
"My lord," said Kenneth, not without much hesitation, "I might guess."
"And I also might guess," said the king, frowning sternly. "But it is
enough. Leopard as you are, Sir Knight, beware o' tempting the lion's
paw. Enough--begone!--speed to De Vaux and send him hither with the
Arabian physician."
Richard, when the physician, accompanied by the Grand Master of the
Templars, Montserrat, with De Vaux and the Knight of the Leopard,
entered his apartment, immediately exclaimed:
"So, ho, a goodly fellowship come to see Richard take his leap in the
dark. My noble allies, I greet you as the representatives of our
assembled league--De Vaux, lives he or dies he, thou hast the thanks of
thy prince--There is yet another--What, the bold Scot, who would climb
heaven without a ladder? He is welcome, too. Come, Sir Hakim, to the
work, to the work."
The physician now felt the king's pulse for a long time, then filled a
cup with water, and dipt in it a small red purse, which he took from his
bosom. He was about to offer it to the king, but he prevented him,
saying:
"Hold an instant, let me lay my finger on -thy- pulse."
The Arabian yielded his hand without hesitation.
"His blood beats calm as an infant's; so throbs not theirs who poison
princes," said the king, "De Vaux, whether we live or die, dismiss this
Hakim with honour. Commend us, friend, to the noble Saladin."
He then took the cup, and turning to the Marquis of Montserrat and the
grand master: "Mark what I say. To the immortal honour of the first
Crusader who shall strike lance or sword on the gate of Jerusalem and to
the eternal infamy of whomsoever shall turn back from the plough on
which he hath laid his hand." He drained the cup and sank back as if
exhausted.
The hour had arrived when the royal patient might be awakened with
safety. The fever had entirely left him, and King Richard sitting up and
rubbing his eyes demanded what present store of money was in the royal
coffers.
"Be it greater or smaller," he said, "bestow it all on the learned leech
who hath given me back to the service of the Crusade."
"I sell not the wisdom with which Allah has endowed me," said the Arab.
"It is reward enough for me that so great a king as Melech Ric should
thus speak to his servant. But now let me pray you to compose yourself
again on the couch."
"I must obey thee, Hakim," said the king. "But what mean these shouts
and distant music in the camp?"
The Marquis of Montserrat at that moment entered.
"Honoured prince," he said, "I delight to see your majesty so far
recovered, and that is a long speech for me to make who has partaken of
the Duke of Austria's hospitality."
"What, you have been dining with the Teutonic wine skin!" said the
monarch. "And what frolic hath he found to cause all this disturbance?
Truly, Sir Conrade, I wonder at your quitting the revel."
"What the Archduke does," said Conrade de Montserrat, not heeding De
Vaux's sign, "is of little consequence to anyone; yet to say truth, this
is a gambol I should not like to share in, since he is pulling down the
banner of England, and displaying his own in its stead."
"-What- say'st thou?" exclaimed Richard, springing from his couch and
casting on his clothes with marvellous speed. "Speak not to me--I
command thee, speak not a word to me--Hakim, be silent I charge thee!"
And with the last word he snatched his sword and rushed out. Conrade
held up his hands as if in astonishment. De Vaux pushed rudely past him
calling orders in haste to the equerries, which, imperfectly heard,
spread an alarm as general as the cause seemed vague, through the whole
British forces.
Without regarding the tumult, Richard pursued his way, followed only by
De Vaux and a few servants; but the Knight of the Leopard, as they
passed him, aware that danger must be afoot, snatched his sword and
shield, and hastened to share it. Richard burst his way through a crowd
of the Archduke's friends and retinue, pulled up the standard-spear,
threw the Austrian banner on the ground, and placed his foot upon it.
"Thus," said he, "I trample on the banner of Austria!"
A Hungarian nobleman struck at the king a blow that might have proved
fatal had not the Scot intercepted it, while Richard glanced round him
with an eye from which the angry nobles shrank appalled, until the King
of France, whose sagacity Richard much respected, came and remonstrated.
The duke at last said he would refer his quarrel to the General Council
of the Crusade.
Richard listened to Philip until his oratory seemed exhausted, then said
aloud:
"I am drowsy--this fever hangs upon me still. Brother of France, know,
at once, I will submit a matter touching the honour of England neither
to prince, pope, nor council. Here stands my banner--whatever pennon
shall be reared within three butts' length of it--shall be treated as
that dishonoured rag."
