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On my return, I found the following letter from my father:--
"MY DEAR VICTOR,--You have probably waited impatiently for a
letter to fix the date of your return to us; and I was at first
tempted to write only a few lines, merely mentioning the day on
which I should expect you. But that would be a cruel kindness,
and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise, my son,
when you expected a happy and glad welcome, to behold, on the
contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate
our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to our
joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on my long absent
Son? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news, but I know it
is impossible; even now your eye skims over the page, to seek
the words which are to convey to you the horrible tidings.
"William is dead!--that sweet child, whose smiles delighted
and warmed my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor,
he is murdered!
"I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the
circumstances of the transaction.
"Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers,
went to walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene,
and we prolonged our walk farther than usual. It was already
dusk before we thought of returning; and then we discovered
that William and Ernest, who had gone on before, were not to
be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until they should
return. Presently Ernest came, and inquired if we had seen his
brother: he said, that he had been playing with him, that
William had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought
for him, and afterwards waited for him a long time, but that he
did not return.
"This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for
him until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might
have returned to the house. He was not there. We returned
again, with torches; for I could not rest, when I thought that
my sweet boy had lost himself, and was exposed to all the damps
and dews of night; Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish.
About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy, whom the
night before I had seen blooming and active in health,
stretched on the grass livid and motionless: the print of the
murderer's finger was on his neck.
"He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my
countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very
earnest to see the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent
her; but she persisted, and entering the room where it lay,
hastily examined the neck of the victim, and clasping her hands
exclaimed, `O God! I have murdered my darling child!'
She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When
she again lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me
that that same evening William had teased her to let him wear
a very valuable miniature that she possessed of your mother.
This picture is gone, and was doubtless the temptation which
urged the murderer to the deed. We have no trace of him at
present, although our exertions to discover him are unremitted;
but they will not restore my beloved William!
"Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth. She
weeps continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of
his death; her words pierce my heart. We are all unhappy; but
will not that be an additional motive for you, my son, to
return and be our comforter? Your dear mother! Alas, Victor!
I now say, Thank God she did not live to witness the cruel,
miserable death of her youngest darling!
"Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the
assassin, but with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will
heal, instead of festering, the wounds of our minds. Enter the
house of mourning, my friend, but with kindness and affection
for those who love you, and not with hatred for your
enemies.--Your affectionate and afflicted father,
ALPHONSE FRANKENSTEIN.
"GENEVA, _May 12th, 17--._"
Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter,
was surprised to observe the despair that succeeded to the joy
I at first expressed on receiving news from my friends. I threw
the letter on the table, and covered my face with my hands.
"My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me
weep with bitterness, "are you always to be unhappy? My dear
friend, what has happened?"
I motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up and
down the room in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed
from the eyes of Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune.
"I can offer you no consolation, my friend," said he; "your
disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do?"
"To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order
the horses."
During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of
consolation; he could only express his heartfelt sympathy.
"Poor William!" said he, "dear lovely child, he now sleeps with
his angel mother! Who that had seen him bright and joyous in
his young beauty, but must weep over his untimely loss! To die
so miserably; to feel the murderer's grasp! How much more a
murderer, that could destroy such radiant innocence! Poor
little fellow! one only consolation have we; his friends mourn
and weep, but he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings
are at an end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form, and he
knows no pain. He can no longer be a subject for pity; we must
reserve that for his miserable survivors."
Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words
impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered them
afterwards in solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived,
I hurried into a cabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend.
My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on,
for I longed to console and sympathise with my loved and
sorrowing friends; but when I drew near my native town, I
slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the multitude of
feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through scenes
familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six
years. How altered everything might be during that time! One
sudden and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand
little circumstances might have by degrees worked other
alterations, which, although they were done more tranquilly,
might not be the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I dared not
advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me
tremble, although I was unable to define them.
I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind.
I contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was
calm; and the snowy mountains, "the palaces of nature," were
not changed. By degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored
me, and I continued my journey towards Geneva.
The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as
I approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the
black sides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc.
I wept like a child. "Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake!
how do you welcome your wanderer? Your summits are clear; the
sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to prognosticate
peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?"
I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by
dwelling on these preliminary circumstances; but they were days
of comparative happiness, and I think of them with pleasure.
My country, my beloved country! who but a native can tell the
delight I took in again beholding thy streams, thy mountains,
and, more than all, thy lovely lake!
Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me.
Night also closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark
mountains, I felt still more gloomily. The picture appeared a
vast and dim scene of evil, and I foresaw obscurely that I was
destined to become the most wretched of human beings. Alas!
I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single circumstance,
that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not
conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined
to endure.
It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of
Geneva; the gates of the town were already shut; and I was
obliged to pass the night at Secheron, a village at the
distance of half a league from the city. The sky was serene;
and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot
where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass
through the town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to
arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the
lightnings playing on the summit of Mont Blanc in the most
beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly;
and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe
its progress. It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I
soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its
violence quickly increased.
I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and
storm increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a
terrific crash over my head. It was echoed from Saleve, the
Juras, and the Alps of Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning
dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake, making it appear like
a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant everything seemed of
a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself from the
preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in
Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens.
The most violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over
that part of the lake which lies between the promontory of
Belrive and the village of Copet. Another storm enlightened
Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened and sometimes
disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of the lake.
While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I
wandered on with a hasty step. This noble war in the sky
elevated my spirits; I clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud,
"William, dear angell this is thy funeral, this thy dirge!"
