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Victor Frankenstein
Victor Frankenstein
Victor Frankenstein
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Victor Frankenstein

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Found nearly dead in a frozen wasteland, Victor Frankenstein is brought aboard an exploration ship. Once revived, he proceeds to tell the ship’s captain the story of how he came to be there. When he discovers that the Captain has transcribed his entire tale, Frankenstein asks to see the finished product and proceeds to modify and augment the notes.
Upon discovering the changes, the ship’s surgeon does not believe Victor is being fully honest about the deaths involved and secretly copies the original story as it was told before its truth could be tarnished.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherC.S. Maynard
Release dateOct 17, 2015
ISBN9781311093141
Victor Frankenstein
Author

C.S. Maynard

C.S. Maynard is a freelance writer, blogger and even sometimes a substitute teacher. She loves writing stories about how real life interacts with fiction and how people deal with unique and sometimes fantastic situations. Her young adult book, Blood of the Wolf is being offered in print and ebook at amazon.com, charlottemaynard.com, smashwords and many other venus, including possibly a bookstore near you. She can be reached at charlotte@charlottemaynard.com. Her latest project is about Christmas and she is also working on the second book in her Bloodlines series.

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    Victor Frankenstein - C.S. Maynard

    Chapter 1

    I am by birth a Genovese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that area. My ancestors had been, for many years, counselors or government administrators, and my father, Alphonse, also filled several public stations with honor and esteem. He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and resolute attention to the affairs of business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the interests of his country. A variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, thus it wasn’t until the decline of his life that he became a husband and the father of a family.

    To understand the misfortune of my life you must first understand my family, and even to the point of my coming into being, starting with my parentage. One of my father’s most intimate friends was a merchant who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous hardships, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud, unbending disposition and could not bear to live so destitute in the same country where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Not wanting to be arrested for the money he owed, Beaufort beseeched my father to pay his debts; afterwards he secretly retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived in wretchedness and obscurity.

    My father, betrayed by his truest friend, was deeply grieved by this act of treachery. Seeking to escape the debt owed, Beaufort had taken decisive measures to conceal himself, and it was ten months before my father discovered his location. Well pleased at this discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated on a seedy street near the Reuss River. 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. This meager sum was only sufficient to provide him with a few months sustenance, during which time he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a merchant’s house or some other type position. Tragically the time was spent in inaction, as his grief only became more deeper and more disturbing when he had opportunity to reflect on the tragic turns his life had taken. Finally it took so fast a 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. She procured humble work, braining straw and by various means labored to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life. When my father came to their shabby home and with no compensation to offer, the honorable daughter, Caroline, committed herself to his care in lieu of monies owed. My father accepted, then brought her to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a family member. Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.

    There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but this circumstance that united them eventually grew to devoted affection. Perhaps during his younger years Father had been deprived of the affections of one so adored and so he was inclined to set a greater value on beauty. There was a show of respect in his attachment to my mother, different than the doting fondness of a patriarch; it was inspired by reverence for her virtues and a desire to provide her, in some degree, recompense for the sorrows from which she had been rescued. Mother made sure everything conformed to his wishes, and in return he strove to shelter her: an exotic blossom is safeguarded by the gardener, from every rough wind. Father surround her with all that he could to bring about happiness for her soft and compassionate mind, as he felt her health, and even the serenity of her spirit, had been shaken by what she had endured. During the two years before their marriage, my mother received word of her father’s death, and though it was not unexpected, the news wore on her in every way. After the funeral, my father gradually withdrew from his public functions; immediately after their union, the couple set out for Italy, hoping that the change of landscape on a tour through that land of wonders would be a means to fully restore my young mother’s distressed, 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 travels. I remained for several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each other, they seemed to draw from inexhaustible stores of affection to bestow upon me. My mother’s tender caresses and my father’s approving smile are among my first recollections. I was their plaything, and something better--their babe--the innocent and helpless creature bestowed to them. My future was in their hands to direct either to happiness or misery, depending on how they fulfilled their parental duties. With this deep awareness of what they owed me, the child to whom they had given life, my father endeavored that, during every hour of my early life, I received a lesson of patience, charity, self-control and strict obedience.

    For a long time I was their sole object of attention, but as of my fourth year my mother greatly desired to have a daughter; nonetheless, continued to be their only offspring. Approximately one year later, while traveling beyond the frontiers of Italy, we lingered for a week on the shores of the Lake of Como, where my parents often petitioned themselves to 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--for her to act as the guardian angel to the afflicted. It was during one of their outings that a tiny hovel sheltered in a valley attracted their notice as being particularly cheerless. When my parents approached, their observations were confirmed by the number of half-clothed children that gathered around the shack, as their condition demonstrated the effects of poverty in its worst form.

