prompt:
Chapter: From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the
most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation.
I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination,
which modern inquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the
lectures, and cultivated the acquaintance, of the men of science of the
university; and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense
and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy
and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I
found a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism; and
his instructions were given with an air of frankness and good nature,
that banished every idea of pedantry. It was, perhaps, the amiable
character of this man that inclined me more to that branch of natural
philosophy which he professed, than an intrinsic love for the science
itself. But this state of mind had place only in the first steps towards
knowledge: the more fully I entered into the science, the more
exclusively I pursued it for its own sake. That application, which at
first had been a matter of duty and resolution, now became so ardent and
eager, that the stars often disappeared in the light of morning whilst
I was yet engaged in my laboratory.

As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that I improved
rapidly. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students; and my
proficiency, that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with
a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on? whilst M. Waldman expressed
the most heart-felt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this
manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart
and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries, which I hoped to make.
None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements
of science. In other studies you go as far as others have gone before
you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit
there is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate
capacity, which closely pursues one study, must infallibly arrive at
great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the
attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely wrapt up in this,
improved so rapidly, that, at the end of two years, I made some
discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which
procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had
arrived at this point, and had become as well acquainted with the theory
and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of
the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer
conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning to my friends and
my native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay.

One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the
structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life.
Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was
a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery;
yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted,
if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved
these circumstances in my mind, and determined thenceforth to apply
myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which
relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost
supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been
irksome, and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must
first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of
anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural
decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had
taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no
supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale
of superstition, or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness
had no effect upon my fancy; and a church-yard was to me merely the
receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of
beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to
examine the cause and progress of this decay, and forced to spend days
and nights in vaults and charnel houses. My attention was fixed upon
every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human
feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I
beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I
saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused,
examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in
the change from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst
of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me--a light so brilliant
and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the
immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that
among so many men of genius, who had directed their inquiries towards
the same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so
astonishing a secret.

Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not
more certainly shine in the heavens, than that which I now affirm is
true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the
discovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of
incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of
generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing
animation upon lifeless matter.

The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon
gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful
labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires, was the most
gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so great
and overwhelming, that all the steps by which I had been progressively
led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been
the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation of the world,
was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened
upon me at once: the information I had obtained was of a nature rather
to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them towards the
object of my search, than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I
was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead, and found a
passage to life aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly ineffectual
light.

I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which your eyes
express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with
which I am acquainted; that cannot be: listen patiently until the end of
my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that
subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to
your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my
precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of
knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town
to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature
will allow.

When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated
a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although
I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame
for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles,
and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour.
I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like
myself or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was too much
exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give
life to an animal as complex and wonderful as man. The materials at
present within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an
undertaking; but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I
prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be
incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect: yet, when I
considered the improvement which every day takes place in science and
mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least
lay the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider the
magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argument of its
impracticability. It was with these feelings that I began the creation
of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a great
hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to
make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, about eight feet
in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this
determination, and having spent some months in successfully collecting
and arranging my materials, I began.

No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like
a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared
to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a
torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as
its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their
being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so
completely as I should deserve their's. Pursuing these reflections, I
thought, that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might
in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where
death had apparently devoted the body to corruption.

These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with
unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person
had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of
certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or
the next hour might realize. One secret which I alone possessed was the
hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight
labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued
nature to her hiding places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret
toil, as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured
the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble,
and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless, and almost
frantic impulse, urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or
sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance,
that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural
stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I
collected bones from charnel houses; and disturbed, with profane
fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary
chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all
the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of
filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in
attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the
slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my human
nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by
an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a
conclusion.

The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in
one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow
a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage:
but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same
feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to
forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not
seen for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them; and I well
remembered the words of my father: "I know that while you are pleased
with yourself, you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear
regularly from you. You must pardon me, if I regard any interruption in
your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are equally
neglected."

I knew well therefore what would be my father's feelings; but I could
not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which
had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it were,
to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection until the
great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be
completed.

I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect
to vice, or faultiness on my part; but I am now convinced that he was
justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from blame.
A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful
mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his
tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an
exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself has a
tendency to weaken your affections, and to destroy your taste for those
simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is
certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If
this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit
whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic
affections, Greece had not been enslaved; Caesar would have spared his
country; America would have been discovered more gradually; and the
empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.

But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my
tale; and your looks remind me to proceed.

