The Mortal Immortal
by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
JULY 16, 1833.
This is a memorable anniversary for me; on it I complete my three hundred
and twenty-third year!
The Wandering Jew? --certainly not. More than eighteen centuries have passed over his
head. In comparison with him, I am a very young Immortal.
Am I, then, immortal? This is a question which I have asked myself, by day and night,
for now three hundred and three years, and yet cannot answer it. I detected a gray
hair amidst my brown locks this very day-- that surely signifies decay. 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 my reader shall judge for me. I will tell my story, and
so contrive to pass some few hours of a long eternity, become so wearisome to me.
For ever! Can it be? to live for ever! I have heard of enchantments, in which the
victims were plunged into a deep sleep, to wake, after a hundred years, as fresh as ever: I
have heard of the Seven Sleepers--thus to be immortal would not be so burthensome:
but, oh! the weight of never-ending time--the tedious passage of the still-succeeding
hours! How happy was the fabled Nourjahad!----But to my task.
All the world has heard of Cornelius Agrippa. His memory is as immortal as his arts
have made me. All the world has also heard of his scholar, who, unawares, raised
the foul fiend during his master's absence, and was destroyed by him. The report,
true or false, of this accident, was attended with many inconveniences to the renowned
philosopher. All his scholars at once deserted him--his servants disappeared. He had
no one near him to put coals on his ever-burning fires while he slept, or to attend
to the changeful colours of his medicines while he studied. Experiment after experiment
failed, because one pair of hands was insufficient to complete them: the dark spirits
laughed at him for not being able to retain a single mortal in his service.
I was then very young--very poor--and very much. in love. I had been for about a year
the pupil of Cornelius, though I was absent when this accident took place. On my
return, my friends implored me not to return to the alchymist's abode. I trembled
as I listened to the dire tale they told; I required no second warning; and when Cornelius came
and offered me a purse of gold if I would remain under his roof, I felt as if
Satan himself tempted me. My teeth chattered--my hair stood on end:--I ran off as fast
as my trembling knees would permit.
My failing steps were directed whither for two years they had every evening been attracted,--a
gently bubbling spring of pure living waters, beside which lingered a dark-haired
girl, whose beaming eyes were fixed on the path I was accustomed each night to tread. I cannot
remember the hour when I did not love Bertha; we had been neighbours
and playmates from infancy--her parents, like mine, were of humble life, yet respectable--our
attachment had been a source of pleasure to them. In an evil hour, a malignant fever carried off both her father and mother, and Bertha became an orphan. She would
have found a home beneath my paternal roof, but, unfortunately, the old lady of the
near castle, rich, childless, and solitary, declared her intention to adopt her.
Henceforth Bertha was clad in silk--inhabited a marble palace--and was looked on as being
highly favoured by fortune. But in her new situation among her new associates, Bertha
remained true to the friend of her humbler days; she often visited the cottage of
my father, and when forbidden to go thither, she would stray towards the neighbouring
wood, and meet me beside its shady fountain.
She often declared that she owed no duty to her new protectress equal in sanctity
to that which bound us. Yet still I was too poor to marry, and she grew weary of
being tormented on my account. She had a haughty but an impatient spirit, and grew
angry at the obstacles that prevented our union. We met now after an absence, and she had been
sorely beset while I was away; she complained bitterly, and almost reproached me
for being poor. I replied hastily,--
"I am honest, if I am poor!--were I not, I might soon become rich!"
This exclamation produced a thousand questions. I feared to shock her by owning the
truth, but she drew it from me; and then, casting a look of disdain on me, she said--
"You pretend to love, and you fear to face the Devil for my sake!"
I protested that I had only dreaded to offend her;--while she dwelt on the magnitude
of the reward that I should receive. Thus encouraged-- shamed by her--led on by love
and hope, laughing at my late fears, with quick steps and a light heart, I returned
to accept the offers of the alchymist, and was instantly installed in my office.
