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Who We Are: 70 Years of the UN Refugee Agency

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Who We Are: 70 Years of the UN Refugee Agency

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Who We Are: 70 Years of the UN Refugee Agency

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A story of man's arrogance against nature- how could we link to Ozymandias? (Written by Mary's husband Percy Shelley).

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Frankenstein, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Frankenstein
or, The Modern Prometheus

Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Release Date: October 31, 1993 [eBook #84]
[Most recently updated: December 2, 2022]

Character set encoding: UTF-8

Produced by: Judith Boss, Christy Phillips, Lynn Hanninen and David Meltzer. HTML version by Al Haines.
Further corrections by Menno de Leeuw.

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FRANKENSTEIN ***

or, the Modern Prometheus

by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley

Letter 1

To Mrs. Saville, England.

St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17-.

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.

I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There-for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators-there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a steady purpose-a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good Uncle Thomas' library. My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father's dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.

These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets whose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven. I also became a poet and for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation; I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted with my failure and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent.

Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt a little proud when my captain offered me the second dignity in the vessel and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness, so valuable did he consider my services.

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury, but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing.

This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach. The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs-a dress which I have already adopted, for there is a great difference between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and Archangel.

I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail until the month of June; and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.

Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you, and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for all your love and kindness.

Your affectionate brother,
R. Walton

Letter 2

To Mrs. Saville, England.

Archangel, 28th March, 17-.

How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow! Yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend and are certainly possessed of dauntless courage.

But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy, and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil, I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who could sympathise with me, whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas' books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more and that my daydreams are more extended and magnificent, but they want (as the painters call it) keeping; and I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.

Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or rather, to word my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his profession. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel; finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.

The master is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance, added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage, made me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of my character that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on board ship: I have never believed it to be necessary, and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his kindliness of heart and the respect and obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to secure his services. I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union. My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover, instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young woman's father to consent to her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to my friend, who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his former mistress was married according to her inclinations. "What a noble fellow!" you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct the more astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would command.

Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little or because I can conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate, and my voyage is only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully severe, but the spring promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably early season, so that perhaps I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly: you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to "the land of mist and snow," but I shall kill no albatross; therefore do not be alarmed for my safety or if I should come back to you as worn and woeful as the "Ancient Mariner." You will smile at my allusion, but I will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to, my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean to that production of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand. I am practically industrious-painstaking, a workman to execute with perseverance and labour-but besides this there is a love for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore.

But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions when I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.

Your affectionate brother,
Robert Walton

Letter 3

To Mrs. Saville, England.

July 7th, 17-.

My dear Sister,

I write a few lines in haste to say that I am safe-and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold and apparently firm of purpose, nor do the floating sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of summer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not expected.

No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a letter. One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak are accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record, and I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.

Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake, as well as yours, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering, and prudent.

But success shall crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas, the very stars themselves being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart and resolved will of man?

My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must finish. Heaven bless my beloved sister!

R.W.

Letter 4

To Mrs. Saville, England.

August 5th, 17-.

So strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before these papers can come into your possession.

Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.

About two o'clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted our attention and diverted our solicitude from our own situation. We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile; a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller with our telescopes until he was lost among the distant inequalities of the ice.

This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed, many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had observed with the greatest attention.

About two hours after this occurrence we heard the ground sea, and before night the ice broke and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours.

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking to someone in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human being within it whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but a European. When I appeared on deck the master said, "Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish on the open sea."

On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a foreign accent. "Before I come on board your vessel," said he, "will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?"

You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to me from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom I should have supposed that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not have exchanged for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole.

Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board. Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his safety, your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted the fresh air he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy and forcing him to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life we wrapped him up in blankets and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow degrees he recovered and ate a little soup, which restored him wonderfully.

Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak, and I often feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin and attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of wildness, and even madness, but there are moments when, if anyone performs an act of kindness towards him or does him any the most trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.

When my guest was a little recovered I had great trouble to keep off the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once, however, the lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle.

His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom, and he replied, "To seek one who fled from me."

"And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?"

"Yes."

"Then I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked you up we saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice."

This aroused the stranger's attention, and he asked a multitude of questions concerning the route which the dæmon, as he called him, had pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said, "I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries."

"Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine."

"And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have benevolently restored me to life."

Soon after this he inquired if I thought that the breaking up of the ice had destroyed the other sledge. I replied that I could not answer with any degree of certainty, for the ice had not broken until near midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety before that time; but of this I could not judge.

From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck to watch for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere. I have promised that someone should watch for him and give him instant notice if any new object should appear in sight.

Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health but is very silent and appears uneasy when anyone except myself enters his cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle that the sailors are all interested in him, although they have had very little communication with him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother, and his constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must have been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so attractive and amiable.

I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as the brother of my heart.

I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals, should I have any fresh incidents to record.

August 13th, 17-.

My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery without feeling the most poignant grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated, and when he speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.

He is now much recovered from his illness and is continually on the deck, apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery but that he interests himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him without disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour of my eventual success and into every minute detail of the measures I had taken to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he evinced to use the language of my heart, to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man's life or death were but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should acquire and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my listener's countenance. At first I perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before his eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle fast from between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused; at length he spoke, in broken accents: "Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!"

Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened powers, and many hours of repose and tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his composure.

Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of despair, he led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He asked me the history of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told, but it awakened various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a friend, of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than had ever fallen to my lot, and expressed my conviction that a man could boast of little happiness who did not enjoy this blessing.

"I agree with you," replied the stranger; "we are unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves-such a friend ought to be-do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for despair. But I-I have lost everything and cannot begin life anew."

As he said this his countenance became expressive of a calm, settled grief that touched me to the heart. But he was silent and presently retired to his cabin.

Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions seem still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointments, yet when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.

Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine wanderer? You would not if you saw him. You have been tutored and refined by books and retirement from the world, and you are therefore somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit to appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses that elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment, a quick but never-failing power of judgment, a penetration into the causes of things, unequalled for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression and a voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.

August 19th, 17-.

Yesterday the stranger said to me, "You may easily perceive, Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had determined at one time that the memory of these evils should die with me, but you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you in case of failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might fear to encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which would provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed."

You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered communication, yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the promised narrative, partly from curiosity and partly from a strong desire to ameliorate his fate if it were in my power. I expressed these feelings in my answer.

"I thank you," he replied, "for your sympathy, but it is useless; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling," continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; "but you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my destiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined."

He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who know him, and who hear it from his own lips-with what interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I commence my task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story, frightful the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course and wrecked it-thus!

Chapter 1

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 self-control, 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 continued 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 2

We were brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in our ages. I need not say that we were strangers to any species of disunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together. Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition; but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense application and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge. She busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets; and 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-she found ample scope for admiration and delight. While my companion contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of things, I delighted in investigating their causes. The world was to me a secret which I desired to divine. Curiosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature, gladness akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the earliest sensations I can remember.

On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave up entirely their wandering life and fixed themselves in their native country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a campagne 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 were passed in considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore, to my school-fellows in general; but I united myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of singular talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger for its own sake. He was deeply read in 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 Roncesvalles, of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidels.

No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My parents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their caprice, but the agents and creators of all the many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled with other families I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and gratitude assisted the development of filial love.

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

Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral relations of things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men were his theme; and his hope and his dream was to become one among those whose names are recorded in story as the gallant and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home. Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was the living spirit of love to soften and attract; I might have become sullen in my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval-could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval? Yet he might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his generosity, so full of kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to him the real loveliness of beneficence and made the doing good the end and aim of his soaring ambition.

I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion which afterwards ruled my destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys.

Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire, therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age we all went on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate and the wonderful facts which he relates soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind, and bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my father. My father 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 trash."

If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded and that a modern system of science had been introduced which possessed much greater powers than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while those of the former were real and practical, under such circumstances I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was, by returning with greater ardour to my former studies. It is even possible that the train of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents, and I continued to read with the greatest avidity.

When I returned home my first care was to procure the whole works of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures known to few besides myself. I have described myself as always having been imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature. In spite of the intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern philosophers, I always came from my studies discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed 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 boy's apprehensions as tyros engaged in the same pursuit.

The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him and was acquainted with their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more. He had partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect, anatomise, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him. I had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed to keep human beings from entering the citadel of nature, and rashly and ignorantly I had repined.

But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and knew more. I took their word for all that they averred, and I became their disciple. It may appear strange that such should arise in the eighteenth century; but while I followed the routine of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self-taught with regard to my favourite studies. My father was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a child's blindness, added to a student's thirst for knowledge. Under the guidance of my new preceptors I entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was an inferior object, but what glory would attend the discovery if I could banish disease from the human frame and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!

Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake than to a want of skill or fidelity in my instructors. And thus for a time I was occupied by exploded systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory theories and floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious knowledge, guided by an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident again changed the current of my ideas.

When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near Belrive, when 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 remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld anything so utterly destroyed.

Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of electricity. On this occasion a man of great research in natural philosophy was with us, and excited by this catastrophe, he entered on the explanation of a theory which he had formed on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new and astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be known. All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable. By one of those caprices of the mind which we are perhaps most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former occupations, set down natural history and all its progeny as a deformed and abortive creation, and entertained the greatest disdain for a would-be science which could never even step within the threshold of real knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics and the branches of study appertaining to that science as being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy of my consideration.

Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the immediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my life-the last effort made by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars and ready to envelop me. Her victory was announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul which followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting studies. It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with their prosecution, happiness with their disregard.

It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual. Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible destruction.

Chapter 5

It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her, but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch-the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped and rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited, where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life.

Oh! No mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then, but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived.

I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!

Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned and discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on, although drenched by the rain which poured from a black and comfortless sky.

I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring by bodily exercise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets without any clear conception of where I was or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear, and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:

Like one who, on a lonely road,
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And, having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

[Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner."]

Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer I observed that it was the Swiss diligence; it stopped just where I was standing, and on the door being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. "My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you! How fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!"

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for some time about our mutual friends and his own good fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. "You may easily believe," said he, "how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that all necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in The Vicar of Wakefield: 'I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.' But his affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge."

"It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth."

"Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account myself. But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he, stopping short and gazing full in my face, "I did not before remark how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for several nights."

"You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see; but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an end and that I am at length free."

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive and walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster, but I feared still more that Henry should see him. Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused, and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment was empty, and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good fortune could have befallen me, but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy and ran down to Clerval.

We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival, but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account, and my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter frightened and astonished him.

"My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?"

"Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; " he can tell. Oh, save me! Save me!" I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously and fell down in a fit.

Poor Clerval! What must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his grief, for I was lifeless and did not recover my senses for a long, long time.

This was the commencement of a nervous fever which confined me for several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards learned that, knowing my father's advanced age and unfitness for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that he could towards them.

But I was in reality very ill, and surely nothing but the unbounded and unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words surprised Henry; he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my disturbed imagination, but the pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.

By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses that alarmed and grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared and that the young buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a divine spring, and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion.

"Dearest Clerval," exclaimed I, "how kind, how very good you are to me. This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have been the occasion, but you will forgive me."

"You will repay me entirely if you do not discompose yourself, but get well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I may speak to you on one subject, may I not?"

I trembled. One subject! What could it be? Could he allude to an object on whom I dared not even think?

"Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, "I will not mention it if it agitates you; but your father and cousin would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your own handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been and are uneasy at your long silence."

"Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first thought would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love and who are so deserving of my love?"

"If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you; it is from your cousin, I believe."

Chapter 6

Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from my own Elizabeth:

"My dearest Cousin,

"You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account. You are forbidden to write-to hold a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor, is necessary to calm our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought that each post would bring this line, and my persuasions have restrained my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have prevented his encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so long a journey, yet how often have I regretted not being able to perform it myself! I figure to myself that the task of attending on your sickbed has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could never guess your wishes nor minister to them with the care and affection of your poor cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes that indeed you are getting better. I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon in your own handwriting.

"Get well-and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home and friends who love you dearly. Your father's health is vigorous, and he asks but to see you, but to be assured that you are well; and not a care will ever cloud his benevolent countenance. How pleased you would be to remark the improvement of our Ernest! He is now sixteen and full of activity and spirit. He is desirous to be a true Swiss and to enter into foreign service, but we cannot part with him, at least until his elder brother returns to us. My uncle is not pleased with the idea of a military career in a distant country, but Ernest never had your powers of application. He looks upon study as an odious fetter; his time is spent in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear that he will become an idler unless we yield the point and permit him to enter on the profession which he has selected.

"Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children, has taken place since you left us. The blue lake and snow-clad mountains-they never change; and I think our placid home and our contented hearts are regulated by the same immutable laws. My trifling occupations take up my time and amuse me, and I am rewarded for any exertions by seeing none but happy, kind faces around me. Since you left us, but one change has taken place in our little household. Do you remember on what occasion Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably you do not; I will relate her history, therefore in a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl had always been the favourite of her father, but through a strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and after the death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this, and when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at our house. The republican institutions of our country have produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders, being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in France and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the duties of a servant, a condition which, in our fortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being.

"Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours; and I recollect you once remarked that if you were in an ill humour, one glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica-she looked so frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which she was induced to give her an education superior to that which she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was the most grateful little creature in the world: I do not mean that she made any professions I never heard one pass her lips, but you could see by her eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition was gay and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all excellence and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.

"When my dearest aunt died every one was too much occupied in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other trials were reserved for her.

"One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her favourites was a judgement from heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor girl! She wept when she quitted our house; she was much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this last winter. Justine has just returned to us; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien and her expression continually remind me of my dear aunt.

"I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has already had one or two little wives, but Louisa Biron is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.

"Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a lively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with everybody.

"I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety returns upon me as I conclude. Write, dearest Victor,-one line-one word will be a blessing to us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his kindness, his affection, and his many letters; we are sincerely grateful. Adieu! my cousin; take care of yourself; and, I entreat you, write!

"Elizabeth Lavenza.

"Geneva, March 18th, 17-."

"Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed, when I had read her letter: "I will write instantly and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel." I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to leave my chamber.

One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained. Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view. He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I disliked the subject; but not guessing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement, to the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt. Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide in him that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply.

M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. "D-n the fellow!" cried he; "why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years ago, believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.-Ay, ay," continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, "M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval: I was myself when young; but that wears out in a very short time."

M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.

Clerval had never sympathised in my tastes for natural science; and his literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me. He came to the university with the design of making himself complete master of the oriental languages, and thus he should open a field for the plan of life he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue no inglorious career, he turned his eyes toward the East, as affording scope for his spirit of enterprise. The Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit languages engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on the same studies. Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction but consolation in the works of the orientalists. I did not, like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for I did not contemplate making any other use of them than temporary amusement. I read merely to understand their meaning, and they well repaid my labours. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating, to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country. When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses,-in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome!

Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town and my beloved friends. My return had only been delayed so long, from an unwillingness to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully; and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came its beauty compensated for its dilatoriness.

The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid a personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had always been my favourite companion in the ramble of this nature that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.

We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits had long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught me to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children. Excellent friend! how sincerely you did love me, and endeavour to elevate my mind until it was on a level with your own. A selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and affection warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature who, a few years ago, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstasy. The present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud. I was undisturbed by thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me, notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible burden.

Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathised in my feelings: he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often, in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he supported with great ingenuity.

We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.

Chapter 10

I spent the following day roaming through the valley. I stood beside the sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacier, that with slow pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills to barricade the valley. The abrupt sides of vast mountains were before me; the icy wall of the glacier overhung me; a few shattered pines were scattered around; and the solemn silence of this glorious presence-chamber of imperial Nature was broken only by the brawling waves or the fall of some vast fragment, the thunder sound of the avalanche or the cracking, reverberated along the mountains, of the accumulated ice, which, through the silent working of immutable laws, was ever and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a plaything in their hands. These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling, and although they did not remove my grief, they subdued and tranquillised it. In some degree, also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the last month. I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it were, waited on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes which I had contemplated during the day. They congregated round me; the unstained snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods, and ragged bare ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds-they all gathered round me and bade me be at peace.

Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke? All of soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every thought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of those mighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil and seek them in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me? My mule was brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the soul and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the effect of solemnising my mind and causing me to forget the passing cares of life. I determined to go without a guide, for I was well acquainted with the path, and the presence of another would destroy the solitary grandeur of the scene.

The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots the traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on the ground, some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning upon the jutting rocks of the mountain or transversely upon other trees. The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected by ravines of snow, down which stones continually roll from above; one of them is particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, such as even speaking in a loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient to draw destruction upon the head of the speaker. The pines are not tall or luxuriant, but they are sombre and add an air of severity to the scene. I looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the rivers which ran through it and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite mountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain poured from the dark sky and added to the melancholy impression I received from the objects around me. Alas! Why does man boast of sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders them more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger, thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by every wind that blows and a chance word or scene that that word may convey to us.

We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.
We rise; one wand'ring thought pollutes the day.
We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep,
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free.
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but mutability!

It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent. For some time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered both that and the surrounding mountains. Presently a breeze dissipated the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier. The surface is very uneven, rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and interspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is almost a league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side where I now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league; and above it rose Mont Blanc, in awful majesty. I remained in a recess of the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea, or rather the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains, whose aerial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering peaks shone in the sunlight over the clouds. My heart, which was before sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I exclaimed, "Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest in your narrow beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me, as your companion, away from the joys of life."

As I said this I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance, advancing towards me with superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices in the ice, among which I had walked with caution; his stature, also, as he approached, seemed to exceed that of man. I was troubled; a mist came over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me, but I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the mountains. I perceived, as the shape came nearer (sight tremendous and abhorred!) that it was the wretch whom I had created. I trembled with rage and horror, resolving to wait his approach and then close with him in mortal combat. He approached; his countenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes. But I scarcely observed this; rage and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance, and I recovered only to overwhelm him with words expressive of furious detestation and contempt.

"Devil," I exclaimed, "do you dare approach me? And do not you fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head? Begone, vile insect! Or rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust! And, oh! That I could, with the extinction of your miserable existence, restore those victims whom you have so diabolically murdered!"

"I expected this reception," said the dæmon. "All men hate the wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends."

"Abhorred monster! Fiend that thou art! The tortures of hell are too mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil! You reproach me with your creation, come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I so negligently bestowed."

My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the feelings which can arm one being against the existence of another.

He easily eluded me and said,

"Be calm! I entreat you to hear me before you give vent to your hatred on my devoted head. Have I not suffered enough, that you seek to increase my misery? Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it. Remember, thou hast made me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine, my joints more supple. But I will not be tempted to set myself in opposition to thee. I am thy creature, and I will be even mild and docile to my natural lord and king if thou wilt also perform thy part, the which thou owest me. Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every other and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection, is most due. Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous."

"Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community between you and me; we are enemies. Begone, or let us try our strength in a fight, in which one must fall."

"How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and compassion? Believe me, Frankenstein, I was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity; but am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from your fellow creatures, who owe me nothing? They spurn and hate me. The desert mountains and dreary glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here many days; the caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the only one which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for they are kinder to me than your fellow beings. If the multitude of mankind knew of my existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves for my destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will keep no terms with my enemies. I am miserable, and they shall share my wretchedness. Yet it is in your power to recompense me, and deliver them from an evil which it only remains for you to make so great, that not only you and your family, but thousands of others, shall be swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage. Let your compassion be moved, and do not disdain me. Listen to my tale; when you have heard that, abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve. But hear me. The guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they are, to speak in their own defence before they are condemned. Listen to me, Frankenstein. You accuse me of murder, and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man! Yet I ask you not to spare me; listen to me, and then, if you can, and if you will, destroy the work of your hands."

"Why do you call to my remembrance," I rejoined, "circumstances of which I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable origin and author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw light! Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that formed you! You have made me wretched beyond expression. You have left me no power to consider whether I am just to you or not. Begone! Relieve me from the sight of your detested form."

"Thus I relieve thee, my creator," he said, and placed his hated hands before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; "thus I take from thee a sight which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me and grant me thy compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this from you. Hear my tale; it is long and strange, and the temperature of this place is not fitting to your fine sensations; come to the hut upon the mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens; before it descends to hide itself behind your snowy precipices and illuminate another world, you will have heard my story and can decide. On you it rests, whether I quit for ever the neighbourhood of man and lead a harmless life, or become the scourge of your fellow creatures and the author of your own speedy ruin."

As he said this he led the way across the ice; I followed. My heart was full, and I did not answer him, but as I proceeded, I weighed the various arguments that he had used and determined at least to listen to his tale. I was partly urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my resolution. I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of my brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this opinion. For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towards his creature were, and that I ought to render him happy before I complained of his wickedness. These motives urged me to comply with his demand. We crossed the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite rock. The air was cold, and the rain again began to descend; we entered the hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy heart and depressed spirits. But I consented to listen, and seating myself by the fire which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began his tale.

Chapter 12

"I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the occurrences of the day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle manners of these people, and I longed to join them, but dared not. I remembered too well the treatment I had suffered the night before from the barbarous villagers, and resolved, whatever course of conduct I might hereafter think it right to pursue, that for the present I would remain quietly in my hovel, watching and endeavouring to discover the motives which influenced their actions.

"The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun. The young woman arranged the cottage and prepared the food, and the youth departed after the first meal.

"This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded it. The young man was constantly employed out of doors, and the girl in various laborious occupations within. The old man, whom I soon perceived to be blind, employed his leisure hours on his instrument or in contemplation. Nothing could exceed the love and respect which the younger cottagers exhibited towards their venerable companion. They performed towards him every little office of affection and duty with gentleness, and he rewarded them by his benevolent smiles.

"They were not entirely happy. The young man and his companion often went apart and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappiness, but I was deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being, should be wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy? They possessed a delightful house (for such it was in my eyes) and every luxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill and delicious viands when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more, they enjoyed one another's company and speech, interchanging each day looks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they really express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions, but perpetual attention and time explained to me many appearances which were at first enigmatic.

"A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of the uneasiness of this amiable family: it was poverty, and they suffered that evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment consisted entirely of the vegetables of their garden and the milk of one cow, which gave very little during the winter, when its masters could scarcely procure food to support it. They often, I believe, suffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly, especially the two younger cottagers, for several times they placed food before the old man when they reserved none for themselves.

"This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed, during the night, to steal a part of their store for my own consumption, but when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on the cottagers, I abstained and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and roots which I gathered from a neighbouring wood.

"I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist their labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day in collecting wood for the family fire, and during the night I often took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home firing sufficient for the consumption of several days.

"I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a great pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but spent it in repairing the cottage and cultivating the garden.

"By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that these people possessed a method of communicating their experience and feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in the minds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick, and the words they uttered, not having any apparent connection with visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the mystery of their reference. By great application, however, and after having remained during the space of several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that were given to some of the most familiar objects of discourse; I learned and applied the words, fire, milk, bread, and wood. I learned also the names of the cottagers themselves. The youth and his companion had each of them several names, but the old man had only one, which was father. The girl was called sister or Agatha, and the youth Felix, brother, or son. I cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas appropriated to each of these sounds and was able to pronounce them. I distinguished several other words without being able as yet to understand or apply them, such as good, dearest, unhappy.