My father made no reproach in his letters; and only took notice of my
silence by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before.
Winter, spring, and summer, passed away during my labours; but I did not
watch the blossom or the expanding leaves--sights which before always
yielded me supreme delight, so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation.
The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near to a
close; and now every day shewed me more plainly how well I had
succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared
rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other
unwholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his favourite employment.
Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a
most painful degree; a disease that I regretted the more because I had
hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and had always boasted of the
firmness of my nerves. But I believed that exercise and amusement would
soon drive away such symptoms; and I promised myself both of these, when
my creation should be complete.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Victor again shows his obsession with learning and he devotes most of his time to schoolwork. He soon gains a reputation as an inventor and controversial scientist amongst the professors and students alike. He wishes to explore the possibility of creating life from death and the ultimate challenge would be to animate a dead body. In order to pursue this experimentation, he obtains body parts from morgues and cemeteries surreptitiously. He is now constantly working to succeed in this task obtaining very little sleep, and this affects both his health and his power of reasoning. The cycle of gory work carries on for months, and Victor has more or less cut himself off from the outside world, and in recent months he has failed to respond to letters received from home.


prompt:
Chapter: It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment
of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected
the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being
into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the
morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was
nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I
saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a
convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the
wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form?
His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as
beautiful. Beautiful!--Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the
work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black,
and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only
formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost
of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his
shrivelled complexion, and straight black lips.

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of
human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole
purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived
myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far
exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the
dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.
Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of
the room, and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable
to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the
tumult I had before endured; and I threw myself on the bed in my
clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was
in vain: I slept indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I
thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets
of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I
imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of
death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the
corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I
saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from
my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth
chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow
light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window-shutters, I
beheld the wretch--the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up
the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were
fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds,
while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not
hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped,
and rushed down stairs. I took refuge in the court-yard belonging to the
house which I inhabited; where I remained during the rest of the night,
walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively,
catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach
of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life.

Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy
again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I
had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then; but when those
muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing
such as even Dante could not have conceived.

I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and
hardly, that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly
sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with
this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment: dreams that had
been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space, were now become a
hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!

Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered to my
sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple
and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates
of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the
streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the
wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my
view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt
impelled to hurry on, although wetted by the rain, which poured from a
black and comfortless sky.

I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring, by
bodily exercise, to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I
traversed the streets, without any clear conception of where I was, or
what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear; and I
hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:

    Like one who, on a lonely road,
      Doth walk in fear and dread,
    And, having once turn'd round, walks on,
      And turns no more his head;
    Because he knows a frightful fiend
      Doth close behind him tread.

Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the
various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew
not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that
was coming towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew
nearer, I observed that it was the Swiss diligence: it stopped just
where I was standing; and, on the door being opened, I perceived Henry
Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. "My dear
Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you! how fortunate
that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!"

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought
back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home
so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot
my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during
many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in
the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval
continued talking for some time about our mutual friends, and his own
good fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. "You may easily
believe," said he, "how great was the difficulty to persuade my father
that it was not absolutely necessary for a merchant not to understand
any thing except book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him
incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied
entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in the Vicar
of Wakefield: 'I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat
heartily without Greek.' But his affection for me at length overcame his
dislike of learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of
discovery to the land of knowledge."

"It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left
my father, brothers, and Elizabeth."

"Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you
so seldom. By the bye, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account
myself.--But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he, stopping short, and
gazing full in my face, "I did not before remark how very ill you
appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for
several nights."

"You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one
occupation, that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see:
but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an
end, and that I am at length free."

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to
allude to the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick
pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the
thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my
apartment might still be there, alive, and walking about. I dreaded to
behold this monster; but I feared still more that Henry should see him.
Entreating him therefore to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the
stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock
of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused; and a cold
shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are
accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them
on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the
apartment was empty; and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous
guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good-fortune could have
befallen me; but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I
clapped my hands for joy, and ran down to Clerval.

We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast;
but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed
me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse
beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same
place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud.
Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival;
but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes
for which he could not account; and my loud, unrestrained, heartless
laughter, frightened and astonished him.

"My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not
laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?"

"Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought
I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; "_he_ can tell.--Oh, save
me! save me!" I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled
furiously, and fell down in a fit.

Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he
anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was
not the witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and did not recover my
senses for a long, long time.

This was the commencement of a nervous fever, which confined me for
several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I
afterwards learned that, knowing my father's advanced age, and unfitness
for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make
Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my
disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse
than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not
doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that
he could towards them.