A year passed away. I became possessed of no insignificant sum of money. Custom had
banished my fears. In spite of the most painful vigilance, I had never detected the
trace of a cloven foot; nor was the studious silence of our abode ever disturbed
by demoniac howls. I still continued my stolen interviews with Bertha, and Hope dawned on
me-- Hope--but not perfect joy; for Bertha fancied that love and security were
enemies, and her pleasure was to divide them in my bosom. Though true of heart, she
was somewhat of a coquette in manner; and I was jealous as a Turk. She slighted me in a thousand
ways, yet would never acknowledge herself to be in the wrong. She would drive me
mad with anger, and then force me to beg her pardon. Sometimes she fancied that I
was not sufficiently submissive, and then she had some story of a rival, favoured by
her protectress. She was surrounded by silk-clad youths--the rich and gay--What chance
had the sad-robed scholar of Cornelius compared with these?
On one occasion, the philosopher made such large demands upon my time, that I was
unable to meet her as I was wont. He was engaged in some mighty work, and I was forced
to remain, day and night, feeding his furnaces and watching his chemical preparations. Bertha
waited for me in vain at the fountain. Her haughty spirit fired at this neglect;
and when at last I stole out during the few short minutes allotted to me for slumber,
and hoped to be consoled by her, she received me with disdain, dismissed me in scorn, and
vowed that any man should possess her hand rather than he who could not be
in two places at once for her sake. She would be revenged!--And truly she was. In
my dingy retreat I heard that she had been hunting, attended by Albert Hoffer. Albert
Hoffer was favoured by her protectress, and the three passed in cavalcade before my smoky
window. Methought that they mentioned my name--it was followed by a laugh of derision,
as her dark eyes glanced contemptuously towards my abode.
Jealousy, with all its venom, and all its misery, entered my breast. Now I shed a
torrent of tears, to think that I should never call her mine; and, anon, I imprecated
a thousand curses on her inconstancy. Yet, still I must stir the fires of the
alchymist, still attend on the changes of his unintelligible medicines.
Cornelius had watched for three days and nights, nor closed his eyes. The progress
of his alembics was slower than he expected: in spite of his anxiety, sleep weighed
upon his eyelids. Again and again he threw off drowsiness with more than human energy;
again and again it stole away his senses. He eyed his crucibles wistfully. "Not ready
yet," he murmured; "will another night pass before the work is accomplished? Winzy,
you are vigilant--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 hue, awaken me--till then I may close my eyes. First, it will
turn white, and then emit golden flashes; but wait not till then; when the rose-colour
fades, rouse me." I scarcely heard the last words, muttered, as they were, in sleep. Even
then he did not quite yield to nature. "Winzy, my boy," he again said, "do not touch
the vessel--do not put it to your lips; it is a philter--a philter to cure love; you
would not cease to love your Bertha--beware to drink!"
And he slept. His venerable head sunk on his breast, and I scarce heard his regular
breathing. For a few minutes I watched the vessel--the rosy hue of the liquid remained
unchanged. Then my thoughts wandered --they visited the fountain, and dwelt on a thousand
charming scenes never to be renewed--never! Serpents and adders were in my heart
as the word "Never!" half formed itself on my lips. False girl!--false and cruel!
Never more would she smile on me as that evening she smiled on Albert. Worthless,
detested woman! I would not remain unrevenged--she should see Albert expire at her feet--she
should die beneath my vengeance. She had smiled in disdain and triumph--she knew my
wretchedness and her power. Yet what power had she?--the power of exciting my hate--my
utter scorn--my--oh, all but indifference! Could I attain that--could I regard her with
careless eyes, transferring my rejected love to one fairer and more true, that were
indeed a victory!
A bright flash darted before my eyes. I had forgotten the medicine of the adept; I
gazed on it with wonder: flashes of admirable beauty, more bright than those which
the diamond emits when the sun's rays are on it, glanced from the surface of the
liquid; an odour the most fragrant and grateful stole over my sense; the vessel seemed one
globe of living radiance, lovely to the eye, and most inviting to the taste. The
first thought, instinctively inspired by the grosser sense, was, I will--I must drink.
I raised the vessel to my lips. "It will cure me of love--of torture!" Already I had quaffed
half of the most delicious liquor ever tasted by the palate of man, when the philosopher
stirred. I started--I dropped the glass--the fluid flamed and glanced along the floor, while
I felt Cornelius's gripe at my throat, as he shrieked aloud, "Wretch! you
have destroyed the labour of my life!"