    One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother--accompanied by me--visited this specific dwelling. There, she found a peasant and his wife, hard working, bent down by pain and hardship, serving a scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among these,  one attracted the attention of my mother far above all the rest, as if made from a different stock. Whilst the four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin and extremely fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold, and despite the filth and poverty of her clothing, a crown of distinction seemed set on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes radiant, her lips and the molding of her face so expressive of sensibility and sweetness that none could behold her without noticing a definite division of class and a bearing of celestial glow in all her features.

    The peasant woman, observing that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. The young girl was not hers but of a Milanese nobility. Her German mother had died giving birth, whereupon it was decided that the infant would be placed with these people to nurse as they had not been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. We were further informed that she was the daughter of a nobleman that became the casualty of war, and whether he had died or was prisoner in the dungeons of Austria was not known. In his absence all the family property was confiscated; the discarded child became an orphan and a beggar, forced to dwell with her foster parents. Despite her removal from privilege, and the unfortunate placement into this horrible abode, she had bloomed and emerged 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 more beautiful than a painted angel--a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter than the flowing of the wind in the hills. With his permission, my mother presented the girl’s impoverished guardians a great mass of riches to surrender the child. As Mother quickly explained, they greedily accepted the offerings and counted her fall from social grace a blessing to them. They consulted their village priest, and the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza became the ward of my parents’ house the beautiful and adored companion to fulfill all my occupations and pleasures. She was a welcome addition to our home, filling a void and becoming the foundation for the future my parents deemed fit for me.

    All who regarded Elizabeth loved her with a passion and almost reverential attachment, while I looked on her as my pride and 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 on the next day, when she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with all seriousness, interpreted her words literally and saw Elizabeth as mine. All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own. Though we called each other familiarly by the name of cousin, no word or expression could convey the kind of relation in which she stood to me. She was more than my sister, as she was to be mine only, forever.

    Chapter 2

    Elizabeth and I were brought up together without even a year difference in our ages. We grew and behaved as siblings do, but overall harmony was the natural order of our companionship. Our differences in character drew us together. I possessed a mind of intense application and an insatiable thirst for knowledge, while Elizabeth was of a calmer and more moderate disposition, and sought only my affections. When I was not the focus of her desires, she busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets, and found some degree of delight in the majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss home--the sublime shapes of the mountains, the changes of the seasons, tempest and calm, the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of our Alpine summers. My companion contemplated with a whimsical spirit the magnificent appearance of things, whilst I delighted in investigating their causes. The world was to me a secret, which only I could divine. My curiosity, combined with earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature, came with a satisfaction akin to ecstasy as these mysteries were unfolded to me--these are among the earliest of my memories.

    On the birth of a second son, younger than myself by nearly seven years, my parents gave up entirely their wandering life and fixed themselves in their native country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and an estate on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league from the city. We resided principally in the latter, and the lives of my parents passed in considerable seclusion. It was my disposition to avoid crowds and to attach myself to but a fortunate few. I was indifferent towards others; as to my school-fellows in general, I found myself with only one close friend among them: Henry Clerval. The Clerval family resided not far from our villa, and business transactions often called the schoolmate to accompany his father to our abode, there our relationship was fostered. Henry was the son of a merchant of Geneva, a boy of exceptional talent and desire. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger for its own sake. He was regularly captivated with the books of chivalry and romance. He composed heroic songs and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly adventure. He tried to make us act plays and to enter into masquerades in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Charlemagne’s defeat, the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous soldiers who shed their blood to redeem the Holy Land from the hands of the infidels.

    No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My parents lavished and indulged themselves--as well as my brother and me--with everything they desired. They were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their whims, but the creators of all the many delights that we enjoyed. When I mingled with other families, I distinctly discerned my superior station, and all others were there to sate my appetites.

    My temper was sometimes violent, my passions forceful. By some controlling influence in my attitude, they were turned not towards childish pursuits but to an eager desire to learn, though not all things indiscriminately. I confess that neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments, nor the politics of various states possessed appeal for me. It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward meaning of things or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that occupied me, my interests were directed to the metaphysical, or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.

    Meanwhile, Clerval and Elizabeth occupied themselves, so to speak, with the moral relations of things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, the beauties of the Earth, and the actions of men were their ongoing theme; and Clerval’s hopes and dreams were to become one among those whose names are recorded in story as the heroic and adventurous protectors of our species. I of course knew of the grandeur of my destiny and my own position in relation to the world.

    For her part, the saintly soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home. Her sympathy, her smile, her soft voice, and the sweet glance of her celestial eyes, were ever there to amuse and animate us. She was the living spirit of love to soften and attract. I might have become ill-tempered during my studies, through the intensity of my personality, but she was always there to pacify me to a semblance of her own gentleness.

    I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the memories of my childhood, before misfortune tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of considerable insight into one both gloomy and sardonic, reflecting only upon the past. Moreover, in drawing this picture for you of my early days, I also record the events that led--by gradual steps--to my tale of misery. For when I recall to myself the birth of that passion that afterward ruled my destiny, I find it sprang--like a mountain river--from simple and almost forgotten sources, growing as it proceeded until it became the flood that, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the inspiration that has ruled my fate; I desire, therefore, in this narration, to state those facts that led to my fondness for that particular science. When I was thirteen years of age, on a day the chill weather obliged us to remain confined to our lodging, I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with indifference, but the theory that he attempted to demonstrate and the wonderful facts that he related soon changed this feeling into one of great enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind, and, overcome with joy, I communicated my discovery to my father.

    He looked carelessly at the title page of my book and said, Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad rubbish.

    If only, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely discredited. If only he had explained that a modern system of science had been introduced, possessing much greater understanding and knowledge than had been written of by those of the past, that the capabilities of the past were absurd, while the current sciences were real and practical. Under such circumstances, I should certainly have thrown the teachings of Agrippa aside and appeased my imagination--heated as it was--by returning with a full passion to my former studies. It is even possible that the process of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But because the superficial response that my father had offered regarding my volume by no means led me to believe that he was acquainted with its contents, I continued to read with the greatest eagerness. Consequently, when I returned home, my first care was to procure the entire works of Agrippa, and afterwards of the writings of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the brilliance of these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures to be understood by few others besides myself.

    I have described myself as always having been imbued with a heartfelt longing to fully understand the secrets of nature. Yet, even with my intense labor and the wonderful discoveries of these modern philosophers, I always came from my studies discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have sworn that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great and unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors in each branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted appeared, even to my young perception, to be novices engaged in the same futile pursuit.

    The ignorant peasants beheld the elements around them, and were acquainted with their practical uses, but even the most learned philosophers knew little more. Having partially unveiled the face of Nature, they viewed the immortal aspects still with wonder and mystery. Man might dissect, analyze, and give names, yet never speak of more than what is written of in scripture, the final destiny of man, in the category concerning death is utterly unknown. I had gazed upon the locks and barriers that seemed to keep human beings from entering the eye of nature and found myself entirely unsatisfied. Here, however, were books whose authors had penetrated deeper and knew more. Accepting their words to be all that they claimed, I immediately became their disciple. It may appear strange that such learning should arise in the eighteenth century, but while I followed the everyday conventional routine of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self-taught with regard to my favorite studies.

    Those who surrounded me were ignorant and, like my father, not of a scientific mind, and I was left to struggle with a child’s blindness, combined with a student’s thirst for knowledge. Under the guidance of my new literary mentors, I entered with the greatest diligence into the quest for the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life; but it was the elixir that soon captured my undivided attention. Wealth was insignificant compared to the glory that would come with the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death! These were, of course, not my only visions; my favorite authors liberally promised the raising of ghosts or devils, and I most eagerly sought fulfillment of those promises. If my incantations were unsuccessful, I attributed the failure to my own inexperience and mistakes rather than to a lack of skill or exactness in my instructors. And thus for a time, occupied by obsolete teachings, I mingled with a thousand contradictory theories and found myself floundering desperately in a mire of assorted knowledge. A fierce imagination and childish reasoning guided me until an accident again changed the direction of my ideas.

    When I was about fifteen years old, after we had retired to our house near Belrive, we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder burst at once with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I lingered, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the door, I abruptly beheld a vicious stream of fire issuing from an old and beautiful oak that stood about twenty yards from our house. When the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared; nothing remained but a blasted stump. The next morning, we found the tree shattered in a strange way. It was not splintered by the shock but was entirely reduced to thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld anything so utterly destroyed.

    Before this, I had not become familiar with the more obvious laws of electricity. By chance on this occasion, a man of renown

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