As I said these words, I perceived in the gloom a figure which
stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood fixed,
gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of
lightning illuminated the object, and discovered its shape
plainly to me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its
aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly
informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy daemon, to whom
I had given life. What did he there? Could he be (I shuddered
at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did
that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its
truth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a
tree for support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it
in the gloom. Nothing in human shape could have destroyed that
fair child. _He_ was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The
mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the fact.
I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have been in vain,
for another flash discovered him to me hanging among the rocks
of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Saleve, a hill that
bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit,
and disappeared.
I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still
continued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable
darkness. I revolved in my mind the events which I had until
now sought to forget: the whole train of my progress towards
the creation; the appearance of the work of my own hands alive
at my bedside; its departure. Two years had now nearly elapsed
since the night on which he first received life; and was this
his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a
depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had
he not murdered my brother?
No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder
of the night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air.
But I did not feel the inconvenience of the weather; my
imagination was busy in scenes of evil and despair. I
considered the being whom I had cast among mankind, and endowed
with the will and power to effect purposes of horror, such as
the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light of my own
vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to
destroy all that was dear to me.
Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The
gates were open, and I hastened to my father's house. My first
thought was to discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause
instant pursuit to be made. But I paused when I reflected on
the story that I had to tell. A being whom I myself had
formed, and endued with life, had met me at midnight among the
precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered also the
nervous fever with which I had been seized just at the time
that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of
delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well
knew that if any other had communicated such a relation to me,
I should have looked upon it as the ravings of insanity.
Besides, the strange nature of the animal would elude all
pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my
relatives to commence it. And then of what use would be
pursuit? Who could arrest a creature capable of scaling the
overhanging sides of Mont Saleve? These reflections determined
me, and I resolved to remain silent.
It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's
house. I told the servants not to disturb the family, and went
into the library to attend their usual hour of rising.
Six years had elapsed, passed as a dream but for one indelible
trace, and I stood in the same place where I had last embraced
my father before my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and
venerable parent! He still remained to me. I gazed on the
picture of my mother, which stood over the mantel-piece.
It was an historical subject, painted at my father's desire, and
represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling
by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her
cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that
hardly permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this picture was
a miniature of William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it.
While I was thus engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me
arrive, and hastened to welcome me. He expressed a sorrowful
delight to see me: "Welcome, my dearest Victor," said he.
"Ah! I wish you had come three months ago, and then you would
have found us all joyous and delighted! You come to us now to
share a misery which nothing can alleviate; yet your presence
will, I hope, revive our father, who seems sinking under his
misfortune; and your persuasions will induce poor Elizabeth to
cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations.--Poor William!
he was our darling and our pride!"
Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of
mortal agony crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined
the wretchedness of my desolated home; the reality came on me
as a new, and a not less terrible, disaster. I tried to calm
Ernest; I inquired more minutely concerning my father and her
I named my cousin.
"She most of all," said Ernest, "requires consolation; she
accused herself of having caused the death of my brother, and
that made her very wretched. But since the murderer has been
discovered--"
"The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could
attempt to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try
to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw.
I saw him too; he was free last night!"
"I do not know what you mean," replied my brother, in accents
of wonder, "but to us the discovery we have made completes
our misery. No one would believe it at first; and even now
Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the
evidence. Indeed, who would credit that Justine Moritz, who
was so amiable, and fond of all the family, could suddenly
become capable of so frightful, so appalling a crime?"
"Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it
is wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it,
surely, Ernest?"
"No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that
have almost forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour
has been so confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a
weight that, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be
tried to-day, and you will then hear all."
He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor
William had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and
confined to her bed for several days. During this interval,
one of the servants, happening to examine the apparel she had
worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in her pocket
the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the
temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly showed it to
one of the others, who, without saying a word to any of the
family, went to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition,
Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact, the
poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her
extreme confusion of manner.
This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I
replied earnestly, "You are all mistaken; I know the murderer.
Justine, poor, good Justine, is innocent."
At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply
impressed on his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me
cheerfully; and, after we had exchanged our mournful greeting,
would have introduced some other topic than that of our
disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, "Good God, papa! Victor
says that he knows who was the murderer of poor William."
"We do also, unfortunately," replied my father; "for indeed
I had rather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered
so much depravity and ingratitude in one I valued so highly."
"My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent."
"If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty.
She is to be tried to-day, and I hope, I sincerely hope,
that she will be acquitted."
This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind
that Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of
this murder. I had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial
evidence could be brought forward strong enough to convict her.
My tale was not one to announce publicly; its astounding horror
would be looked upon as madness by the vulgar. Did any one
indeed exist, except I, the creator, who would believe, unless
his senses convinced him, in the existence of the living
monument of presumption and rash ignorance which I had let
loose upon the world?
We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her since
I last beheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness
surpassing the beauty of her childish years. There was the
same candour, the same vivacity, but it was allied to an
expression more full of sensibility and intellect. She
welcomed me with the greatest affection. "Your arrival, my
dear cousin," said she, "fills me with hope. You perhaps will
find some means to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas!
who is safe, if she be convicted of crime? I rely on her
innocence as certainly as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is
doubly hard to us; we have not only lost that lovely darling
boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be torn
away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never shall
know joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not; and
then I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my
little William."
"She is innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and that shall be
proved; fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the
assurance of her acquittal."
"How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her
guilt, and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was
impossible: and to see every one else prejudiced in so deadly
a manner rendered me hopeless and despairing." She wept.
"Dearest niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is,
as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and
the activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of
partiality."
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