Philip answered calmly he would have no other strife between the Lions
of England and the Lilies of France than which should be carried deepest
into the ranks of the infidels. Richard stretched out his hand, with all
the frankness of his rash but generous disposition, and replied:
"It is a bargain, my royal brother! Here, Thomas of Gilsland, I give
thee charge of this standard--watch over the honour of England."
"Her safety is yet more dear to me," said De Vaux, "and the life of
Richard is the safety of England. I must have your highness back to your
tent without further tarriance."
"Thou art a rough and peremptory nurse, De Vaux," said the king, and
then addressing Sir Kenneth: "Valiant Scot, I owe thee a boon; and I
will repay it richly. There stands the banner of England! Watch it as a
novice doth his armour. Stir not from it three spears' lengths, and
defend it with thy body against injury or insult--Dost thou undertake
the charge?"
"Willingly," said Kenneth, "and will discharge it upon penalty of my
head. I will but arm me and return thither instantly."
Those whom the disturbance had assembled now drew off in various
directions, and the Marquis of Montserrat said to the Grand Master of
the Templars:
"Thou seest that subtle courses are more effective than violence. I have
unloosed the bonds which held together this bunch of sceptres and
lances--thou wilt see them shortly fall asunder."
-III.--Richard and Sir Kenneth-
It was about sunrise when a slow armed tread was heard approaching the
king's pavilion and De Vaux had time to do no more than arise when the
Knight of the Leopard entered, with deep gloom on his manly features.
Richard, awaking on the instant, exclaimed:
"Speak, Sir Scot, thou comest to tell me of a vigilant watch?"
"My watch hath been neither safe, vigilant, nor honourable," said Sir
Kenneth. "The banner of England has been carried off."
"And thou alive to tell it?" said Richard. "Away, it cannot be. There is
not even a scratch on thy face. It is ill jesting with a King--yet I
will forgive thee if thou hast lied."
"Lied, Sir King!" returned the knight with fierce emphasis. "But this
also must be endured. I have spoken the truth."
"By God and St. George!" said the king with fury. "De Vaux, go view the
spot. This cannot be. The man's courage is proof--it cannot be! Go
speedily--or send, if--"
The King was interrupted by Sir Henry Neville, who came, breathless, to
say the banner was gone, and there was a pool of blood where the
banner-spear lay.
"But whom do I see here?" said Neville, his eyes suddenly resting upon
Sir Kenneth.
"A traitor," said the king, seizing his curtal-axe, "whom thou shalt see
die a traitor's death." And he drew back the weapon as in act to strike.
Colourless, but firm as a marble statue, the Scot stood before him, his
head uncovered, his eyes cast down. The king stood for a moment prompt
to strike, then lowering the weapon, exclaimed:
"But there was blood, Neville--Hark thee, Sir Scot, brave thou wert
once, for I have seen thee fight. Say thou hast struck but one blow in
our behalf, and get thee out of the camp with thy life and thy infamy."
"There was no blood shed, my lord king," replied Kenneth, "save that of
a poor hound, which, more faithful than his master, defended the charge
he deserted."
"Now, by St. George," said Richard, again heaving up his arm, but De
Vaux threw himself between him and the object of his vengeance. There
was a pause.
"My lord," said Kenneth.
"Ha! hast thou found thy speech?" said Richard. "Ask grace from heaven,
but none from me. Wert thou my own and only brother, there is no pardon
for thy fault."
"I speak not to demand grace of mortal man," replied the Scot. "I
beseech your grace for one moment's opportunity to speak that which
highly concerns your fame as a Christian king. There is treason around
you."
"Treason that will injure thee more deeply than the loss of a hundred
banners. The--the--the Lady Edith--"
"Ha!" said the king, "what was she to do with this matter?"
"My lord," said the Scot, "there is a scheme on foot to disgrace your
royal lineage, by bestowing the hand of the Lady Edith on the Saracen
Soldan, and thereby to purchase a peace most dishonourable to
Christendom."
The mention of his relative's name renewed the King's recollection of
what he had considered extreme presumption in the Knight of the Leopard,
even while he stood high on the rolls of chivalry, and now appeared to
drive the fiery monarch into a frenzy of passion.