But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the unbounded and
unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The
form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before
my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words
surprised Henry: he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my
disturbed imagination; but the pertinacity with which I continually
recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed
its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.

By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses, that alarmed and
grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became
capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I
perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared, and that the young
buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a
divine spring; and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I
felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my gloom
disappeared, and in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was
attacked by the fatal passion.

"Dearest Clerval," exclaimed I, "how kind, how very good you are to me.
This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised
yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay
you? I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have
been the occasion; but you will forgive me."

"You will repay me entirely, if you do not discompose yourself, but get
well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I
may speak to you on one subject, may I not?"

I trembled. One subject! what could it be? Could he allude to an object
on whom I dared not even think?

"Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, "I
will not mention it, if it agitates you; but your father and cousin
would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your own
hand-writing. They hardly know how ill you have been, and are uneasy at
your long silence."

"Is that all? my dear Henry. How could you suppose that my first thought
would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love, and who are
so deserving of my love."

"If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to
see a letter that has been lying here some days for you: it is from your
cousin, I believe."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The monster is brought to life by Victor - an 8 ft. created man - and Victor experiences a mix of excitement and revulsion at "the monster". He describes his creation thus, "His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was a lustrous black and flowing; his teeth of pearly whiteness; but these luxuriance's only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same color as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shriveled complexion and straight black lips." Victor runs from his rooms and wanders the streets of Ingolstadt until Henry Clerval finds him. Henry had arrived to enroll at University and he takes Victor back to his rooms to convalesce. The monster has gone. Victor is relieved at this and feels a burden lifted from him. Henry spends the rest of that winter and the following spring bringing Victor back to full health. Henry writes home to Victor's family in Geneva.


prompt:
Chapter: Clerval then put the following letter into my hands.

"_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN.

"MY DEAR COUSIN,

"I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all felt concerning
your health. We cannot help imagining that your friend Clerval conceals
the extent of your disorder: for it is now several months since we have
seen your hand-writing; and all this time you have been obliged to
dictate your letters to Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have been
exceedingly ill; and this makes us all very wretched, as much so nearly
as after the death of your dear mother. My uncle was almost persuaded
that you were indeed dangerously ill, and could hardly be restrained
from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. Clerval always writes that you
are getting better; I eagerly hope that you will confirm this
intelligence soon in your own hand-writing; for indeed, indeed, Victor,
we are all very miserable on this account. Relieve us from this fear,
and we shall be the happiest creatures in the world. Your father's
health is now so vigorous, that he appears ten years younger since last
winter. Ernest also is so much improved, that you would hardly know him:
he is now nearly sixteen, and has lost that sickly appearance which he
had some years ago; he is grown quite robust and active.

"My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about what profession
Ernest should follow. His constant illness when young has deprived him
of the habits of application; and now that he enjoys good health, he is
continually in the open air, climbing the hills, or rowing on the lake.
I therefore proposed that he should be a farmer; which you know, Cousin,
is a favourite scheme of mine. A farmer's is a very healthy happy life;
and the least hurtful, or rather the most beneficial profession of any.
My uncle had an idea of his being educated as an advocate, that through
his interest he might become a judge. But, besides that he is not at all
fitted for such an occupation, it is certainly more creditable to
cultivate the earth for the sustenance of man, than to be the confidant,
and sometimes the accomplice, of his vices; which is the profession of a
lawyer. I said, that the employments of a prosperous farmer, if they
were not a more honourable, they were at least a happier species of
occupation than that of a judge, whose misfortune it was always to
meddle with the dark side of human nature. My uncle smiled, and said,
that I ought to be an advocate myself, which put an end to the
conversation on that subject.

"And now I must tell you a little story that will please, and perhaps
amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz? Probably you do not; I
will relate her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz, her
mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third.
This girl had always been the favourite of her father; but, through a
strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and, after the
death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this; and,
when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow
her to live at her house. The republican institutions of our country
have produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in
the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction
between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders
being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined
and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant
in France and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the
duties of a servant; a condition which, in our fortunate country, does
not include the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a
human being.

"After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the heroine of my
little tale: for Justine was a great favourite of your's; and I
recollect you once remarked, that if you were in an ill humour, one
glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto
gives concerning the beauty of Angelica--she looked so frank-hearted and
happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which she was
induced to give her an education superior to that which she had at
first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was the most
grateful little creature in the world: I do not mean that she made any
professions, I never heard one pass her lips; but you could see by her
eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition
was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest
attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all
excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so
that even now she often reminds me of her.