"I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and beauty of the cottagers greatly endeared them to me; when they were unhappy, I felt depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathised in their joys. I saw few human beings besides them, and if any other happened to enter the cottage, their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the superior accomplishments of my friends. The old man, I could perceive, often endeavoured to encourage his children, as sometimes I found that he called them, to cast off their melancholy. He would talk in a cheerful accent, with an expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure even upon me. Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled with tears, which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived; but I generally found that her countenance and tone were more cheerful after having listened to the exhortations of her father. It was not thus with Felix. He was always the saddest of the group, and even to my unpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his friends. But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more cheerful than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old man.

"I could mention innumerable instances which, although slight, marked the dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty and want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first little white flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground. Early in the morning, before she had risen, he cleared away the snow that obstructed her path to the milk-house, drew water from the well, and brought the wood from the outhouse, where, to his perpetual astonishment, he found his store always replenished by an invisible hand. In the day, I believe, he worked sometimes for a neighbouring farmer, because he often went forth and did not return until dinner, yet brought no wood with him. At other times he worked in the garden, but as there was little to do in the frosty season, he read to the old man and Agatha.

"This reading had puzzled me extremely at first, but by degrees I discovered that he uttered many of the same sounds when he read as when he talked. I conjectured, therefore, that he found on the paper signs for speech which he understood, and I ardently longed to comprehend these also; but how was that possible when I did not even understand the sounds for which they stood as signs? I improved, however, sensibly in this science, but not sufficiently to follow up any kind of conversation, although I applied my whole mind to the endeavour, for I easily perceived that, although I eagerly longed to discover myself to the cottagers, I ought not to make the attempt until I had first become master of their language, which knowledge might enable me to make them overlook the deformity of my figure, for with this also the contrast perpetually presented to my eyes had made me acquainted.

"I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers-their grace, beauty, and delicate complexions; but how was I terrified when I viewed myself in a transparent pool! At first I started back, unable to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification. Alas! I did not yet entirely know the fatal effects of this miserable deformity.

"As the sun became warmer and the light of day longer, the snow vanished, and I beheld the bare trees and the black earth. From this time Felix was more employed, and the heart-moving indications of impending famine disappeared. Their food, as I afterwards found, was coarse, but it was wholesome; and they procured a sufficiency of it. Several new kinds of plants sprang up in the garden, which they dressed; and these signs of comfort increased daily as the season advanced.

"The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at noon, when it did not rain, as I found it was called when the heavens poured forth its waters. This frequently took place, but a high wind quickly dried the earth, and the season became far more pleasant than it had been.

"My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the morning I attended the motions of the cottagers, and when they were dispersed in various occupations, I slept; the remainder of the day was spent in observing my friends. When they had retired to rest, if there was any moon or the night was star-light, I went into the woods and collected my own food and fuel for the cottage. When I returned, as often as it was necessary, I cleared their path from the snow and performed those offices that I had seen done by Felix. I afterwards found that these labours, performed by an invisible hand, greatly astonished them; and once or twice I heard them, on these occasions, utter the words good spirit, wonderful; but I did not then understand the signification of these terms.

"My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to discover the motives and feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive to know why Felix appeared so miserable and Agatha so sad. I thought (foolish wretch!) that it might be in my power to restore happiness to these deserving people. When I slept or was absent, the forms of the venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the excellent Felix flitted before me. I looked upon them as superior beings who would be the arbiters of my future destiny. I formed in my imagination a thousand pictures of presenting myself to them, and their reception of me. I imagined that they would be disgusted, until, by my gentle demeanour and conciliating words, I should first win their favour and afterwards their love.

"These thoughts exhilarated me and led me to apply with fresh ardour to the acquiring the art of language. My organs were indeed harsh, but supple; and although my voice was very unlike the soft music of their tones, yet I pronounced such words as I understood with tolerable ease. It was as the ass and the lap-dog; yet surely the gentle ass whose intentions were affectionate, although his manners were rude, deserved better treatment than blows and execration.

"The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly altered the aspect of the earth. Men who before this change seemed to have been hid in caves dispersed themselves and were employed in various arts of cultivation. The birds sang in more cheerful notes, and the leaves began to bud forth on the trees. Happy, happy earth! Fit habitation for gods, which, so short a time before, was bleak, damp, and unwholesome. My spirits were elevated by the enchanting appearance of nature; the past was blotted from my memory, the present was tranquil, and the future gilded by bright rays of hope and anticipations of joy."

Chapter 15

"Such was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed me deeply. I learned, from the views of social life which it developed, to admire their virtues and to deprecate the vices of mankind.

"As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil, benevolence and generosity were ever present before me, inciting within me a desire to become an actor in the busy scene where so many admirable qualities were called forth and displayed. But in giving an account of the progress of my intellect, I must not omit a circumstance which occurred in the beginning of the month of August of the same year.

"One night during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood where I collected my own food and brought home firing for my protectors, I found on the ground a leathern portmanteau containing several articles of dress and some books. I eagerly seized the prize and returned with it to my hovel. Fortunately the books were written in the language, the elements of which I had acquired at the cottage; they consisted of Paradise Lost, a volume of Plutarch's Lives, and the Sorrows of Werter. The possession of these treasures gave me extreme delight; I now continually studied and exercised my mind upon these histories, whilst my friends were employed in their ordinary occupations.

"I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They produced in me an infinity of new images and feelings, that sometimes raised me to ecstasy, but more frequently sunk me into the lowest dejection. In the Sorrows of Werter, besides the interest of its simple and affecting story, so many opinions are canvassed and so many lights thrown upon what had hitherto been to me obscure subjects that I found in it a never-ending source of speculation and astonishment. The gentle and domestic manners it described, combined with lofty sentiments and feelings, which had for their object something out of self, accorded well with my experience among my protectors and with the wants which were for ever alive in my own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a more divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his character contained no pretension, but it sank deep. The disquisitions upon death and suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder. I did not pretend to enter into the merits of the case, yet I inclined towards the opinions of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely understanding it.

"As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own feelings and condition. I found myself similar yet at the same time strangely unlike to the beings concerning whom I read and to whose conversation I was a listener. I sympathised with and partly understood them, but I was unformed in mind; I was dependent on none and related to none. 'The path of my departure was free,' and there was none to lament my annihilation. My person was hideous and my stature gigantic. What did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve them.

"The volume of Plutarch's Lives which I possessed contained the histories of the first founders of the ancient republics. This book had a far different effect upon me from the Sorrows of Werter. I learned from Werter's imaginations despondency and gloom, but Plutarch taught me high thoughts; he elevated me above the wretched sphere of my own reflections, to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many things I read surpassed my understanding and experience. I had a very confused knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of country, mighty rivers, and boundless seas. But I was perfectly unacquainted with towns and large assemblages of men. The cottage of my protectors had been the only school in which I had studied human nature, but this book developed new and mightier scenes of action. I read of men concerned in public affairs, governing or massacring their species. I felt the greatest ardour for virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as far as I understood the signification of those terms, relative as they were, as I applied them, to pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these feelings, I was of course led to admire peaceable lawgivers, Numa, Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my protectors caused these impressions to take a firm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my first introduction to humanity had been made by a young soldier, burning for glory and slaughter, I should have been imbued with different sensations.

"But Paradise Lost excited different and far deeper emotions. I read it, as I had read the other volumes which had fallen into my hands, as a true history. It moved every feeling of wonder and awe that the picture of an omnipotent God warring with his creatures was capable of exciting. I often referred the several situations, as their similarity struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I was apparently united by no link to any other being in existence; but his state was far different from mine in every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his Creator; he was allowed to converse with and acquire knowledge from beings of a superior nature, but I was wretched, helpless, and alone. Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition, for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me.

"Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feelings. Soon after my arrival in the hovel I discovered some papers in the pocket of the dress which I had taken from your laboratory. At first I had neglected them, but now that I was able to decipher the characters in which they were written, I began to study them with diligence. It was your journal of the four months that preceded my creation. You minutely described in these papers every step you took in the progress of your work; this history was mingled with accounts of domestic occurrences. You doubtless recollect these papers. Here they are. Everything is related in them which bears reference to my accursed origin; the whole detail of that series of disgusting circumstances which produced it is set in view; the minutest description of my odious and loathsome person is given, in language which painted your own horrors and rendered mine indelible. I sickened as I read. 'Hateful day when I received life!' I exclaimed in agony. 'Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust? God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow devils, to admire and encourage him, but I am solitary and abhorred.'

"These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude; but when I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable and benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself that when they should become acquainted with my admiration of their virtues they would compassionate me and overlook my personal deformity. Could they turn from their door one, however monstrous, who solicited their compassion and friendship? I resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way to fit myself for an interview with them which would decide my fate. I postponed this attempt for some months longer, for the importance attached to its success inspired me with a dread lest I should fail. Besides, I found that my understanding improved so much with every day's experience that I was unwilling to commence this undertaking until a few more months should have added to my sagacity.

"Several changes, in the meantime, took place in the cottage. The presence of Safie diffused happiness among its inhabitants, and I also found that a greater degree of plenty reigned there. Felix and Agatha spent more time in amusement and conversation, and were assisted in their labours by servants. They did not appear rich, but they were contented and happy; their feelings were serene and peaceful, while mine became every day more tumultuous. Increase of knowledge only discovered to me more clearly what a wretched outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is true, but it vanished when I beheld my person reflected in water or my shadow in the moonshine, even as that frail image and that inconstant shade.

"I endeavoured to crush these fears and to fortify myself for the trial which in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed my thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathising with my feelings and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream; no Eve soothed my sorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam's supplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He had abandoned me, and in the bitterness of my heart I cursed him.

"Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the leaves decay and fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak appearance it had worn when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness of the weather; I was better fitted by my conformation for the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief delights were the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay apparel of summer; when those deserted me, I turned with more attention towards the cottagers. Their happiness was not decreased by the absence of summer. They loved and sympathised with one another; and their joys, depending on each other, were not interrupted by the casualties that took place around them. The more I saw of them, the greater became my desire to claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to be known and loved by these amiable creatures; to see their sweet looks directed towards me with affection was the utmost limit of my ambition. I dared not think that they would turn them from me with disdain and horror. The poor that stopped at their door were never driven away. I asked, it is true, for greater treasures than a little food or rest: I required kindness and sympathy; but I did not believe myself utterly unworthy of it.

"The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons had taken place since I awoke into life. My attention at this time was solely directed towards my plan of introducing myself into the cottage of my protectors. I revolved many projects, but that on which I finally fixed was to enter the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had sagacity enough to discover that the unnatural hideousness of my person was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly beheld me. My voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I thought, therefore, that if in the absence of his children I could gain the good will and mediation of the old De Lacey, I might by his means be tolerated by my younger protectors.

"One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own desire, was left alone in the cottage. When his children had departed, he took up his guitar and played several mournful but sweet airs, more sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before. At first his countenance was illuminated with pleasure, but as he continued, thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection.

"My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which would decide my hopes or realise my fears. The servants were gone to a neighbouring fair. All was silent in and around the cottage; it was an excellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my limbs failed me and I sank to the ground. Again I rose, and exerting all the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I had placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived me, and with renewed determination I approached the door of their cottage.

"I knocked. 'Who is there?' said the old man. 'Come in.'

"I entered. 'Pardon this intrusion,' said I; 'I am a traveller in want of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me if you would allow me to remain a few minutes before the fire.'

"'Enter,' said De Lacey, 'and I will try in what manner I can to relieve your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are from home, and as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult to procure food for you.'

"'Do not trouble yourself, my kind host; I have food; it is warmth and rest only that I need.'

"I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute was precious to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to commence the interview, when the old man addressed me.

'By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman; are you French?'

"'No; but I was educated by a French family and understand that language only. I am now going to claim the protection of some friends, whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I have some hopes.'

"'Are they Germans?'

"'No, they are French. But let us change the subject. I am an unfortunate and deserted creature, I look around and I have no relation or friend upon earth. These amiable people to whom I go have never seen me and know little of me. I am full of fears, for if I fail there, I am an outcast in the world for ever.'

"'Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate, but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are full of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes; and if these friends are good and amiable, do not despair.'

"'They are kind-they are the most excellent creatures in the world; but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me. I have good dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless and in some degree beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they ought to see a feeling and kind friend, they behold only a detestable monster.'

"'That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless, cannot you undeceive them?'

"'I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account that I feel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these friends; I have, unknown to them, been for many months in the habits of daily kindness towards them; but they believe that I wish to injure them, and it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome.'

"'Where do these friends reside?'

"'Near this spot.'

"The old man paused and then continued, 'If you will unreservedly confide to me the particulars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use in undeceiving them. I am blind and cannot judge of your countenance, but there is something in your words which persuades me that you are sincere. I am poor and an exile, but it will afford me true pleasure to be in any way serviceable to a human creature.'

"'Excellent man! I thank you and accept your generous offer. You raise me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust that, by your aid, I shall not be driven from the society and sympathy of your fellow creatures.'

"'Heaven forbid! Even if you were really criminal, for that can only drive you to desperation, and not instigate you to virtue. I also am unfortunate; I and my family have been condemned, although innocent; judge, therefore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes.'

"'How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? From your lips first have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall be for ever grateful; and your present humanity assures me of success with those friends whom I am on the point of meeting.'

"'May I know the names and residence of those friends?'

"I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to rob me of or bestow happiness on me for ever. I struggled vainly for firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed all my remaining strength; I sank on the chair and sobbed aloud. At that moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had not a moment to lose, but seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, 'Now is the time! Save and protect me! You and your family are the friends whom I seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!'

"'Great God!' exclaimed the old man. 'Who are you?'

"At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation on beholding me? Agatha fainted, and Safie, unable to attend to her friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward, and with supernatural force tore me from his father, to whose knees I clung, in a transport of fury, he dashed me to the ground and struck me violently with a stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope. But my heart sank within me as with bitter sickness, and I refrained. I saw him on the point of repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain and anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped unperceived to my hovel."

Chapter 17

The being finished speaking and fixed his looks upon me in the expectation of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of his proposition. He continued,

"You must create a female for me with whom I can live in the interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone can do, and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse to concede."

The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and as he said this I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within me.

"I do refuse it," I replied; "and no torture shall ever extort a consent from me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you shall never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create another like yourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate the world. Begone! I have answered you; you may torture me, but I will never consent."

"You are in the wrong," replied the fiend; "and instead of threatening, I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder if you could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts and destroy my frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I respect man when he condemns me? Let him live with me in the interchange of kindness, and instead of injury I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries; if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care; I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse the hour of your birth."

A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled into contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold; but presently he calmed himself and proceeded-

"I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me, for you do not reflect that you are the cause of its excess. If any being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them a hundred and a hundredfold; for that one creature's sake I would make peace with the whole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realised. What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself; the gratification is small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will be harmless and free from the misery I now feel. Oh! My creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing; do not deny me my request!"

I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences of my consent, but I felt that there was some justice in his argument. His tale and the feelings he now expressed proved him to be a creature of fine sensations, and did I not as his maker owe him all the portion of happiness that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of feeling and continued,

"If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us again; I will go to the vast wilds of South America. My food is not that of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid to glut my appetite; acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My companion will be of the same nature as myself and will be content with the same fare. We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on man and will ripen our food. The picture I present to you is peaceful and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me, I now see compassion in your eyes; let me seize the favourable moment and persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire."

"You propose," replied I, "to fly from the habitations of man, to dwell in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your only companions. How can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man, persevere in this exile? You will return and again seek their kindness, and you will meet with their detestation; your evil passions will be renewed, and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of destruction. This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent."

"How inconstant are your feelings! But a moment ago you were moved by my representations, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints? I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me, that with the companion you bestow, I will quit the neighbourhood of man and dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil passions will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy! My life will flow quietly away, and in my dying moments I shall not curse my maker."

His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him and sometimes felt a wish to console him, but when I looked upon him, when I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened and my feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle these sensations; I thought that as I could not sympathise with him, I had no right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness which was yet in my power to bestow.

"You swear," I said, "to be harmless; but have you not already shown a degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust you? May not even this be a feint that will increase your triumph by affording a wider scope for your revenge?"

"How is this? I must not be trifled with, and I demand an answer. If I have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion; the love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall become a thing of whose existence everyone will be ignorant. My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor, and my virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive being and become linked to the chain of existence and events from which I am now excluded."

I paused some time to reflect on all he had related and the various arguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues which he had displayed on the opening of his existence and the subsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had manifested towards him. His power and threats were not omitted in my calculations; a creature who could exist in the ice-caves of the glaciers and hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of inaccessible precipices was a being possessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a long pause of reflection I concluded that the justice due both to him and my fellow creatures demanded of me that I should comply with his request. Turning to him, therefore, I said,

"I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe for ever, and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile."

"I swear," he cried, "by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, and by the fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my prayer, while they exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your home and commence your labours; I shall watch their progress with unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready I shall appear."

Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost among the undulations of the sea of ice.

His tale had occupied the whole day, and the sun was upon the verge of the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my heart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the little paths of the mountain and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences of the day had produced. Night was far advanced when I came to the halfway resting-place and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at intervals as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the ground; it was a scene of wonderful solemnity and stirred strange thoughts within me. I wept bitterly, and clasping my hands in agony, I exclaimed, "Oh! stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock me; if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as nought; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness."

These were wild and miserable thoughts, but I cannot describe to you how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me and how I listened to every blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me.

Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no rest, but returned immediately to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could give no expression to my sensations-they weighed on me with a mountain's weight and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them. Thus I returned home, and entering the house, presented myself to the family. My haggard and wild appearance awoke intense alarm, but I answered no question, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were placed under a ban-as if I had no right to claim their sympathies-as if never more might I enjoy companionship with them. Yet even thus I loved them to adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate myself to my most abhorred task. The prospect of such an occupation made every other circumstance of existence pass before me like a dream, and that thought only had to me the reality of life.

Chapter 19

London was our present point of rest; we determined to remain several months in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired the intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this time, but this was with me a secondary object; I was principally occupied with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the completion of my promise and quickly availed myself of the letters of introduction that I had brought with me, addressed to the most distinguished natural philosophers.

If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness, it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a blight had come over my existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of the information they might give me on the subject in which my interest was so terribly profound. Company was irksome to me; when alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory peace. But busy, uninteresting, joyous faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier placed between me and my fellow men; this barrier was sealed with the blood of William and Justine, and to reflect on the events connected with those names filled my soul with anguish.

But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive and anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of manners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of instruction and amusement. He was also pursuing an object he had long had in view. His design was to visit India, in the belief that he had in his knowledge of its various languages, and in the views he had taken of its society, the means of materially assisting the progress of European colonization and trade. In Britain only could he further the execution of his plan. He was for ever busy, and the only check to his enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mind. I tried to conceal this as much as possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasures natural to one who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by any care or bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany him, alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also began to collect the materials necessary for my new creation, and this was to me like the torture of single drops of water continually falling on the head. Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips to quiver, and my heart to palpitate.

After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person in Scotland who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned the beauties of his native country and asked us if those were not sufficient allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perth, where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invitation, and I, although I abhorred society, wished to view again mountains and streams and all the wondrous works with which Nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places.

We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now February. We accordingly determined to commence our journey towards the north at the expiration of another month. In this expedition we did not intend to follow the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion of this tour about the end of July. I packed up my chemical instruments and the materials I had collected, resolving to finish my labours in some obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland.

We quitted London on the 27th of March and remained a few days at Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene to us mountaineers; the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of stately deer were all novelties to us.

From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this city, our minds were filled with the remembrance of the events that had been transacted there more than a century and a half before. It was here that Charles I. had collected his forces. This city had remained faithful to him, after the whole nation had forsaken his cause to join the standard of Parliament and liberty. The memory of that unfortunate king and his companions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent Goring, his queen, and son, gave a peculiar interest to every part of the city which they might be supposed to have inhabited. The spirit of elder days found a dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps. If these feelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the appearance of the city had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The colleges are ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost magnificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows of exquisite verdure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters, which reflects its majestic assemblage of towers, and spires, and domes, embosomed among aged trees.

I enjoyed this scene, and yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the memory of the past and the anticipation of the future. I was formed for peaceful happiness. During my youthful days discontent never visited my mind, and if I was ever overcome by ennui, the sight of what is beautiful in nature or the study of what is excellent and sublime in the productions of man could always interest my heart and communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what I shall soon cease to be-a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others and intolerable to myself.

We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs and endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate to the most animating epoch of English history. Our little voyages of discovery were often prolonged by the successive objects that presented themselves. We visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden and the field on which that patriot fell. For a moment my soul was elevated from its debasing and miserable fears to contemplate the divine ideas of liberty and self-sacrifice of which these sights were the monuments and the remembrancers. For an instant I dared to shake off my chains and look around me with a free and lofty spirit, but the iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self.

We left Oxford with regret and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next place of rest. The country in the neighbourhood of this village resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland; but everything is on a lower scale, and the green hills want the crown of distant white Alps which always attend on the piny mountains of my native country. We visited the wondrous cave and the little cabinets of natural history, where the curiosities are disposed in the same manner as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix. The latter name made me tremble when pronounced by Henry, and I hastened to quit Matlock, with which that terrible scene was thus associated.

From Derby, still journeying northwards, we passed two months in Cumberland and Westmorland. I could now almost fancy myself among the Swiss mountains. The little patches of snow which yet lingered on the northern sides of the mountains, the lakes, and the dashing of the rocky streams were all familiar and dear sights to me. Here also we made some acquaintances, who almost contrived to cheat me into happiness. The delight of Clerval was proportionably greater than mine; his mind expanded in the company of men of talent, and he found in his own nature greater capacities and resources than he could have imagined himself to have possessed while he associated with his inferiors. "I could pass my life here," said he to me; "and among these mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine."

But he found that a traveller's life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are for ever on the stretch; and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something new, which again engages his attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties.

We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland and conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants when the period of our appointment with our Scotch friend approached, and we left them to travel on. For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the dæmon's disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland and wreak his vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued me and tormented me at every moment from which I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace. I waited for my letters with feverish impatience; if they were delayed I was miserable and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they arrived and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the fiend followed me and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion. When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment, but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the consciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.

I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet that city might have interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it so well as Oxford, for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing to him. But the beauty and regularity of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic castle and its environs, the most delightful in the world, Arthur's Seat, St. Bernard's Well, and the Pentland Hills, compensated him for the change and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration. But I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey.

We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew's, and along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers or enter into their feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest; and accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland alone. "Do you," said I, "enjoy yourself, and let this be our rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with my motions, I entreat you; leave me to peace and solitude for a short time; and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more congenial to your own temper."

Henry wished to dissuade me, but seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to write often. "I had rather be with you," he said, "in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know; hasten, then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence."

Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of Scotland and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt but that the monster followed me and would discover himself to me when I should have finished, that he might receive his companion.

With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a place fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock whose high sides were continually beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from the mainland, which was about five miles distant.

On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took possession, an incident which would doubtless have occasioned some surprise had not all the senses of the cottagers been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which I gave, so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men.

In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening, when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea to listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was far different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky, and when troubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively infant when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.

In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived, but as I proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my laboratory for several days, and at other times I toiled day and night in order to complete my work. It was, indeed, a filthy process in which I was engaged. During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands.

Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from the actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I grew restless and nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them lest they should encounter the object which I so much dreaded to behold. I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow creatures lest when alone he should come to claim his companion.

In the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already considerably advanced. I looked towards its completion with a tremulous and eager hope, which I dared not trust myself to question but which was intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil that made my heart sicken in my bosom.

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Frankenstein, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Frankenstein, by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever.

