A selfish
pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and affection
warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature who, a few
years ago, loving and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy,
inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful
sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstacy. The
present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the
hedges, while those of summer were already in bud: I was undisturbed by
thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me,
notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible
burden. Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathized in my feelings:
he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that
filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly
astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often,
in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of
wonderful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite
poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he supported with great
ingenuity. We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were
dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits
were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and
hilarity. CHAPTER VI. On my return, I found the following letter from my father:—

       *       *       *       *       *

“_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN. “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 gay 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 an absent child? 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 they had been playing together, 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 infant!’

“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 teazed 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 raise my spirits. He did not do
this by common topics of consolation, but by exhibiting the truest
sympathy. “Poor William!” said he, “that dear child; he now sleeps with
his angel mother. His friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest: he does
not now feel the murderer’s grasp; a sod covers his gentle form, and he
knows no pain. He can no longer be a fit subject for pity; the survivors
are the greatest sufferers, and for them time is the only consolation. Those maxims of the Stoics, that death was no evil, and that the mind of
man ought to be superior to despair on the eternal absence of a beloved
object, ought not to be urged.