His tenderness and
attentions were unremitting; my grief and gloom was obstinate, but he
would not despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt deeply the
degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he
endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride. “Alas! my father,” said I, “how little do you know me. Human beings,
their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded, if such a wretch
as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I,
and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause
of this—I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry—they all died by
my hands.”

My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same
assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an
explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as caused by
delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had
presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved
in my convalescence. I avoided explanation, and maintained a continual
silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a feeling that I
should be supposed mad, and this for ever chained my tongue, when I
would have given the whole world to have confided the fatal secret. Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded
wonder, “What do you mean, Victor? are you mad? My dear son, I entreat
you never to make such an assertion again.”

“I am not mad,” I cried energetically; “the sun and the heavens, who
have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth. I am the
assassin of those most innocent victims; they died by my machinations. A
thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have
saved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not
sacrifice the whole human race.”

The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were
deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation, and
endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts. He wished as much as
possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken place in
Ireland, and never alluded to them, or suffered me to speak of my
misfortunes. As time passed away I became more calm: misery had her dwelling in my
heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own
crimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness of them. By the utmost
self-violence, I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness, which
sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world; and my manners
were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey
to the sea of ice. We arrived at Havre on the 8th of May, and instantly proceeded to Paris,
where my father had some business which detained us a few weeks. In this
city, I received the following letter from Elizabeth:—

       *       *       *       *       *

“_To_ VICTOR FRANKENSTEIN. “MY DEAREST FRIEND,

“It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle
dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable distance, and I may
hope to see you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you
must have suffered! I expect to see you looking even more ill than when
you quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured
as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in your
countenance, and to find that your heart is not totally devoid of
comfort and tranquillity. “Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable
a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would not disturb you at
this period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you; but a conversation
that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders some
explanation necessary before we meet. “Explanation! you may possibly say; what can Elizabeth have to explain? If you really say this, my questions are answered, and I have no more to
do than to sign myself your affectionate cousin. But you are distant
from me, and it is possible that you may dread, and yet be pleased with
this explanation; and, in a probability of this being the case, I dare
not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I have often
wished to express to you, but have never had the courage to begin. “You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of
your parents ever since our infancy. We were told this when young, and
taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly take
place. We were affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I
believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But as
brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each
other, without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our
case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you, by our mutual
happiness, with simple truth—Do you not love another? “You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life at
Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last
autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude, from the society of every
creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our
connexion, and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of
your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations. But
this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my cousin, that I love you,
and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant friend
and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as well as my own, when
I declare to you, that our marriage would render me eternally miserable,
unless it were the dictate of your own free choice. Even now I weep to
think, that, borne down as you are by the cruelest misfortunes, you may
stifle, by the word _honour_, all hope of that love and happiness which
would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so interested an
affection for you, may increase your miseries ten-fold, by being an
obstacle to your wishes. Ah, Victor, be assured that your cousin and
playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this
supposition. Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me in this one
request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to
interrupt my tranquillity. “Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer it to-morrow, or the
next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle
will send me news of your health; and if I see but one smile on your
lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I
shall need no other happiness. “ELIZABETH LAVENZA. “Geneva, May 18th, 17—.”

       *       *       *       *       *

This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, the threat
of the fiend—“_I will be with you on your wedding-night!_” Such was my
sentence, and on that night would the dæmon employ every art to destroy
me, and tear me from the glimpse of happiness which promised partly to
console my sufferings. On that night he had determined to consummate his
crimes by my death.