The philosopher was totally unaware that I had drunk any portion of his drug. His
idea was, and I gave a tacit assent to it, that I had raised the vessel from curiosity,
and that, frighted at its brightness, and the flashes of intense light it gave forth, I had let
it fall. I never undeceived him. The fire of the medicine was quenched--the
fragrance died away--he grew calm, as a philosopher should under the heaviest trials,
and dismissed me to rest.
I will not attempt to describe the sleep of glory and bliss which bathed my soul in
paradise during the remaining hours of that memorable night. Words would be faint
and shallow types of my enjoyment, or of the gladness that possessed my bosom when
I woke. I trod air--my thoughts were in heaven. Earth appeared heaven, and my inheritance
upon it was to be one trance of delight. "This it is to be cured of love," I
thought; "I will see Bertha this day, and she will find her lover cold and regardless:
too happy to be disdainful, yet how utterly indifferent to her!"
The hours danced away. The philosopher, secure that he had once succeeded, and believing
that he might again, began to concoct the same medicine once more. He was shut up
with his books and drugs, and I had a holiday. I dressed myself with care; I looked
in an old but polished shield, which served me for a mirror; methought my good looks
had wonderfully improved. I hurried beyond the precincts of the town, joy in my soul,
the beauty of heaven and earth around me. I turned my steps towards the castle--I
could look on its lofty turrets with lightness of heart, for I was cured of love. My Bertha
saw me afar off, as I came up the avenue. I know not what sudden impulse animated
her bosom, but at the sight, she sprung with a light fawn-like bound down the marble
steps, and was hastening towards me. But I had been perceived by another person. The
old high-born hag, who called herself her protectress, and was her tyrant, had seen
me, also; she hobbled, panting, up the terrace; a page, as ugly as herself, held
up her train, and fanned her as she hurried along, and stopped my fair girl with a "How,
now, my bold mistress? whither so fast? Back to your cage--hawks are abroad!"
Bertha clasped her hands--her eyes were still bent on my approaching figure. I saw
the contest. How I abhorred the old crone who checked the kind impulses of my Bertha's
softening heart. Hitherto, respect for her rank had caused me to avoid the lady of
the castle; now I disdained such trivial considerations. I was cured of love, and lifted
above all human fears; I hastened forwards, and soon reached the terrace. How lovely
Bertha looked! her eyes flashing fire, her cheeks glowing with impatience and anger,
she was a thousand times more graceful and charming than ever--I no longer loved--Oh!
no, I adored--worshipped--idolized her!
She had that morning been persecuted, with more than usual vehemence, to consent to
an immediate marriage with my rival. She was reproached with the encouragement that
she had shown him--she was threatened with being turned out of doors with disgrace
and shame. Her proud spirit rose in arms at the threat; but when she remembered the scorn
that she had heaped upon me, and how, perhaps, she had thus lost one whom she now
regarded as her only friend, she wept with remorse and rage. At that moment I appeared.
"O, Winzy!" she exclaimed, "take me to your mother's cot; swiftly let me leave the
detested luxuries and wretchedness of this noble dwelling--take me to poverty and
I clasped her in my arms with transport. The old lady was speechless with fury, and
broke forth into invective only when we were far on our road to my natal cottage.
My mother received the fair fugitive, escaped from a gilt cage to nature and liberty,
with tenderness and joy; my father, who loved her, welcomed her heartily; it was a day
of rejoicing, which did not need the addition of the celestial potion of the alchymist
to steep me in delight.
Soon after this eventful day, I became the husband of Bertha. I ceased to be the scholar
of Cornelius, but I continued his friend. I always felt grateful to him for having,
unawares, procured me that delicious draught of a divine elixir, which, instead of curing
me of love (sad cure! solitary and joyless remedy for evils which seem blessings
to the memory), had inspired me with courage and resolution, thus winning for me
an inestimable treasure in my Bertha.
I often called to mind that period of trance-like inebriation with wonder. The drink
of Cornelius had not fulfilled the task for which he affirmed that it had been prepared,
but its effects were more potent and blissful than words can express.
