Chapter 15

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

The story of my beloved cottagers left a profound impact on me. It opened my eyes to the complexities of social life, allowing me to appreciate their virtues while also recognizing the darker sides of humanity.

At that time, I viewed crime as something distant, while kindness and generosity were always present, stirring within me a longing to be part of the vibrant world where such admirable qualities flourished. However, as I recount my intellectual journey, I must mention an important event that took place at the beginning of August that year.

One evening, during my usual visit to the nearby woods to gather food and firewood for my protectors, I stumbled upon a leather suitcase lying on the ground. Inside, I found several articles of clothing and a few books. I eagerly grabbed the suitcase and hurried back to my hovel. Luckily, the books were written in a language I had begun to understand at the cottage. They included *Paradise Lost*, a volume of *Plutarch’s Lives*, and *The Sorrows of Werter*. The joy I felt from possessing these treasures was immense; I devoted myself to studying them while my friends went about their daily tasks.

I can hardly express the impact these books had on me. They filled my mind with a whirlwind of new images and emotions, sometimes lifting me to heights of ecstasy, but more often plunging me into deep despair. In *The Sorrows of Werter*, beyond its simple and moving narrative, I found a wealth of ideas and insights on topics that had previously been obscure to me. The gentle domestic life it portrayed, combined with lofty sentiments directed beyond oneself, resonated with my experiences with my protectors and the persistent desires within me. Yet, I viewed Werter as a more divine being than anyone I had ever seen or imagined; his character was devoid of pretense, yet it struck a deep chord within me. His reflections on death and suicide filled me with wonder. I didn’t claim to understand the nuances of his situation, but I found myself leaning toward his views, mourning his demise without fully grasping its significance.

As I read, I couldn’t help but relate his experiences to my own feelings and circumstances. I saw similarities between myself and the characters I read about, yet I also felt a profound disconnection. I empathized with them and partially understood their struggles, but I was still unformed in my thoughts; I was independent and alone. “The path of my departure was free,” and there was no one to mourn my existence. My appearance was grotesque, and my size was enormous. What did it all mean? Who was I? What was I? Where did I come from? What was my purpose? These questions haunted me, but I couldn’t find the answers.

The volume of *Plutarch’s Lives* I had was filled with the stories of the founders of ancient republics. Its effect on me was starkly different from that of *The Sorrows of Werter*. While Werter’s narrative brought me feelings of despair, Plutarch’s work lifted me above my own troubled thoughts, inspiring me to admire and love the heroes of history. Many of the things I read were beyond my understanding and experience. I had only a vague notion of kingdoms, vast lands, mighty rivers, and endless seas. My protectors’ cottage had been my only school for learning about humanity, but this book opened up new and grander vistas of action. I read about men involved in public affairs, governing or slaughtering their fellow beings. A deep passion for virtue ignited within me, along with a strong aversion to vice, as I began to grasp the meanings of those concepts, which I related to pleasure and pain. Fueled by these feelings, I found myself drawn to admire peaceful lawgivers like Numa, Solon, and Lycurgus, rather than figures like Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my protectors left a lasting impression on me; perhaps if my first encounter with humanity had been through a young soldier eager for glory and bloodshed, my feelings would have been very different.

But _Paradise Lost_ stirred up a different, much deeper set of emotions in me. I read it as I had read the other books that had come into my possession, believing it to be a true account. It filled me with a sense of wonder and awe at the image of an all-powerful God battling against His own creations. I often found myself relating the various situations to my own life. Like Adam, I felt utterly disconnected from any other being in existence; yet, our circumstances were worlds apart. He had emerged from the hands of God as a perfect being—happy, thriving, and under the watchful care of his Creator. He could converse with and learn from superior beings, while I was miserable, helpless, and utterly alone. More often than not, I saw Satan as a more fitting representation of my condition. Like him, when I witnessed the happiness of those who protected me, a bitter envy would rise within me.

