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
"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
"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
"Your affectionate and afflicted father,
"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
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 Belrive 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 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 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 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 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
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
"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
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
"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."