They had faded by degrees, yet they lingered long--and painted life in hues of splendour.
Bertha often wondered at my lightness of heart and unaccustomed gaiety; for, before,
I had been rather serious, or even sad, in my disposition. She loved me the better
for my cheerful temper, and our days were winged by joy.
Five years afterwards I was suddenly summoned to the bedside of the dying Cornelius.
He had sent for me in haste, conjuring my instant presence. I found him stretched
on his pallet, enfeebled even to death; all of life that yet remained animated his
piercing eyes, and they were fixed on a glass vessel, full of a roseate liquid.
"Behold," he said, in a broken and inward voice, "the vanity of human wishes! a second
time my hopes are about to be crowned, a second time they are destroyed. Look at
that liquor--you remember five years ago I had prepared the same, with the same success;--
then, as now, my thirsting lips expected to taste the immortal elixir--you dashed
it from me! and at present it is too late."
He spoke with difficulty, and fell back on his pillow. I could not help saying,--
"How, revered master, can a cure for love restore you to life?"
A faint smile gleamed across his face as I listened earnestly to his scarcely intelligible
answer. "A cure for love and for all things--the Elixir of Immortality. Ah! if now
I might drink, I should live for ever!"
As he spoke, a golden flash gleamed from the fluid; a well-remembered fragrance stole
over the air; he raised himself, all weak as he was-- strength seemed miraculously
to re-enter his frame--he stretched forth his hand--a loud explosion startled me--a
ray of fire shot up from the elixir, and the glass vessel which contained it was shivered
to atoms! I turned my eyes towards the philosopher; he had fallen back--his eyes were
glassy--his features rigid--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 glorious drunkenness that had followed
my stolen draught. I reflected on the change I had felt in my frame--in my soul. The
bounding elasticity of the one--the buoyant lightness of the other. I surveyed myself
in a mirror, and could perceive no change in my features during the space of the
five years which had elapsed. I remembered the radiant hues and grateful scent of
that delicious beverage--worthy the gift it was capable of bestowing----I was, then, IMMORTAL!
A few days after I laughed at my credulity. The old proverb, that "a prophet is least
regarded in his own country," was true with respect to me and my defunct master.
I loved him as a man--I respected him as a sage--but I derided the notion that he could
command the powers of darkness, and laughed at the superstitious fears with which he
was regarded by the vulgar. He was a wise philosopher, but had no acquaintance with
any spirits but those clad in flesh and blood. His science was simply human; and
human science, I soon persuaded myself, could never conquer nature's laws so far as to imprison
the soul for ever within its carnal habitation. Cornelius had brewed a soul-refreshing
drink--more inebriating than wine--sweeter and more fragrant than any fruit: it possessed
probably strong medicinal powers, imparting gladness to the heart and vigor
to the limbs; but its effects would wear out; already were they diminished in my
frame. I was a lucky fellow to have quaffed health and joyous spirits, and perhaps
long life, at my master's hands; but my good fortune ended there: longevity was far different
I continued to entertain this belief for many years. Sometimes a thought stole across
me--Was the alchymist indeed deceived? But my habitual credence was, that I should
meet the fate of all the children of Adam at my appointed time--a little late, but
still at a natural age. Yet it was certain that I retained a wonderfully youthful look.
I was laughed at for my vanity in consulting the mirror so often, but I consulted
it in vain--my brow was untrenched--my cheeks--my eyes--my whole person continued as
untarnished as in my twentieth year.
I was troubled. I looked at the faded beauty of Bertha--I seemed more like her son.
By degrees our neighbours began to make similar observations, and I found at last
that I went by the name of the Scholar bewitched. Bertha herself grew uneasy. She
became jealous and peevish, and at length she began to question me. We had no children; we
were all in all to each other; and though, as she grew older, her vivacious spirit
became a little allied to ill-temper, and her beauty sadly diminished, I cherished
her in my heart as the mistress I had idolized, the wife I had sought and won with such perfect
At last our situation became intolerable: Bertha was fifty--I twenty years of age.
