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 enquired 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 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 murder’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 the joy I at first expressed on receiving
new 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 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 murdered that could
destroy 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 every thing 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 no 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 lightning 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 Salêve, 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 every thing 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 the part of the lake
which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copêt. Another
storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened and sometimes
disclosed the Môle, 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 angel! 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 dæmon, 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 the 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 Salêve, 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
toward the creation; the appearance of the works of my own hands 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 Salêve? 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 in 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: “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 enquired more minutely concerning my father, and here 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 so 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 today, and you will then hear all.” He then 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 ungratitude
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
today, 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.”