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."

 Victor receives a letter from his father telling him to return home immediately. William, the youngest in the family, has been murdered by strangulation. The family were out on an evening stroll near their home when the young boy ran ahead of the group. He was later found "stretched on the grass livid and motionless; the print of the murder's finger was on his neck." Missing was a locket that Elizabeth had given William of their mother. When Victor arrives at the city gates, they are closed, so he must remain outside the city in Secheron until the gates are reopened at dawn. It is at this time that he realizes that he had been gone six years from home and that two years have passed since the creation of his monster. While near Secheron, on Mont Blanc, Victor catches a glimpse of the monster between flashes of lightning. Having a nagging feeling that the murder of his little brother could be the handiwork of his monster, Victor questions, "Could he be the murderer of my brother?" The monster disappears when he realizes that he has been seen by his creator. Now fully believing that his creation murdered William, Victor knows that he cannot reveal the source of the crime without some serious inquiry about his creation. Thus, Victor is torn between revealing the monster and risking inquisition on his past or letting the criminal justice system free the accused. Finally at home, Victor engages in a conversation with his family. He learns that Justine is accused of the murder with circumstantial evidence. He relays his assertion of Justine's innocence and states that she will be found not guilty. His words reassure Elizabeth in a time of great need.