I had, in very shame, in some measure adopted the habits of a more advanced age;
I no longer mingled in the dance among the young and gay, but my heart bounded along
with them while I restrained my feet; and a sorry figure I cut among the Nestors of our village.
But before the time I mention, things were altered--we were universally shunned; we
were--at least, I was--reported to have kept up an iniquitous acquaintance with some
of my former master's supposed friends. Poor Bertha was pitied, but deserted. I was
regarded with horror and detestation.
What was to be done? we sat by our winter fire--poverty had made itself felt,
for none would buy the produce of my farm; and often I had been forced to journey
twenty miles, to some place where I was not known, to dispose of our property. It
is true we had saved something for an evil day--that day was come.
We sat by our lone fireside--the old-hearted youth and his antiquated wife. Again Bertha
insisted on knowing the truth; she recapitulated all she had ever heard said about
me, and added her own observations. She conjured me to cast off the spell; she described how
much more comely grey hairs were than my chestnut locks; she descanted on
the reverence and respect due to age--how preferable to the slight regard paid to
mere children: could I imagine that the despicable gifts of youth and good looks
outweighed disgrace, hatred, and scorn? Nay, in the end I should be burnt as a dealer in the
black art, while she, to whom I had not deigned to communicate any portion of my
good fortune, might be stoned as my accomplice. At length she insinuated that I must
share my secret with her, and bestow on her like benefits to those I myself enjoyed, or she
would denounce me--and then she burst into tears.
Thus beset, methought it was the best way to tell the truth. I revealed it as tenderly
as I could, and spoke only of a very long life, not of immortality--which representation,
indeed, coincided best with my own ideas. When I ended, I rose and said,
"And now, my Bertha, will you denounce the lover of your youth? --You will not, I know.
But it is too hard, my poor wife, that you should suffer from my ill-luck and the
accursed arts of Cornelius. I will leave you--you have wealth enough, and friends
will return in my absence. I will go; young as I seem, and strong as I am, I can work and
gain my bread among strangers, unsuspected and unknown. I loved you in youth; God
is my witness that I would not desert you in age, but that your safety and happiness require it."
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 husband, my Winzy," she said, "you
shall not go alone--take me with you; we will remove from this place, and, as you
say, among strangers we shall be unsuspected and safe. I am not so very old as quite to shame
you, my Winzy; and I dare say the charm will soon wear off, and, with the blessing
of God, you will become more elderly-looking, as is fitting; you shall not leave
I returned the good soul's embrace heartily. "I will not, my Bertha; but for your
sake I had not thought of such a thing. I will be your true, faithful husband while
you are spared to me, and do my duty by you to the last."
The next day we prepared secretly for our emigration. We were obliged to make great
pecuniary sacrifices--it could not be helped. We realised a sum sufficient, at least,
to maintain us while Bertha lived; and, without saying adieu to any one, quitted
our native country to take refuge in a remote part of western France.
It was a cruel thing to transport 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 rendered this removal immaterial to me; but I compassionated her deeply,
and was glad to perceive that she found compensation for her misfortunes in a variety
of little ridiculous circumstances. Away from all tell-tale chroniclers, she sought
to decrease the apparent disparity of our ages by a thousand feminine arts--rouge,
youthful dress, and assumed juvenility of manner. I could not be angry-- Did not I myself
wear a mask? Why quarrel with hers, because it was less successful? I grieved deeply
when I remembered that this was my Bertha, whom I had loved so fondly, and won with such
transport--the dark eyed, dark-haired girl, with smiles of enchanting archness
and a step like a fawn--this mincing, simpering, jealous old woman. I should have
revered her gray locks and withered cheeks; but thus!----It was my, work, I knew; but
I did not the less deplore this type of human weakness.
Her jealousy never slept. Her chief occupation was to discover that, in spite of outward
appearances, I was myself growing old. I verily believe that the poor soul loved
me truly in her heart, but never had woman so tormenting a mode of displaying fondness. She would
discern wrinkles in my face and decrepitude in my walk, while I bounded
along in youthful vigour, the youngest looking of twenty youths. I never dared address
another woman: on one occasion, fancying that the belle of the village regarded me
with favouring eyes, she bought me a gray wig. Her constant discourse among her acquaintances
was, that though I looked so young, there was ruin at work within my frame; and she
affirmed that the worst symptom about me was my apparent health. My youth was a disease, she said,
and I ought at all times to prepare, if not for a sudden and awful
death, at least to awake some morning white-headed, and bowed down with all the marks
of advanced years. I let her talk--I often joined in her conjectures. Her warnings
chimed in with my never-ceasing speculations concerning my state, and I took an earnest,
though painful, interest in listening to all that her quick wit and excited imagination
could say on the subject.
