Frankenstein

Chapter 1

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 a 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.