"When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much occupied in their own
grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness
with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other
trials were reserved for her.

"One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the
exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience
of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her
favourites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her partiality. She
was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea
which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure
for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor
girl! she wept when she quitted our house: she was much altered since
the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to
her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her
residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The
poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged
Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of
having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting
at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased
her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the
first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this last winter.
Justine has returned to us; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is
very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her
mien and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt.

"I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling
William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with
sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eye-lashes, and curling hair. When he
smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with
health. He has already had one or two little _wives_, but Louisa Biron
is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.

"Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip
concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has
already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage
with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon,
married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite
schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the
departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his
spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a very lively
pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older
than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with every
body.

"I have written myself into good spirits, dear cousin; yet I cannot
conclude without again anxiously inquiring concerning your health. Dear
Victor, if you are not very ill, write yourself, and make your father
and all of us happy; or----I cannot bear to think of the other side of
the question; my tears already flow. Adieu, my dearest cousin."

"ELIZABETH LAVENZA.

"Geneva, March 18th, 17--."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed when I had read her letter, "I will
write instantly, and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel." I
wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had
commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to
leave my chamber.

One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the
several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a kind
of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained.
Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of
my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of
natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the
sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous
symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view.
He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired a
dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these
cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M.
Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the
astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that
I disliked the subject; but, not guessing the real cause, he attributed
my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement to
the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me
out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as
if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments
which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel
death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt.
Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the
sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his
total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I
thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that
he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and
although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew
no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him that
event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared
the detail to another would only impress more deeply.

M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of
almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me
even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. "D--n the
fellow!" cried he; "why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us
all. Aye, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster
who, but a few years ago, believed Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as the
gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he is
not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.--Aye, aye,"
continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, "M.
Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men
should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval; I was myself
when young: but that wears out in a very short time."

M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned
the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.

Clerval was no natural philosopher. His imagination was too vivid for
the minutiae of science. Languages were his principal study; and he
sought, by acquiring their elements, to open a field for
self-instruction on his return to Geneva. Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew,
gained his attention, after he had made himself perfectly master of
Greek and Latin. For my own part, idleness had ever been irksome to me;
and now that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former
studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend,
and found not only instruction but consolation in the works of the
orientalists. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating to a
degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country.
When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and
garden of roses,--in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire
that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical
poetry of Greece and Rome.

Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was
fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several
accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable,
and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay
very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town, and my beloved
friends. My return had only been delayed so long from an unwillingness
to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted
with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully;
and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came, its beauty
compensated for its dilatoriness.

The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily
which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a
pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt that I might bid a
personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded
with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval
had always been my favourite companion in the rambles of this nature
that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.

We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits had
long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the
salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and
the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the
intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but
Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught me
to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children.
Excellent friend! how sincerely did you love me, and endeavour to
elevate my mind, until it was on a level with your own. 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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Victor receives a letter from Elizabeth which helps lift his spirits. She gives details concerning Justine Moritz who is the Frankenstein's housekeeper and trusted friend. She was treated badly by her own family, but she has become indispensable in the Frankenstein home. Henry encourages Victor to study with him Ancient and Foreign Languages, and the pair work happily and well together. Victor remains with Henry in Ingolstadt for a further year.


prompt:
Chapter: 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. Even Cato wept over the dead body of his
brother."

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
cabriole, and bade farewell to my friend.

My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I
longed to console and sympathize 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 not 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 half a league to the east of 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 lightnings 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 that 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 storm, 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 that 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 towards the creation; the appearance of the work of
my own hands alive at my bed side; 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. Besides, 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 as 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 respectable parent! He still
remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over
the mantle-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. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see 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. But we are now
unhappy; and, I am afraid, tears instead of smiles will be your welcome.
Our father looks so sorrowful: this dreadful event seems to have revived
in his mind his grief on the death of Mamma. Poor Elizabeth also is
quite inconsolable." Ernest began to weep as he said these words.

"Do not," said I, "welcome me thus; try to be more calm, that I may not
be absolutely miserable the moment I enter my father's house after so
long an absence. But, tell me, how does my father support his
misfortunes? and how is my poor Elizabeth?"

"She indeed 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 do not know what you mean; but we were all very unhappy when she was
discovered. 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 all at once become so extremely wicked?"

"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 related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William had
been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed;
and, after several days, 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 shewed 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
ingratitude 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; and, in this assurance, I
calmed myself, expecting the trial with eagerness, but without
prognosticating an evil result.

