by M. Shelley

July 16,1833 — This is a memorable date for me; today I am three hundred and twenty-three years old!

Am I immortal? This is a question which I have asked myself every day for three hundred and three years, and still I cannot answer it. I found a gray hair hidden in my brown hair today which certainly means I grow older. Yet it may have remained con­cealed there for three hundred years — for some per­sons have become entirely white-headed before twenty years of age.

I will tell my story, and you, the reader, will judge for me. It will help me to pass some hours of eternity. Forever! Can it be that I will live forever?

All the world has heard of Cornelius Agrippa. His memory is as immortal as his arts have made me.¹ He had a pupil, who once inadvertently raised the foul fiend² during his master's absence, and was de­stroyed by him. After this incident all Cornelius's pupils immediately left him and his servants disappeared. He had no one near him to put coals in his furnaces or help him with his studies. Experiment after experiment failed, because one pair of hands was not enough to complete them.

I was then very young, very poor, and very much in love. I had been the pupil of Cornelius for about a year, though I was absent when this accident took place. On my return, my friends told me not to re­turn to the alchemist's place. I didn't need a second warning; and when Cornelius came and offered me a purse of gold if I would stay under his roof I ran away as fast as I could.

I directed my steps to the lively stream beside which a dark-haired girl was waiting for me. I can­not remember a time when I did not love Bertha; we had been neighbours and friends from early childhood. Her parents, like mine, were poor, yet re­spectable — our friendship had been a source of pleasure to them. In an evil hour, a fever killed both her parents and Bertha became an orphan. A lonely old lady of a nearby castle, who was rich and child­less, and solitary offered to adopt her. So Bertha from then on lived in a castle, wore nice dresses and was thought to be favoured by fortune.³ But she re­mained true to the friend of her poor days and she often visited my father's and when she was forbid­den to do this, she would meet me beside a shady stream.

Yet I was still too poor to marry, and she was con­stantly teased on my account. She had a haughty spirit, and grew angry at the obstacles which made our marriage impossible. We met now after an ab­sence. She had missed me a lot while I was away; she complained bitterly, and almost blamed me for my poverty. I replied,— "I am honest, if I am poor! — If I were not honest, I might soon become rich!"⁴

This answer produced a thousand of questions. Eventually after she had learned the truth she said — "You pretend to love me, and you fear to face the Devil for my sake!"

I protested but she now thought only about the reward I would receive. So, shamed by her — led on by love and hope, and laughing at my fears I returned to accept the offer of Cornelius.

A year went by. I now had a considerable sum of money. Custom had banished my fears.⁵1 still con­tinued my stolen meetings with Bertha, and had be­come more hopeful. However though true of heart, she was somewhat of a coquettish; and I would often get jealous. She would drive me mad with anger, and then force me to beg her pardon. Sometimes she fan­cied that I was not sufficiently submissive,⁶ and then she told me a story of a rival. She was surrounded by rich and young people, what chance did I have in comparison with them?

Once, the philosopher kept me extremely busy for a long period of time and I could not meet Berta. He was involved with some important experiment, and I had to stay with him feeding his furnaces and watching his chemical preparations. Bertha waited for me in vain at the fountain. Her haughty temper flared at this neglect;⁷ and when at last I appeared, hoping to be consoled by her, she received me with disdain and sent me away saying that she would rath­er marry any man than me who could not be in two places at once for her sake!⁸ She would be revenged! — And truly she was.

Now I cried bitterly thinking that I would never call her mine. Yet, still I had to keep the fires of Cor­nelius and watch the changes of his medicines.

Cornelius had watched for three days and nights, without closing his eyes. The progress of his exper­iments was slower than he expected. "Not ready yet," he murmured; "will another night pass before the work is finished? Winzy, you are faithful — you have slept, my boy — you slept last night. Look at that glass vessel. The liquid it contains is of a soft rose-colour: the moment it begins to change its co­lour, wake me up."

I hardly heard the last words, as he was almost sleeping. "Winzy, my boy," he again said, "do not touch the vessel — it is a drug to cure love; if you do not want to stop loving Bertha — don't drink it!"

