CHAPTER VII.
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 ofyour 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 wouldbe 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 thecontrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate ourmisfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to our joys andgriefs; and how shall I inflict pain on my long absent son? I wish toprepare you for the woful news, but I know it is impossible; even nowyour eye skims over the page, to seek the words which are to convey toyou the horrible tidings.
"William is dead!--that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmedmy heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered!
"I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate thecircumstances of the transaction.
"Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, went towalk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolongedour walk farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought ofreturning; and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had goneon before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat untilthey should return. Presently Ernest came, and enquired if we had seenhis brother: he said, that he had been playing with him, that Williamhad run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, andafterwards waited for him a long time, but that he did not return.
"This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for himuntil night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have returnedto the house. He was not there. We returned again, with torches; for Icould not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, andwas exposed to all the damps and dews of night; Elizabeth also sufferedextreme 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'sfinger was on his neck.
"He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in mycountenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest tosee the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent her; but she persisted,and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of thevictim, and clasping her hands exclaimed, 'O God! I have murdered mydarling child!'
"She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she againlived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same eveningWilliam had teased her to let him wear a very valuable miniature thatshe possessed of your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtlessthe temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We have no traceof him at present, although our exertions to discover him areunremitted; but they will not restore my beloved William!
"Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth. She weepscontinually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his death; herwords pierce my heart. We are all unhappy; but will not that be anadditional motive for you, my son, to return and be our comforter? Yourdear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live towitness 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 offestering, the wounds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, myfriend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and notwith 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, wassurprised to observe the despair that succeeded to the joy I at firstexpressed on receiving news from my friends. I threw the letter on thetable, and covered my face with my hands.
"My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep withbitterness, "are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend, what hashappened?"
I motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down theroom in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes ofClerval, as he read the account of my misfortune.
"I can offer you no consolation, my friend," said he; "your disaster isirreparable. 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 heart-felt sympathy. "Poor William!" said he,"dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who that hadseen him bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over hisuntimely loss! To die so miserably; to feel the murderer's grasp! Howmuch more a murderer, that could destroy such radiant innocence! Poorlittle 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 forever. A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can nolonger be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserablesurvivors."
Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the wordsimpressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered them afterwards insolitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into acabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend.
My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for Ilonged to console and sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends;but when I drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I couldhardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. Ipassed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen fornearly six years. How altered every thing might be during that time! Onesudden and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand littlecircumstances 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 namelessevils that made me tremble, although I was unable to define them.
I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. Icontemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm; andthe snowy mountains, "the palaces of nature," were not changed. Bydegrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued myjourney towards Geneva.
The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as Iapproached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the black sidesof Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept like a child."Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome yourwanderer? 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 onthese preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparativehappiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my belovedcountry! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again beholdingthy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake!
Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night alsoclosed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I feltstill more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil,and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretchedof human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one singlecircumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did notconceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.
It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; thegates of the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the nightat 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 visitthe spot where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not passthrough the town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive atPlainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the lightnings playing onthe summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful figures. T
he stormappeared to approach rapidly; and, on landing, I ascended a low hill,that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens wereclouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but itsviolence quickly increased.
I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and stormincreased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash overmy 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 fromthe preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in Switzerland,appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most violent stormhung exactly north of the town, over that part of the lake which liesbetween the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copet. Anotherstorm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened andsometimes disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of the lake.
While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered onwith a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; Iclasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud, "William, dear angel! this is thyfuneral, this thy dirge!" As I said these words, I perceived in thegloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stoodfixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightningilluminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; itsgigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous thanbelongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, thefilthy 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 soonerdid that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of itstruth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree forsupport. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom.Nothing in human shape could have destroyed that fair child. _He_ wasthe murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was anirresistible proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but itwould have been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me hangingamong the rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Saleve, ahill 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 inmy mind the events which I had until now sought to forget: the wholetrain of my progress towards the creation; the appearance of the work ofmy own hands alive at my bedside; its departure. Two years had nownearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and wasthis his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a depravedwretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not murdered mybrother?
No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of thenight, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not feelthe inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in scenes ofevil and despair. I considered the being whom I had cast among mankind,and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes of horror, suchas the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light of my ownvampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to destroyall that was dear to me.
Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates wereopen, and I hastened to my father's house. My first thought was todiscover what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to bemade. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. Abeing whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me atmidnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I rememberedalso the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at the timethat I dated my creation, and which would give an air of delirium to atale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that if any other hadcommunicated such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it as theravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal wouldelude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade myrelatives to commence it. And then of what use would be pursuit? Whocould arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of MontSaleve? These reflections determined me, and I resolved to remainsilent.
It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house. Itold the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the libraryto 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 beforemy departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent! He stillremained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood overthe mantel-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father'sdesire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair,kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and hercheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardlypermitted the sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature ofWilliam; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thusengaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcomeme. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me: "Welcome, my dearestVictor," said he. "Ah! I wish you had come three months ago, and thenyou would have found us all joyous and delighted. You come to us now toshare a misery which nothing can alleviate; yet your presence will, Ihope, revive our father, who seems sinking under his misfortune; andyour persuasions will induce poor Elizabeth to cease her vain andtormenting self-accusations.--Poor William! he was our darling and ourpride!"
Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of mortalagony crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the wretchednessof my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and a not lessterrible, disaster. I tried to calm Ernest; I enquired more minutelyconcerning my father, and her I named my cousin.
"She most of all," said Ernest, "requires consolation; she accusedherself of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her verywretched. But since the murderer has been discovered--"
"The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attemptto pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake thewinds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw. I saw him too; he wasfree 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 wouldbelieve it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced,notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit that JustineMoritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family, could suddenlybecome capable of so frightful, so appalling a crime?"
"Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it iswrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?"
"No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that havealmost forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour has been soconfused, 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 willthen hear all."
He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William hadbeen discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed forseveral days. During this interval, one of the servants, happening toexamine the apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, haddiscovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which had been judgedto be the temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly showed it toone of the others, who, without saying a word to any of the family, wentto a magistrate; and, upon their deposition, Justine was apprehended. Onbeing charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in agreat measure by her extreme confusion of manner.
This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I repliedearnestly, "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 onhis countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, afterwe had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some othertopic 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 ratherhave been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity andingratitude 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 betried 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 thatJustine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. Ihad no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could bebrought forward strong enough to convict her. My tale was not one toannounce publicly; its astounding horror would be looked upon as madnessby the vulgar. Did any one indeed exist, except I, the creator, whowould believe, unless his senses convinced him, in the existence of theliving monument of presumption and rash ignorance which I had let looseupon the world?
We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her since I lastbeheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing the beauty ofher childish years. There was the same candour, the same vivacity, butit was allied to an expression more full of sensibility and intellect.She welcomed me with the greatest affection. "Your arrival, my dearcousin," said she, "fills me with hope. You perhaps will find some meansto justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she beconvicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do upon myown. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only lost thatlovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, is to betorn away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never shall knowjoy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not; and then I shall behappy again, even after the sad death of my little William."
"She is innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and that shall be proved; fearnothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of heracquittal."
"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 seeevery one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me hopeless anddespairing." She wept.
"Dearest niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is, as youbelieve, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and the activitywith which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality."