Chapter 1

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

I was born in Geneva, into a family that was well-respected in the community. My ancestors had served as counselors and syndics for many years, and my father held various public positions with honor and integrity. Everyone who knew him admired his dedication to public service. He spent his younger years deeply involved in the affairs of his country, and various circumstances delayed his marriage until later in life, when he finally became a husband and father.

The story of his marriage reveals much about his character, and I feel compelled to share it. One of his closest friends was a merchant named Beaufort, who had fallen from wealth to poverty due to a series of unfortunate events. Proud and unyielding, Beaufort couldn’t bear to live in obscurity in the same place where he had once been celebrated for his status and success. After settling his debts honorably, he retreated with his daughter to Lucerne, where they lived in anonymity and hardship. My father cherished Beaufort’s friendship and was heartbroken by his friend’s misfortune. He lamented the pride that drove Beaufort to such a desperate situation, and he wasted no time trying to find him, hoping to encourage him to rebuild his life with his support.

It took my father ten months to track Beaufort down, who had gone to great lengths to hide himself. When my father finally found him, he rushed to the modest house located on a narrow street by the Reuss River. But instead of a warm welcome, he was met with despair. Beaufort had managed to save only a small amount of money from his former life, just enough to last a few months while he searched for respectable work in a merchant’s firm. Unfortunately, the time spent in idleness only deepened his sorrow, and after three months, he fell ill, unable to muster the energy to do anything.

His daughter, Caroline, cared for him with unwavering tenderness, but she watched helplessly as their meager savings dwindled and their prospects for support faded. Yet Caroline was strong-willed and resourceful. She took on simple jobs, weaving straw and finding small ways to earn just enough to survive.

Months passed in this way. As her father’s condition worsened, Caroline devoted more of her time to caring for him, and their resources continued to shrink. By the tenth month, her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and destitute. This final blow shattered her, and she knelt by Beaufort’s coffin, weeping bitterly when my father entered the room. He stepped in like a guardian angel, offering his support to the grieving girl. After her father’s burial, he took her to Geneva and placed her under the care of a relative. Two years later, Caroline became my mother.

There was a significant age difference between my parents, but this only seemed to strengthen their bond of love. My father had a strong sense of justice that required him to not only love deeply but also to respect highly. Perhaps he had suffered in the past from the betrayal of someone he loved and, as a result, learned to value true worth even more. His affection for my mother was marked by gratitude and reverence for her virtues, rather than the indulgent fondness often seen in older men. He sought to protect her, as a gardener shields a delicate flower from harsh winds, surrounding her with everything that could bring her joy and comfort.

The trials she had faced had shaken her health and her once-constant spirit. In the two years leading up to their marriage, my father gradually stepped back from his public duties. Immediately after they wed, they sought the warm climate of Italy, hoping that the change of scenery and the wonders of that beautiful land would restore her strength.

They traveled from Italy to Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born in Naples and, as a baby, accompanied them on their adventures. For several years, I was their only child. Despite their deep love for each other, they seemed to draw endless affection from an infinite well to shower upon me. I can still recall my mother’s gentle hugs and my father’s warm smile as he looked at me. I was their little treasure, their idol, and something even more precious—their child, an innocent and helpless being entrusted to them by fate. It was their responsibility to nurture me and guide my future toward happiness or sorrow, depending on how well they fulfilled their roles as my parents. With this profound awareness of their duties, combined with their natural tenderness, it’s easy to imagine that every moment of my early life was filled with lessons in patience, kindness, and self-control. I was gently guided along a path that felt like one continuous joy.

For a long time, I was their sole focus. My mother had always hoped for a daughter, but I remained their only child. When I was about five years old, while exploring beyond Italy’s borders, they spent a week by the shores of Lake Como. Their generous nature often led them to visit the cottages of the less fortunate. For my mother, this was more than just a duty; it was a calling—a passion born from her own experiences of suffering and relief. She felt compelled to be a guardian angel to those in need.

One day, while walking, they noticed a particularly sorrowful cottage nestled in a valley, surrounded by a group of ragged children that spoke of desperate poverty. When my father went to Milan alone, my mother took me with her to visit this home. Inside, she found a peasant couple, worn down by hard work, sharing a meager meal with five hungry little ones. Among them was one child who captured my mother’s attention like no other. Unlike the others, who were dark-eyed and robust, this girl was delicate and fair. Her hair shone like the brightest gold, and despite her tattered clothes, it seemed to crown her with an air of distinction. Her clear brow, bright blue eyes, and the gentle curve of her lips radiated sensitivity and sweetness, making her appear almost otherworldly—a being sent from heaven, marked by celestial beauty.

The peasant woman, noticing my mother’s wonder, eagerly shared the girl’s story. She was not her child but the daughter of a nobleman from Milan. Her mother, a German, had died giving birth to her. The infant had been entrusted to this couple for nursing when they were better off. They had just married, and their first child was only just born. The father of this little girl was one of those Italians who dreamed of restoring their country’s former glory—one of the oppressed who fought for freedom. He had become a victim of Italy’s struggles. It was unclear whether he had perished or remained imprisoned in an Austrian dungeon. His property was seized, leaving his child an orphan and a beggar. She stayed with her foster parents, blooming in their humble home like a beautiful rose among dark brambles.

When my father returned from Milan, he found me playing in the villa’s hall with a child more beautiful than any angel—a being who seemed to radiate light, her movements as graceful as a mountain goat. The mystery was soon unraveled. With my father’s consent, my mother persuaded the girl’s rustic guardians to let her come live with us. They loved the sweet orphan and felt her presence was a blessing, but it would be unfair to keep her in poverty when fate had offered her such a strong protector. After consulting their village priest, it was decided that Elizabeth Lavenza would become a part of our family—more than a sister to me, a beautiful and cherished companion in all my activities and joys.

Everyone adored Elizabeth. The deep, almost reverential bond that everyone felt for her became, as I shared in it, both my pride and my joy. The night before she came to live with us, my mother had playfully said, “I have a lovely gift for my Victor—he’ll receive it tomorrow.” So, when the next day arrived and my mother introduced Elizabeth as her promised gift, I took her words to heart. I viewed Elizabeth as mine—mine to protect, love, and cherish. Every compliment directed at her felt like it was meant for something I owned. We affectionately called each other cousins, but no word or phrase could truly capture the nature of our relationship. She was more than a sister to me; she was destined to be mine alone, for as long as we both lived.