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How David Cameron's language on refugees has provoked anger

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How David Cameron's language on refugees has provoked anger

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David Cameron has come under fire again for his use of language to describe refugees and migrants attempting to cross the Channel to Britain from the camps in Calais after he derided the Labour leader, Jeremy Corbyn, for meeting "a bunch of migrants".

It is not the first time the prime minister has faced robust criticism for his collective descriptions of refugees and migrants, described as "dehumanising" a few months previously when he described the numbers of people seeking refuge in Europe as a "swarm". Here are some examples.

'They met with a bunch of migrants in Calais, they said they could all come to Britain'

Cameron attacked Corbyn and the shadow chancellor, John McDonnell, at Wednesday's PMQs over their stance on the unions, the Falklands and the Calais "Jungle" camp.

Look at their record over the last week. They met with the unions and gave them flying pickets. They met with the Argentinians, they gave them the Falkland Islands. They met with a bunch of migrants in Calais, they said they could all come to Britain. The only people they never stand up for are the British people and hardworking taxpayers.

On Twitter, many journalists and politicians were quick to notice the PM's choice of collective noun, several pointing out that the gag appeared to be a scripted response, rather than a slip of the tongue.

'You have got a swarm of people coming across the Mediterranean, seeking a better life...'

Speaking at the height of the refugee crisis in July, Cameron told ITV News:

"You have got a swarm of people coming across the Mediterranean, seeking a better life, wanting to come to Britain because Britain has got jobs, it's got a growing economy, it's an incredible place to live."

His description, which the prime minister later defended, was condemned by human rights groups and other campaigners, including the bishop of Dover.

The Refugee Council's Lisa Doyle said the description was "extremely disappointing ... irresponsible, dehumanising language to describe the desperate men, women and children".

Even the Ukip leader, Nigel Farage, distanced himself from the term, telling BBC Radio 4's Today programme he was "not seeking to use language like that". It was later pointed out that Farage himself had used the word "swarms" earlier that day on ITV's Good Morning Britain.

Cameron later said he intended the controversial term only to explain "that it's a very large number of people".

"I was not intending to dehumanise," he added. "I don't think it does dehumanise people."

'I want to make sure you can't break into Britain'

In the same Today programme interview where Cameron defended his use of the term "swarms", the prime minister said he was determined to keep out people living in the Calais camps as they attempted to reach Britain, likening some of them to burglars.

They are economic migrants and they want to enter Britain illegally and the British people and I want to make sure our borders are secure and you can't break into Britain without permission.

Illegal immigrants are a "swarm" and are trying to "break in" to Britain according to Cameron. He loves dehumanising & criminalising people.
- Dean Balloch (@SpookyWomble) August 15, 2015

Labour MP Yvette Cooper, the then-shadow home secretary and leadership contender, said Cameron was "ramping up the rhetoric" in order to appease the right and said he should acknowledge the mass humanitarian crisis which had forced millions to leave their homes.

'Traditional submissiveness of Muslim women'

The prime minister was criticised for a condescending attitude to Muslim women after announcing Britain could deport people who fail to properly learn English.

The Telegraph reported that Cameron privately had said he wanted to see cultural change in a community where the "traditional submissiveness of Muslim women" meant they might not speak out when they see radicals influencing their family members.

Though the comments were not on the record, the phrase went viral among Muslim women on social media, who denounced the phrasing.

In public, Cameron told the BBC those who did not speak English might be more susceptible to extremist influences. "If you are not able to speak English, not able to integrate, you may find therefore you have challenges understanding what your identity is and therefore you could be more susceptible to the extremist message," he said.

"The evidence is that there are some 40,000 women in our country who really don't speak any English at all."

Conservative peer Sayeeda Warsi, the former communities minister, said it was a mistake to link language skills to radicalisation, saying the policy had been "tarnished by lazy and misguided links to extremism and terrorism resulting once again in stereotyping Britain's Muslims communities as different and outsiders".

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How David Cameron's language on refugees has provoked anger

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David Cameron has come under fire again for his use of language to describe refugees and migrants attempting to cross the Channel to Britain from the camps in Calais after he derided the Labour leader, Jeremy Corbyn, for meeting "a bunch of migrants".

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William Blake: The greatest visionary in 200 years

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William Blake: The greatest visionary in 200 years

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(Credit: The Whitworth, The University of Manchester/Tate)

A champion of the imagination, William Blake is celebrated in a new retrospective at London's Tate Britain. Kelly Grovier looks at how the painter and poet helped us "dream outside the sphere".

The Romantic painter and poet William Blake created some of the most iconic images in British cultural history - from a strange sidelong portrait of Isaac Newton, bent over naked at the bottom of the ocean, to an ebullient young boy flinging his arms out wide against a prismatic burst of colour to embrace a new dawn of human freedom. Not bad for an artist who was all but ignored in his lifetime, dismissed by many who knew him as insane, and died in poverty and obscurity in 1827.

Capaneus the Blasphemer, 1824-7: The mythological figure - killed by a thunderbolt for defying Jupiter - was described in Dante's Inferno as seemingly unaffected by the flames

Beset since childhood by visions of angels and demons who peered through his windows and accosted him in stairwells, Blake spent his years writing riddling prophecies that few read and producing watercolours that fewer wanted to buy. After decades of unheralded toil, he managed to organise only a single solo exhibition of his work. By all accounts, it was a disaster.

More like this:
- The artist revealing our ghosts

- A brutal death in New York's art world

- The ultimate painter of war?

"The problem with Blake," the late Romantic scholar Jonathan Wordsworth once told me, "is he couldn't draw". Anyone who has ever cringed at the naive and toothless tabby that sulks beneath 'fearful symmetry', the ferocious final phrase of Blake's poem The Tyger in his 1794 collection Songs of Innocence and Experience, will have a certain sympathy with Wordsworth's uncharitable jab. And yet, despite Blake's occasional awkwardness as a draughtsman, his work is a case study in soulfulness over finesse, profundity over proficiency.

Jerusalem, 1820: Blake's poem has become England's unofficial national anthem, but it called for revolt, its author a fan of the French Revolution - in 1803 arrested for treason

Confident that the full significance of his work would one day be appreciated by posterity, Blake consoled himself that, rather than appealing to the blunt sensibilities of his day, he was ahead of his time and "laboured upwards to futurity". He was right. In the two centuries since he passed away, singing sweetly on his deathbed of what he saw in Heaven, Blake has overcome every limitation of circumscribed skill and contemporary disfavour that hindered him. He has become, according to Martin Myrone, the lead curator of a new exhibition of Blake's work at Tate Britain, the very "model of the autonomous genius and isolated visionary".

Tate's comprehensive retrospective, its first in nearly a generation, features more than 300 drawings, paintings, watercolours, woodcuts, and illustrated books, and provides the perfect opportunity to explore the secrets behind Blake's ever-evolving legacy and to contemplate the emergence in popular imagination of a London eccentric whose ambition was to help us "see a World in a Grain of Sand / And a Heaven in a Wild Flower", to "hold Infinity in the palm of [our] hand / And Eternity in an hour".

Pity, 1795: "In my brain are studies ... filled with books and pictures of old which I wrote and painted ... and those works are the delight and study of archangels," wrote Blake

Blake's ability, granularly, to narrow his focus to a single speck of the material world and to perceive eternal poignancies in it, is instructive for how best to appreciate the intensities and achievement of his own work. Visitors to the show, Myrone says, may be surprised by the small scale of many of the artist's best-known works, which we are accustomed to experiencing artificially exploded into dorm-room posters or shrunk down to electronic thumbnails that we hold in the palm of our hands. "You can look at every Blake you could wish to see on your phone," he tells me, "but it isn't the same thing as seeing them in the flesh."

There is something about zooming in that enlarges one&rsquo;s perception

There is indeed something about zooming in that enlarges one's perception. It is only when we adjust our eyes to the small (46 x 60 cm) aperture through which Blake invites us to glimpse his submarine sighting of Newton that we appreciate the cramped and claustrophobic tensions that squeeze the work into meaning. Perched uncomfortably on a coral-encrusted stone shelf in what appears to be an underwater grotto, Newton stretches awkwardly to doodle on a scroll of parchment that he has unfurled at his feet - an awkward ergonomics that makes Rodin's rocky Thinker look positively cosy. Newton's imperturbable gaze and the precise positioning of his spindly fingers suggest he is on the verge of a cognitive breakthrough, as if he has cracked the code that will unlock the mysteries of the universe: an emblem, surely, of the invincible power of the human mind amid the myriad discomforts and pressures of our world.

Newton, 1795-1805: Blake was a staunch defender of the fundamental role of art in society and the importance of artistic freedom

Or is it? Look closer, and the instrument with which Blake has calculatingly equipped the renowned English physicist and mathematician is one we'll encounter time and again in the most famous of Blake's works: a pair of draughtsman's compasses. In Blake's unique visual vocabulary, the implement is shorthand for the pinching tight of human perception and becomes a kind of "mind forg'd manacle" that enslaves our vision.

Far from celebrating the genius of Newton, Blake&rsquo;s often-reproduced colour print is really an admonishment of misguided faith in scientific reason

Far from celebrating the genius of Newton, a leading thinker of the scientific revolution, Blake's often-reproduced colour print (which the Scottish sculptor Eduardo Paolozzi famously alchemised into a hulking bronze statue that guards the entrance to the British Library) is really an admonishment of lumbering rationality and misguided faith in scientific reason over what Blake believed were the more profound and liberating powers of the imagination.

Once spotted, the pair of compasses becomes, ironically, a kind of key that picks open the doors of Blake's own perception - a recurring artistic tic whose symbolic pointedness jimmies the genius of some of his most iconic images and designs. We encounter the compasses again in Blake's stirring design for the frontpiece of his 1794 publication Europe: A Prophecy. His so-called Ancient of Days depicts a suspended deity, enthroned in a celestial orb and surrounded by smouldering clouds, stretching downwards to jab terrestrial creation with an enormous pair of compasses. In the context of Blake's complex mythologies, the wizened figure (whose chiselled physique recalls Michelangelo's muscular, sky-surfing God on the ceiling frescoes of the Sistine Chapel) is the fearsome demiurge Urizen, the embodiment of empirical thinking, who is responsible for imposing limits on our existence.

The Ancient of Days, 1827: Living at a time of political oppression, Blake was a radical, his works offering a denunciation of Church and state - inspiring subsequent generations

But like all great works of art, the mesmerising image, which Blake would return to again and again throughout his life (he was even working on a version of it while propped up with pillows at the time of his death), has prised itself loose from the narrow confines of its initial creation and etched itself in cultural consciousness as something more elastic and inspiring than merely an admonishment of reason. According to Blake, the work was a faithful transcription of a visionary encounter he'd had while climbing the stairs in his home in Hercules Road, North Lambeth, in London, where he and his wife Catherine lived throughout the 1790s. Among the chief aims of the Tate show, Myrone tells me, is to recreate something of the ambiance of those very spaces in which Blake's imagination crept and was routinely accosted by visitors from the invisible world.

The Ghost of a Flea, c 1819-20, was inspired by a séance-induced vision - Blake broke off conversations to address the spirits of various characters, including Moses and Lucifer

To that end, the Tate has reconstructed the very room in the Georgian hosiery shop in Broad Street, Golden Square, owned by Blake's brother James, where the artist's ill-fated one-off exhibition was staged between May and September 1809. "Paintings which you are used to seeing in a gallery context," Myrone says, will be shown in "a room which is half the height of our normal gallery space with creaky wooden floorboards, and with a skirting board, and with a window". By returning Blake's work to a space they once inhabited, Myrone believes they will "look like much stranger objects... because they are small and dark and hard to interpret and hard to read".

Blake suffered from a 'Nervous Fear'; a review of his 1809 exhibition labelled him an "unfortunate lunatic whose personal inoffensiveness secures him from confinement"

By bringing Blake's works down from the mythic eminence to which they've been exalted, Myrone is hoping to reintroduce the artist to a new generation of gallery goers and "to present", as the curator explains in the handsome catalogue that accompanies the show, "a 'Blake for all'". "The approach taken here," Myrone writes, "is determinedly historicist and materialist. This means, simply, that we think that it really matters where and when these artworks were created, who got to see them and what they seem to have thought, who collected them. This means, among other things, shifting attention from the epic and dense poetry to the watercolours and paintings."

By inviting us to consider first and foremost the visual achievement of Blake's artistic inventions, disentangled from the poetic context that often occasioned them, Myrone hopes to reprioritise how we perceive his contribution to cultural history. "There has been a shift towards thinking about the visual aspects of his work much more," he says. "Obviously Blake is both a painter and a poet and that interplay has always been important. [But] even literary scholars have ended up saying 'well Blake was primarily a watercolour painter, he is secondarily a poet'... Throughout his career, throughout his life, he focused on watercolour painting."

Albion Rose, c 1793, was a visualisation of the mythical founding of Britain, offering an alternative to the commercialisation and populism of the times

That realignment influences how we approach and respond to the works on display, especially those we think we know, such as the often-reproduced colour print known as Albion Rose or Glad Day, whose exuberance adorns a vast inventory of upbeat museum merchandise. By removing the intimidating expectation that we must first locate the giddy figure within Blake's cosmologies and convoluted creation myth of his writing, we're able to see the image afresh and in an outward-extending dialogue with other icons of art history.

Freed from the tethers of its own inception, the work opens a conversation with its most obvious precursor, Leonardo's Vitruvian Man, which celebrates the exquisite proportions of the human body by illustrating the Roman architect Vitruvius's observation that the anatomical extent of man conforms to a circle created by "a pair of compasses centred at his navel". But Blake refuses to be trapped by the geometries of a fallen world and dissolves the fetters of the offending compasses by erasing altogether the circle (and square) with which Leonardo ensnares his subject, allowing the young boy to step out unshackled into a limitless world. Always original, always breaking free, Blake's truest genius lies in his ability to help us dream outside the sphere.

William Blake is at Tate Britain until 2 February 2020.

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William Blake: The greatest visionary in 200 years

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A champion of the imagination, William Blake is celebrated in a new retrospective at London's Tate Britain. Kelly Grovier looks at how he helped us "dream outside the sphere".

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Close readings of John Agard's ‘Checking Out Me History’, ‘Flag’ and ‘Half Caste’

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Close readings of John Agard's ‘Checking Out Me History’, ‘Flag’ and ‘Half Caste’

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Close readings of John Agard's 'Checking Out Me History', 'Flag' and 'Half Caste' | The British Library

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By using this site, you agree we can set and use cookies. For more details of these cookies and how to disable them, see our cookie policy. Close readings of John Agard's 'Checking Out Me History', 'Flag' and 'Half Caste' John Agard's poetry has political complexities.

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Will Brexit bring the Troubles back to Northern Ireland?

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Will Brexit bring the Troubles back to Northern Ireland?

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Will Brexit bring the Troubles back to Northern Ireland? | Focus on Europe

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Described by Anne Stevenson as a writer 'who retains her feminine voice but extends her sympathies beyond feminism', Carol Rumens is perhaps the only contemporary female poet to have drawn obvious inspiration from the works of that most caricatured of male poets, Philip Larkin, whom she has admiringly described as 'the great musician of his generation'.

Larkin's characteristic style - demotic and conversational yet literary and formal, resignedly aphoristic while often deeply affecting - is evident from the opening poem of her debut collection, A Strange Girl in Bright Colours (1973), where 'quietly the sky measures / the lengthening days // [...] say[ing] nothing // about hopes or rewards' and where 'newness is terrifying' ('Prologue'). But even Rumens' earliest work is far from blandly imitative, blending this hardy British realism with European elements and, in particular, arresting imagery and symbolism reminiscent of Sylvia Plath. So 'Prologue' ends: 'O lonely month / with your hard frosts and soft tears, // you tap and won't be silenced. / You demand action - // a deed, a commitment, / a wound to be root-filled. // Like this shiver of catkins / I hang these words upon you'. It is this productive tension between disparate poetic styles that has enabled Rumens to write some genuinely memorable verse, that which the critic Gerard Woodward has rightly described as 'syntactically complex, discursive, lyrically rich, yet threaded through with a demotic swagger'.

Born in 1944 in Forest Hill, South London, Rumens lived for a number years in Belfast before moving to Bangor, South Wales, and is currently Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Hull. She has also travelled widely in Russia and Eastern Europe. As with Larkin reflecting on his time in Belfast as emphasising 'the importance of elsewhere' - a place that served to reaffirm his Englishness - Rumens has found foreign customs, cultures and languages the source of much poetic inspiration, but one which has arguably provoked a more complex, liberated response: 'a new city street-plan', as the narrator puts it in 'A Hiccup in the History of Belfast' from Holding Pattern (1998), where 'names / Try to slip through the pages incognito, / Blending with the crowd'. This fascination with elsewhere has also encouraged her to publish many Russian translations, including a version of Pencil Letter by Irina Ratushinskaya (1988), The Poetry of Perestroika (1990), and Yevgenii Rein: Selected Poems (2001).

Rumens' early poetry collections, however, more commonly take the feminine, domestic and local as their most ubiquitous themes. In many cases, this makes for some remarkably candid and assured poems, as in 'Menopause' from A Strange Girl in Bright Colours, something which the poet figures as 'the dud season / set between extremes, / when the travel agent prints // red skies, gold skins / on the flat eye of the future'. Unfortunately in other poems, a more obvious political agenda and bias abandons subtlety in favour of opinion and instruction, as in 'The Housewife's Manuscript' from A Necklace of Mirrors (1978), or 'Song for Puberty' and its 'Girl upon history's doorstep // [...] with her borrowed name'. It is Unplayed Music (1981) and Scenes from the Gingerbread House (1982) that represent the best of Rumens' early work, then, revealing an often moving anecdotal poetry of ordinary lives. 'First Loss', for example, tells with emotion but without sentiment the terrible story of a baby that dies recovering after minor surgery, how 'the child lay burning / in woollen hat and mittens - / too late. The sharp autumn / had already sunk its knife'. In 'Secrets' and 'Misjudgements', vivid childhood memories are similarly captured in crisp, often unusual images and sparse, elegant language.

Alongside international linguistic and cultural 'otherness', European history has also shaped Rumens' poetry since the mid-1980s. In the eerie 'A Cold Dawn' from Star Whisper (1983), for example, 'the sky that drank its bitter greenness / from the waters of Gdansk Bay // [...] is the sky of the world', 'its forehead smeared by faded sacrifices of industry', haunting images that return as 'the sky rush[ing] in like sea' in the risky sequence 'Outside Oswiecim' from Direct Dialling (1985), a Holocaust poem which John Greening described in the Times Literary Supplement as Rumens 'tackling the twentieth century's darkest hour [...] and doing so with authority'. The most accomplished and engaging of these poems, however, is perhaps 'The Flood of Silence' from The Greening of the Snow Beach (1988), one of many deftly formal poems that blend Russian literature and history to impressive effect, in this case, in an elegy for the great Russian poet, Alexander Pushkin:

'I think how silence spreads its rivers
Over unstable, swampy banks;
Even the bronze-wrapped horseman shivers
As bridges float away in planks.
A wave shins up a lamp-post's rigging;
First doors, then balconies are swigging
The muddy water, then the chimes
Of plump St Isaac's; on it climbs...
Miraculously, we can hear you
Still, as if you were a bird -
Art with an olive-sprig - absurd
Image that surely fails to cheer you
As you gaze out of Leningrad,
Your mausoleum, huge and sad.'

The Greening of Snow Beach was followed by Thinking of Skins: New and Selected Poems (1993) and Best China Sky (1995), Rumens' best-known and widely admired volumes, containing as they do her most memorable and accomplished poems to date. Through a combination of her demotic language, eye for the contemporary, often wicked sense of humour and abiding interest in gender, class, and foreign cultures and histories, these poems - including 'The Impenitent', 'Prayer for Belfast' and 'Stealing The Genre' - are by turns darkly comic, wryly intelligent, and dynamically conversational while retaining a musical formalism. 'Stealing The Genre', for instance, may seem like a lesbian love poem at first glance, but closer reading reveals the subversive literary experiment that lies behind this, inverting the Irish aisling or 'dream vision' in which a male poet personifies Ireland as a woman: 'the dark all flame as I drank / The heart-breaking odour of Muguets des Bois and red wine - / Hers, though I have to admit, it could have been mine'.

Rumens' latest poetry collections are Hex (2002) and Blind Spots (2008), in between which her Selected Poems: 1968-2004 (2004), Self into Song: Newcastle/Bloodaxe Poetry Lectures (2006) and guide book Writing Poetry (2006) were published. Hex is a somewhat more personally contemplative book than previous work, often reflecting on Rumens' writing to date, as in 'The "Pastime" School of Poets', where 'poems [...] whisper / if poems don't hurt us, are they truly poems?' It also takes stock of the presiding influences within Rumens' work, from 'the Black Mountain foundries or / night brilliant power stations in the depths / of Europe', to the deliciously playful dialogue between poet and Sylvia Plath in the sonnet sequence 'Letters Back', giving the latter a posthumous voice that is both humorous and engagingly flippant: 'Dear Carol, I'm inclined to think you're bats. / But then I hear you've lately moved to Wales / And teach Creative Writing and keep cats: / Sorry to take the wind out of your sails - / Or should I spell that 'sales'?' Blind Spots, on the other hand, continues Rumens' ongoing engagement with often wildly varying poetic styles and master poets, including a substantial sequence, 'Thinking about Montale by the River Hull', a series of improvisatory versions from the Italian that engage with the poet's personality as much as the poems themselves. In this sequence, the longstanding influence and presence of Larkin also appears in one poem as 'large, desolate footprints', allowing a productive tension that prompted Philip Gross, in his review of the collection in Poetry London, to state that 'to relate to both [poets], dismissing neither, is an achievement and a clue to Rumens' own poetic personality'. Indeed, it is this openness to the many ways in which poetry has been and can be written that energises Rumens' poetry and lends it the bravado, assurance and inventiveness which places her among the front rank of contemporary poets writing today.

Ben Wilkinson, 2009

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Described by Anne Stevenson as a writer 'who retains her feminine voice but extends her sympathies beyond feminism', Carol Rumens is perhaps the only contemporary female poet to have drawn obvious inspiration from the works of that most caricatured of male poets, Philip Larkin, whom she has admiringly described as 'the great musician of his generation'.

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The last kamikaze: two Japanese pilots tell how they cheated death

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The last kamikaze: two Japanese pilots tell how they cheated death

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Hisao Horiyama first learned how he was due to die from a simple slip of white paper. On it were written three options: to volunteer willingly, to simply volunteer, or to say no.

But as a 21-year-old airman caught in the thick of Japan's faltering war with the allies, he knew there was only one choice. Without hesitation, he agreed to fly his plane into the side of a US warship.

With that one act of destruction, he would end his life and the lives of many others, in the name of his emperor as a member of an elite, and supposedly invincible, group of young men whose sacrifice would deliver victory to Japan: the kamikaze.

Horiyama was a young soldier in an artillery unit of the Japanese imperial army when he was drafted into the air force.

It was late 1944, and the tide of war was turning against Japan. In the newly formed kamikaze, Tokyo's military leaders envisioned a dedicated unit of ideologically conditioned warriors willing to die a glorious death for their empire.

As a devoted subject of the emperor, Horiyama longed for his moment of glory.

"We finished our training and were given a slip of white paper giving us three options: to volunteer out of a strong desire, to simply volunteer, or to decline," Horiyama, now 92, told the Guardian at his home in Tokyo.

A model fighter plane sits on a bookcase in the living room of the apartment he shares with his wife. In one corner are cardboard boxes stuffed with black-and-white photographs of kamikaze pilots, veterans' newsletters, journals and newspaper cuttings.