We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had made great alterations in her
form since I had last beheld her. Six years before she had been a
pretty, good-humoured girl, whom every one loved and caressed. She was
now a woman in stature and expression of countenance, which was
uncommonly lovely. An open and capacious forehead gave indications of a
good understanding, joined to great frankness of disposition. Her eyes
were hazel, and expressive of mildness, now through recent affliction
allied to sadness. Her hair was of a rich, dark auburn, her complexion
fair, and her figure slight and graceful. 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 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.

"Sweet niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is, as you
believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our judges, and the activity
with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Victor's father, Alphonse writes to Victor telling him to return home immediately as William has been murdered. He had been strangled and the locket that Elizabeth had given William of their mother, was missing. When Victor arrives at the city gates, they are closed, and he has to wait outside until they re-open at dawn. He realizes that it is six years since he was last home, and two years since the creation of his monster. There is a tremendous storm, and suddenly Victor glimpses the monster between flashes of lightning. Victor suspects immediately that the monster has had something to do with William's murder. Suddenly the nightmare returns to Victor - he cannot reveal his suspicions regarding William's murderer without exposing his scientific work. When finally Victor arrives at his home, he learns that Justine is accused of the murder. She was found with the missing locket in her pocket, although she cannot say how it got there. Victor hopes that the justice system will set free the innocent Justine.


prompt:
Chapter: We passed a few sad hours, until eleven o'clock, when the trial was to
commence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend
as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of this
wretched mockery of justice, I suffered living torture. It was to be
decided, whether the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would
cause the death of two of my fellow-beings: one a smiling babe, full of
innocence and joy; the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every
aggravation of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror.
Justine also was a girl of merit, and possessed qualities which promised
to render her life happy: now all was to be obliterated in an
ignominious grave; and I the cause! A thousand times rather would I have
confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine; but I was
absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have been
considered as the ravings of a madman, and would not have exculpated her
who suffered through me.

The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning; and her
countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her
feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in
innocence, and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated by
thousands; for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have
excited, was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the
imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed. She was
tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as her
confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she worked up
her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered the court, she
threw her eyes round it, and quickly discovered where we were seated. A
tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us; but she quickly recovered
herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest her utter
guiltlessness.

The trial began; and after the advocate against her had stated the
charge, several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined
against her, which might have staggered any one who had not such proof
of her innocence as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on
which the murder had been committed, and towards morning had been
perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where the body of the
murdered child had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she
did there; but she looked very strangely, and only returned a confused
and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight
o'clock; and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she
replied, that she had been looking for the child, and demanded
earnestly, if any thing had been heard concerning him. When shewn the
body, she fell into violent hysterics, and kept her bed for several
days. The picture was then produced, which the servant had found in her
pocket; and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the
same which, an hour before the child had been missed, she had placed
round his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation filled the court.

Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded, her
countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery, were strongly
expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears; but when she was
desired to plead, she collected her powers, and spoke in an audible
although variable voice:--

"God knows," she said, "how entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend
that my protestations should acquit me: I rest my innocence on a plain
and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced against me;
and I hope the character I have always borne will incline my judges to a
favourable interpretation, where any circumstance appears doubtful or
suspicious."

She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed
the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed, at the
house of an aunt at Chene, a village situated at about a league from
Geneva. On her return, at about nine o'clock, she met a man, who asked
her if she had seen any thing of the child who was lost. She was alarmed
by this account, and passed several hours in looking for him, when the
gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced to remain several hours of
the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being unwilling to call up
the inhabitants, to whom she was well known. Unable to rest or sleep,
she quitted her asylum early, that she might again endeavour to find my
brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it was
without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered when questioned by
the market-woman, was not surprising, since she had passed a sleepless
night, and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain. Concerning the
picture she could give no account.

"I know," continued the unhappy victim, "how heavily and fatally this
one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of explaining
it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left to
conjecture concerning the probabilities by which it might have been
placed in my pocket. But here also I am checked. I believe that I have
no enemy on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to
destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I know of no
opportunity afforded him for so doing; or if I had, why should he have
stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon?

"I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for
hope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my
character; and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed guilt,
I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my
innocence."

Several witnesses were called, who had known her for many years, and
they spoke well of her; but fear, and hatred of the crime of which they
supposed her guilty, rendered them timorous, and unwilling to come
forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource, her excellent
dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused,
when, although violently agitated, she desired permission to address the
court.

