[02] Frankenstein or, The Modern Prometheus [프랑켄슈타인]

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.