"When we graduated from army training school the Showa emperor [Hirohito] visited our unit on a white horse. I thought then that this was a sign that he was personally requesting our services. I knew that I had no choice but to die for him.

"At that time we believed that the emperor and nation of Japan were one and the same."

By January 1945 more than 500 kamikaze planes had taken part in suicide missions, and many more followed as fears rose of an impending US-led invasion of the Japanese mainland. By the end of the war, more than 3,800 pilots had died. Although there are still disputes over their effectiveness, suicide missions sank or caused irreparable damage to dozens of US and allied ships.

For the suicide attacks to succeed, the air force and navy needed a new crop of young pilots, many of them taken from other parts of the military and from Japan's best universities.

"We didn't think too much [about dying]," Horiyama said. "We were trained to suppress our emotions. Even if we were to die, we knew it was for a worthy cause. Dying was the ultimate fulfillment of our duty, and we were commanded not to return. We knew that if we returned alive that our superiors would be angry."

Like other pilots selected for suicide missions, Horiyama was asked to write a will and a letter that would be sent to parents when their mission was completed.

"I was a disrespectful child and got poor grades at school," he said. "I told my father that I was sorry for being such a bad student, and for crashing three planes during training exercises. And I was sorry that the course of the war seemed to be turning against Japan. I wanted to prove myself to him, and that's why I volunteered to join the special attack unit.

"But my mother was upset. Just before she died she told me that she would never have forgiven my father if I had died in a kamikaze attack. So I'm grateful to the emperor that he stopped the war."

Japan was still flying suicide missions up to the moment, on 15 August 1945, when Hirohito announced to a shattered people traumatised by nuclear attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki that Japan was surrendering.

"I couldn't hear the radio announcement on NHK very well because of the static," Horiyama said. "One person started crying loudly. That's when I knew we had lost the war.

"I felt bad that I hadn't been able to sacrifice myself for my country. My comrades who had died would be remembered in infinite glory, but I had missed my chance to die in the same way. I felt like I had let everyone down."

That was Hisao Horiyama's story. But not every would-be kamikaze was as fervent in their belief in death for the motherland.

When Takehiko Ena learned he had been chosen to fly a suicide mission he greeted the news in a way he still finds confusing.

"I felt the blood drain from my face," he told the Guardian. "The other pilots and I congratulated each other when the order came through that we were going to attack. It sounds strange now, as there was nothing to celebrate."

Ena, 92, had been drafted into the depleted ranks of the navy as a 20-year-old economics student at the prestigious Waseda university in Tokyo. He was sent to join a squadron of pilots in Kyushu, Japan's southernmost main island, in April 1945, when the kamikaze were at their most active.

He was to pilot a crew of three aboard a plane with an 800kg [1,763-pound] bomb strapped to its undercarriage. The aircraft would have fuel only for a one-way flight.

They were part of Operation Kikusui (floating chrysanthemum), an ambitious suicide-bombing mission against the allied ships bombarding Japanese forces in the Battle of Okinawa, one of the bloodiest battles in the Pacific theatre.

By the latter stages of the war, Japan was relying on ageing planes that had been stripped and adapted for suicide missions. Many failed to start or encountered engine trouble en route to their targets. Most of those that got within striking distance of allied warships were shot down before they made impact.

It was this dismal mechanical record - a reflection of the desperate lengths to which Japan's military leaders were willing to go to win the war - that was to be Ena's salvation.

On 28 April 1945 he steered his aircraft along the runway at Kushira airfield in Kagoshima prefecture, but failed to get airborne. His second mission ended in failure when engine trouble forced him to make an emergency landing at a Japanese army base, still carrying the bomb intended for the enemy.

Two weeks later, on 11 May, he was steeling himself for a third attempt, accompanied by a 20-year-old co-pilot and an 18-year-old communications officer.

"On the surface, we were doing it for our country," Ena said. "We made ourselves believe that we had been chosen to make this sacrifice. I just wanted to protect the father and mother I loved. And we were all scared."

Early into what should have been his final flight, engine trouble forced Ena's plane into the sea. The three men survived and swam to nearby Kuroshima island, where they stayed for two-and-a-half months before being picked up by a Japanese submarine.

Shortly afterwards, Japan was a defeated nation. Ena's relief that the war was over gave way to optimism about the future, even as Japan set about rebuilding its devastated cities and counted the human cost of its militarist adventure on the Asian mainland.

"We felt sadness about the friends we had lost during the war, but we were also trying to envision how we would rebuild Japan," he said.

That meant embracing the country's new, US-written constitution, whose "pacifist" article nine restricts Japan's military to a strictly defensive role.

He bristles when asked about attempts by Japan's conservative prime minister, Shinzo Abe, to reinterpret the clause to allow troops to fight alongside allies overseas for the first time since the conflict that almost took his life.

"For 70 years we have been protected by a peace-oriented constitution," he said. "I'm very grateful that we haven't gone to war [in that time.] The Japanese people should be happy about that."
Topics

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The last kamikaze: two Japanese pilots tell how they cheated death

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Hisao Horiyama first learned how he was due to die from a simple slip of white paper. On it were written three options: to volunteer willingly, to simply volunteer, or to say no. But as a 21-year-old airman caught in the thick of Japan's faltering war with the allies, he knew there was only one choice.

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Hunt for next poet laureate still on as Imtiaz Dharker says no to job

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Hunt for next poet laureate still on as Imtiaz Dharker says no to job

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The acclaimed poet Imtiaz Dharker has turned down the poet laureateship, the highest honour in British poetry, citing a need to focus on her writing - and despite reports that she was set to be named as the next holder of the position.

"I had to weigh the privacy I need to write poems against the demands of a public role. The poems won," Dharker, who was born in Pakistan and grew up in Glasgow, said. "It was a huge honour to be considered for the role of poet laureate and I have been overwhelmed by the messages of support and encouragement from all over the world."

Although it was reported by the Sunday Times last week that Dharker was due to be announced as laureate this month, the Guardian understands that no formal offer has been made to or accepted by any candidate for the laureateship, and that the selection process is still under way, with Dharker giving way to other contenders on Friday.

The laureateship is not known for bringing the muse of poetry to its incumbents. Andrew Motion, who was laureate from 1999 to 2009, called the role " very, very damaging to my work", saying while still in post: "I dried up completely about five years ago and can't write anything except to commission." The public-facing position grants an annual stipend of £5,750 - used by the current laureate, Carol Ann Duffy, to fund a new poetry prize - and, traditionally, a "butt of sack", equivalent to roughly 600 bottles of sherry.

Last November, the Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport convened a panel of experts to make recommendations about who should succeed Duffy after her 10-year tenure as laureate ends. But with Duffy having now completed her final project as laureate - a collection by various poets responding to the collapse in the insect population - and with the 10th anniversary of her laureateship having passed on 1 May, the DCMS has been silent about who will take up her laurels, a delay that is being blamed on the government's preoccupation with other issues.

A DCMS spokeswoman said on Friday: "The recommendations of an independent panel have been considered in the usual way. An appointment has not yet been confirmed."

The expert panel's shortlist of potential successors was believed to include Dharker, who is widely studied for GCSE and A-level and who reads to more than 25,000 students each year through the Poetry Live! schools programme. Other contenders are rumoured include Daljit Nagra, Simon Armitage, Lemn Sissay, Alice Oswald and Jackie Kay - although Kay, who is Scottish makar, has effectively said she is not an option for the role. She told the Guardian last November: "I don't think the powers that be would want to combine the two."

Wendy Cope and Benjamin Zephaniah have both emphatically ruled themselves out. Cope said: "If it's a competition, it is one that many poets have no interest in winning." Zephaniah said: "I have absolutely no interest in this job. I won't work for them. They oppress me, they upset me, and they are not worthy."

Armitage has been more positive, writing in the Guardian that "the laureateship should be the highest office in poetry and that the laureate should be the guardian of those ideals". Nagra said on Friday he had not yet been approached.

Oswald, a highly respected name, has potentially signalled a lack of interest in the laureateship by throwing her hat into the ring for the UK's second most prestigious poetry position: the Oxford professor of poetry. Currently held by Armitage, the role is voted on by Oxford graduates. Potential candidates must propose themselves, and then gather together 50 supporting nominations by 9 May to stand in the election.

Out of the running? Alice Oswald, who has put herself forward as a contender for the Oxford professor of poetry role. Photograph: Jim Wileman/The Guardian

Oswald is up against the Australian poet John Leonard and the Canadian-British poet Todd Swift. She would be Oxford's first female professor of poetry. Although Ruth Padel was elected to the position in 2009, she resigned nine days later after claims that she had tipped off journalists about allegations of sexual harassment made against her rival for the post, Derek Walcott.

Oxford English faculty board chair professor Ros Ballaster said the professor of poetry position was "an unusual but important one". "Each new professor brings their own wisdom, interests and viewpoint to the lectures they deliver, but they always offer a platform for wider conversations about the place of poetry in society and culture," said Ballaster. "We hope not only to appoint an outstanding individual to represent poetry in the heart of learning, but also to stimulate lively debate and new encounters with a diverse range of voices."

Ballaster hailed Oxford's "transparent, open and simple" election process - which stands in direct contrast to the appointment of the laureate. A public announcement about the position has been promised by "early May" - or as soon as Theresa May's office finds time to sign off on it. One observer told the Guardian: "I don't think the poet laureate is very high up her list of concerns at the moment."

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Hunt for next poet laureate still on as Imtiaz Dharker says no to job

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The acclaimed poet Imtiaz Dharker has turned down the poet laureateship, the highest honour in British poetry, citing a need to focus on her writing - and despite reports that she was set to be named as the next holder of the position.

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Interviews with Kamikaze Pilots (Rare Footage)

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‘Once photography gets a grip, you're captive’: Don McCullin and Giles Duley in conversation

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‘Once photography gets a grip, you're captive’: Don McCullin and Giles Duley in conversation

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When the photographer Giles Duley was 18 years old, he was given two presents by his godfather: a camera and a copy of Unreasonable Behaviour, Don McCullin's autobiography about his life as a photojournalist in Vietnam, Northern Ireland, Biafra, Lebanon and London's East End. The book was illustrated with McCullin's acclaimed black-and-white photographs, images of war and human suffering that helped define the conflicts they described. It was a book that bowled Duley over. Today, the two men sit opposite each other in McCullin's quiet cottage on the Somerset levels - as far removed from the horrors of war as can be imagined. The excuse for their meeting and for our conversation is a major retrospective of McCullin's work at Tate Britain, opening next week. Not that any excuse is required because, as they reveal, they are friends already.

At 83, McCullin's hale appearance and eloquence, after 60 years of taking pictures in war zones and elsewhere, cannot help but seem a death-defying fluke. He brushes aside any mention of the injuries he sustained falling off a roof in Cambodia (he broke several ribs and shattered his arm) and does not dwell on his hellish struggles in the city of Hue in Vietnam, which left him (as he reported in Jacqui and David Morris's 2013 documentary ) like a "tormented animal". His restraint may partly be that he is a stoic but it is also, presumably, because of Duley's presence. For Duley, as McCullin puts it, has "paid the price".

On 7 February, 2011, while involved in a photographic project studying the impact of war on soldiers in Afghanistan, Duley was "embedded" with the 1st Squadron of the 75th Cavalry Regiment of the US army and blown up by a landmine. He became a triple amputee. Most soldiers with similar injuries do not survive. But one of the many astonishing things about Duley (who is at pains to point out that his subject is not war itself but its aftermath) was that his first thought when he realised he had retained his right arm was: "I can still work as a photographer."

I first interviewed him in Charing Cross Hospital in October 2011. Not long afterwards and still in recovery, he visited McCullin and his wife, the travel journalist Catherine Fairweather, in Somerset. He was in a wheelchair then but today, now 47, walks on prosthetic legs and is working hard, his spirit modest, engaging and awe-inspiring. Duley's Legacy of War photographic project, launched in 2013, explores the long-term effects of global conflict and, in 2015, he was commissioned by UNHCR to document the refugee crisis, visiting 14 countries in the Middle East and Europe and publishing, in 2017, I Can Only Tell You What My Eyes See. He has inspired Angelina Jolie and PJ Harvey and countless others. He has raised money to help some of the people he has photographed and has a gorgeous Instagram feed, The One Armed Chef, with pictures of the food he painstakingly prepares. He often cooks with refugees before photographing them. It is a convivial thing, he says.

Our focus today is on the Tate's McCullin retrospective, which begins in 1959 with The Guv'nors, the first McCullin photograph published in the Observer - of a north London gang (McCullin was born in rough Finsbury Park) theatrically posed, looking out from the timbers of a burned-out building, each occupying his own space, as if about to burst into song. It was the Observer that gave McCullin his start, though it was the Sunday Times that made his name. The show includes his most famous pictures - such as the albino boy in Biafra, clutching the corner of a corned beef tin. But it features less familiar photos too. In a BBC4 documentary to be aired on 4 February, Looking for England, McCullin says that whenever he is away, the longing for home exerts the strongest hold. His pictures of the Somerset levels are seen through a glass darkly: pewter, silver and black - anything but bucolic, potential battlefields. In McCullin's work, darkness is always visible.

Listening to the two men talk, affinities and differences emerge. Both have courage, empathetic vision and resist being described as heroic. But while Duley stays positive, McCullin, who once described war as "madness... insanity... schizophrenia", is restlessly self-questioning - and although he is a gent with a wicked sense of humour, he can tilt into gloom, not about to let himself off any moral hook. Their conversation veers from growing up (both were dyslexic children) to dilemmas about what it means to photograph suffering, and each has a stab at addressing the toughest question of all: what can a photograph change? KK

Kate Kellaway: My first question, in the spirit of setting off, is what do you both take when you go into the field? What are the practical things that you need?
Don McCullin The right attitude really. You have to know why you're going; are you committed to taking the risk? Particularly when one had a family, children, as I did. And then a lot of premeditation: "Will I be able to do this? Will I be able to do that?"

Giles Duley I always take Tabasco with me, because of the amount of terrible food I've had. And I always have a doorstop. In a lot of the places I work now, kidnapping's become a big thing. So I always shove that in the door, then at least if somebody tries to kick it in, there's a wedge on it. It's funny how you have these little things from habit.

DMcC I used to take a crepe bandage in case I busted an ankle or something. And Ready Brek because I was always afraid of winding up with nothing to eat in the morning. There are all those niggling things.

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Approaching evening, looking from Don McCullin's house during winter 1991. Photograph: Don McCullin

Giles, you have spoken before about how reading Don's memoir Unreasonable Behaviour as an 18 year old inspired you. Why was that?
GD It's interesting, because there was adventure and excitement, but what stayed with me were the photographs. There's an image of a child soldier pointing a gun at other child soldiers [in Congo, 1964]. They are about 12 years old, fully kitted up with M16s and helmets. Growing up, I had actually wanted to be in the army, thinking it was glamorous, thinking war was exciting. And seeing images like that brought home what war was: an ugly, brutal thing. Every photograph I'd ever seen of war before that was about chaos, was about tanks, was about planes, explosions, people firing guns. But what stuck with me in Don's pictures was the contact with people's eyes. I think a lot of war photography, whether it's accidental or deliberate, does glamorise war, but Don's never has.

DMcC When you experience a calamitous day and see bullets flying over and shells coming and you survive that day, there's no doubt, the adrenaline's at full blast. But then this goes on for war after war until you come to the conclusion that you've been kidding yourself, thinking that war is exciting, and you forget that people are suffering and dying around you.

GD It's interesting, hearing you say that. Obviously I was inspired by you when I was young, but I think what I do now, almost [follows on from] what you learned, what you hated about war. I set out not to document the war element but the consequences of war and what happens to civilians. So maybe I start from the point of understanding that you had reached. I learned from that and carried on. In my work, it's always about that connection with the person's eyes, or somebody holding hands, those little moments of intimacy, little gestures. That's my continuation of Don's work.

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Don McCullin photographed for the Observer by Giles Duley, assisted by Alexander Brattell, at McCullin's home in Somerset, January 2019.

It seems like a simple question but is actually a very complicated one: what makes a good photograph?
DMcC A photograph should shout at you and tell you something's wrong, that you're not living in the right kind of world, something that words can't explain to you. When I walked into a schoolhouse in 1969 in Biafra and saw 600 dying children, some of them collapsing and dying in front of me, I just cannot tell you what it was like, knowing I had my own children living in Hampstead at the time. When a picture like that is so bad, it's easy to press the button, but it's not easy to live with it. Morally, I've always had a terribly uncomfortable conscience about it. Trying to justify my work, in any statement, in any form or shape, is most difficult for me.

GD For me - and I'm sure it's the same for Don - when you actually take a photograph, it's not just etched on the camera, it's etched in your mind. I can remember every photograph I've taken. And actually the photographs that really haunt me are the ones that nobody sees, the ones that for whatever reason don't make the edit, don't get published. Then you feel like you've let those people down, because they've entrusted you to take their photograph and it ends up in a folder somewhere.

But I think what I'm getting at here is are good photos found? Or made? Does the eye find the image?
DMcC It's about the emotional - we're not just photographers, we gather emotionally. A camera doesn't mean a toss to me. I just put it in front of me and transfer the image through that piece of glass and that film. But I'm using my emotion more than I'm using that piece of equipment. And at the same time there's a thousand thoughts going through my brain saying: "Is it right do this?" I've seen men executed and I haven't photographed it and I thought my God, if my editor knew that I hadn't pressed this button he'd give me the boot. But it's my moral duty not to take that picture because the man who's about to be killed hasn't given me his permission.

GD Unlike Don, I've always been on the edge of conflict, [concerned with] the consequences of it. But definitely, there are times when you choose not to take a photograph. There's always a moment when you connect with somebody's eye or something happens and when somebody doesn't want you to, it's quite clear.

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Local Boys in Bradford, 1972. Photograph: Don McCullin

DMcC When a man is standing in front of you about to die, you can't help him. He's crying and he's looking at you. He's looking up to where he thinks God is and he's scrambling around like mad to this last chance to keep alive and you're standing there, you can't help him. You are ashamed of humanity.

So has doing the work changed your view of humanity over time?
DMcC Absolutely. Absolutely. That's why I live here. There's hardly anyone around here. I don't have to communicate with people. I need to get away. I need to hide. I need a sanctuary, and this [his home in Somerset] is it.

You have said, Don, that you feel in some way that you've failed to do what you would like to have done through photography, but you can't surely have thought that photography would put an end to war or human misery?
DMcC A lot of people wouldn't understand what one means by "fail". All I'm saying is that when one war's cleared up, the next war is waiting in the wings and they seem to have got worse over the years. When I first started, there weren't crazed 14-year-old boys in west Africa with machetes, lopping off the arms of people and babies and children. You thought it couldn't get any worse than that and then along came Isis, setting fire to that Jordanian pilot in that cage. And if you think about the two most important pictures that came out of Vietnam, one was the girl running down the road, which was taken by Nick Ut (although everyone thinks I took that picture... I don't know why) in 1972. The other picture was Eddie Adams's 1968 picture of the police chief shooting the man in the head. It took several years after them for the war to end. So that's what I'm getting at. Do we change anything? The pictures didn't stop the war, did they?

GD People ask: can you change the world with your photograph and I would say, no, but maybe we can inspire the people who do. A couple of years ago, I got a letter from a man in Australia who had just got into medical school. He really struggled growing up, at home and at school, but he had a picture of mine on his wall, one I took in Afghanistan. "That's what made me want to be a doctor," he said. Every day, he would look at that photograph to remind himself. Honestly for me, if that's the only impact my work's had then it's great. And Don says his work hasn't changed anything, well it changed my life. It made me do what I do.

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'Once photography gets a grip, you're captive': Don McCullin and Giles Duley in conversation

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When the photographer Giles Duley was 18 years old, he was given two presents by his godfather: a camera and a copy of Unreasonable Behaviour, Don McCullin's autobiography about his life as a photojournalist in Vietnam, Northern Ireland, Biafra, Lebanon and London's East End.

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Wearing a poppy was a pledge of peace. Now it serves to sanitise war

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Wearing a poppy was a pledge of peace. Now it serves to sanitise war

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he current buildup of forces by Nato and Russia in eastern Europe is frighteningly reminiscent of the military escalation before the first world war. Either side, at any moment, could find a pretext to turn a dangerous standoff into a fullblown conflict.

It is a well-established tradition to wear a poppy at this time of the year to remember the military victims of war, especially those who fought in the two previous all-embracing conflicts. State ceremonies are held at which well-drilled soldiers solemnly practise the rites of remembrance and members of the royal family, together with politicians past and present, line up to lay wreaths.

Yet, despite the extensive recent retelling of the history of the 1914 war and detailed analysis of its causes, governments appear to have learned nothing. There have been warnings that we may even be on the brink of a third world war.

When the poppy was first adopted as the symbol of remembrance it was shortly after the end of the first world war, when almost every family in the land still felt the raw grief of the time. The poppy represented mourning and regret, and served as a pledge that war must never happen again.

Arguably this original meaning became subverted. By the 1930s, those alarmed at the militarism that had become associated with the Cenotaph rituals started wearing white poppies to reinforce the peace pledge. By 1939, the world was at war again. Another generation signed up, though this time reluctantly, knowing they had to defeat an unprecedented evil, unleashed by the unresolved issues of the first world war that was spreading across Europe.

When remembrance customs continued after 1945, they were little changed - except that on the war memorials up and down the country, a new list of names had been added.

Over the decades, as the memory of both wars began to fade, the the poppy began to take on a subtle new meaning. To many people it had become a patriotic duty to wear one, a symbol of pride in the sacrifices of the armed services. Indeed all those who had ever worn a military uniform had become "heroes", and the dead were described euphemistically as "having fallen".

In an utterly unintended way the remembrance customs now serve to sanitise war and even to make the military option a respectable political option.

Judged from the perspective of those first wearers of the poppy - that the red flower should be a declaration of hope that wars should never happen again - the poppy has been a sad failure. What an irony it will be if at 11 o'clock on Remembrance Sunday, British troops on war exercises find themselves wearing poppies and listening to The Last Post as they face Russian troops across eastern Europe.

Today, millions still wear the poppy every autumn, but millions choose not to. It has become a cause of social division as each year the debate is rehearsed as to what the poppy really symbolises, and under what circumstances it is appropriate to display it. The debate this year about whether the England and Scotland football teams should wear poppy armbands illustrates how passionately the arguments are felt and how increasingly polarised views have become.

'I would suggest several changes. Firstly that only the Queen, and certainly not the politicians, lays a wreath.' Photograph: Andy Rain/EPA

In two years' time the world will be marking the 100th anniversary of the end of the first world war. Planning should now begin to use the occasion to revisit and revise the established customs of remembrance in Britain. This would need to be done with care so as not to offend those to whom the current traditions are meaningful, but at the same time refocus the solemn national recollection of, and gratitude towards, those who have died.

I would suggest several changes to the central Cenotaph service, which could be reflected in local ceremonies.

First, that only the Queen, and not politicians, should lay a wreath. This would be on behalf of the nation and the commonwealth. Second, that a simple religious service be held following the two-minute silence. That no troops formally line up in uniform, there is no martial music and no gun fired. Third, that at the end of the service a line of victims of war, such as injured service men, widows, displaced civilians and refugees files past the cenotaph in silence.

It would be appropriate too if next year the annual Festival of Remembrance at the Royal Albert Hall be held for the last time.