"I am," said she, "the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered, or
rather his sister, for I was educated by and have lived with his parents
ever since and even long before his birth. It may therefore be judged
indecent in me to come forward on this occasion; but when I see a
fellow-creature about to perish through the cowardice of her pretended
friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I know of
her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have lived in
the same house with her, at one time for five, and at another for nearly
two years. During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable
and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my
aunt, in her last illness with the greatest affection and care; and
afterwards attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner
that excited the admiration of all who knew her. After which she again
lived in my uncle's house, where she was beloved by all the family. She
was warmly attached to the child who is now dead, and acted towards him
like a most affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to
say, that, notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I
believe and rely on her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for
such an action: as to the bauble on which the chief proof rests, if she
had earnestly desired it, I should have willingly given it to her; so
much do I esteem and value her."

Excellent Elizabeth! A murmur of approbation was heard; but it was
excited by her generous interference, and not in favour of poor Justine,
on whom the public indignation was turned with renewed violence,
charging her with the blackest ingratitude. She herself wept as
Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My own agitation and anguish
was extreme during the whole trial. I believed in her innocence; I knew
it. Could the daemon, who had (I did not for a minute doubt) murdered my
brother, also in his hellish sport have betrayed the innocent to death
and ignominy. I could not sustain the horror of my situation; and when I
perceived that the popular voice, and the countenances of the judges,
had already condemned my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court in
agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal mine; she was sustained
by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore my bosom, and would not
forego their hold.

I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning I went to the
court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask the fatal
question; but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause of my
visit. The ballots had been thrown; they were all black, and Justine was
condemned.

I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before experienced
sensations of horror; and I have endeavoured to bestow upon them
adequate expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the
heart-sickening despair that I then endured. The person to whom I
addressed myself added, that Justine had already confessed her guilt.
"That evidence," he observed, "was hardly required in so glaring a case,
but I am glad of it; and, indeed, none of our judges like to condemn a
criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so decisive."

When I returned home, Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.

"My cousin," replied I, "it is decided as you may have expected; all
judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer, than that one guilty
should escape. But she has confessed."

This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness
upon Justine's innocence. "Alas!" said she, "how shall I ever again
believe in human benevolence? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as my
sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray;
her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or ill-humour, and yet
she has committed a murder."

Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a wish to see my
cousin. My father wished her not to go; but said, that he left it to her
own judgment and feelings to decide. "Yes," said Elizabeth, "I will go,
although she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany me: I cannot go
alone." The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not
refuse.

We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and beheld Justine sitting on some
straw at the further end; her hands were manacled, and her head rested
on her knees. She rose on seeing us enter; and when we were left alone
with her, she threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly.
My cousin wept also.

"Oh, Justine!" said she, "why did you rob me of my last consolation. I
relied on your innocence; and although I was then very wretched, I was
not so miserable as I am now."

"And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also
join with my enemies to crush me?" Her voice was suffocated with sobs.

"Rise, my poor girl," said Elizabeth, "why do you kneel, if you are
innocent? I am not one of your enemies; I believed you guiltless,
notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard that you had yourself
declared your guilt. That report, you say, is false; and be assured,
dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a moment,
but your own confession."

"I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might obtain
absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my
other sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my
confessor has besieged me; he threatened and menaced, until I almost
began to think that I was the monster that he said I was. He threatened
excommunication and hell fire in my last moments, if I continued
obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to support me; all looked on me as a
wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition. What could I do? In an evil
hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly miserable."

She paused, weeping, and then continued--"I thought with horror, my
sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed aunt
had so highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable of a
crime which none but the devil himself could have perpetrated. Dear
William! dearest blessed child! I soon shall see you again in heaven,
where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me, going as I am to
suffer ignominy and death."

"Oh, Justine! forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you. Why
did you confess? But do not mourn, my dear girl; I will every where
proclaim your innocence, and force belief. Yet you must die; you, my
playfellow, my companion, my more than sister. I never can survive so
horrible a misfortune."

"Dear, sweet Elizabeth, do not weep. You ought to raise me with thoughts
of a better life, and elevate me from the petty cares of this world of
injustice and strife. Do not you, excellent friend, drive me to
despair."

"I will try to comfort you; but this, I fear, is an evil too deep and
poignant to admit of consolation, for there is no hope. Yet heaven
bless thee, my dearest Justine, with resignation, and a confidence
elevated beyond this world. Oh! how I hate its shews and mockeries! when
one creature is murdered, another is immediately deprived of life in a
slow torturing manner; then the executioners, their hands yet reeking
with the blood of innocence, believe that they have done a great deed.
They call this _retribution_. Hateful name! When that word is
pronounced, I know greater and more horrid punishments are going to be
inflicted than the gloomiest tyrant has ever invented to satiate his
utmost revenge. Yet this is not consolation for you, my Justine, unless
indeed that you may glory in escaping from so miserable a den. Alas! I
would I were in peace with my aunt and my lovely William, escaped from a
world which is hateful to me, and the visages of men which I abhor."