And he fell asleep. For a few minutes I watched the vessel — the rosy colour of the liquid was un­changed. Then my thoughts wandered — they visit­ed the place by the stream, and remembered thou­sands of charming scenes which now were only a dis­tant memory. False girl! — false and cruel! Never again would she smile at me. Worthless, detested woman! She knew my misery and her power. Yet what power did she have? — the power of exciting my hate, my utter scorn, my — oh, everything, ex­cept indifference! If only I could become indifferent to her and stop loving her. That would indeed be a victory!

A bright flash darted before my eves. I had for­gotten the medicine of the alchemist; I looked at it with wonder: a light of admirable beauty shone from the surface of the liquid. The vessel was now a globe of living light, lovely to the eye, and most inviting to the taste. I raised the vessel to my lips. "It will cure me of love, of torture!" I had drunk half of the most delicious drink when the philosopher woke up. I start­ed and dropped the glass. The drug spilt onto the floor. Then I heard Cornelius shriek, "Wretch! you have destroyed the labour of my life!"

The philosopher was totally unaware that I had drunk a portion of his drug. He only thought, that I took the vessel from curiosity, and, frightened at its brightness, and the flashes, let it fall. I never told him the truth. The philosopher grew calm, and sent me away to rest.

I will not even try to describe how well I slept dur­ing the remaining hours of that memorable night. Earth appeared heaven. "This is how it is to be cured of love," I thought; "I will see Bertha today, and she will find her lover cold and totally indifferent to her!" The hours passed by. The philosopher began to pre­pare the same medicine once more. He was shut up with his books and drugs, and I had a holiday. I turned my steps towards the castle. I looked at it with lightness of heart, for I was cured of love. Bertha saw me coming and then suddenly started running down the marble steps towards me. But the tyrannical old lady, had seen me, and stopped Bertha with the words "Where are you running, young lady? Back to your cage!"

Bertha clasped her hands — her eyes were still on my approaching figure. I was cured of love, and lift­ed above all human fears. I hurried forwards, and soon reached the terrace. How lovely Bertha looked! Her flashing eyes, her cheeks glowing with impa­tience, she was a thousand times more graceful and charming than ever. I no longer loved — Oh! no, I adored and worshipped her!

Before I came to her that morning she had been forced to consent to marry my rival. She had been threatened to be turned out the door⁹ in disgrace and shame. Her proud spirit rose at the threat; but when she remembered the scorn with which she had treat­ed me and that perhaps, she had lost one who was her only friend, she wept with remorse and rage. At that moment I appeared. "O, Winzy!" she exclaimed, "take me to your mother's place — take me to pov­erty and happiness."

I clasped her in my arms and took her to my cot­tage. My mother received her with tenderness and joy; my father, who loved her, welcomed her heartily.

Soon after the day, I became Bertha's husband. I was no longer the pupil of Cornelius, but I continued to be his friend. I always felt grateful to him for the drug which, instead of curing me of love gave me courage and resolution, thus winning my Bertha.

Five years afterwards I was suddenly called to the bedside of the dying Cornelius. I found him stretched on his bed, only his bright eyes were ani­mated by life. They were fixed on a glass vessel, full of a rosy liquid.

"Behold," he said, in a broken voice, "the vanity of human wishes!¹⁰" he said in a broken voice. "Look at that liquor — you remember five years ago I had prepared the same, with the same success; — then, it was wasted and at present it is too late."

He spoke with difficulty, and fell back on his pil­low. I asked him "How can a cure for love restore you to life?" A faint smile appeared on his face. "A cure for love and for all things — the Elixir of Immortali­ty. If I might drink now, I would live for ever!"

As he spoke, a golden flash gleamed from the ves­sel. He raised himself and stretched forth his hand — a loud explosion startled me — a ray of fire shot up from the liquid, and the glass vessel was blown to at­oms! I turned my eyes towards the philosopher — he was dead!

But I lived, and was to live for ever! So said the unfortunate alchymist, and for a few days I believed his words. I remembered the drunkenness which had followed my sleep. I reflected on the change I had felt in my body and in my soul. I looked at my­self in a mirror, and could not notice any changes in my features during the last five years. A few days after, I laughed at my thoughts. The old proverb, that "a prophet is least regarded in his own country,¹¹" was true with respect to me and my dead master. His science was human; and human science could never govern the laws of nature as far as to make someone immortal! Cornelius had made a drink which probably possessed strong medicinal powers, longevity was very different from immor­tality.