It should not be necessary for a charity to collect money to meet the medical and social needs of those who served in the military. This should be the responsibility of taxpayers. But until the government acknowledges this entire responsibility, poppies will still need to be sold to raise funds. Once the ethos of remembrance is refocused more people will again be able to wear a poppy in conscience, and hopefully the red flower of Flanders Field will once again serve as a pledge of peace.

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Wearing a poppy was a pledge of peace. Now it serves to sanitise war | Ted Harrison

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he current buildup of forces by Nato and Russia in eastern Europe is frighteningly reminiscent of the military escalation before the first world war. Either side, at any moment, could find a pretext to turn a dangerous standoff into a fullblown conflict.

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Helen Melody investigates how the First and Second World Wars shaped Ted Hughes's life and work.

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Helen Melody investigates how the First and Second World Wars shaped Ted Hughes's life and work.

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Helen Melody investigates how the First and Second World Wars shaped Ted Hughes's life and work.

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Seamus Heaney was internationally recognised as the greatest Irish poet since WB Yeats. Like Yeats, he won the Nobel Prize for literature and, like Yeats, his reputation and influence spread far beyond literary circles.

Born in Northern Ireland, he was a Catholic and nationalist who chose to live in the South. "Be advised, my passport's green / No glass of ours was ever raised / To toast the Queen," he once wrote.

He came under pressure to take sides during the 25 years of the Troubles in Northern Ireland, and faced criticism for his perceived ambivalence to republican violence, but he never allowed himself to be co-opted as a spokesman for violent extremism.

His writing addressed the conflict, however, often seeking to put it in a wider historical context. The poet also penned elegies to friends and acquaintances who died in the violence.

Describing his reticence to become a "spokesman" for the Troubles, Heaney once said he had "an early warning system telling me to get back inside my own head".

Born on 13 April, 1939, on a family farm in the rural heart of County Londonderry, he never forgot the world he came from. "I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells / Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss," he recalled in Personal Helicon.

He was a translator, broadcaster and prose writer of distinction, but his poetry was his most remarkable achievement, for its range, its consistent quality and its impact on readers: Love poems, epic poems, poems about memory and the past, poems about conflict and civil strife, poems about the natural world, poems addressed to friends, poems that found significance in the everyday or delighted in the possibilities of the English language.

The very first poem in his first major collection was called Digging, and it described his father digging potatoes and his grandfather digging turf. It ended:

It proved to be his manifesto. He spent a lifetime digging with his pen, but returned often in his poetry to the landscape and society of his boyhood in a countryside of farms and small towns, where Protestant and Catholic rubbed along tolerably, if warily, and one of his earliest memories was listening to the shipping forecast on the BBC.

He was a bright boy: At the age of 12 he was sent on a scholarship to St Columb's College in Derry and studied for a degree in English at Queen's University in Belfast.

He became a schoolteacher, then a lecturer, at Queen's and later head of English at Carysfort College, a teacher training college near Dublin.

For more than 20 years from 1985 he spent part of each year at Harvard as a visiting professor and later Boylston professor of rhetoric and oratory, and then as poet in residence. From 1989 to 1994 he was professor of poetry at Oxford.

Childhood memories

But in 1972 he gave up full-time academic work to become a freelance writer and poet. His first collection, Death Of A Naturalist, had been published six years earlier in 1966.

Much of it was about his boyhood.

The title poem described the revulsion of a child fascinated by frogspawn when confronted by adult mating frogs; there were poems about his father ploughing, about his mother making butter and about the death in a road accident of his youngest brother, for whose funeral Seamus was summoned back on a "Mid-Term Break" (the poem's title) from school.

Childhood memories featured in much of his subsequent verse. A Sofa In The Forties, published in Spirit Level in 1996 (when Heaney was 57) describes the young Seamus and his siblings turning the family sofa into a railway train, under the wireless shelf:

A decade later, many of the poems in District and Circle harked back to the "land of lost content", which was the County Derry of his childhood.

He wrote often, too, about the landscape of the north of Ireland, especially the turf bogs. He was fascinated by iron age corpses preserved in peat, and by the job of cutting turf: Arduous, routine but satisfying.

Baking bread

Then in North, published in 1975, a new, darker tone entered his work. Six years earlier, violence had erupted in Northern Ireland. It was the start of a quarter century of bombings and shootings, riots and brutality, internment and hunger strikes, murder and misery.

There are poems in North about peat bogs and about Heaney's memories of his aunt baking bread. But there is violence too and political commitment, which made the collection controversial when it first appeared.

Poems like Funeral Rites, Whatever You Say Say Nothing and the sequence entitled Singing School are explicitly about the Troubles and the divided, unequal society that produced them. The violence depressed him; in Funeral Rights he wrote:

In 1975's Act Of Union, he took the map of Britain and Ireland and turned it into an image of a married couple lying in bed together, Ireland surrounded and mastered by the masculine Britain.

The Act Of Union, he said once before reading the poem, was both a political and a sexual concept.

"To put it metaphorically, and yet historically, Ireland, the feminine country, was entered by England, possessed by England, planted with English seed, withdrawn from by England, and left pregnant with an independent life called Ulster, kicking within her."

He sometimes despaired of his fellow-citizens in the North. In an ITV documentary made at about this time he said: "We're a society, if you like, that's fallen from grace. This is limbo land at best, and at worst the country of the damned."

'Veneers are important'

But he was always alive to the complexities and ambiguities of the Irish situation, and suspicious of the vigour with which sectarian positions were adopted.

"Forthrightness is great, but it shades into triumphalism at times, it shades into obstinacy and it shades into vindictiveness," he said in a BBC interview in 2006.

"So you're caught between a language of diplomacy which opens a path, which is a very, very narrow path, it's just a chink of some sort... you're caught between that diplomacy language and the yearning for forthrightness, living with the ambiguity of asking yourself, 'Am I being insincere, or am I being courteous?' People live on a very fine edge there in the North."

Heaney's poetry sought to shine a light on the underlying reality of life in Northern Ireland - but also to celebrate those who kept going with daily life, who maintained a veneer of civilisation. "Veneers are very important. Without veneers how do we conduct civil life? Veneers are important between enemies and friends. I don't think it demeans something to say it's a veneer."

Despite his own republican views, he attended in 2011 a dinner at Dublin Castle along with the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh, hosted by Irish President Mary McAleese and her husband.

This January, he waded into the row over a decision to restrict the flying of the union flag above Belfast City Hall. The ruling triggered weeks of violence, but Heaney said loyalists should be allowed to fly the flag.

There was "never going to be a united Ireland," he said, so "why don't you let them (loyalists) fly the flag?"

'Everyday miracles'

Throughout the 1980s and 1990s Heaney's reputation grew steadily. It helped that he was prepared to talk readily about his work, unlike many poets; and that he was a genial fellow capable of self-mockery and at ease in public.

He was known irreverently in some quarters as "famous Seamus".

His work became more "public" too: He joined the board of an Irish theatre company, Field Day, founded by the dramatist Brian Friel and the actor Stephen Rea, and in 1990 the company produced The Cure at Troy, Heaney's translation of Sophocles' tragedy Philoctetes.

His international reputation was sealed when in 1995 he was awarded the Nobel Prize, "for works of lyrical beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles and the living past", in the words of the Nobel citation.

He continued writing, and further honours followed. In 1996 he won the Whitbread Prize for his translation of the Anglo-Saxon epic Beowulf. In 2009, he was awarded the £40,000 David Cohen Prize by Arts Council England for a lifetime's achievement.

District and Circle, published in 2006, won the TS Eliot Prize for poetry. The critics were struck by the title poem, about a journey on the London Underground in the wake of the 7 July bombings, which also evoked the medieval Italian poet Dante's vision of hell in his Inferno.

It was characteristic of Heaney who, as well as being a farmer's boy, was also exceedingly bookish and erudite.

By the end, Heaney had acquired a reputation not only for cleverness but for wisdom, a poet who took seriously his role (he called it "a vocation") and was prepared to engage with the real world in work that was accessible and approachable.

And he had readers in high places. Nine days before the announcement that he had won the Nobel Prize, President Bill Clinton, no less, at a state banquet in Dublin Castle quoted the closing lines from The Cure At Troy, as Northern Ireland crept tentatively towards peace:

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Seamus Heaney was internationally recognised as the greatest Irish poet since WB Yeats. Like Yeats, he won the Nobel Prize for literature and, like Yeats, his reputation and influence spread far beyond literary circles. Born in Northern Ireland, he was a Catholic and nationalist who chose to live in the South.

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Find out more about Wilfred Owen's life and works at the British Library.

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‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’: making poetry from war

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‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’: making poetry from war

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Dr Seamus Perry explains how Tennyson transformed a catastrophic episode in the Crimean war into one of the 19th-century's most successful poems, using rhythm, repetition and vocabulary to convey both the folly of the cavalry charge and the bravery of the soldiers.

On 25 October 1854, as part of the Battle of Balaklava, an episode in the Crimean War, the Light Cavalry Brigade of the British Army made a disastrous frontal assault upon a well-positioned battery of Russian artillery. The British soldiers rode the mile's length of a valley, vulnerable to heavy enemy fire on both sides as well as from the front. Despite losses, they reached the Russian forces and, using sabres, drove them from their position, before turning to ride back down the long valley, exposed once again to insistent cannon fire. About 670 men had begun the charge, of whom 118 were killed and 127 wounded: by the end of the episode, only 195 men were left with horses.

It was a complete military disaster, the awfulness of which was only compounded by it being the result of a misunderstanding. The order had been given to capture some heavy guns that the Russians were attempting to withdraw from the hills to the south of the valley; but when Captain Nolan brought the order back to the brigade its precision had somehow got lost, and the charge was launched instead at the substantial artillery dug in at the valley's far end - a task for which the lightly armoured brigade was suicidally unsuited. Nolan may have realised that a mistake had been made as his first action upon charging was, extraordinarily, to ride to the front of the company, before his senior officer; but if this was indeed an attempt to get the men to change direction it was futile: he was shortly killed by Russian artillery, and so the cavalry rode on.

William Simpson's illustration of the Charge of Light Brigade

An artist's impression of the charge of the Light Cavalry Brigade at Balaklava, 1855.

Reports of the Charge

Terrible mistakes happen in war all the time, of course, but this one had an unprecedented sort of publicity as the Crimean War was the first to be covered by photographers and reporters, who sent news home within just a few weeks. It was the first campaign to be covered by a war correspondent, the Irishman W H Russell, who was dispatched by The Times, where his compelling account of the Light Brigade's catastrophe was published on 14 November 1854. The day before, however, The Times had offered a first treatment of the story in its leader column. It was indeed a 'disaster', said the newspaper, evoking vividly the brigade 'simply pounded by the shot, shell, and Minié bullets from the hills' as the cavalry advanced through 'that valley of death', and registering a loss all the more lamentable 'because it seems to have arisen from some misunderstanding'. But still there was something to be celebrated: 'Causeless as the sacrifice was, it was most glorious ... The British soldier will do his duty, even to certain death, and is not paralyzed by feeling that he is the victim of some hideous blunder'. Years later, Tennyson's son would recall his father writing his response to the charge on 2 December, 'in a few minutes, after reading the description in The Times in which occurred the phrase "someone had blundered", and this was the origin of the metre of the poem'; but in fact The Times report does not contain the phrase: that is Tennyson's work. The poem first appeared in The Examiner on 9 December, signed 'A.T.', before being collected, in a revised version, in Tennyson's volume Maud the following year.

Tennyson's 'The Charge of the Light Brigade', first published in the Examiner

'The Charge of the Light Brigade' as it was first published in the Examiner, 9 December 1854.

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Insistent rhythm and moral vocabulary

The poem is the creature of its insistent rhythm, which captures the headlong plunge of the cavalry with great brilliance. As first published, Tennyson included a documentary detail about the captain:

'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Take the guns,' Nolan said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

This was amended in later versions to '"Charge for the guns!" he said', which adeptly anonymises the voice of authority: for one point of this poem is the irrelevance of who is giving the order, or why, for the men to whom it applies - 'Their's but to do and die'. Responding to The Times' report, Tennyson is suspended between admiration at the reckless magnificence of the charge and a conviction of its idiocy; and the poem revolves around its insistently repeated key-rhymes - hundred, blundered, thundered, wondered, sundered - with an obsessed fascination. The moral vocabulary of the poem is brilliantly pitched between an endorsement of their heroism and a bewilderment at the sheer folly of its occasion. 'O the wild charge they made! / All the world wondered'; but then wonder can be evoked by things appalling as well as things appealing: this episode of military incompetence manages to combine both. The Times quoted a French general who watched the whole thing: 'C'est très magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre' ('It's very magnificent, but it's not war'). Tennyson partly shares that sense of an event that has transcended its sorry reality; but he remains conscious, too, that it is indeed nothing but war at the same time, and his ambiguously celebratory lines do not flinch to imply the grisly detail of hand-to-hand combat: 'Cossack and Russian / Reeled from the sabre stroke / Shattered and sundered'.

Returns and repetitions

Tennyson's poetry was always drawn to imagine returns and repetitions, and the charge of the light brigade gave him an opportunity to explore that fascination once again, now from a bleak perspective. For this was not just a charge, but a charge and a terribly depleted return, 'Back from the mouth of hell'; and Tennyson's poem captures that movement in its own verbal returns. The stanzas repeat 'Rode the six hundred' until the fourth, with a shocked stutter on 'not': 'Then they rode back, but not / Not the six hundred'. And then the fifth, when the honorific definite article has been shed too, as we start to count the war dead: 'All that was left of them, / Left of six hundred'. The poem ends with a call to honour them, 'Noble six hundred!' That is a markedly better close than the revised version that Tennyson temporarily adopted in the first book printing of the poem:

Honour the brave and bold!
Long shall the tale be told,
Yea, when our babes are old -
How they rode onward.

Those lines are dutiful in their regard, but since the whole thing has been so emphatically about not just riding onward, disastrously, but then riding back, disastrously, too, its clinching 'onward' strikes a note of falser or simpler heroism than the poem deserves. 'Noble six hundred!' has a more fittingly epitaphic quality, an entirely appropriate sort of utterance that brings to a public conclusion to a poem of such bewildered private feelings.

Footnotes

[1] Quoted in The Times, 13 November 1854.

Seamus Perry is a Fellow of Balliol College and an Associate Professor in the English Faculty, University of Oxford. He is the author of books and articles about, among others, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Matthew Arnold, T S Eliot, and W H Auden.

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Dr Seamus Perry explains how Tennyson transformed a catastrophic episode in the Crimean war into one of the 19th-century's most successful poems, using rhythm, repetition and vocabulary to convey both the folly of the cavalry charge and the bravery of the soldiers.

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Dr Seamus Perry explains how Tennyson transformed a catastrophic episode in the Crimean war into one of the 19th-century's most successful poems, using rhythm, repetition and vocabulary to convey both the folly of the cavalry charge and the bravery of the soldiers.

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Why do Browning's poems so often feature husbands who kill or resent their wives?

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Why do Browning's poems so often feature husbands who kill or resent their wives?

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When Henry James met Browning in the 1870s, he was perplexed and not a little horrified at the apparent difference between Browning's personality and the sophisticated, finely tuned sensibility he'd been led to expect from the poetry. The Robert Browning whom James encountered was loud and cheerful and garrulous; his opinions were clichéd and his health strapping; he ate well, chattered undiscriminatingly and told boring jokes. Where was the subtle dissector of human passion? Where was the shrewd wit? Where, above all, was the suffering and sensitive Browning everyone had come to know about and looked forward to meeting, the Browning of the public romance? Shocked, James put Browning into one of his stories as the bafflingly bluff - or insufficiently "subjective" - writer Clare Vawdrey: "He never talked about himself; and this was a topic on which, though it would have been tremendously worthy of him, he apparently never even reflected."

Had he but known it, James had already put his finger on the answer to the mystery. If Browning was not "subjective" enough, this was entirely deliberate: long experience of having his most intimate feelings made public property had taught him not to refer to his private life if he could help it; if possible, not to reveal anything personal at all. His resistance to exposing his inner self to the public gaze extended to his poetry - throughout his career he made a technical virtue out of never speaking in his own voice on the page. We don't go to Browning for confession, for what Sylvia Plath (who is, poetically, Browning's polar opposite) called "the big strip tease": he is, quite simply, the most unsubjective poet who ever wrote. Forget the Full Monty; Browning doesn't take off so much as his cravat.

Where does the Victorian poet afraid of exposure to the peanut-crunching crowd go to conceal himself? To the dramatic monologue, of course. Tennyson was the forerunner, but Browning perfected the form. His dramatic monologues are masterpieces of irony which depend on the principle of triangulation. A single person, who is not the poet, utters the entire poem in a specific situation and usually at a critical moment, and in doing so may address other people (who don't, however, reply: we know what they say or do only from clues in the discourse of the single speaker). The twist is that, while blithely holding forth in this way, the speaker unwittingly lays bare his or her true character. Browning hides behind the scenes, in cahoots with the reader, inviting us to supply the missing parts of the speaker's one-sided account.

The gold standard of all dramatic monologues is Browning's "My Last Duchess", published in 1842. Set in Renaissance Italy, the poem reflects the Victorian fascination with the period - with its sumptuousness, its dynamism, its unparalleled belief in the human animal. Browning drew on an actual episode in Tuscan history for his donnée, but the interpretation, and the glittering diction, are his own. The scene is the grand staircase of the ducal palace in Ferrara, in northern Italy, in the the mid-1500s. The speaker is the lusty, avaricious Duke of Ferrara, and as the poem opens he is brokering a marriage deal with the envoy of the Count of Tyrol, whose daughter he intends to acquire as his second duchess - Ferrara's "last" duchess, we realise, is dead. Rather like a modern aristocrat planning some calculated PR in Hello! magazine ("To celebrate his engagement to the stunning Barbara, Ferrara welcomes us into his charming home"), the duke offers the silent envoy, and the reader, an access-all-areas tour of the art he has amassed.

Sequestered behind a curtain which only he is allowed to part hangs the jewel of his collection: a portrait of his late wife. By his own account, the young duchess was not only beautiful but girlish, unaffected, tender and spontaneous. She blushed easily, was warmly appreciative of small acts of kindness, and was clearly utterly lacking in vanity. Without ever having laid eyes on the girl, we feel as if we, too, have savoured "the depth and passion of her earnest glance", the "spot of joy" in her cheek, and "the faint half flush" tinting the delicate skin of her throat. Yet it's soon clear that the duchess's very freshness made her irksome to her authoritarian husband: he found her altogether too impulsive, too unpredictable and therefore too threatening - too human, in other words. So he had her killed. But no matter: "There she stands / As if alive." Ferrara in fact prefers the image to the original because the image is inert, and therefore easier to control.

None of this is said in so many words: because the self-satisfied Ferrara utters the whole poem, his loathsomeness and megalomania have to be inferred. They seep out at the edges of what he says; he is unaware of his own repulsiveness. And yet he is perversely vital: we are mesmerised by his fluency. As a whole, the monologue is a profoundly human picture that is simultaneously a celebration of art's power - because art, after all, is a peculiarly human undertaking.

Though the poem was written before his marriage, Browning republished "My Last Duchess" in 1849, three years after his escape to Italy with Elizabeth Barrett, or EBB as she thenceforth signed herself. Their only child, a boy they nicknamed Pen, was born the same year. By then Browning had some experience of the stresses of a mature sexual, as opposed to an epistolary, relationship. He and Elizabeth quarrelled frequently about politics, about her interest in spiritualism, about how to bring up their son. Robert wanted Pen to wear trousers and short hair; Elizabeth preferred him in velvet pantaloons and candle curls. Elizabeth won. Awkwardly, her money supported the entire household: husband, servants, dog, child, clothes, food, pet rabbits, the writing of poetry, holidays abroad in the hot months, and her addiction to laudanum, which she took daily for pains in her spine and chest. She never complained. We all know the temptation to kill our spouse (especially a saintly one). In fact, Browning's poems often feature husbands who kill or resent their wives, or men who do away with their mistresses: along with Ferrara there is the murderous Franceschini in The Ring and the Book; Porphyria's homicidally possessive lover; and an exasperated Andrea del Sarto, who feels that his other half, the high-maintenance Lucrezia, has stopped him from becoming another Leonardo, Raphael or Michelangelo by making him paint commercial trash. It's a curious fact that Browning himself hardly wrote any poetry during the 15 years of his marriage. Did he, one wonders, sometimes have a Ferrara-like urge to rid himself of EBB?

Anthony Burgess plays with the idea in his short story "1889 and the Devil's Mode", in which an elderly and guilt-ridden Browning, now 28 years a widower, is burdened with the desire to confess to having murdered his wife on her deathbed. Burgess imagines it as a mercy killing (his Browning smothered Elizabeth with a pillow because he couldn't bear to witness her final agony). "Of the less conscious motive" - the husbandly motive, one might say - "he had only become aware after the act." In reality Elizabeth Barrett Browning died as a result of a ruptured abscess on her lung, complicated by her longstanding physical frailty. Yet the ultimate cause of death may perhaps not have been a pulmonary haemorrhage, but the excessively large measure of morphine given to her in her final hours to ease her pain. She died, as Browning was careful to point out in the letters he wrote to friends and family immediately after the event, not merely peacefully, but in a state of euphoria. He was in a position to know. It was he who had administered the final dose.

After "My Last Duchess", Browning would go on to write some of the best poems of his career about the theme of artists and their work: "Fra Lippo Lippi", "Andrea del Sarto", "Pictor Ignotus". Yet all the indications are that he lost his faith in art, and poetry, by the end of his life. His last collection, Asolando, was finished during a stay in the hilltop town of Asolo in the Veneto in the autumn of 1889, where he was the guest of an affable American widow called Mrs Bronson (who also happened to be a friend of Henry James). This last work exudes a sense of exhaustion and disappointment, a loss of faith in the creative impulse that had previously sustained him, and an overwhelming awareness of the sterility of art for art's sake. The once-burning bush, he writes, is bare. A flower is just a flower. Yet Browning, as "My Last Duchess" so eloquently shows, always knew that art - the pursuit of pattern - is meaningless unless it is humanised, rooted in the real. When I began to write a novel about a lost Renaissance masterpiece, The Bellini Madonna, it was this apprehension of Browning's, rather than the details of his celebrated marriage, that interested me most. The novel is set partly in Asolo during Browning's stay of 1889 with Mrs Bronson, and Browning wanders in and out of the narrative. He came ready made.

Murderer or no, Robert Browning was tempted to remarry twice. On the first occasion he so insulted his prospective bride, the wealthy and alluring Lady Ashburton, by stressing that the attractiveness of a marriage with her lay chiefly in its advantage to Pen, that she turned him down flat; in Asolo, years later, Mrs Bronson took great care not to understand his hints whenever he tried to move their relationship on to a more intimate footing. Browning continued to wear Elizabeth's wedding ring, displayed on his watch chain, until his death in December 1889. For better or for worse, she remained his first and last duchess.

· Elizabeth Lowry's The Bellini Madonna is published by Quercus.
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Rereading: Did Robert Browning do away with Elizabeth Barrett?

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When Henry James met Browning in the 1870s, he was perplexed and not a little horrified at the apparent difference between Browning's personality and the sophisticated, finely tuned sensibility he'd been led to expect from the poetry.

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Nick Ut / Associated Press Portrait of Nick Ut

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Napalm Girl - The Controversy Of War Photography I ICONIC PHOTOGRAPHS #4

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In 1972 photo journalist Nick Ut took this image of Napalm Girl, the young Kim Phuc, fleeing a napalm attack during the Vietnam War. The Picture also known as "The Terror of War" or "Accidental Napalm" shows how her body was disfigured from napalm and her hometown completely destroyed.

