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." |