"Silence," he said, "infamous and audacious. By heaven, I will have thy
tongue torn out with hot pincers for mentioning the very name of a noble
damsel! With lips blistered with the confession of thine own
dishonour--that thou shouldest now dare--name her not--for an instant
think not of her."
"Not name--not think of her?" answered Sir Kenneth. "Now by the cross on
which I place my hope, her name shall be the last word in my mouth. Try
thy boasted strength on this bare brow, and see if thou canst prevent my
purpose."
"He will drive me mad," said Richard, once more staggered by the
dauntless determination of the criminal.
A bustle was heard and the arrival of the queen was announced.
"Detain her, Neville," cried the king. "Away with him, De Vaux; let him
have a ghostly father--and, hark thee, we will not have him dishonoured;
he shall die knight-like in his belt and spurs."
The entrance of Queen Berengaria was withstood by the chamberlain, and
she could hear the stern commands of the king from within to the
executioner. Edith could no longer remain silent:
"-I- will make entrance for your grace," she said, putting aside the
chamberlain.
On their sudden entrance Richard flung himself hastily aside, turning
his back to them as if displeased.
"Thou seest, Edith," whispered the queen, "we shall but incense him."
"Be it so," said Edith, stepping forward. "I--your poor kinswoman, crave
you for justice rather than mercy, and to that cry the ear of a monarch
should be ever open."
"Ha! our cousin Edith!" said Richard, rising. "She speaks ever
king-like, and king-like I will answer her."
"My lord," she said, "this good knight whose blood you are about to
spill hath fallen from his duty through a snare set for him in idleness
and folly. A message sent to him in the name of one--why should I not
speak it?--it was in my own--induced him to leave his post."
"And you saw him then, cousin?" said the king, biting his lips to keep
down his passion. "Where?"
"In the tent of her majesty, the queen."
"Of your royal consort! Now, by my father's soul, Edith, thou shalt rue
this thy life long in a monastery."
"My liege," said Edith, "your greatness licences tyranny. My honour is
as little touched as yours, and my lady, the queen, can prove it if she
thinks fit. But I have not come here to excuse myself or inculpate
others--"
The king was about to answer with much anger, when a Carmelite monk
entered hastily, and flinging himself on his knees before the king,
conjured him to stop the execution. It was the hermit of Engaddi, and to
the king's fierce refusal to listen, he said with irritation:
"Thou art setting that mischief on foot thou wilt afterwards wish thou
hadst stopped, though it had cost thee a limb. Rash, blinded man,
forbear!"
"Away, away," cried the king, stamping. "The sun has risen on the
dishonour of England, and it is not yet avenged. Ladies and priests
withdraw, for by St. George, I swear--"
"Swear -not!-" said the voice of one who now entered--
"Ho! my learned Hakim," said the king, "come, I hope, to tax our
generosity."
"I come to request instant speech with you--instant."
"Retire then, Berengaria," said the monarch. "Nay, renew not thy
importunities--nay, this I give to thee--the execution shall not be till
high noon. Edith, go--if you are wise."
The females hurried from the tent, and El Hakim made his humble prayer
for the knight about to die. The king hardening himself as the leech
assumed a more lofty tone:
"Know, then," he said, "that through every court of Europe and Asia will
I denounce thee as thankless and ungenerous."
Richard turned fiercely from him.
"Hakim, thou hast chosen thy boon, and I may not, king-like, refuse
thee. Take this Scot, therefore, use him as thy bond-slave if thou wilt,
only let him beware how he comes before the eyes of Richard. Is there
aught else in which I may do thee pleasure?"
"Let me touch that victorious hand," said the sage, "in token that
should Adonbec El Hakim hereafter demand a boon of Richard of England,
he may do so."
"Thou hast hand and glove upon it, man," replied Richard.
"May thy days be multiplied," answered the Hakim.
"Strange pertinacity," said the King, gazing after him as he departed,
"in this Hakim to interfere between this Scot and the chastisement he
has merited so richly. Yet, let him live! there is one brave man the
more in the world."
