Chapter 7



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 murdered 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 murderer

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 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

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 Belvrie 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 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 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 the fair child.

He was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere presence

of the idea was an irresistibe 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 resolved

in my minds 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 discoverer 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 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 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 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 to-day,

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 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."

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