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Frankenstein, or, The Modern Prometheus.
Mary Shelley.

Chapter .

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 selfcontrol,
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 con-





tinued 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 .

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