Another factor deepened these feelings. Shortly after I arrived at the hovel, I found some papers in the pocket of the clothes I had taken from your lab. At first, I ignored them, but once I learned to read the writing, I began to study them intently. They were your journal entries from the four months leading up to my creation. You described every step you took in your work, interspersed with details of your daily life. You surely remember these papers. They contained everything related to my cursed origin; the whole grotesque series of events that led to my existence was laid bare. The detailed description of my hideous form was written in language that reflected your own horrors and made mine unforgettable. I felt sick as I read. “What a hateful day it was when I was given life!” I cried out in despair. “Accursed creator! Why did you create a monster so repulsive that even you turned away in disgust? God, in His mercy, made man beautiful and appealing in His own image; but my form is a wretched mockery of yours, even more horrifying because of the resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow devils to admire and support him, but I am alone and reviled.”

These were the thoughts that consumed my hours of despair and isolation. Yet, when I thought about the virtues of the cottagers—their kind and generous natures—I convinced myself that once they learned of my admiration for them, they would feel compassion for me and overlook my physical deformity. Could they really turn away someone, no matter how monstrous, who sought their kindness and friendship? I resolved not to give in to despair, but to prepare myself for an encounter with them that would determine my fate. I delayed this attempt for several months, as the weight of its success filled me with dread at the thought of failure. Moreover, I found that my understanding grew with each passing day, and I was reluctant to begin this endeavor until I had gained a bit more wisdom.

In the meantime, several changes occurred in the cottage. The arrival of Safie brought joy to its inhabitants, and I noticed that a greater abundance filled their home. Felix and Agatha spent more time in laughter and conversation, and they were aided in their work by servants. They didn’t seem wealthy, but they were content and happy; their emotions were calm and peaceful, while mine grew increasingly turbulent. Gaining knowledge only made me more aware of how wretchedly isolated I was. I held onto hope, but it slipped away whenever I caught sight of my reflection in water or my shadow in the moonlight, as fragile and fleeting as those images.

I tried to suppress these fears and strengthen myself for the trial I planned to undertake in a few months. Sometimes, I let my thoughts wander unchecked through the fields of Paradise, imagining kind and lovely beings who would understand my feelings and lift my spirits; their angelic faces radiated smiles of comfort. But it was all just a fantasy; no Eve came to soothe my sorrows or share my thoughts; I was utterly alone. I recalled Adam’s plea to his Creator. But where was mine? He had forsaken me, and in my heart's bitterness, I cursed him.

Autumn came and went, and I watched in surprise and sorrow as the leaves withered and fell, leaving nature looking bare and desolate, just as it had when I first laid eyes on the woods and the beautiful moon. Still, I didn’t mind the cold; I was naturally better suited to endure the chill than the heat. My greatest joys came from the sight of flowers, the songs of birds, and the vibrant colors of summer. When those delights faded, I turned my attention to the cottagers. Their happiness remained intact despite the absence of summer. They loved and supported one another, their joys intertwined, untouched by the troubles that surrounded them.

The more I observed them, the stronger my desire grew to earn their protection and kindness. I longed to be known and loved by these wonderful people; to see their warm gazes directed at me with affection was the pinnacle of my hopes. I couldn’t bear the thought that they might look upon me with disdain and horror. The poor souls who came to their door were never turned away. I knew I was asking for more than just food or shelter; I craved kindness and understanding. Yet, I didn’t believe I was completely unworthy of it.

Winter settled in, and a full cycle of seasons had passed since I first came to life. My focus was now entirely on my plan to introduce myself to my protectors. I considered many strategies, but ultimately decided that I would approach the cottage when the old man was alone. I had enough insight to realize that my hideous appearance was the main source of fear for those who had seen me before. My voice, though rough, held no terror; I believed that if I could win the old De Lacey’s goodwill in the absence of his children, perhaps he could help me gain acceptance from them.

One day, as the sun shone on the red leaves scattered across the ground, casting a cheerful glow despite the chill, Safie, Agatha, and Felix set off on a long walk. The old man, wishing to be alone, remained in the cottage. After his children left, he picked up his guitar and played several mournful yet beautiful tunes, more poignant than any I had heard him play before. At first, his face lit up with joy, but as he continued, a thoughtful sadness took over. Eventually, he set the instrument aside and sat lost in contemplation.