I continued to think so for many years.

Yet it was certain that I had a wonderfully youth­ful look. I was laughed at for looking into the mirror so often, but itwas in vain. I still looked twenty years of age.

I was troubled. I looked at the faded beauty of Ber­tha. Bertha herself grew uneasy. She became jeal­ous and at length she began to question me. We had no children; we had only each other and though, as she grew older she became more ill-tempered, and her beauty sadly diminished, I loved her as I did twenty years ago.

At last our situation became intolerable: Bertha was fifty — I twenty years of age. Things had changed a lot too. The people of the village were scared of me. Poor Bertha was pitied, but no one would talk to her. What could be done? We sat by our winter fire — our poverty was clear, for no one would buy the produce of my farm; and I often had to travel twenty miles, to some place where nobody knew me. It is true we had saved something for an evil day — that day was come.

We sat by our lonely fireplace — the old-hearted youth and his elderly wife. Again Bertha insisted on knowing the truth. At length she told me that I must share my secret with her and then she burst into tears.

I revealed her my secret as tenderly as I could, and spoke only of a very long life, not of immortality. When I ended, I stood up and said:

"And now, my Bertha, will you reject the lover of your youth? — You will not, I know. But it is too hard, my poor wife, for you to suffer from my ill-luck and the arts of Cornelius. I will leave you — you have enough money to live on, and your friends will re­turn when I am gone. I will go; I can work and earn my living among strangers."

I took my cap and moved towards the door; in a moment Bertha's arms were round my neck, and her lips were pressed to mine.

"No, my Winzy," she said, "take me with you; we will leave this place, and, as you say, among strang­ers we shall be unsuspected and safe. Perhaps you will become more elderly-looking. Don't leave me." "I will not, my Bertha; but for your sake I didn't think of such a thing. I will be your true, faithful husband while you are with me, and do my duty to the last.¹²"

The next day we prepared secretly for our depar­ture. Then without saying goodbye to anyone, left our native country for a remote part of western France. It was a cruel thing to take poor Bertha from her native village, and the friends of her youth, to a new country, new language, new customs. The strange secret of my destiny made our departure unimpor­tant to me but I felt very sorry for her¹³ and was glad to see that she managed to feel better by adopting herself to the new enviroment. She tried all she could to conceal the difference in years — make-up, fash­ionable dresses. I could not be angry with her be­cause I myself was wearing a mask.

Her jealousy never slept. I never dared address another woman: on one occasion, thinking that one of the village girls looked at me with favouring eyes, she bought me a gray wig. She often said to her friends that my youth was a disease, and I must pre­pare, if not for a sudden and awful death, at least to wake up one morning white-headed, and bent over. We lived on for many long years. Bertha became bed-ridden and paralytic: I nursed her as a mother might a child. She grew fretful, and talked only of how long I would survive her. It has ever been a source of consolation to me, that I performed my duty scrupulously towards her. She had been mine in youth, she was mine in old age, and at last, when I put her into the grave I wept to feel that I had lost all that really tied me with life.

Since then how I have grieved a lot and enjoyed little. Here I pause my story — I will tell no more.

Am I immortal? I return to my first question. Is it probable that the alehymist's drug gave longevity rather than eternal life? This is my hope. And I only drank half of it. Was not the whole necessary to com­plete the charm? To have drunk half the Elixir of Immortality¹⁴ is to be half immortal.

But again, who will count the years of the half of eternity? Sometimes it seems to me that I am getting older. One gray hair I have found. Fool! Yes, the fear of age and death often creeps coldly into my heart: and the more I live, the more I fear death, even though I loathe life.

Thus I have lived for many years — alone, and tired of myself — wishing for death, yet never dying — a mortal immortal. Neither ambition nor greed can en­ter my mind, and the love that still lives in my heart lives there only to torture me.

This very day I though of a way how I may end all — without suicide, without making another man kill me — an expedition, which a mortal person can never survive. Thus I will put my immortality to the test, and either die or return a winner.

Before I go, a miserable vanity made me write these pages. If I survive, my name will be one of the most famous among the sons of men, and then I will try more resolute means to set free the soul impris­oned in my immortal body.

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