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." |
