On
my return, I found
the
following
letter
from
my father:— "My
dear
Victor, "You
have
probably
waited
impatiently
for
a
letter
to
fix
the
date
of
your
return
to
us;
and
I
was
at
first
tempted
to
write
only
a
few
lines, merely
mentioning
the
day
on
which
I
should
expect
you.
But
that
would
be
a
cruel
kindness,
and
I
dare
not
do
it.
What
would
be
your
surprise, my son,
when
you
expected
a
happy
and
glad
welcome,
to
behold,
on
the
contrary,
tears
and
wretchedness?
And
how, Victor,
can
I
relate
our
misfortune?
Absence
cannot
have
rendered
you
callous
to
our
joys
and
griefs;
and
how
shall
I
inflict
pain
on
my
long
absent son? I
wish
to
prepare
you
for
the
woeful news,
but
I
know
it
is
impossible;
even
now
your
eye
skims
over
the
page
to
seek
the
words
which
are
to
convey
to
you
the
horrible
tidings. "William
is
dead!—that
sweet
child,
whose
smiles
delighted
and
warmed
my heart,
who
was
so
gentle,
yet
so
gay! Victor,
he
is
murdered! "I
will
not
attempt
to
console
you;
but
will
simply
relate
the
circumstances
of
the
transaction. "Last
Thursday
(May 7th), I, my niece,
and
your
two
brothers, went
to
walk
in
Plainpalais.
The
evening
was
warm
and
serene,
and
we
prolonged
our
walk
farther
than
usual.
It
was
already
dusk
before
we
thought
of
returning;
and
then
we
discovered
that
William
and
Ernest,
who
had gone
on
before,
were
not
to
be
found.
We
accordingly rested
on
a
seat
until
they
should
return. Presently
Ernest
came,
and
enquired
if
we
had
seen
his
brother;
he
said,
that
he
had been
playing
with
him,
that
William
had
run
away
to
hide
himself,
and
that
he
vainly
sought
for
him,
and
afterwards
waited
for
a
long
time,
but
that
he
did
not
return. "This
account
rather
alarmed us,
and
we
continued
to
search
for
him
until
night
fell,
when
Elizabeth
conjectured
that
he
might
have
returned
to
the
house.
He
was
not
there.
We
returned
again,
with
torches;
for
I
could
not
rest,
when
I
thought
that
my
sweet
boy
had lost himself,
and
was
exposed
to
all
the
damps
and
dews
of
night;
Elizabeth
also
suffered
extreme
anguish.
About
five
in
the
morning
I
discovered
my
lovely
boy,
whom
the
night
before
I had
seen
blooming
and
active
in
health, stretched
on
the
grass
livid
and
motionless;
the
print
of
the
murder's
finger
was
on
his
neck. "He
was
conveyed
home,
and
the
anguish
that
was
visible
in
my countenance
betrayed
the
secret
to
Elizabeth.
She
was
very
earnest
to
see
the
corpse.
At
first
I attempted
to
prevent
her
but
she
persisted,
and
entering
the
room
where
it
lay, hastily
examined
the
neck
of
the
victim,
and
clasping
her
hands
exclaimed, 'O God! I
have
murdered
my
darling
child!' "She fainted,
and
was
restored
with
extreme
difficulty.
When
she
again
lived,
it
was
only
to
weep
and
sigh.
She
told
me,
that
that
same
evening
William
had teased
her
to
let
him
wear a
very
valuable miniature
that
she
possessed
of
your
mother.
This
picture
is
gone,
and
was
doubtless
the
temptation
which
urged
the
murderer
to
the
deed.
We
have
no
trace
of
him
at
present, although
our
exertions
to
discover
him
are
unremitted;
but
they
will
not
restore
my 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. Clerval,
who
had
watched
my countenance
as
I read
this
letter,
was
surprised
to
observe
the
despair
that
succeeded
the
joy
I
at
first
expressed
on
receiving
new
from
my friends. I threw
the
letter
on
the
table,
and
covered my face
with
my hands. "My
dear
Frankenstein,"
exclaimed
Henry,
when
he
perceived
me
weep
with
bitterness, "are
you
always
to
be
unhappy? My
dear
friend,
what
has happened?" I
motioned
him
to
take
up
the
letter,
while
I walked
up
and
down
the
room
in
the
extremest
agitation.
Tears
also
gushed
from
the
eyes
of
Clerval,
as
he
read
the
account
of
my misfortune. "I
can
offer
you
no
consolation, my friend," said he; "your
disaster
is
irreparable.
What
do
you
intend
to
do?" "To
go
instantly
to
Geneva:
come
with
me, Henry,
to
order
the
horses."