Justine smiled languidly. "This, dear lady, is despair, and not
resignation. I must not learn the lesson that you would teach me. Talk
of something else, something that will bring peace, and not increase of
misery."

During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison-room,
where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair! Who
dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass the
dreary boundary between life and death, felt not as I did, such deep and
bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth, and ground them together, uttering a
groan that came from my inmost soul. Justine started. When she saw who
it was, she approached me, and said, "Dear Sir, you are very kind to
visit me; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty."

I could not answer. "No, Justine," said Elizabeth; "he is more convinced
of your innocence than I was; for even when he heard that you had
confessed, he did not credit it."

"I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest gratitude
towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the affection
of others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than half my
misfortune; and I feel as if I could die in peace, now that my innocence
is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin."

Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed
gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the
never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or
consolation. Elizabeth also wept, and was unhappy; but her's also was
the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair
moon, for a while hides, but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and
despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within
me, which nothing could extinguish. We staid several hours with Justine;
and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear herself away.
"I wish," cried she, "that I were to die with you; I cannot live in this
world of misery."

Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty
repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth, and said, in a voice
of half-suppressed emotion, "Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my
beloved and only friend; may heaven in its bounty bless and preserve
you; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever suffer. Live,
and be happy, and make others so."

As we returned, Elizabeth said, "You know not, my dear Victor, how much
I am relieved, now that I trust in the innocence of this unfortunate
girl. I never could again have known peace, if I had been deceived in my
reliance on her. For the moment that I did believe her guilty, I felt an
anguish that I could not have long sustained. Now my heart is lightened.
The innocent suffers; but she whom I thought amiable and good has not
betrayed the trust I reposed in her, and I am consoled."

Amiable cousin! such were your thoughts, mild and gentle as your own
dear eyes and voice. But I--I was a wretch, and none ever conceived of
the misery that I then endured.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: At the trial of Justine Moritz, she proclaims her innocence, but nevertheless she is convicted and sentenced to be hanged the following day. Victor watched in silence as the nightmare unfolded, unable to stop the injustice. Elizabeth and Victor visit Justine where she reveals that she made a false confession under prolonged questioning. Justine says that she does not fear death, but Victor is distraught that there will now be two innocent victims arising out of his evil work.


prompt:
Chapter: Nothing is more painful to the human mind, than, after the feelings have
been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of
inaction and certainty which follows, and deprives the soul both of hope
and fear. Justine died; she rested; and I was alive. The blood flowed
freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my
heart, which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered
like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond
description horrible, and more, much more, (I persuaded myself) was yet
behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness, and the love of virtue. I
had begun life with benevolent intentions, and thirsted for the moment
when I should put them in practice, and make myself useful to my
fellow-beings. Now all was blasted: instead of that serenity of
conscience, which allowed me to look back upon the past with
self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I
was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to
a hell of intense tortures, such as no language can describe.

This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had entirely recovered
from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man; all
sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude was my only
consolation--deep, dark, death-like solitude.

My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my
disposition and habits, and endeavoured to reason with me on the folly
of giving way to immoderate grief. "Do you think, Victor," said he,
"that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more than I loved
your brother;" (tears came into his eyes as he spoke); "but is it not a
duty to the survivors, that we should refrain from augmenting their
unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed
to yourself; for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or
even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for
society."

This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I
should have been the first to hide my grief, and console my friends, if
remorse had not mingled its bitterness with my other sensations. Now I
could only answer my father with a look of despair, and endeavour to
hide myself from his view.

About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was
particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten
o'clock, and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that
hour, had rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome
to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired
for the night, I took the boat, and passed many hours upon the water.
Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes,
after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to pursue its
own course, and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I was often
tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing
that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly, if I except
some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard
only when I approached the shore--often, I say, I was tempted to plunge
into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me and my
calamities for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic
and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was
bound up in mine. I thought also of my father, and surviving brother:
should I by my base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the
malice of the fiend whom I had let loose among them?