-IV.--The Victory of Sir Kenneth-
Surrounded by his valiant knights, Coeur de Lion stood beside the banner
of England while the powers of the various Crusading Princes swept round
before him; their commanders, as they passed, making a signal of
courtesy "in sign of regard and amity," as the protocol of the ceremony
heedfully expressed it, "not of vassalage." By the king's side stood an
Ethiopian slave, recently sent to Richard by Saladin, holding a noble
dog in a leash, who watched the ranks with a sagacious look as they
passed. King Richard looked more than once at the Nubian and his dog,
and at last said:
"Thy success, my sable friend, will not place thee high in the list of
wizards."
But Conrade of Montserrat no sooner came within his ken than the noble
hound, uttering a furious yell (the Nubian at the same time slipping his
leash), leapt upon the noble charger, and seizing the marquis by the
throat, pulled him from the saddle.
The Ethiopian, though not without difficulty, disengaged the dog; while
the voice of Richard, loud and sonorous, was heard clear above all
others:
"He dies the death who injures the hound. Stand forward for a false
traitor, Conrade of Montserrat. I impeach thee of treason!"
When King Richard returned to his tent some hours later, he commanded
the Nubian to be brought before him, and his keen glance surveyed him
for some time in silence.
"Thou art about to return to the camp of the Soldan, bearing a letter
requiring of his country to appoint neutral ground for the deed of
chivalry, and should it consort with his pleasure to concur with us in
witnessing it. Now, we think thou might'st find in that camp some
cavalier, who, for the love of truth, will do battle with this same
traitor of Montserrat?"
The Nubian turned his eyes to the king with eager ardour, then to heaven
with solemn gratitude, then bent his head as affirming what Richard
desired.
"It is well," said the king; "I see thy desire to oblige me in this
matter; with thee to hear is to obey."
* * * * *
The two heroic monarchs embraced as brothers and equals, the pomp and
display on both sides attracted no further notice. No one saw aught but
Richard and Saladin. The looks with which Richard surveyed Saladin were
more curious than those which the Soldan fastened on him, and when later
Saladin exchanged his turban for a Tartar cap Richard gazed with
astonishment and exclaimed:
"A miracle--a miracle! That I should lose my learned Hakim and find him
again in my royal brother? It was by thy artifice the Knight of the
Leopard visited my camp in disguise? He will do battle on the morrow?"
"He is full of preparation and high in hope," said Saladin. "I have
furnished him with weapons and horse, thinking nobly of him from what I
have seen under various disguises."
* * * * *
Drum, clarion, trumpet and cymbal rung forth at once in honour of
England's champion!
"Brave Knight of the Leopard," said Coeur de Lion, "thou hast shown the
Ethiopian may change his skin, and the leopard his spots. I have more to
say to you when I have conducted you to the presence of the ladies. And
thou, princely Saladin, will also attend them."
Saladin bent his head gracefully, but declined.
"I must attend the wounded man," said he, "and further, Royal Richard,
he saith the sage who hath forfeited a treasure doth not wisely to turn
back to gaze on it."
"Come," said Richard, "we will to the pavilion, and lead our conqueror
thither in triumph."
The victor entered and knelt gracefully down before the queen, though
more than half the homage was silently rendered to Edith.
"Unarm him, my mistresses," said the king. "Let Beauty honour Chivalry.
Undo his spurs, Berengaria. Unlace his helmet, Edith--by this hand, thou
shalt. Here terminate his various disguises. The adventurous Knight
Kenneth, arises David, Earl of Huntington, Prince Royal of Scotland."
The next day saw Richard return to his own camp, and in a short space
afterwards the young Earl of Huntington was espoused by Edith
Plantagenet.
The Soldan sent, as a nuptial present on this occasion, the celebrated
talisman; but, though many cures were wrought with it in Europe, none
equalled in success and celebrity those which the Soldan achieved.