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Dr Stephanie Forward explains the key ideas and influences of Romanticism, and considers their place in the work of writers including Wordsworth, Blake, P B Shelley and Keats.

Today the word 'romantic' evokes images of love and sentimentality, but the term 'Romanticism' has a much wider meaning. It covers a range of developments in art, literature, music and philosophy, spanning the late 18th and early 19th centuries. The 'Romantics' would not have used the term themselves: the label was applied retrospectively, from around the middle of the 19th century.

In 1762 Jean-Jacques Rousseau declared in The Social Contract: 'Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.' During the Romantic period major transitions took place in society, as dissatisfied intellectuals and artists challenged the Establishment. In England, the Romantic poets were at the very heart of this movement. They were inspired by a desire for liberty, and they denounced the exploitation of the poor. There was an emphasis on the importance of the individual; a conviction that people should follow ideals rather than imposed conventions and rules. The Romantics renounced the rationalism and order associated with the preceding Enlightenment era, stressing the importance of expressing authentic personal feelings. They had a real sense of responsibility to their fellow men: they felt it was their duty to use their poetry to inform and inspire others, and to change society.

Revolution

When reference is made to Romantic verse, the poets who generally spring to mind are William Blake (1757-1827), William Wordsworth (1770-1850), Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), George Gordon, 6th Lord Byron (1788-1824), Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) and John Keats (1795-1821). These writers had an intuitive feeling that they were 'chosen' to guide others through the tempestuous period of change.

This was a time of physical confrontation; of violent rebellion in parts of Europe and the New World. Conscious of anarchy across the English Channel, the British government feared similar outbreaks. The early Romantic poets tended to be supporters of the French Revolution, hoping that it would bring about political change; however, the bloody Reign of Terror shocked them profoundly and affected their views. In his youth William Wordsworth was drawn to the Republican cause in France, until he gradually became disenchanted with the Revolutionaries.

Painting of the storming of the Bastille, 1789

Depiction of the storming of the Bastille, Paris - the event that triggered the French Revolution.

Usage terms © De Agostini Picture Library
Held by© De Agostini Picture Library

The imagination

The Romantics were not in agreement about everything they said and did: far from it! Nevertheless, certain key ideas dominated their writings. They genuinely thought that they were prophetic figures who could interpret reality. The Romantics highlighted the healing power of the imagination, because they truly believed that it could enable people to transcend their troubles and their circumstances. Their creative talents could illuminate and transform the world into a coherent vision, to regenerate mankind spiritually. In A Defence of Poetry (1821), Shelley elevated the status of poets: 'They measure the circumference and sound the depths of human nature with a comprehensive and all-penetrating spirit...'. He declared that 'Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world'. This might sound somewhat pretentious, but it serves to convey the faith the Romantics had in their poetry.

Manuscript of P B Shelley's 'The Masque of Anarchy'

P B Shelley's manuscript of 'The Masque of Anarchy', 1819, was a reaction of furious outrage at the Peterloo Massacre. An avowedly political poem, it praises the non-violence of the Manchester protesters when faced with the aggression of the state.

The marginalised and oppressed

Wordsworth was concerned about the elitism of earlier poets, whose highbrow language and subject matter were neither readily accessible nor particularly relevant to ordinary people. He maintained that poetry should be democratic; that it should be composed in 'the language really spoken by men' (Preface to Lyrical Ballads [1802]). For this reason, he tried to give a voice to those who tended to be marginalised and oppressed by society: the rural poor; discharged soldiers; 'fallen' women; the insane; and children.

Blake was radical in his political views, frequently addressing social issues in his poems and expressing his concerns about the monarchy and the church. His poem ' London ' draws attention to the suffering of chimney-sweeps, soldiers and prostitutes.

Lyrical Ballads: 1800 edition

In the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, Wordsworth writes that he has 'taken as much pains to avoid [poetic diction] as others ordinarily take to produce it', trying instead to 'bring [his] language near to the language of men'.

William Blake's Songs of Innocence and of Experience

'London' from William Blake's Songs of Innocence and Experience, 1794. Blake emphasises the injustice of late 18th-century society and the desperation of the poor.

Children, nature and the sublime

For the world to be regenerated, the Romantics said that it was necessary to start all over again with a childlike perspective. They believed that children were special because they were innocent and uncorrupted, enjoying a precious affinity with nature. Romantic verse was suffused with reverence for the natural world. In Coleridge's 'Frost at Midnight' (1798) the poet hailed nature as the 'Great universal Teacher!' Recalling his unhappy times at Christ's Hospital School in London, he explained his aspirations for his son, Hartley, who would have the freedom to enjoy his childhood and appreciate his surroundings. The Romantics were inspired by the environment, and encouraged people to venture into new territories - both literally and metaphorically. In their writings they made the world seem a place with infinite, unlimited potential.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, A Walking Tour of Cumbria

In August 1802, Samuel Taylor Coleridge set out from his home at Greta Hall, Keswick, for a week's solo walking-tour in the nearby Cumbrian mountains. He kept detailed notes of the landscape around him, drawing rough sketches and maps. These notes and sketches are in Notebook No 2, one of 64 notebooks Coleridge kept between 1794 and his death.

A key idea in Romantic poetry is the concept of the sublime. This term conveys the feelings people experience when they see awesome landscapes, or find themselves in extreme situations which elicit both fear and admiration. For example, Shelley described his reaction to stunning, overwhelming scenery in the poem 'Mont Blanc' (1816).

Burke's A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful

In this 1757 essay, the philosopher Edmund Burke discusses the attraction of the immense, the terrible and the uncontrollable. The work had a profound influence on the Romantic poets.

The second-generation Romantics

Blake, Wordsworth and Coleridge were first-generation Romantics, writing against a backdrop of war. Wordsworth, however, became increasingly conservative in his outlook: indeed, second-generation Romantics, such as Byron, Shelley and Keats, felt that he had 'sold out' to the Establishment. In the suppressed Dedication to (1819-1824) Byron criticised the Poet Laureate, Robert Southey, and the other 'Lakers', Wordsworth and Coleridge (all three lived in the Lake District). Byron also vented his spleen on the English Foreign Secretary, Viscount Castlereagh, denouncing him as an 'intellectual eunuch', a 'bungler' and a 'tinkering slavemaker' (stanzas 11 and 14). Although the Romantics stressed the importance of the individual, they also advocated a commitment to mankind. Byron became actively involved in the struggles for Italian nationalism and the liberation of Greece from Ottoman rule.

Notorious for his sexual exploits, and dogged by debt and scandal, Byron quitted Britain in 1816. Lady Caroline Lamb famously declared that he was 'Mad, bad and dangerous to know.' Similar accusations were pointed at Shelley. Nicknamed 'Mad Shelley' at Eton, he was sent down from Oxford for advocating atheism. He antagonised the Establishment further by his criticism of the monarchy, and by his immoral lifestyle.

Letter from Lord Byron about his memoirs, 29 October 1819

In this letter to his publisher, John Murray, Byron notes the poor reception of the first two cantos of Don Juan, but states that he has written a hundred stanzas of a third canto. He also states that he is leaving his memoirs to his friend George Moore, to be read after his death, but that this text does not include details of his love affairs.

Female poets

Female poets also contributed to the Romantic movement, but their strategies tended to be more subtle and less controversial. Although Dorothy Wordsworth (1771-1855) was modest about her writing abilities, she produced poems of her own; and her journals and travel narratives certainly provided inspiration for her brother. Women were generally limited in their prospects, and many found themselves confined to the domestic sphere; nevertheless, they did manage to express or intimate their concerns. For example, Mary Alcock (c. 1742-1798) penned 'The Chimney Sweeper's Complaint'. In 'The Birth-Day', Mary Robinson (1758-1800) highlighted the enormous discrepancy between life for the rich and the poor. Gender issues were foregrounded in 'Indian Woman's Death Song' by Felicia Hemans (1793-1835).

The Gothic

Reaction against the Enlightenment was reflected in the rise of the Gothic novel. The most popular and well-paid 18th-century novelist, Ann Radcliffe (1764-1823), specialised in 'the hobgoblin-romance'. Her fiction held particular appeal for frustrated middle-class women who experienced a vicarious frisson of excitement when they read about heroines venturing into awe-inspiring landscapes. She was dubbed 'Mother Radcliffe' by Keats, because she had such an influence on Romantic poets. The Gothic genre contributed to Coleridge's Christabel (1816) and Keats's 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci' (1819). Mary Shelley (1797-1851) blended realist, Gothic and Romantic elements to produce her masterpiece Frankenstein (1818), in which a number of Romantic aspects can be identified. She quotes from Coleridge's Romantic poem The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere. In the third chapter Frankenstein refers to his scientific endeavours being driven by his imagination. The book raises worrying questions about the possibility of 'regenerating' mankind; but at several points the world of nature provides inspiration and solace.

The Mysteries of Udolpho

The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794) by Ann Radcliffe was one of the most popular and influential Gothic novels of the late 18th century.

The Byronic hero

Romanticism set a trend for some literary stereotypes. Byron's Childe Harold (1812-1818) described the wanderings of a young man, disillusioned with his empty way of life. The melancholy, dark, brooding, rebellious 'Byronic hero', a solitary wanderer, seemed to represent a generation, and the image lingered. The figure became a kind of role model for youngsters: men regarded him as 'cool' and women found him enticing! Byron died young, in 1824, after contracting a fever. This added to the 'appeal'. Subsequently a number of complex and intriguing heroes appeared in novels: for example, Heathcliff in Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights and Edward Rochester in Charlotte Brontë's (both published in 1847).

Illustrations to Wuthering Heights by Clare Leighton

The Byronic hero influenced Emily Brontë's portrayal of Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. This 1931 edition of Brontë's novel is illustrated with wood engravings by Clare Leighton.

Contraries

Romanticism offered a new way of looking at the world, prioritising imagination above reason. There was, however, a tension at times in the writings, as the poets tried to face up to life's seeming contradictions. Blake published Songs of Innocence and of Experience, Shewing the Two Contrary States of the Human Soul (1794). Here we find two different perspectives on religion in 'The Lamb' and 'The Tyger'. The simple vocabulary and form of 'The Lamb' suggest that God is the beneficent, loving Good Shepherd. In stark contrast, the creator depicted in ' The Tyger' is a powerful blacksmith figure. The speaker is stunned by the exotic, frightening animal, posing the rhetorical question: 'Did he who made the Lamb make thee?' In The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (1790-1793) Blake asserted: 'Without contraries is no progression' (stanza 8).

The Marriage of Heaven and Hell by William Blake

William Blake was deeply critical of traditional religion but greatly admired John Milton. The Marriage of Heaven and Hell includes references to Milton and Paradise Lost and the book ends with 'A Song of Liberty', which calls for revolt against the tyrannies of church and state.

Wordsworth's ' Tintern Abbey' (1798) juxtaposed moments of celebration and optimism with lamentation and regret. Keats thought in terms of an opposition between the imagination and the intellect. In a letter to his brothers, in December 1817, he explained what he meant by the term ' Negative Capability ': 'that is when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason' (22 December). Keats suggested that it is impossible for us to find answers to the eternal questions we all have about human existence. Instead, our feelings and imaginations enable us to recognise Beauty, and it is Beauty that helps us through life's bleak moments. Life involves a delicate balance between times of pleasure and pain. The individual has to learn to accept both aspects: '"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all/Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know' ('Ode on a Grecian Urn' [1819]).

Manuscript of 'Ode on a Grecian Urn' by John Keats

'Ode on a Grecian Urn' from a manuscript copy believed to be in the hand of George Keats, the poet's brother.

The premature deaths of Byron, Shelley and Keats contributed to their mystique. As time passed they attained iconic status, inspiring others to make their voices heard. The Romantic poets continue to exert a powerful influence on popular culture. Generations have been inspired by their promotion of self-expression, emotional intensity, personal freedom and social concern.

Footnotes

[1] Percy Bysshe Shelley, Shelley's poetry and prose: authoritative texts, criticisms, ed. by Donald H. Reiman and Sharon B. Powers (New York; London: Norton, c.1977), p.485.

Dr Stephanie Forward is a lecturer, specializing in English Literature. She has been involved in two important collaborative projects between the Open University and the BBC: The Big Read, and the television series The Romantics, and was a contributor to the British Library's Discovering Literature: Romantics and Victorians site and to the 20th century site. Stephanie has an extensive publications record. She also edited the anthology Dreams, Visions and Realities; co-edited (with Ann Heilmann) Sex, Social Purity and Sarah Grand, and penned the script for the C.D. Blenheim Palace: The Churchills and their Palace.

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Dr Stephanie Forward explains the key ideas and influences of Romanticism, and considers their place in the work of writers including Wordsworth, Blake, P B Shelley and Keats.

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Looking at the manuscript of Blake's 'London'

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Looking at the manuscript of Blake's 'London'

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The Battle of Balaclava was fought October 25, 1854, during the Crimean War (1853-1856) and was part of the larger Siege of Sevastopol. Having landed at Kalamita Bay in September, the Allied army had commenced a slow advance on Sevastopol. When the Allies elected to lay siege to the city rather than mount a direct assault, the British found themselves responsible for defending the eastern approaches to the area including the key port of Balaclava.

Lacking sufficient men for this task, they soon came under attack from Prince Aleksandr Menshikov's forces. Advancing under the command of General Pavel Liprandi, the Russians were initially able to push back British and Ottoman forces near Balaclava. This advance was finally halted by a small infantry force and the Heavy Brigade of the Cavalry Division. The battle ended with the famed charge of the Light Brigade which came about due to a series of misinterpreted orders.

Fast Facts: Battle of Balaclava

Background

On September 5, 1854, the combined British and French fleets departed the Ottoman port of Varna (in present-day Bulgaria) and moved towards the Crimean Peninsula. Nine days later, Allied forces began landing on the beaches of Kalamita Bay approximately 33 miles north of the port of Sevastopol. Over the next several days, 62,600 men and 137 guns came ashore. As this force commenced its march south, Prince Aleksandr Menshikov sought to halt the enemy at the Alma River. Meeting at the Battle of the Alma on September 20, the Allies won a victory over the Russians and continued their advance south towards Sevastopol.

Though the British commander, Lord Raglan, favored a swift pursuit of the beaten enemy, his French counterpart, Marshal Jacques St. Arnaud, preferred a more sedate pace (Map). Slowly moving south, their tardy progress gave Menshikov time to prepare defenses and re-form his beaten army. Passing inland of Sevastopol, the Allies sought to approach the city from the south as naval intelligence suggested the defenses in this area were weaker than those in the north.

This move was endorsed by noted engineer Lieutenant General John Fox Burgoyne, son of General John Burgoyne, who was serving as an advisor to Raglan. Enduring a difficult march, Raglan and St. Arnaud elected to lay siege rather than directly assault the city. Though unpopular with their subordinates, this decision saw work begin on siege lines. To support their operations, the French established a base on the west coast at Kamiesh, while the British took Balaclava in the south.

The Allies Establish Themselves

By occupying Balaclava, Raglan committed the British to defending the Allies' right flank, a mission that he lacked the men to accomplish effectively. Located outside of the main Allied lines, work began on providing Balaclava with its own defensive network. To the north of the city were heights which descended into the South Valley. Along the northern edge of the valley were the Causeway Heights across which ran the Woronzoff Road which provided a vital link to the siege operations at Sevastopol.

To protect the road, Turkish troops began building a series of redoubts beginning with Redoubt No. 1 in the east on Canrobert's Hill. Above the heights was the North Valley which was bounded by the Fedioukine Hills to the north and the Sapouné Heights to the west. To defend this area, Raglan had only Lord Lucan's Cavalry Division, which was camped at the western end of the valleys, the 93rd Highlanders, and a contingent of Royal Marines. In the weeks since Alma, Russian reserves had reached the Crimea and Menshikov began planning a strike against the Allies.

The Russians Rebound

Having evacuated his army east as the Allies approached, Menshikov entrusted the defense of Sevastopol to Admirals Vladimir Kornilov and Pavel Nakhimov. A savvy move, this allowed the Russian general to continue maneuvering against the enemy while also receiving reinforcements. Gathering around 25,000 men, Menshikov instructed General Pavel Liprandi to move to strike Balaclava from the east.

Capturing the village of Chorgun on October 18, Liprandi was able to reconnoiter the Balaclava defenses. Developing his plan of attack, the Russian commander intended for a column to take Kamara in the east, while another attacked the eastern end of Causeway Heights and nearby Canrobert's Hill. These assaults were to be supported by Lieutenant General Ivan Ryzhov's cavalry while a column under Major General Zhabokritsky moved onto the Fedioukine Heights.

Commencing his attack early on October 25, Liprandi's forces were able to take Kamara and overwhelmed the defenders of Redoubt No. 1 on Canrobert's Hill. Pressing forward, they succeeded in taking Redoubts Nos. 2, 3, and 4, while inflicting heavy losses on their Turkish defenders. Witnessing the battle from his headquarters on the Sapouné Heights, Raglan ordered the 1st and 4th Divisions to leave the lines at Sevastopol to aid the 4,500 defenders at Balaclava. General François Canrobert, commanding the French army, also sent reinforcements including the Chasseurs d'Afrique.

Clash of the Cavalry

Seeking to exploit his success, Liprandi ordered forward Ryzhov's cavalry. Advancing across the North Valley with between 2,000 to 3,000 men, Ryzhov crested the Causeway Heights before spotting Brigadier General James Scarlett's Heavy (Cavalry) Brigade moving across his front. He also saw the Allied infantry position, consisting of the 93rd Highlands and the remnants of the Turkish units, in front of the village of Kadikoi. Detaching 400 men of the Ingermanland Hussars, Ryzhov ordered them to clear the infantry.

Riding down, the hussars were met with a furious defense by the "Thin Red Line" of the 93rd. Turning the enemy back after a few volleys, the Highlanders held their ground. Scarlett, spotting Ryzhov's main force on his left, wheeled his horsemen and attacked. Halting his troops, Ryzhov met the British charge and worked to envelop them with his larger numbers. In a furious fight, Scarlett's men were able to drive back the Russians, forcing them to retreat back over the heights and up the North Valley ( Map).

Retreating across the front of the Light Brigade, its commander, Lord Cardigan, did not attack as he believed his orders from Lucan required him to hold his position. As a result, a golden opportunity was missed. Ryzhov's men halted at the east end of the valley and reformed behind a battery of eight guns. Though his cavalry had been repulsed, Liprandi had infantry and artillery on the eastern part of the Causeway Heights as well as Zhabokritsky's men and guns on the Fedioukine Hills.

Desiring to retake the initiative, Raglan issued Lucan a confusing order to attack on two fronts with infantry support. As the infantry had not arrived, Raglan did not advance but did deploy the Light Brigade to cover the North Valley, while the Heavy Brigade protected the South Valley. Increasingly impatient at Lucan's lack of activity, Raglan dictated another vague order instructing the cavalry to attack around 10:45 AM.

Delivered by hot-headed Captain Louis Nolan, Lucan was confused by Raglan's order. Growing angry, Nolan insolently stated that Raglan desired an attack and began indiscriminately pointing up the North Valley towards Ryzhov's guns rather than to the Causeway Heights. Angered by Nolan's behavior, Lucan sent him away rather than question him further.

Charge of the Light Brigade

Riding to Cardigan, Lucan indicated that Raglan desired him to attack up the valley. Cardigan questioned the order as there were artillery and enemy forces on three sides of the line of advance. To this Lucan replied, "But Lord Raglan will have it. We have no choice but to obey." Mounting up, the Light Brigade moved off down the valley as Raglan, able to see the Russian positions, watched in horror. Charging forward, the Light Brigade was hammered by the Russian artillery losing nearly half its strength before it reached Ryzhov's guns.

Following to their left, the Chasseurs d'Afrique swept along Fedioukine Hills driving off the Russians, while the Heavy Brigade moved in their wake until Lucan halted them to avoid taking more losses. Battling around the guns, the Light Brigade drove off some of the Russian cavalry, but was compelled to retreat when they realized that no support was forthcoming. Nearly surrounded, the survivors fought their back up the valley while under fire from the heights. The losses incurred in the charge prevented any additional action by the Allies for the rest of the day.

The Battle of Balaclava saw the Allies suffer 615 killed, wounded, and captured, while the Russians lost 627. Prior to the charge, the Light Brigade possessed a mounted strength of 673 men. This was reduced to 195 after the battle, with 247 killed and wounded and the loss of 475 horses. Short on men, Raglan could not risk further assaults on the heights and they remained in Russian hands.

Though not the complete victory that Liprandi had hoped for, the battle severely restricted Allied movement to and from Sevastopol. The fighting also saw the Russians assume a position closer to the Allied lines. In November, Prince Menshikov would use this advanced location to launch another attack that resulted in the Battle of Inkerman. This saw the Allies win a key victory that effectively broke the fighting spirit of the Russian army and put 24 of the 50 battalions engaged out of action.

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Into the Valley of Death: Battle of Balaclava

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The Battle of Balaclava was fought October 25, 1854, during the Crimean War (1853-1856) and was part of the larger Siege of Sevastopol. Having landed at Kalamita Bay in September, the Allied army had commenced a slow advance on Sevastopol.

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Attitudes to shell shock – Understanding Shell Shock (4/4)

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For French NCO G. Fenetrier, trench life was similarly monotonous.
Our life was this: from the beginning of the day until the night, we were eating - sometimes some bread, chocolate, cheese - and smoking, firing at the Germans. Sometimes we received a few bombs. And that was the life. Sometimes you'd go down if they'd bring it to the end of the trench, you see, because there were different communication trenches coming in, you see, and you'd go to the end and help to carry the things and then the orderly man would distribute them, you see. As you carried it along, whatever the meal was or anything of that, the orderly man did the dishing out. Except at night when we had hot soup at 12 o'clock, that was in the winter - midnight - we had hot soup in the winter. Pea soup, always pea soup, and it was always cold. But it was hot when you drank it because there was so much pepper in it!
Meal times were an important part of a soldier's day. Ernest Jones, who served in Salonika, recalled how food was issued to the large numbers of front line troops.
Oh, that's a sore point: rations were very poor. The rations when you went up in the trenches and you couldn't get rations up! You'd try to brew tea and you couldn't, it was always cold and probably the water was all tasted of petrol because it came up in petrol tins - which were never cleaned out properly - and the tea was half petrol and cold. The food, they were supposed to give you some bacon, well you were lucky if you got a piece of bacon it was all cold and greasy. I mean you couldn't get any. If you were out of the line they'd cook some bacon and you could, they'd let you have - you'd get a piece of bread and dip it in, that was that, or you could have a tiny bit of bacon without dipping your bread in, that was all you got. And the cooks, probably if a man was a chartered accountant they'd make him a cook or something like that because it was always square pegs in round holes, you know. They couldn't cook; we used to say they couldn't boil water without spoiling it or something. The food was terrible.
Harold Mayhall of the Durham Light Infantry didn't have the best memories of his Western Front diet.

But Arthur Smith of the Royal Fusiliers enjoyed the food that the orderly handed out.