During
our
walk, Clerval
endeavoured
to
say
a
few
words
of
consolation;
he
could
only
express
his
heartfelt sympathy. "Poor William!" said he, "dear
lovely
child,
he
now
sleeps
with
his
angel
mother!
Who
that
had
seen
him
bright
and
joyous
in
his
young
beauty,
but
must
weep
over
his
untimely
loss!
To
die
so
miserably;
to
feel
the
murderer's grasp!
How
much
more
a
murdered
that
could
destroy
radiant innocence!
Poor
little
fellow!
one
only
consolation
have
we;
his
friends
mourn
and
weep,
but
he
is
at
rest.
The
pang
is
over,
his
sufferings
are
at
an
end
for
ever. A
sod
covers
his
gentle
form,
and
he
knows
no
pain.
He
can
no
longer
be
a
subject
for
pity;
we
must
reserve
that
for
his
miserable
survivors." Clerval
spoke
thus
as
we
hurried
through
the
streets;
the
words
impressed
themselves
on
my
mind
and
I
remembered
them
afterwards
in
solitude.
But
now,
as
soon
as
the
horses
arrived, I hurried
into
a cabriolet,
and
bade
farewell
to
my friend. My
journey
was
very
melancholy.
At
first
I
wished
to
hurry on,
for
I
longed
to
console
and
sympathise
with
my
loved
and
sorrowing
friends;
but
when
I
drew
near
my
native
town, I slackened my progress. I
could
hardly
sustain
the
multitude
of
feelings
that
crowded
into
my mind. I
passed
through
scenes
familiar
to
my youth,
but
which
I had
not
seen
for
nearly
six
years.
How
altered
every
thing
might
be
during
that
time!
One
sudden
and
desolating
change
had taken place;
but
a
thousand
little
circumstances
might
have
by
degrees
worked
other
alterations, which, although
they
were
done
more
tranquilly,
might
not
be
the
less
decisive.
Fear
overcame me; I
dared
no
advance,
dreading
a
thousand
nameless
evils
that
made
me
tremble, although I
was
unable
to
define
them. I
remained
two
days
at
Lausanne,
in
this
painful
state
of
mind. I
contemplated
the
lake:
the
waters
were
placid;
all
around
was
calm;
and
the
snowy
mountains, 'the
palaces
of
nature,'
were
not
changed.
By
degrees
the
calm
and
heavenly
scene
restored
me,
and
I
continued
my
journey
towards
Geneva.
The
road
ran
by
the
side
of
the
lake,
which
became
narrower
as
I approached my
native
town. I
discovered
more
distinctly
the
black
sides
of
Jura,
and
the
bright
summit
of
Mont Blanc. I wept
like
a child. "Dear mountains! my
own
beautiful lake!
how
do
you
welcome
your
wanderer?
Your
summits
are
clear;
the
sky
and
lake
are
blue
and
placid.
Is
this
to
prognosticate
peace,
or
to
mock
at
my unhappiness?" I fear, my friend,
that
I
shall
render
myself
tedious
by
dwelling
on
these
preliminary
circumstances;
but
they
were
days
of
comparative
happiness,
and
I
think
of
them
with
pleasure. My country, my beloved country!
who
but
a
native
can
tell
the
delight
I
took
in
again
beholding
thy streams, thy mountains, and,
more
than
all, thy
lovely
lake! Yet,
as
I
drew
nearer
home,
grief
and
fear
again
overcame me.
Night
also
closed around;
and
when
I
could
hardly
see
the
dark mountains, I felt
still
more
gloomily.
The
picture
appeared
a
vast
and
dim
scene
of
evil,
and
I foresaw
obscurely
that
I
was
destined
to
become
the
most
wretched
of
human
beings. Alas! I prophesied truly,
and
failed
only
in
one
single circumstance,
that
in
all
the
misery
I
imagined
and
dreaded, I
did
not
conceive
the
hundredth
part
of
the
anguish
I
was
destined
to
endure.
It
was
completely dark
when
I
arrived
in
the
environs
of
Geneva;
the
gates
of
the
town
were
already
shut;
and
I
was
obliged
to
pass
the
night
at
Secheron, a
village
at
the
distance
of
half
a league
from
the
city.
The
sky
was
serene; and,
as
I
was
unable
to
rest, I resolved
to
visit
the
spot
where
my
poor
William
had been murdered.
As
I
could
not
pass
through
the
town, I
was
obliged
to
cross
the
lake
in
a
boat
to
arrive
at
Plainpalais.
During
this
short
voyage
I
saw
the
lightning
playing
on
the
summit
of
Mont Blanc
in
the
most
beautiful figures.
The
storm
appeared
to
approach rapidly, and,
on
landing, I
ascended
a
low
hill,
that
I
might
observe
its
progress.