* * * * *
MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY
Frankenstein
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, the daughter of William Godwin
(see Vol. IV) and Mary Wollstonecraft, was born in London,
August 30, 1797, and married to the poet Shelley in 1816, on
the death of his first wife Harriet. Two years previous to
this she had eloped with Shelley (see Vol. XVIII) to
Switzerland, and they lived together in Italy till his death
in 1823, when Mrs. Shelley returned to England, and continued
her literary work. "Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus,"
the first of Mary Shelley's books, was published in 1818, and
owed its origin to the summer spent by the Shelleys on the
shores of Geneva when Byron was their neighbour. It was "a
wet, ungenial summer," according to the account Mary Shelley
has left. "Some volumes of ghost stories, translated from the
German into French, fell into our hands." Then one evening
Byron said, "we will each write a ghost story," and the
proposition was agreed to, and Mary Shelley's contribution was
developed till at length "Frankenstein" was written. The story
is at once a remarkable and impressive performance. The
influence of Mrs. Shelley's father is apparent throughout, but
probably the authoress was most influenced by the old German
tales of the supernatural. The theme of a mortal creating, by
the aid of natural science, a being in the shape of man, was
at the time a bold and daring innovation in English
literature. Mrs. Shelley died February 21, 1851.
-I.--Robert Walton's Letter-
August 5, 17--
My Dear Sister.--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. We have already reached a
very high latitude, and it is the height of summer; but last Monday,
July 31, we were nearly surrounded by ice which closed in the ship on
all sides. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we were
compassed round by a very thick fog. About two o'clock the mist cleared
away, and we beheld in every direction, vast and irregular plains of
ice. A strange sight suddenly attracted our attention. We perceived a
low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the
North: 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 until he was lost among the distant
inequalities of the ice. Before night the ice broke and freed our ship.
In the morning, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck, and found all
the sailors apparently talking to some one 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 whom the sailors were persuading to enter the
vessel.
On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English. "Before I come
on board your vessel," said he, "will you have the kindness to inform me
whither you are bound?"
I replied that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the northern
pole.
Upon hearing this he consented to come on board. His limbs were nearly
frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated. I never saw a man in so
wretched a condition, and I often feel that his sufferings had deprived
him of understanding.
Once the lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice in so
strange a vehicle. 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."
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.
August 17, 17--
Yesterday the stranger said to me, "You may easily perceive, Capt.
Walton, that I have suffered great and unparallelled misfortunes. My
fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall
repose in peace. Listen to my history, and you will perceive how
irrevocably my destiny is determined."
-II.--Frankenstein's Story-
I am by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most distinguished
of that republic. My father has filled several public situations with
honour and reputation. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied
by the affairs of his country, and it was not until the decline of life
that he became a husband and the father of a family.
When I was about five years old, my mother, whose benevolent disposition
often made her enter the cottages of the poor, brought to our house a
child fairer than pictured cherub, an orphan whom she found in a
peasant's hut; the infant daughter of a nobleman who had died fighting
for Italy. Thus Elizabeth became the inmate of my parents' house. Every
one loved her, and I looked upon Elizabeth as mine, to protect, love,
and cherish. We called each other familiarly by the name cousin, and
were brought up together. No human being could have passed a happier
childhood than myself.
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.
Before the day of my departure arrived, the first misfortune of my life
occurred--an omen of my future misery. My mother attended Elizabeth in
an attack of scarlet fever. Elizabeth was saved, but my mother sickened
and died. On her deathbed 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."
The day of my departure for Ingolstadt, deferred for some weeks by my
mother's death, at length arrived. I reached the town after a long and
fatiguing journey, delivered my letters of introduction, and paid a
visit to some of the principal professors.
M. Krempe, professor of Natural Philosophy, was an uncouth man. He asked
me several questions concerning my progress in different branches of
science, and informed me I must begin my studies entirely anew.
M. Waldman was very unlike his colleague. His voice was the sweetest I
had ever heard. Partly from curiosity, and partly from idleness, I
entered his lecture room, and his panegyric upon modern chemistry I
shall never forget:--"The ancient teachers of this science," said he,
"promised impossibilities, and performed nothing. The modern masters
promise very little, and have, indeed, performed miracles. 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 the heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock
the invisible world with its own shadows."
Such were the professor's words, words of fate enounced to destroy me.
As he went on, I felt as if my soul were grappling with a palpable
enemy. So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein. More,
far more, will I achieve: 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; and from this time natural philosophy,
and particularly chemistry, became nearly my sole occupation. My
progress was rapid, and at the end of two years I made some discoveries
in the improvement of chemical instruments which procured me great
esteem at the University.
I became acquainted with the science of anatomy, and often asked myself,
Whence did the principle of life proceed? I observed the natural decay
of the human body, and saw how the fine form of man was degraded and
wasted. I examined and analysed all the minutiae of causation 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. I became dizzy with the
immensity of the prospect, and surprised that among so many men of
genius I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret.
Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare
a frame for the reception of it remained a work of inconceivable
difficulty and labour. I collected bones from charnel houses, and the
dissecting room and the slaughter house furnished many of my materials.
Often my nature turned with loathing from my occupation, but the thought
that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter I might in process
of time renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to
corruption, supported my spirits.
In a solitary chamber at the top of the house I kept my workshop of
filthy creation. The summer months passed, but my eyes were insensible
to the charms of nature. Winter, spring, and summer passed away before
my work drew to a close, but now every day showed me how well I had
succeeded. But I had become a wreck, so engrossing was my occupation,
and nervous to a most painful degree. I shunned my fellow-creatures as
if I had been guilty of a crime.
-III.--Frankenstein's Creation-
It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of
my toil. With an anxiety that 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. I saw the dull yellow eye of the
creature open; it breathed hard; and a convulsive motion agitated its
limbs.
How can I delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I
had endeavoured to form? 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 his watery eyes seemed
almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were
set.
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. But now that I had finished, breathless horror and disgust
filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created,
I rushed out of the room. I tried to sleep, but disturbed by the wildest
dreams, I started up. By the dim and yellow light of the moon I beheld
the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtains of the
bed, and his eyes were fixed on me. He might have spoken, but I did not
hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped
and rushed downstairs.
No mortal could support the horror of that countenance. I had gazed on
him while unfinished; he was ugly then, but when those muscles and
joints were rendered capable of motion, no mummy could be so hideous. I
took refuge in the court-yard, and passed the night wretchedly.
For several months I was confined by a nervous fever, and on my recovery
was filled with a violent antipathy even to the name of Natural
Philosophy.
A letter from my father telling me that my youngest brother William had
been found murdered, and bidding me return and comfort Elizabeth, made
me decide to hasten home.
It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva. The
gates of the town were shut, and I was obliged to pass the night at a
village outside. A storm was raging on the mountains, and I wandered out
to watch the tempest and resolved to visit the spot where my poor
William had been murdered.
Suddenly I perceived in the gloom a figure which stole from behind a
clump of trees near me; 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 to
whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be the murderer of my
brother? No sooner did that idea cross my imagination than I became
convinced of its truth. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in
the gloom. I thought of pursuing, but it would have been in vain, for
another flash discovered him to me hanging among the rocks, and he soon
reached the summit and disappeared.
It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house. It
was a house of mourning, and from that time I lived in daily fear lest
the monster I had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I
wished to see him again that I might avenge the death of William.
My wish was soon gratified. I had wandered off alone up the valley of
Chamounix, and was resting on the side of the mountain, when I beheld
the figure of a man advancing towards me, over the crevices in the ice,
with superhuman speed. He approached: his countenance bespoke bitter
anguish--it was the wretch whom I had created.
"Devil," I exclaimed, "do you dare approach me? Begone, vile insect! Or,
rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust!"
"I expected this reception," said the monster. "All men hate the
wretched: how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living
things. You purpose to kill me. 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 with the blood of your remaining friends."
My rage was without bounds, but he easily eluded me and said:
"Have I not suffered enough, that you seek to increase my misery?
Remember that I am thy creature. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I
alone am excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. I
have assisted the labours of man, I have saved human beings from
destruction, and I have been stoned and shot at as a recompense. The
feelings of kindness and gentleness have given place to rage. Mankind
spurns and hates me. The desert mountains and dreary glaciers are my
refuge, and the bleak sky is kinder to me than your fellow-beings. Shall
I not hate them who abhor me? Listen to me, Frankenstein. I have
wandered through these mountains consumed by a burning passion which you
alone can gratify. You must create a female for me with whom I can live.
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.
"What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate. It is true, we shall be
monstrous, 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. 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. We shall make our bed of dried
leaves; the sun will shine on us as on man, and will ripen our foods. My
evil passion 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 on me. I compassionated him, and
concluded that the justest view both to him and my fellow-creatures
demanded of me that I should comply with his request.
"I consent to your demand," I said, "on your solemn oath to quit Europe
forever."
"I swear," he cried, "by the sun and by the fire of love which burns in
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."
Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in
my sentiments.