He divided it up between the officers, the officers' servants and then the platoons. And then you would get possibly a tin of bully beef between the four or five of you. You might get some pork and beans which we, being new, liked very much. Not much pork, only a sliver of fat but lots of beans. But we, being new to it, loved them and gobbled it down marvellously. We thought that was wonderful.
Well I mean, just a question as to what your men fished out but occasionally you would get a petrol can of water. The water had a pretty smelly taste about it and often the shell-hole water was better than that. We generally managed to shave with a safety razor and often enough if you'd had some tea and there were the dregs of the tea was about all you had to - the warmest water you could get to use for lather.
There was often a shortage of fresh water.George Harbottle outlined the difficulties this caused.
Rum ration every morning, in an 18-pounder shell cap protector, the size of an egg cup. It was brass with a piece of wire on from an 18-pounder shell and that was your measure, about an egg cupful. They'd measure this out and you'd have to drink it while you was before him. But I used to keep, I couldn't drink mine, it was too strong - 'cos I never drank - I used to keep mine for my tea. Cigarette ration was I think 40 every fortnight, Flag cigarettes they were, Woodbine. I didn't smoke many because I used to save mine and swap it for food with the chaps that really went mad for cigarettes, for a smoke. Oh there's no doubt about it, very soothing a cigarette.
As well as food and water, soldiers were given other very welcome rations - described by British private Bill Smedley.
You slept by sitting on the firestep. You'd try and find a dry sandbag to sit on and you'd sit there with, you'd put your overcoat over your head and try and make a tent of it. And you'd huddle down under that just sitting down. But it was a very, very broken sleep.
Sleeping in the trenches could be a challenge - as Charles Quinnell found out.
I was in the trenches at Le Transloy, and I suddenly realised that I began to itch and swing my clothes round my body where I was, you know, trying to... and of course you'd just swung your clothes round your body and you'd scratch and scratch and scratch. And the men that had been out there longer than I had were used to it, you see. Well they always said that the lice was more active on a new body, a fresh body, if you understand what I mean, than they were on people that'd had the lice for a long time! You see they were most destructive things, lice were. And I think that was one of the biggest humbugs of the British Army, lice in the trenches.
Living in the unsanitary trenches, soldiers soon suffered from the effects of body lice. Percy Webb of the Dorsetshire Regiment remembered the first time he felt them.
Rats were common, very common, you didn't dare leave a bit of food about or else there'd be swarms of rats round you. And all the time you didn't attack them, they didn't attack you. But on one occasion where we got a bayonet and stuck one; needless to say we got out of that place quick! There were thousands of rats, must've been thousands, the number I couldn't count them - didn't stop to count 'em! Didn't matter what part of the line you was in, you'd got these rats. One of our men who was asleep, and had his forehead all bitten by them. Oh yes, he had to go into hospital special for it.
The troops shared the trenches with huge numbers of rats, attracted by dead bodies and food waste. James Harvey was one of many plagued by them.
Always creating problems they were, they'd eat the outside of a man's ration bag, his iron rations that was given to you to survive on if you didn't get any grub anywhere. They'd be through the bag and the biscuits as well, they'd eat the lot. That bloody great thing'd come up there and stand up on its back legs and gnaw something like that, you know. I used to line the sights up and give them one round of ball, bang! Blow 'em to nothing.
Thomas McIndoe had a solution to the vermin problem.
Then we were transferred to the front of Champagne where we had to suffer from rain, mud, louses and rats. The trenches were very poor, half destroyed. I remember that a part of the parapet was made of - beside the sacks of sand - of dead soldiers. Our canteen was rather far away, about three miles and we had to wait every evening for our meals, which came usually cold the only way we could warm it is to use a candle. The men sitting in the line were not so well off as us, as we were, because we were on the move. But a man sitting in a trench is there and he has very limited movement and we had cases of men coming down with a temperature. And I noticed that the medical officer marked them all with the same letters - PUO: Pyrexia of unknown origin - that was just a fever, you see. And they couldn't attribute it to any particular source, but of course it was the conditions, no doubt, that caused it. The standard symptoms of a fever: they all had temperatures, they all had temperatures of around about a hundred. And of course they went down as casualties, to hospital.
Serving with the French Army, Ernest Karganoff found trench life as unpleasant as his British counterparts.
I can honestly say that nothing that was ever we were made to do ever gave us any feeling of resentment. We knew we were there to do that job and our patriotism, we were so fond of our country - everybody - and we were like a lot of brothers together. You wouldn't think, although we were all come from different families and that and we'd hear all them talk about their families and that. But we were ourselves was just like a lot of brothers, all the time. We were just like a band of brothers.
Unsurprisingly, the poor conditions often led to ill-health among the troops. William Collins, of the Royal Army Medical Corps, dealt with many instances of what became known as trench fever.

Despite the hardships, trench life brought men together. William Holmes fondly recalled the comradeship that developed in his part of the line.

Voices of the First World War is a podcast series that reveals the impact the war had on everyone who lived through it through the stories of the men and women who were there.

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Voices of the First World War: Trench Life

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Episode 20: For most people, the phrase 'First World War' conjures up images of deep, waterlogged trenches and mud-spattered soldiers. But what was trench life really like? In this episode, those who survived it describe their experiences.

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REGENERATION (1997)  - Owen meets Sassoon

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Guardsman Tromans Simon Armitage's 'Remains'

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What would Blake and Shelley think of this?

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What would Blake and Shelley think of this?

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The slow decline of royal families

When Harry and Meghan, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, announced their decision to step away as senior royals and strike out on their own, the British royal family joined the ranks of other royal families facing a changing reality. Months before Harry and Meghan reached their compromise with Queen Elizabeth II, the Swedish royal family had stripped certain family members of royal titles and cut them from the royal payroll. Meanwhile in Spain, members of the royal family have been removed from the succession after receiving prison sentences for corruption and tax fraud. And in Japan, the future of the royal family is in peril because of outdated succession laws that discriminate against its female members.

Forty-four of the world's 195 countries are monarchies. As a result of how the British Empire dissolved itself, 16 of these 44 have Queen Elizabeth II as their Head of State. With the exceptions of Saudi Arabia, Brunei, Oman, Eswatini, and the Vatican, all monarchies are constitutional monarchies, which means that the sovereign is a figurehead with limited political influence and power. During the 20th century, a newly created country could become either a republic or a monarchy. Israel, Lebanon, and Poland are examples of the former. Norway, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and Spain are examples of the latter. At the same time, old monarchies became republics, often by force, with Cambodia bucking the trend and reinstating its monarchy in 1993. Two decades into the 21st century, the idea of a country declaring itself to be a monarchy seems almost alien. Has the monarchy as a system of government become obsolete?

The tradition of a royal person ruling a society can be traced at least as far back as the earliest state formations in the Middle East. During the 4th millennium BCE, the rulers of the Mesopotamian civilization of Sumer declared themselves kings and arranged for their sons to inherit their positions. Throughout the millennia that followed, monarchies reigned supreme as the preferred system of government, the Greek city states (except for Sparta), the Roman Republic, and the Commonwealth under Oliver Cromwell being a few notable exceptions to confirm the rule.

Monarchies as a system of government began to fall out of favor in Europe during the 18th century when the movement known as the Enlightenment put the age-old connection between religion, politics, and social hierarchies under scrutiny. Out of these debates grew the oldest and still-existing political ideology of liberalism.

Liberalism developed as a response to the absolutist monarchies that had dominated the European continent for the past few centuries. Absolutism describes a system of government based on a monarchy dominated and controlled by the sovereign. It developed from the 16th century onwards; it, too, in response to what came before, namely the monarchy of the Middle Ages where the sovereign's powers were counterbalanced by a council of nobles. King Louis XIV of France (1638-1715) perhaps described absolutism best when he quipped, "L'etat, c'est moi," or "I am the State."

According to liberalism, all citizens are equal with the right to self-government and self-expression. In a time dominated by absolutist monarchies ruling over vast cross-continental empires and supported by either the Catholic Church or a Protestant State Church, these claims proved to be explosive. The first liberal revolution was the American Revolution in 1776, soon followed by the French in 1789. Having rid themselves of George III and Louis XVI, respectively, the Americans and the French reconstituted themselves as republics, drawing inspiration from their forebears of Antiquity, the Greek city states, and Rome, and establishing a government for the people by the people without any religious influences. This is what we today call liberal democracy.

Together with the equally disruptive ideology of nationalism, liberalism piggybacked on the reach of the European empires across the globe and ignited independence movements and revolutions in places such as Haiti against the island's slave owners, the Philippines and Latin America against the Spanish, Africa and Asia against the French and the British. At the dawn of the 20th century, socialism joined the group of disruptive ideologies. The result was the toppling of even more monarchies, this time in Russia, China, and Ethiopia, just to name a few. The chaos created by World War I brought down the German, Austro-Hungarian, and Ottoman Empires, all of them almost exclusively replaced by either liberal or social-democratic republics.

As history demonstrates, monarchies and egalitarian-based societies are the anti-thesis of one another. Having a sovereign with total powers is incompatible with the people also having their say. From this inherent antagonism grew the system of government of the constitutional monarchy where the sovereign is stripped of all its powers but remains on the throne. The most drastic example of this change would be Japan, where Emperor Hirohito (1901-1989) went from being a near-divine absolute monarch to being a mortal figure head within the span of only a couple of years following the end of World War II.

The key to a monarchy's survival is its ability to adapt to the changes of the times. The monarchies that still exist have acknowledged this reality, whether it's the British monarchy letting Harry and Meghan go, or the Swedish monarchy acting preemptively to avoid a constitutional debate over its right to exist, or, indeed, the royals of Saudi Arabia allowing women to drive and get a passport without the permission of a male legal guardian. Because at the back of the mind of each king and queen, regardless of their powers being constitutional or absolute, lies the knowledge that in a world that is becoming increasingly democratic, there is always the option of a republic.
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The slow decline of royal families When Harry and Meghan, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, announced their decision to step away as senior royals and strike out on their own, the British royal family joined the ranks of other royal families facing a changing reality.

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The novel explores the experience of British army officers being treated for shell shock during World War I at Craiglockhart War Hospital in Edinburgh.

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regeneration (regeneration trilogy) by barker

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Regeneration (Regeneration Trilogy) by Barker, Pat (2008) Paperback

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Buy Regeneration (Regeneration Trilogy) by Barker, Pat (2008) Paperback by (ISBN: ) from Amazon's Book Store. Everyday low prices and free delivery on eligible orders.

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Look on my works, ye mighty ... Ozymandias statue found in mud

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Archaeologists believe eight-metre statue found in Cairo slum is of Pharaoh Ramses II, who ruled Egypt in 13th century BC

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How is this music video similar to Blake’s ‘London’?

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How is this music video similar to Blake’s ‘London’?

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What do you think the message of the song and video is?

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Ireland's Troubles 'Storm on the Island'

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t was when Danny Fitzsimons hid in a wheelie bin that his family began to suspect something was wrong. Danny, 34, had been drunk and abusive at a family event, circling the house and banging on the windows. "Every now and again, the bin lid came up a tiny bit and then went down again," says his stepmother, Liz.

She looks at Fitzsimons' father, Eric, who has since developed dementia. We are sitting in the living room of their smart bungalow just outside Rochdale; they are both retired, former PE teachers. "Eric said, 'Come on, Danny, I'll take you home' and he said no. So Eric waited till Danny set off, and thought he'd better make sure he got home. Eric didn't get back till 3am. I said, 'Where have you been?' He said, 'I've been following Danny. He's been playing bloody soldiers all the way home.' He was doubling back, hiding behind walls. We now know that this is hyper-vigilance, but we didn't at the time."

Fitzsimons had joined up at 16, excelled in training, saw active service in Kosovo, Afghanistan and Iraq, and won a distinction as a sniper. In 2004, after eight years, he applied to have his contract extended, but was discharged. "They said he had anxiety disorder," Liz says. What did the army do to treat it? "Nothing that I'm aware of."

When he returned home, Fitzsimons was a different character. He had gone into the army full of hope (his mantra was the Farm song All Together Now) and came out full of hate. Liz recalls a time when he was left with his younger cousins. "He said to the kids, 'This is what you do to niggers: get them on the floor and stamp on their head.'" Where had that come from? "The army, I think. He wasn't racist when he went in."

Fitzsimons began to get in trouble with the law. He served nine months in prison for assault (his defence was that he thought he was being followed), was convicted for firing a flare gun over the heads of teenagers climbing on his roof, and was charged with a racist assault.

In May 2008, he was diagnosed with combat-related post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) by a court-appointed doctor. In June 2009, Dr Jameel Hussain wrote a psychiatric report, in which he said of Fitzsimons: "He gave a clear description of nightmares, vivid dreams, visual flashbacks, and he can also smell burnt flesh and feel the smell of death... At times he would be afraid to sleep because of the nightmares he was having. He also described... an example of tensing up when he saw hazard warning lights on a vehicle. He explained that in Iraq, vehicles loaded with explosive devices only had their hazard warning lights on."

When Fitzsimons applied for a job in Iraq with the security firm Armour Group Security, owned by G4S, he didn't tell his family. At the time, he was on bail and not allowed out of the UK. Somehow, none of this was enough to deter G4S from employing him, in August 2009. He had been in Iraq for just 36 hours when he shot dead two colleagues, Scottish security guard Paul McGuigan and Australian Darren Hoare, after a night of heavy drinking. Fitzsimons claimed it was self-defence, but he was convicted of the two murders and sentenced to 20 years in jail, in Iraq. It emerged that G4S had not checked his records.

Liz is desperate to bring Danny home to a British prison. She shows us photographs of him as a giddy young boy, as a proud paratrooper, and letters in which he talks about how well he's doing in training. Then more disturbing letters, in which he talks about the horrific things he's seen. Liz describes how they heard about what he did, and it's as if she's telling it for the first time. "Danny's friend, Scott, texted Eric and said, 'I think Danny's in trouble in Iraq.' We didn't even know he'd gone to bloody Iraq. Scott said he thought Danny had killed somebody. I rang Rochdale police and they said, 'Ring the police in London', and when the copper rang back, he said, 'Look at the front page of the Washington Post', and there it was."

Liz blames a military that dismissed Fitzsimons with no follow-up, and a security company that failed to do basic checks. "I rang the army because I wanted to know what to do, and they never even answered me." Fitzsimons was haunted by a recurring image, Liz says. "He was only 18 or 19; he was out on a tour in Kosovo and this little boy, six or seven, would bring them bread and milk. They played football with him and would chat with him, and one day they found the little boy's body in pieces in their water supply. Imagine how you cope with that? They knew it was their fault, because the boy was seen as a collaborator."

Both the Ministry of Defence and the Ministry of Justice agree: there are a worrying number of veterans within the criminal justice system. MoD statistics err on the conservative side, quoting 2,820 veterans in prison in 2009/2010, or around 3.5% of the prison population. In 2009, the National Association of Probation Officers ( Napo) put the figures higher: 8,500 veterans serving sentences in UK prisons, and a further 11,500 on probation or parole. Two out of three ex-soldiers imprisoned in the UK have committed sexual, violent or drug-related crimes, according to the MoD. The research into the relationship between ex-soldiers' PTSD and crime is inconclusive and often contradictory: a Howard League for Penal Reform inquiry in 2011 concluded that there was no link; a Napo report suggested that half of veterans in prison had depression or PTSD (compared with 23% of the male prison population).

"It suits the MoD to minimise the numbers in order to reduce the extent of liability," says Tony Gauvain, a retired colonel, psychotherapist and chairman of the charity PTSD Resolution. "But given the numbers of people suffering symptoms now, and the latency of the condition likely to result in increasing numbers, there would seem to be a determination to avoid admitting there is a problem."

The idea that PTSD can lead to violent crime is embarrassing for the MoD - and potentially costly. Those diagnosed with combat-related PTSD are entitled to a disablement pension, while victims of the crime could also potentially claim compensation. Between 2005 and March 2014, 1,390 claims were awarded under the Armed Forces and Reserve Forces Compensation Scheme for mental disorders (including PTSD) - but this figure could well spiral over the next few years as the army withdraws from Iraq and Afghanistan. To put this into context, in America, 20% of veterans returning from Afghanistan and Iraq have been diagnosed with PTSD; in 2011, 476,514 veterans were treated for it.

Robert Kilgour scares his family, and he often scares himself. He has been imprisoned three times for violent offences. On the last occasion, he almost killed a man - his victim required 100 stitches after Kilgour attacked him with a bottle. We meet at his flat in Edgware, north London. On a table is a photograph of his former wife and his family. Kilgour is tense, on edge. He served in Northern Ireland, Bosnia and the Gulf war, and returned to civilian life in 1993. But everything was different. "I just couldn't keep it under control. I don't want nobody to be close to me. I don't want them to see what I'm going through. I'm 43, and every time I think about what I've gone through, it brings it back. It's still raw. I've seen some of the best people you'll ever meet in life put in the ground, and I've put people in the ground. It's changed me."

Kilgour says some members of his family disown own him - they tell people he's dead. In a way, Kilgour says, they are right - he is dead, or at least the young boy who dreamed of being a boxer is dead. He doesn't act, or react, like a rational man. He frequently gets into fights. "I don't like no one. I don't even like myself. I'm disgusted with some of the things I've done. You take someone's life away, no matter if he's going to kill you, and you don't ever get over it."

He talks about his nightmares; the screaming, the shaking, the sweating. What does he dream about? "That's a bit personal, as it happens." Silence. "No, I'm not going to shy away from nothing. Listen, if this helps anyone..." He stops again. "Mate, if I drop a tear and you laugh at me, I'm going to smack you straight in your fucking face, I swear.

"My best mate Rob was from Norfolk, and we were in Fermanagh, in Northern Ireland. I was the lead in a four-man team, and my mate got shot in front of me. He was ripped apart. He looked like a lump of meat. I didn't even know who it was. I just looked down and carried on firing. That's my recurring dream. I was going to be his best man. He was supposed to be married the following week. I had to go up to Norfolk to see his missus. She said, 'You said you'd look after him.' And she slapped me round the face." He laughs, but a strangled sound comes out. "I was crying my eyes out, and she wouldn't even let me in the door." Does he ever wish he had been the one killed? "So many times."

Bluebell, his jack russell, starts barking. He jumps. "I'm very on point all the time. Anything that happens, the slightest noise, I'm like that. I've got a couple of friends going through this, and they're doing lithium. They can't look straight at me - they're dribbling wrecks."

Rob was killed 20 years ago, but Kilgour didn't begin to process his death until he started getting arrested repeatedly for violent assault. He says it was only when he was in prison that he found out what was wrong with him. "It took a prison officer, an ex-army bod, to come to my cell and say, 'I know you're suffering.' Before that, I just thought it was me. I'm still having counselling eight years on."

After his release, he received counselling from PTSD Resolution. Kilgour blames the army for failing to prepare him for life on the outside. "That's why so many of my colleagues go to prison. It's all due to violence. None of them can keep a relationship."

It's mid-afternoon, and he cracks open a can of cider. He says he's controlled his drinking these days. "I used to drink till I went to sleep. I just wanted blackness. It was like a form of dying." Since he started counselling, he's been in trouble a few times, but he has not been in prison again. He has no trouble finding work as a roofer, but still misses the camaraderie of the army, the sense of purpose and order in his life.

"24795536 Private Kilgour, third battalion Queen's Regiment, sir! You go there," he says, "you stick a bayonet in and stick a couple of rounds in someone's head. I'm signing off now. Right, fuck off. They trained you to be a soldier, a killer, but they don't then train you to be a civilian again. I've done so much for you and you took so much away from me. Why don't you just give me a little bit back? Why don't you give us six months and retrain us?"

More service personnel are returning to civilian life. What is the army doing to prepare them for it? "Nothing," he says. "You've only got a few centres round the country looking after people suffering from combat conditions. I guarantee you, in the next five years you'll hear so many things: an ex-serviceman killed his missus; an ex-serviceman killed two people. It scares me."

Combat Stress HQ in Surrey exudes calm, with its manicured lawns and ex-military personnel quietly going about their business. It is by far the UK's largest mental health charity for armed services veterans. Dr Walter Busuttil, its director of medical services, admits that the MoD has been reluctant, in the past, to recognise PTSD. "Do you know much about the class action held against the MoD in the late 1990s?" he asks. "OK. There was an allegation from Falklands veterans that the military could and should have treated post-traumatic stress disorder. About 400 took the MoD to court, and they lost their class action, but many of them won their cases on an individual basis. After that, the MoD took steps to make sure that didn't really happen again. So it decided to do much more research, which is why the King's Centre for Military Health Research (KCMHR) in London came about."

Research carried out at the KCMHR has shown that army personnel experiencing "mental health problems such as post-traumatic stress disorder" are 4.8 times more likely to report violence on homecoming. What is Busuttil's experience of combat-related PTSD?

"The main thing I hear is, 'I was a bit more irritable when I came back from deployment. I became irritable years later. I lost my temper, I started drinking a bit more. Couldn't sleep... nightmares about military service.' Then specific incidents, particularly worrying about being in a crowd. So it's about feeling hemmed in, irritability and excessive drinking."

Busuttil insists it is simplistic to assume a direct correlation between PTSD and violent crime. "There's an element of self-selection: a lot of these men had been violent before they joined the army. You don't have to become ill to be angry." He is convinced that alcohol is the dominant trigger. But surely, if you've got PTSD, you're more likely to drink? "Absolutely. And combat in itself makes you more aggressive."

Busuttil agrees that the armed services could do more to prepare veterans for civilian life. "We need to look closely at how we manage the transition. It's difficult to engage people at the end of their service - it has to be a managed process from the day they join."

On our way out, the Combat Stress press officer asks for a word: don't forget, he says, that most veterans make a perfectly successful return to civilian life. "We focus on the extreme cases here, but about 20,000 people leave the armed forces every year. Many people make that transition."

t the King's Centre for Military Health Research in London, forensic psychiatrist and clinical lecturer Dr Deirdre MacManus conducted a study of 4,928 UK armed forces personnel deployed in Iraq in 2003. The study found that 12.6% admitted to being violent on their return home, and that the violence was often associated with flashbacks to experiences of combat and trauma. In many cases, the violence expressed itself years after combat.

Like Busuttil, MacManus believes that alcohol and background play a major role. "Yes, PTSD is strongly associated with violence, but the caveat is that it's not as prevalent as other problems, such as alcohol misuse, which again is a strong predictor of violent offending."

She mentions the low MoD figure for PTSD among UK veterans (3.5%), though she admits that the figure rises to 7% among those who have seen active service. As of September 2011, at least 191,000 soldiers have been deployed to Afghanistan and Iraq, so even by MacManus's estimate, in the next decade or so there could be more than 13,000 ex-service personnel returning from combat zones with mental health problems. The question of whether they are diagnosed and how they are treated will become critical.

McManus says military personnel can become fixated with PTSD in a way that isn't helpful. "It's almost like a badge of bravery. If you have PTSD, then it's related to combat. If you have depression and anxiety, well, anybody can get that. I think that's unfortunate, because I see guys coming to me suffering terribly with social anxiety, or depression, but if I give them that diagnosis, they are like, 'Hang on, doc, are you telling me I've not got PTSD?' They're not happy to be told it's 'just' anxiety, and won't engage in treatment."

Rather than concentrate on the numbers of veterans in the prison system, MacManus says we should look at it the other way round. "A lot of those who join up do a lot better [in life] as a result of being in the military. We focus on the negative outcome, but the military employs a lot of people who perhaps no other employer would touch. We know that, among the cohort who enter basic training, there's a high level of deficits in reading and writing ability. And they're probably some of those who do very well as a result of joining the military."

In March this year, about 100 specialists gathered at Portcullis House, opposite the Houses of Parliament, to launch a review into the number of veterans caught up in the criminal justice system. The review was set up by justice minister Chris Grayling and chaired by Conservative MP Rory Stewart (who has had to stand down since he was elected chair of the defence select committee). Impressive papers were read by experts, pointing to multiple issues: a lack of jobs, housing, discipline, training for civilian life; disadvantaged backgrounds; reliance on alcohol and drugs; alienation; unpopular wars; "decompression time", in which armed forces personnel are given 24-48 hours to get drunk in Cyprus before being returned to civilian life. They discussed the possibility of special military courts, such as those introduced in the US; acknowledged that many veterans don't admit they were in the armed forces because they feel they have brought shame on the military; and examined ways in which veterans who offend can be identified early.