My heart raced; this was the moment of truth that would either fulfill my hopes or shatter them. The servants had gone to a nearby fair, and silence enveloped the cottage and its surroundings. It was the perfect opportunity, yet as I prepared to carry out my plan, my legs weakened, and I collapsed to the ground. I rose again, summoning all my resolve, and removed the planks I had placed to hide my retreat. The fresh air invigorated me, and with renewed determination, I approached the door of the cottage.

I knocked. “Who is there?” the old man called. “Come in.”

I stepped inside. “I apologize for the intrusion,” I said. “I’m a traveler in need of a little rest. It would mean a lot if you could let me stay by the fire for a few minutes.”

“Come in,” De Lacey replied. “I’ll do my best to help you, but my children are away, and since I’m blind, I’m afraid I won’t be able to find food for you.”

“Don’t worry, kind sir; I have food. I only need warmth and rest.”

I sat down, and silence fell between us. I knew every moment was precious, yet I hesitated on how to start our conversation when the old man spoke again.

“By your accent, stranger, I assume you are from my country. Are you French?”

“No, but I was raised by a French family and only understand that language. I’m on my way to seek the protection of some friends whom I truly love and for whom I have some hope.”

“Are they Germans?”

“No, they are French. But let’s change the subject. I am an unfortunate and abandoned creature; I look around and see no family or friends in the world. These kind people I’m heading to have never seen me and know little about me. I’m filled with dread because if I fail there, I will be an outcast forever.”

“Do not lose hope. To be without friends is indeed unfortunate, but when unclouded by self-interest, the hearts of men are full of brotherly love and charity. So trust in your hopes; if your friends are good and kind, do not despair.”

“They're kind—they're truly wonderful people; but, unfortunately, they have a deep-seated prejudice against me. I have good intentions; my life has been mostly harmless and, in some ways, even beneficial. Yet a terrible bias clouds their judgment, and where they should see a caring friend, they only see a monstrous figure.”

“That’s really unfortunate. But if you’re genuinely innocent, can’t you change their minds?”

“I’m about to try. That’s why I’m feeling so overwhelmed with fear. I care deeply for these people; for months now, I’ve been quietly showing them kindness without their knowledge. But they think I want to harm them, and that’s the misunderstanding I need to clear up.”

“Where do these friends live?”

“Close by.”

The old man paused for a moment before continuing. “If you can share the details of your story with me, I might be able to help you change their minds. I’m blind and can’t see your face, but there’s something in your words that tells me you’re sincere. I may be poor and an outcast, but I would find true joy in being of service to another human being.”

“Thank you, kind sir! I accept your generous offer. Your kindness lifts me from despair, and I hope that with your help, I won’t be driven away from the companionship and understanding of others.”

“God forbid! Even if you were truly guilty, that would only push you to desperation, not inspire you to do good. I, too, am unfortunate; my family and I have been wronged, even though we’re innocent. So you can imagine how much I empathize with your struggles.”

“How can I express my gratitude to you, my only benefactor? Your words are the first kindness I’ve heard directed at me. I will be forever thankful, and your compassion gives me hope for success with the friends I’m about to meet.”

“May I know the names and whereabouts of these friends?”

I hesitated. This felt like a pivotal moment, one that could either bring me happiness or take it away forever. I struggled to find the strength to answer him, but the effort drained me completely. I sank into a chair and began to sob. Just then, I heard the footsteps of my younger protectors approaching. I had no time to waste. Grabbing the old man’s hand, I exclaimed, “Now is the moment! Save me! You and your family are the friends I seek. Don’t abandon me in this time of need!”

“Oh my God!” the old man gasped. “Who are you?”

At that moment, the cottage door swung open, and Felix, Safie, and Agatha walked in. Who can describe the horror and shock on their faces when they saw me? Agatha fainted, and Safie, unable to help her friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix lunged forward, and with a strength that seemed almost unnatural, he tore me away from his father, to whom I clung desperately. In a fit of rage, he threw me to the ground and struck me violently with a stick. I could have torn him apart, like a lion with its prey, but my heart sank with a wave of despair, and I held back. Just as I saw him prepare to strike again, overwhelmed by pain and anguish, I fled the cottage, slipping away unnoticed into the shadows of my hovel.