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

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 for ever

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.”