The discussion was relevant and well-meaning, but PTSD was not a high priority among the topics raised, and experts representing veterans suffering from combat-related PTSD seemed sceptical. "I think it's going to be another whitewash," Aly Renwick of Veterans in Prison told us.

Renwick was there to champion the case of Jimmy Johnson, who is serving a life sentence for two murders. Johnson has spent the past 29 years in Frankland maximum security prison in Durham, serving his second life sentence. He left the army in 1973 after 10 years' exemplary service. He had been "mentioned in dispatches" for a heroic attempt to save a woman bombed in an underground toilet, but was traumatised by what he saw (" She looked like a large rag doll smashed to pieces "). He never recovered, and bought himself out of the army. He struggled to find work, became depressed and began to drink.

Four months after he signed his discharge papers, he accepted a lift in a van from an acquaintance. The driver slowed down to pass a group of children playing football. There was a loud bang - either the ball being kicked against the van or a brick being thrown - and Johnson flipped. He remembers taking hold of his acquaintance by the arm and neck. What he doesn't remember is grabbing a scaffold pole and beating him to death with it. He served nine years. Eighteen months after his release, he killed another man, beating him to death with a lump hammer. Again, he remembered little more than that he'd done it.

While he was in prison, another inmate, a former doctor, told him he could have PTSD. For many years Johnson has campaigned for greater awareness of the condition within prison. In 1990, he set up the first veterans' therapy group in the UK prison system, and later wrote a Veterans in Prison handbook: a survival guide for those with PTSD. Writing to the Guardian from Frankland, Johnson says that many veterans are unaware that their experience in combat may have left them with mental health problems, which then go ignored and untreated.

Johnson contributed a written piece to this year's review of veterans within the criminal justice system, citing evidence he collated for a 2007 Veterans in Prison survey: out of 120 inmates he interviewed, 12 were ex-servicemen, 10 of whom had served in conflicts. All 10 were serving life sentences for murder.

Johnson said the British criminal justice system should learn from the US, where veterans who are arrested are put through a different legal process, and also given access to psychiatrists, psychologists and lawyers who specialise in combat-related PTSD. Some are tried at a specialist veterans' court, and defence teams can plead mitigating circumstances.

Johnson acknowledged that PTSD can be used by veterans as an excuse for their crime - indeed, there are those who would say Johnson is doing just that - but, he claims, by far the greater risk is that PTSD goes untreated throughout a prison sentence. In his evidence to the review, he wrote: "Shamefully, veterans of war/conflicts have been totally disregarded by the criminal justice system, and conveniently all classed as criminal in the prison population. Terrifyingly, this means that over the years substantial numbers of ex-soldiers who have served life sentences for murder have been released back into the community, the same as they were when they returned home from serving in wars/conflicts ... ticking timebombs."

The MoJ insists it does its best, encouraging prisons to identify former armed forces personnel, then providing access to mental health teams and armed forces charities. Perhaps a measure of their success is that most of the men interviewed for this article were diagnosed while in prison.

When asked whether under-diagnosis of combat-related PTSD by the armed forces and related organisations might lead to a rise in dangerous behaviour, the MoD responded: "We are committed to providing our armed forces personnel and veterans with all the support they need. That is why this government is investing £7.4m [since 2013] to improve mental health services available to veterans and is running campaigns to encourage more of our troops to come forward and seek help. In addition, all personnel undergo a full assessment before leaving the armed forces. If any mental health issues are identified, those individuals are offered further support and continued access to specialist services even after they have left."

ast September, army reservist corporal Harry Killick, who had served in Afghanistan, was jailed after admitting to stealing a rifle and ammunition from his barracks in Brighton. In October 2012, he had turned up at the house of his former girlfriend, Jackie Lothian, and entered the property with a fully-automatic weapon and a round of live ammunition. She was not there, but her brother Jason was. Killick loaded a round of ammunition in front of him and asked where his sister was, but Jason managed to call the police. Killick, who was £20,000 in debt, claimed that he had planned to kill himself. After he pleaded guilty, citing trauma suffered during his tour in mitigation, sentencing was adjourned while judge Anthony Scott-Gall considered non-custodial options.

But then the army produced documents to undermine Killick's case. It stated that Killick had not witnessed colleagues being killed or injured in Afghanistan. The army added that none of the contacts Killick had endured in his six-month tour was "particularly fierce", that his sergeant had given him a glowing reference, and that "at no stage has there ever been any suspicion or suggestion that he might be suffering from PTSD as a result of his experiences in Afghanistan".

Judge Scott-Gall branded Killick a liar, saying he had been accurate and truthful in many areas, but in the critical areas, he was not. He ruled that Killick was suffering from adjustment disorder rather than PTSD, and sentenced him to five years in jail.

In May, Killick wrote to the Guardian from HMP Highdown in Sutton, saying he was involved in 300 foot patrols, two of which involved contact with the enemy, and described his anxiety after an IED exploded, injuring one of his company. When he returned to his parent unit in the UK, he says his behaviour changed dramatically. "I had issues with noise, shouting. I could not watch programmes on television and I was constantly having flashbacks. Before this tour I had prided myself on being level-headed, able to deal with pressure very well."

Killick recognises a gradual build-up to his theft of the gun. "I had issues not long after returning, but did not know why. On 12 June, after someone had a go at me about Afghanistan, I just lost it. I just popped. Everything that happened came out. It was like every memory I had came up and up and would not go away. Day by day, it got worse until I could not sleep, concentrate, lost interest in things..."

It is documented that on Killick's return he asked the army for trauma risk management assessment and was seen on three occasions by a community psychiatric nurse. "During August, it got so bad I made my first attempt of suicide, but was talked down by my sister. I reported this to the mental health nurse on his next visit and a more in-depth assessment was done. I was then referred to the local mental hospital to see a psychiatrist, but I never got to see him because I was arrested."

Since being in prison, Killick has been assessed by psychiatrists from the prison health care team and been diagnosed with PTSD. He hopes to appeal his five-year sentence through the Criminal Cases Review Commission, and says he cannot understand why the army was so determined to deny that combat-related PTSD contributed to his crime.

alter Lee spent 23 years in the army, serving in Northern Ireland, Cyprus and Kenya, and during his final four years worked as a boxing coach with the King's Regiment. Last year, he was medically discharged with diabetes. He had difficulties adapting to civilian life. He got drunk and mouthy one night, and ended up in a police cell.

There are many charities working with veterans struggling to adapt to life on the outside - some more effective than others. One of the better organisations is Live at Ease, which provides support for veterans within the criminal justice system. After he was arrested, Lee was contacted by a senior veterans manager, Alan Lilly, who asked if he was having problems with life on the outside. "So I'm like, 'Alan, honestly, I got a bit drunk, I was cheeky to the police. But I came out with a pension, I've got a house and a job.'"

Lee felt he'd got off lightly, but he knew that some of his former colleagues had got into serious trouble. He decided to volunteer with Live at Ease. However, Lee was in more trouble than he liked to admit. He spent all his money on his daughter, lost his job and discovered he did have anger issues. The more you talk to Lee, the more you realise he is one of those veterans Jimmy Johnson was talking about: adamant that they have not suffered combat-related PTSD, despite the evidence mounting around them.

Lee explains why he joined the army. "I was getting in trouble when I was younger. I was hanging around with the wrong people. I never thought about the army until one of my mates joined - Stephen, my best friend. He's dead now. A group of us go to Liverpool every October. We all meet up for five friends who got killed in Ireland. We have a guest speaker, a band, the drummers come on."

The incident happened in 1990. A van drove into a checkpoint and detonated a 1,000lb bomb as Lee's friends were getting into an armoured Land Rover. "The only reason the guys who survived did so was because the doors imploded and jammed instead of exploding outwards. A team of IRA came down from the hill to kill the survivors, but they couldn't get in because the doors had jammed. As we were trying to get out we could hear our friends saying, 'They're trying to get in.' So that's a harrowing story, yeah."

Lee left the army later that year. "I was diagnosed as acute death-phobic. I just learned to deal with it, with the anxiety and stuff that goes with it." But he's just said he has never had a combat-related stress condition. He laughs. "I'm fine now, I'm fine. And it's good to talk about it." How did the acute death phobia express itself? "I had hot sweats. I used to wake up in the middle of the night. I don't class it as acute death-phobia any more. I threw away the tablets."

He rejoined the army in 1994, stayed the best part of 20 years and loved it. "I miss the camaraderie, the discipline, the routine." But like Robert Kilgour, he feels bitterness towards his former employer. "It's a lonely life; once you're out, you're on your own. Basically, you're institutionalised."

"These were not cries for help, this was serious," Elizabeth Powles says of her husband, Barry. "He'd use a blade. If I walk away, he will self-harm. It's as if he has been possessed."

Elizabeth is talking from her home in Exeter. Her husband, Captain Barry Powles, served 32 years in the parachute regiment; he saw active service in Malaya, Borneo, Bahrain, Yemen and several tours in Northern Ireland. He is currently sectioned at the Langdon hospital for the mentally ill in Dawlish. In June 2013, the former paratrooper was sentenced to 12 weeks in prison for common assault on his wife.

Elizabeth insists he did not actually attack her. She says she had a seizure and blacked out. While she was unconscious, Barry stabbed himself in the hand. He then started stacking furniture compulsively. Elizabeth says that when she came to, there was blood everywhere. She banged into the furniture, which collapsed on her. Her husband was later arrested and convicted of assault. He was diagnosed with combat-related PTSD by two psychologists and two psychiatrists. Just three days after he came home, there was another incident. This time, Elizabeth says, he really did assault her. "I went to wake him up and he just reared out of bed and went for me. It was as if I was attacking him and he was defending himself. It didn't seem like my husband. I think he was having one of his night terrors."

In June 2013, Powles pleaded guilty to grievous bodily harm and was remanded to Exeter prison, where he spent 10 months before being transferred to the psychiatric hospital. Elizabeth and Barry have been married almost 51 years, and she says he has been having nightmares ever since she knew him. Did he have treatment? No, of course not, she says. He was too proud, too private, and who knew about combat-related PTSD in those days? "In the army, you don't show anything, not in front of your mates."

Despite his problems, Elizabeth says, she could not have wished for a better husband. "I know it might sound awful coming off a pair of old wrinklies, but we're two halves of a coin."

The memory of informing women that their husbands had been killed haunts Barry more than conflict itself

Powles had never been much of a drinker in the army, but he started to drink secretly after he retired, hiding alcohol in the garage. His assaults were judged to be alcohol-fuelled, but his wife is convinced it's the other way round: that her husband was drinking because he couldn't bear living with his condition.

Eventually, Elizabeth forced him to confront his problem and he got in touch with Combat Stress. A case worker was initially helpful, but then said she would work with Powles only if he stopped drinking. Elizabeth still finds this baffling. "Combat Stress will not recognise that drink is part of the self-medication. It's no good saying, 'If you have another drink, I shan't come back.' That's not treating it at all. It's ignoring it."

Last October, Elizabeth received a letter from the Service Personnel and Veterans' Agency (the MoD's pension body), which stated that Powles was due only a 60% war disablement pension because Combat Stress "were not supportive" of the PTSD diagnosis. This August, following an independent diagnosis of service-related PTSD, the agency revised this, writing to say the pension had been increased to 100%.

Powles has no memory of the attack. The judge delayed sentencing, and he was sent from prison to Langdon. The hospital is a sterile, soulless, modern unit and, visiting on a warm day, it's a relief to escape to the garden outside. A short, wiry man with luminous hazel eyes and a strong Midlands accent, Powles talks of his time in the parachute regiment, proud of his progress through the ranks, from private to captain. When he was in Borneo, his unit was sent to search for three missing soldiers from the Royal Signals. All they found were bodies, two half-eaten by animals and another decomposing, hanging from a tree. He was later sent to Yemen to search for two more soldiers - this time, all they recovered were two severed heads that had been paraded round a village on stakes, to frighten the locals.

Then, visibly upset, he tells of a duty he undertook when he was finished with active service. During the Falklands war, it fell to him and his commanding officer to inform service wives that their husbands had been killed in the conflict. "The rule was, we had to wear full ceremonial dress to visit the army housing estate. When the women saw us coming, some refused to open the door, refused to believe the message they clearly knew was being delivered." This memory seems to haunt him even more deeply than the gruesome scenes he witnessed in conflict zones. "I never thought about the things I'd seen while I was serving. I was too busy. Then I started to think and have flashbacks, and drinking was a hiding place." Today he seems calm, and says he wants nothing more than to pick up the pieces of his life with Elizabeth.

A couple of weeks after our visit, Powles is finally sentenced to 24 months in jail and released on licence, because he has served more than half his time. But the judge insists that Powles must live in a hostel in Plymouth until November 2015 and have no contact with Elizabeth. She is distraught and convinced that his mental health is deteriorating.

The findings of the government review into veterans in the criminal justice system is due soon. The former soldiers we spoke to, and their families, fear a report that will understate combat-related PTSD as a contributory factor. They question whether the army and Combat Stress are being sufficiently vigilant, and wonder why many of the former soldiers affected had to wait so long to be diagnosed.

Back in Rochdale, Liz Fitzsimons is determined to get her stepson home from Iraq, not least so his father, Eric, can see him while he still recognises him. She is convinced that if Fitzsimons had been treated and monitored by the army, it would never have come to this. "It's ruined our lives," she says. "I'm sad it happened to us, and very sad it happened to Danny, but in some respects we're equipped to deal with it because I'm bloody determined." She slaps the table as she speaks. "You know, they're not getting away with it. They're not. I'm not having it."

This article was amended on 29 October 2014 to remove details of Robert Kilgour's family.

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'You don't ever get over it': meet the British soldiers living with post-traumatic stress disorder

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Robert Kilgour blames a history of violence on his time in the army - and he's not alone. As British soldiers withdraw from Afghanistan and Iraq, Simon Hattenstone and Eric Allison meet the veterans still living in the line of fire

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n the newly published Conversations on Conflict Photography, Lauren Walsh, a professor at New York University and the New School, discusses the visual documentation of suffering with award-winning photographers, photo editors and representatives of major humanitarian organizations.

The excerpts below delve into the stories behind some of the most critical images these photographers have had to take during the course of their profession.

Shahidul Alam
Shahidul Alam is a Bangladeshi photographer and the founder of Drik Picture Library, a Bangladesh-based photo agency. Alam has documented a wide range of events, including the movement for democracy in Bangladesh, natural disasters, human rights and social issues like class inequality and murders by the "death squads" in Bangladesh. As a result of his work, Alam has received death threats, and in 2018, he was arrested after publicly criticizing the government's violent response to student protests.
"The story of the picture cannot be removed from its context, but that is what often happens. The caption gets lost, someone else writes it, it goes far away, lost in translation, other things. So in that particular case it was a picture taken in Anwara [Bangladesh]. This little girl had lost everything in the cyclone.

Her entire family had died, her home was gone, and there she was. Of course, I was very concerned about her.

What happened afterwards, for me, is more relevant to the picture than the picture itself. Pretty soon after I took that photo, the girl found a home. There was another family, just as destitute, who took her on as their child. And that is really what the story is about. Horrendous things will happen to people; it's what happens afterwards that teaches you about a people and a place. To me, it's remarkable that the poorest people I've ever come across are also the most generous. That overwhelms me.

So here was this incredible story of generosity with this little girl, yet no one was interested in it. I have pictures of her joining her new family and finding food. Perhaps they were not dramatic enough. They certainly won't win many awards, but I think they're an important part of the story, which in this particular case didn't get told. One image ran [in the New York Times], but not this entire story about a local support structure. This was one of many other pictures that was published, each dealing with a different aspect - again, simplification. Individuals didn't matter; it was the collective story, in the way it was told in the Times, and as far as I'm concerned, it is the individual that matters."
Susan Meiselas, an American photographer who has documented conflict and human rights issues, has been active in the field of photography for four decades. Some of her photos from the insurrection in Nicaragua in the late 1970s are widely considered iconic, and her subsequent documentation of the Salvadoran civil war, including the El Mozote massacre

Cuesta del Plomo, a hillside outside of Managua, was a known site of many assassinations carried out by the National Guard. People searched here daily to find missing persons. Nicaragua, 1978. Photograph by Susan Meiselas/Magnum.

in the early 1980s, has received broad acclaim.
Susan Meiselas

"Context is so important. For example, for the image I took of the body on the hillside, I made a book to create a context for it. The photo had not been published in any news media. But it was an image central to understanding the violence happening at that time. The idea of someone being 'disappeared' - meaning executed and dumped on the side of a road - was not an American experience, and hence the vital need to present it in a fuller context. The level of repression in Nicaragua, when the photo was taken, had already unleashed a militant response and eventually the popular insurrection erupted. The intention of this image, especially its value then, was to help show a part of that story in a raw, evocative way. So I don't think such graphic images should be considered gratuitous. And I do think they have to be contextualized.

That photo, which was taken at Cuesta del Plomo, is from four decades ago, and if I were thinking about a more contemporary setting, let's say witnessing one of the Isis beheadings, I'd ask, 'What would I do now? Would I not make an image? If I make an image, what do I do with the image?' Obviously, Isis has used images, which they make themselves, to shock us, and they have achieved that very effectively. But if you were the documentarian witness, right there on site, what would your responsibility be? And if you make the picture, what would you be trying to communicate? Are we implicated when it is a live execution? That is, is it inherently a performance for us? Alternatively, what would it mean to decide right then not to make it? Or to be forcefully prevented from making it? Or to never have the evidence that such things happened? I don't know all the answers.
Ron Haviv, an award-winning American photojournalist and Emmy-nominated film-maker, is a co-founder of the photo agency VII, which is dedicated to documenting conflict and increasing awareness of human rights issues around the world.
And if you can only get access with the permission of Isis, what does that imply? When I was in Central America, the conditions were that you could be independent of any single force or faction, so you could move across borders and not be aligned, and that is rarely possible now."

Ron Haviv

"This appears to have been a room for executions. It's in a hospital in Tripoli, and this image is a bit mysterious. So while I did speak about the universality of the 'language' of photography, there are also times when photographs can be enhanced with text. I don't think there's any way to know from this picture exactly what has happened. But what I hope comes across is that this is sinister; something really bad happened here. You may not know immediately that somebody was executed, but you have a certain sensibility in response to this image.

All this said, I try to balance between aesthetics and content. I don't want content overshadowed by style. In other words, I don't want my aesthetic to go past a point where you really don't understand what's going on. For example, I won't give you a picture of a bird flying over a massacre that's just a beautiful picture of a bird. That achieves something, but it's not what I'm trying to achieve with my work. So I'm endeavoring to find that balance: there'll be a picture of a bird flying over a massacre, but you're still going to know the massacre happened right there.
Eman Helal is an Egyptian photographer based in Cairo. She covered the 2011 Egyptian revolution and its aftermath, including a project on injured protesters as well as work on sectarian violence against Christians, especially after the 2013 military coup. She also focuses on social issues, such as the physical and sexual harassment of women in Egypt, and efforts to empower women there.
And then of course, the caption puts you over to the next level. So take the picture from the hospital - you know something really bad happened here. There's what is presumably blood dripping down the wall, and there are holes in the wall. They look like bullet holes. The caption will then fill in the blanks: 'Hospital workers clean up after numerous bodies were found abandoned in a hospital where executions appeared to take place.'"

Eman Helal

"This is from the big Muslim Brotherhood camp at a mosque called Rabaa al-Adawiya. The day before this, police killed a huge number of people, trying to break up the camp. Some from the Muslim Brotherhood escaped with these bodies because they were afraid the police would take them. They brought the bodies to another nearby mosque. Hundreds of people died in this attack, and the people who managed this other mosque wrote down and posted the names of the dead. Everyone who had relatives in that camp went to this other mosque for information about their family members. They went to see if they could find the bodies of their relatives. This particular photo shows a woman crying by the body of her son.

I went to cover the attack on the day it happened, but unfortunately I lost all my pictures from that date. I was shooting at the entrance of a building under construction. There were lots of clashes; it was very loud; I saw many dead bodies [...] as I was shooting, a man appeared. He had a kitchen knife in his hand and didn't want his picture taken, so he started shouting at me. Then he put the knife up to my face and demanded to know who I was and which newspaper I worked for. At this time, the Muslim Brotherhood didn't trust any news outlets, because Egyptian newspapers were publishing things against Morsi and against the Muslim Brotherhood. There was little to no truly balanced press; newspapers aligned with the military. I was afraid this man would kill me, so I answered his questions, and all of a sudden, I was surrounded by about 30 men. They were saying they wanted to smash my camera. They were cursing at me and telling me, 'You kill us all.' They were saying I was responsible for Muslim Brotherhood deaths because I'm a journalist. I was very, very afraid.

A young woman with the Muslim Brotherhood came over because she heard me screaming. I hugged her and told her, 'My life is in your hands. Please don't leave me.' I told her that I came to tell the true story, not to put a spin on my coverage. She asked to see my photos, so I showed her - pictures of dead bodies, injured people. There was nothing that made the Muslim Brotherhood look bad. She tried to convince the other people of this, but they didn't want to listen to her. After negotiations, they said I could take my camera with me if I left the memory card. So I had to leave without any pictures. That was really hard.

The next day, I went to the mosque where the bodies had been moved. I was afraid that someone from the day before might remember me, so I worked quickly."

Alexander Joe

Alexander Joe worked for over three decades as a wire photographer. Born in Zimbabwe, he began his career there (when the country was called Rhodesia), first as a freelancer and later as staff with the Rhodesia Herald. He then went on to work for Agence France-Presse (AFP), where he covered 13 countries, documenting multiple wars, famines and protests, among other social and political strife. Joe is now based in Madagascar as a freelancer. He has twice served on the World Press Photo jury.
Conversations on Conflict Photography is published by Bloomsbury and can be purchased here.
"I hate conflicts. I don't like guns; they scare the living daylights out of me. I had a terrifying experience early on, before I was even with AFP. Towards the end of the Rhodesian war, the [anti-government] freedom fighters would meet at rendezvous points. Some other journalists and I had word about one of these assembly points, so we went there to cover the fighters. We met there at 10.00am, and spent the whole day waiting for a single fighter to show up. Just as we were giving up, around 4.30pm, we saw a group of vans pulling up. It was fighters going to the assembly point. They approached us, asking what we were doing. As we were answering, one took his AK-47, with the bayonet out, and positioned it between my eyes. I was petrified. I was very aware that it would only take a second to kill or severely hurt me. That was the first conflict I ever covered and it's one of the primary reasons why I hate guns.

I covered through the end of the war. But not all my photos were seen. The editor at the Rhodesia Herald, where I was working then, never wanted this one published. Yet for me, this was the strongest of the pictures I had taken. But the editor said to me, 'Why are you trying to spread alarm among the people?' But he didn't mean the people; he meant the white population. This newspaper was very pro-government. [Rhodesia, a former British colony, was under white minority rule.] This was a war of rebellion, and the paper's position was that no one wanted the rebels there. Yet here is photographic proof of a fighter being given a hero's welcome. But that was the wrong narrative for the Rhodesia Herald. So the image never ran in the paper."

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Five conflict photographers on some of the hardest images they've taken

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n the newly published Conversations on Conflict Photography, Lauren Walsh, a professor at New York University and the New School, discusses the visual documentation of suffering with award-winning photographers, photo editors and representatives of major humanitarian organizations. The excerpts below delve into the stories behind some of the most critical images these photographers have had to take during the course of their profession.