At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that peace would revisit my
mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that
could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of
unalterable evils; and I lived in daily fear, lest the monster whom I
had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure
feeling that all was not over, and that he would still commit some
signal crime, which by its enormity should almost efface the
recollection of the past. There was always scope for fear, so long as
any thing I loved remained behind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be
conceived. When I thought of him, I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became
inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I had so
thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my
hatred and revenge burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a
pilgrimage to the highest peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have
precipitated him to their base. I wished to see him again, that I might
wreak the utmost extent of anger on his head, and avenge the deaths of
William and Justine.

Our house was the house of mourning. My father's health was deeply
shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and
desponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all
pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears
she then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so
blasted and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature, who in
earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake, and talked with
ecstacy of our future prospects. She had become grave, and often
conversed of the inconstancy of fortune, and the instability of human
life.

"When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death of
Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before
appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and
injustice, that I read in books or heard from others, as tales of
ancient days, or imaginary evils; at least they were remote, and more
familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come
home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood.
Yet I am certainly unjust. Every body believed that poor girl to be
guilty; and if she could have committed the crime for which she
suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human
creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her
benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and
appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent to the
death of any human being; but certainly I should have thought such a
creature unfit to remain in the society of men. Yet she was innocent. I
know, I feel she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that
confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth,
who can assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were
walking on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are
crowding, and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss. William and
Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the
world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to
suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places
with such a wretch."

I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed,
but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my
countenance, and kindly taking my hand said, "My dearest cousin, you
must calm yourself. These events have affected me, God knows how deeply;
but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair,
and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance, that makes me tremble. Be
calm, my dear Victor; I would sacrifice my life to your peace. We surely
shall be happy: quiet in our native country, and not mingling in the
world, what can disturb our tranquillity?"

She shed tears as she said this, distrusting the very solace that she
gave; but at the same time she smiled, that she might chase away the
fiend that lurked in my heart. My father, who saw in the unhappiness
that was painted in my face only an exaggeration of that sorrow which I
might naturally feel, thought that an amusement suited to my taste would
be the best means of restoring to me my wonted serenity. It was from
this cause that he had removed to the country; and, induced by the same
motive, he now proposed that we should all make an excursion to the
valley of Chamounix. I had been there before, but Elizabeth and Ernest
never had; and both had often expressed an earnest desire to see the
scenery of this place, which had been described to them as so wonderful
and sublime. Accordingly we departed from Geneva on this tour about the
middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of
Justine.

The weather was uncommonly fine; and if mine had been a sorrow to be
chased away by any fleeting circumstance, this excursion would certainly
have had the effect intended by my father. As it was, I was somewhat
interested in the scene; it sometimes lulled, although it could not
extinguish my grief. During the first day we travelled in a carriage. In
the morning we had seen the mountains at a distance, towards which we
gradually advanced. We perceived that the valley through which we wound,
and which was formed by the river Arve, whose course we followed, closed
in upon us by degrees; and when the sun had set, we beheld immense
mountains and precipices overhanging us on every side, and heard the
sound of the river raging among rocks, and the dashing of water-falls
around.

The next day we pursued our journey upon mules; and as we ascended still
higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character.
Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains; the
impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from
among the trees, formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented
and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining
pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the
habitations of another race of beings.

We passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river
forms, opened before us, and we began to ascend the mountain that
overhangs it. Soon after we entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley
is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as
that of Servox, through which we had just passed. The high and snowy
mountains were its immediate boundaries; but we saw no more ruined
castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road; we
heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche, and marked the
smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont
Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding _aiguilles_, and its
tremendous _dome_ overlooked the valley.

During this journey, I sometimes joined Elizabeth, and exerted myself to
point out to her the various beauties of the scene. I often suffered my
mule to lag behind, and indulged in the misery of reflection. At other
times I spurred on the animal before my companions, that I might forget
them, the world, and, more than all, myself. When at a distance, I
alighted, and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and
despair. At eight in the evening I arrived at Chamounix. My father and
Elizabeth were very much fatigued; Ernest, who accompanied us, was
delighted, and in high spirits: the only circumstance that detracted
from his pleasure was the south wind, and the rain it seemed to promise
for the next day.

We retired early to our apartments, but not to sleep; at least I did
not. I remained many hours at the window, watching the pallid lightning
that played above Mont Blanc, and listening to the rushing of the Arve,
which ran below my window.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Victor is now plagued with guilt and he decides to escape by having a short break which involves boating on Lake Geneva and a trip to the Swiss mountains. He hopes to be able to recover his senses. Victor: "I wept bitterly and wished that peace would revisit my mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of unalterable evils and I lived in daily fear lest the monster whom I had created should perpetrate some new wickedness."