Why dwell on these minute circumstances? We lived on for many long years. Bertha became
bed-rid and paralytic: I nursed her as mother might a child. She grew peevish, and
still harped upon one string--of how long I should 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 age, and at last, when I heaped the
sod over her corpse, I wept to feel that I had lost all that really bound me to humanity.
Since then how many have been my cares and woes, how few and empty my enjoyments!
I pause here in my history--I will pursue it no further. A sailor without rudder or
compass, tossed on a stormy sea--a traveller lost on a wide-spread heath, without
landmark or star to him--such have I been: more lost, more hopeless than either. A nearing ship,
a gleam from some far cot, may save them; but I have no beacon except the hope of
Death! mysterious, ill-visaged friend of weak humanity! Why alone of all mortals have
you cast me from your sheltering fold? O, for the peace of the grave! the deep silence
of the iron-bound tomb! that thought would cease to work in my brain, and my heart beat no more
with emotions varied only by new forms of sadness!
Am I immortal? I return to my first question. In the first place, is it not more probable
that the beverage of the alchymist was fraught rather with longevity than eternal
life? Such is my hope. And then be it remembered that I only drank half of the potion prepared
by him. Was not the whole necessary to complete the charm? To have drained
half the Elixir of Immortality is but to be half immortal--my For-ever is thus truncated
But again, who shall number the years of the half of eternity? I often try to imagine
by what rule the infinite may be divided. Sometimes I fancy age advancing upon me.
One gray hair I have found. Fool! Do I lament? Yes, the fear of age and death often
creeps coldly into my heart; and the more I live, the more I dread death, even while
I abhor life. Such an enigma is man--born to perish--when he wars, as I do, against
the established laws of his nature.
But for this anomaly of feeling surely I might die: the medicine of the alchymist
would not be proof against fire--sword--and the strangling waters. I have gazed upon
the blue depths of many a placid lake, and the tumultuous rushing of many a mighty
river, and have said, peace inhabits those waters; yet I have turned my steps away,
to live yet another day. I have asked myself, whether suicide would be a crime in
one to whom thus only the portals of the other world could be opened. I have done
all, except presenting myself as a soldier or duellist, an object of destruction to my--no, not
my fellow-mortals, and therefore I have shrunk away. They are not my fellows. The
inextinguishable power of life in my frame, and their ephemeral existence, place us wide as the
poles asunder. I could not raise a hand against the meanest or the most powerful
Thus I have lived on for many a year--alone, and weary of myself-- desirous of death,
yet never dying--a mortal immortal. Neither ambition nor avarice can enter my mind,
and the ardent love that gnaws at my heart, never to be returned--never to find an
equal on which to expend itself--lives there only to torment me.
This very day I conceived a design by which I may end all--without self-slaughter,
without making another man a Cain--an expedition, which mortal frame can never survive,
even endued with the youth and strength that inhabits mine. Thus I shall put my immortality to the
test, and rest for ever--or return, the wonder and benefactor of the human
Before I go, a miserable vanity has caused me to pen these pages. I would not die,
and leave no name behind. Three centuries have passed since I quaffed the fatal beverage:
another year shall not elapse before, encountering gigantic dangers--warring with
the powers of frost in their home--beset by famine, toil, and tempest--I yield this body,
too tenacious a cage for a soul which thirsts for freedom, to the destructive
elements of air and water--or, if I survive, my name shall be recorded as one of the
most famous among the sons of men; and, my task achieved, I shall adopt more resolute
means, and, by scattering and annihilating the atoms that compose my frame, set at
liberty the life imprisoned within, and so cruelly prevented from soaring from this
dim earth to a sphere more congenial to its immortal essence.