Hurrying with long strides, I rushed down one street and then another until I felt reasonably certain that any pursuers had been evaded. Seeking refuge in an out-of-the-way corner where I stood thigh-deep in unshoveled snow, I hastily opened the book. Not for a moment did it occur to me that such a title might possibly refer to some other Frankenstein.
The few pages that passed beneath my gaze during my first hasty perusal of the book amazed and astonished me. These reactions have only been intensified by the more thorough reading I have been able to give the book since taking shelter here for the night. I was, as I say, amazed and astonished even before I realized that I was the "monster" or "fiend" portrayed within its pages; or more accurately, that the character thus drawn was claimed to be a portrait of me. With what unutterable outrage I understood my intended identification with this "demon," I am sure that any innocent person who reads those lying pages will be able to comprehend. I stood accused by the author, with shameless effrontery, of any number of horrible crimes—even of the murder of the child William, whom I had never seen, and from the scene of whose death I had been hundreds of miles distant.
The whole book, I see now as I sample its pages further, is couched in the form of letters, from Captain Walton, supposedly on a prolonged Arctic expedition, to his sister in London. And these are letters, I am certain, that can never have been really written or sent… damned lying things in any case. Nay, they are something worse than that, which is the truth and lies all intermingled.
But I am beginning to understand the purposes behind the publication of this book. Much evil, for which my enemies are in truth responsible, is to be blamed on me.
I am, of course, innocent.
But how shall I ever be able to prove it?
My first perusal of the book's pages this morning, while standing in the city snowdrift, so stunned me that the fact of the gathering and murmuring crowd, from which I had originally retreated, had fled my mind. With the offending volume in my hand I started to retrace my steps toward the bookstore, with some vague idea of seeking redress there, or at least being able to make a reasonable protest. On my first coming in sight of the establishment again, I saw a knot of people, larger than before, gathered on the street in front of it. Some of them were gesturing as if in debate. I heard men's voices raised, and I thought the tone of those voices ominous. With ideas of protest and justice set aside for the time being, I prudently turned and departed.
But I was seen, and a pursuit commenced. I turned corners, and walked rapidly, as I had done before; but while walking streets in broad daylight it is impossible for me to avoid attracting attention, forever impossible for me to blend into a crowd. Yet I did manage to escape, for it is equally impossible that I, running, should ever be overtaken by humans moving on two legs. My flight from the city was not easy, but I have accomplished it.
As I write this I am still not sure if the pursuit continues, or will continue; or how many of those who saw me at the bookseller's today may have made some identification of me as the central character in the published charade that bears the name of my late lamented creator. But in any case I shall sleep soundly tonight, I have been pursued before.
The port of Montreal is of course icebound, but the ports of the colonies to the south will soon be free from the winter's ice—those that are not open all year round—but in those more southern colonies there is the war. Lately I have been able to hear but little news of the fighting. Just how effective the British blockade may be I do hot know, but south I now must go, in any case.
November 12_On the road. The thought has come to me that, in Philadelphia there may live some associate of Franklin—a fellow philosopher, perhaps, or a friend or relative—who will be intelligent enough to listen to my tale with an open mind, and sympathetic enough to help me. The great man himself is, to the best of my knowledge, still in France, and I suspect he will continue there until all the business of the war, and of the agreement that must conclude the war, has finally been settled. That is, if he is still alive; when I saw him in Paris, almost a year ago, he was clearly of advanced age.
Last night in my uneasy shelter I dreamt of my creator's first cramped workroom in Ingolstadt. In my dream I knew that by standing in the midst of his equipment and clutching the rod that led up to the roof where it connected with Franklin's iron points, I should come into the possession of all the mysterious powers of electricity. Franklin himself was there in the laboratory too, somehow, and was to play some role having a vital connection with my fate. That I may come to possess the secrets of myself! That is all I ask.
December 1_Still on the way to Philadelphia. The few other wayfarers I have come upon have not seemed anxious for my company. Nor I for theirs, in truth.
Perhaps Franklin himself Will have returned to Philadelphia by the time I get there, and he will be still alive and ready to give me help. I nourish myself with this hopeful dream. As if it were indeed probable, I rehearse in my mind a dozen possible ways to approach him. That is my dream_what is much more likely, of course, is that I will somehow be able to approach someone of his associates. I have not settled on how to do it but there is time. My journey is far from over.
I have acquired snowshoes. Thus shod, I was able to approach and club to death a deer I discovered trapped in a crusted drift. Seldom are streams here so completely frozen that I cannot break through the ice to catch a fish. And the American squirrels have been caching nuts in logs for me to find and take. At night, as now, a small fire, a rude construction of logs, sometimes a hollow tree, provide me with all the warmth and shelter that I need. I, who have survived the Arctic wastes, find this journey almost restful.
December 13_In among settlements now, I sleep by sufferance in a barn tonight. I have been given strange looks, but so far as I can tell no one of them has heard of Frankenstein. I drop a word or two of French or German, and I am taken for a straggler or deserter from one of the mercenary bodies of troops who were sent here, half a world away from their homes, to fight for or against the English. Such wandering deserters are common enough, apparently, that the presence of one more surprises no one. Also I have several times resorted to stealing, and in general feel little regret for doing so—I am sure that the snowshoes were not their owner's only pair. My creator's race owes me more than I ever am likely to steal.
The escape of Clerval, Frankenstein, and myself in a small boat from the west coast of Scotland was attended with fearful perils from sea and storm. My human friends, I suppose, could not have come through the first stages of that adventure alive, without my strength and endurance at the oars; I rowed whilst they bailed, and our boat did not_quite—sink. Nor could I, sickening as my wound became infected, have survived those later days without their care and help.
Our first leg of travel, across the open sea, was aided by some lucky winds and currents. At that point I was still not much bothered by my wounded shoulder, and during the first days did most of the rowing. I have not had the opportunity to trace our voyage on a map, but I suppose we must have traveled fifty or sixty miles at least, across the open sea, in a direction generally south.
Even before we launched our escape, I had deduced that we were probably in the Hebrides. Not only did the old papers in the houses offer clues, but more indications could be seen in the various configurations of land, and in the kinds of wildlife visible.
My deduction proved correct. But how could I even have begun to know such things? What likelihood that I had ever visited those isles, or even heard of them, in any previous existence? I could not answer such questions then, and cannot now. I knew, but without knowing how I knew. It was as if more and more of the old memories of my stranger's brain were gradually returning to me, though never in any way that would tell me that stranger's identity.