-IV.--The Doom of Frankenstein-
I travelled to England with my friend Henry Clerval, and we parted in
Scotland. I had fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene
of my labours.
Three years before I was engaged in the same manner, and had created a
fiend whose barbarity had desolated my heart. I was now about to form
another being, of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant. He had sworn
to quit the neighbourhood of man, and hide himself in deserts, but she
had not. They might even hate each other, and she might quit him. Even
if they were to leave Europe, a race of devils would be propagated upon
the earth, who might make the very existence of man precarious and full
of terror.
I was alone on a solitary island, when looking up, the monster whom I
dreaded appeared. My mind was made up: I would never create another like
to him.
"Begone," I cried, "I break my promise. Never will I create your equal
in deformity and wickedness. Leave me; I am inexorable."
The monster saw my determination in my face, and gnashed his teeth in
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. Are you to be happy, while
I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? I go, but remember, I
shall be with you on your wedding night."
I started forward, but he quitted the house with precipitation. In a few
moments I saw him in his boat, which shot across the waters with an
arrowy swiftness.
The next day I set off to rejoin Clerval, and return home. But I never
saw my friend again. The monster murdered him, and for a time I lay in
prison on suspicion of the crime. On my release one duty remained to me.
It was necessary that I should hasten without delay to Geneva, there to
watch over the lives of those I loved, and to lie in wait for the
murderer.
Soon after my arrival, my father spoke of my long-contemplated marriage
with Elizabeth. I remembered the fiend's words, "I shall be with you on
your wedding night," and if I had thought what might be the devilish
intention of my adversary I would never have consented. But thinking it
was only my own death I was preparing I agreed with a cheerful
countenance.
Elizabeth seemed happy, and I was tranquil. In the meantime I took every
precaution, carrying pistols and dagger, lest the fiend should openly
attack me.
After the ceremony was performed, a large party assembled at my
father's; it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should proceed immediately
to the shores of Lake Como.
That night we stopped at an inn. I reflected how fearful a combat, which
I momentarily expected, would be to my wife, and earnestly entreated her
to retire. She left me, and I walked up and down the passages of the
house inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to my
adversary.
Suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the room
into which Elizabeth had retired. I rushed in. There, lifeless and
inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down, and her pale
and distorted features half covered with her hair, was the purest
creature on earth, my love, my wife, so lately living, and so dear.
And at the open window I saw a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A
grin was on the face of the monster as with his fiendish finger he
pointed towards the corpse.
Drawing a pistol I fired; but he eluded me, 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. On my return to Geneva, my father sank
under the tidings I bore, for Elizabeth had been to him more than a
daughter, and in a few days he died in my arms.
Then I decided to tell my story to a criminal judge in the town, and
beseech him to assert his whole authority for the apprehension of the
murderer. This Genevan magistrate endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse
does a child, and treated my tale as the effects of delirium. I broke
from the house angry and disturbed, and soon quitted Geneva, hurried
away by fury. Revenge has kept me alive; I dared not die and leave my
adversary in being.
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 hide himself in a
vessel bound for the Black Sea.
Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I
have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants informed me of
his path; sometimes he himself 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.
My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during
sleep alone that I could taste joy.
As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened and
the cold increased in the degree almost too severe to support. I found
the fiend had pursued his journey across the frost-bound sea in a
direction that led to no land, and exchanging my land sledge for one
fashioned for the Frozen Ocean I followed him.
I cannot guess how many days have passed since then. I was about to sink
under the accumulation of distress when you took me on board. But I had
determined, if you were going southward, still to trust myself to the
mercy of the seas rather than abandon my purpose--for my task is
unfulfilled.
-V.--Walton's Letter, continued-
A week has passed away while I have listened to the strangest tale that
ever imagination formed.
The only joy that Frankenstein can now know will be when he composes his
shattered spirit to peace and death.
September 12
I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility and glory.
September 9 the ice began to move, and we were in the most imminent
peril. I had promised the sailors that should a passage open to the
south, I would not continue my voyage, but would instantly direct my
course southward. On the 11th a breeze sprung from the west, and the
passage towards the south became perfectly free. Frankenstein bade me
farewell when he heard my decision, and died pressing my hand.
At midnight I heard the sound of a hoarse human voice in the cabin where
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