It
advanced;
the
heavens
were
clouded,
and
I
soon
felt
the
rain
coming
slowly
in
large
drops,
but
its
violence
quickly
increased. I
quitted
my seat,
and
walked on, although
the
darkness
and
storm
increased
every
minute,
and
the
thunder
burst
with
a
terrific
crash
over
my head.
It
was
echoed
from
Saleve,
the
Juras,
and
the
Alps
of
Savoy;
vivid
flashes
of
lightning
dazzled
my eyes,
illuminating
the
lake,
making
it
appear
like
a
vast
sheet
of
fire;
then
for
an
instant
every
thing
seemed
of
a pitchy darkness,
until
the
eye
recovered
itself
from
the
preceding
flash.
The
storm,
as
is
often
the
case
in
Switzerland,
appeared
at
once
in
various
parts
of
the
heavens.
The
most
violent
storm
hung
exactly
north
of
the
town,
over
the
part
of
the
lake
which
lies
between
the
promontory
of
Belrive
and
the
village
of
Copet.
Another
storm
enlightened Jura
with
faint flashes;
and
another
darkened
and
sometimes
disclosed
the
Mole, a peaked
mountain
to
the
east
of
the
lake.
While
I
watched
the
tempest,
so
beautiful
yet
terrific, I
wandered
on
with
a
hasty
step.
This
noble
war
in
the
sky
elevated
my spirits; I
clasped
my hands,
and
exclaimed
aloud, "William,
dear
angel!
this
is
thy funeral,
this
thy dirge!"
As
I said
these
words, I
perceived
in
the
gloom
a
figure
which
stole
from
behind
a clump
of
trees
near
me; I stood fixed, gazing intently: I
could
not
be
mistaken. A flash
of
lightning
illuminated
the
object,
and
discovered
its
shape
plainly
to
me;
its
gigantic
stature,
and
the
deformity
of
its
aspect
more
hideous
than
belongs
to
humanity, instantly
informed
me
that
it
was
the
wretch,
the
filthy daemon,
to
whom
I had
given
life.
What
did
he
there?
Could
he
be
(I shuddered
at
the
conception)
the
murderer
of
my brother?
No
sooner
did
that
idea
cross
my imagination,
than
I became
convinced
of
its
truth; my teeth chattered,
and
I
was
forced
to
lean
against a tree
for
support.
The
figure
passed
me
quickly,
and
I lost
it
in
the
gloom.
Nothing
in
human
shape
could
have
destroyed
the
fair
child.
HE
was
the
murderer! I
could
not
doubt
it.
The
mere
presence
of
the
idea
was
an
irresistible
proof
of
the
fact. I
thought
of
pursuing
the
devil;
but
it
would
have
been
in
vain,
for
another
flash
discovered
him
to
me
hanging
among
the
rocks
of
the
nearly
perpendicular
ascent
of
Mont Saleve, a
hill
that
bounds Plainpalais
on
the
south.
He
soon
reached
the
summit,
and
disappeared. I
remained
motionless.
The
thunder
ceased;
but
the
rain
still
continued,
and
the
scene
was
enveloped
in
an
impenetrable
darkness. I
revolved
in
my
mind
the
events
which
I had
until
now
sought
to
forget:
the
whole
train
of
my
progress
toward
the
creation;
the
appearance
of
the
works
of
my
own
hands
at
my bedside;
its
departure.
Two
years
had
now
nearly
elapsed
since
the
night
on
which
he
first
received life;
and
was
this
his
first
crime? Alas! I had
turned
loose
into
the
world
a
depraved
wretch,
whose
delight
was
in
carnage
and
misery; had
he
not
murdered
my brother?
No
one
can
conceive
the
anguish
I
suffered
during
the
remainder
of
the
night,
which
I spent, cold
and
wet,
in
the
open
air.
But
I
did
not
feel
the
inconvenience
of
the
weather; my
imagination
was
busy
in
scenes
of
evil
and
despair. I
considered
the
being
whom
I had cast
among
mankind,
and
endowed
with
the
will
and
power
to
effect
purposes
of
horror,
such
as
the
deed
which
he
had
now
done, nearly
in
the
light
of
my
own
vampire, my
own
spirit
let
loose
from
the
grave,
and
forced
to
destroy
all
that
was
dear
to
me.
Day
dawned;
and
I
directed
my
steps
towards
the
town.
The
gates
were
open,
and
I hastened
to
my father's house. My
first
thought
was
to
discover
what
I
knew
of
the
murderer,
and
cause
instant
pursuit
to
be
made.
But
I
paused
when
I
reflected
on
the
story
that
I had
to
tell. A being
whom
I
myself
had formed,
and
endued
with
life, had met
me
at
midnight
among
the
precipices
of
an
inaccessible
mountain. I
remembered
also
the
nervous
fever
with
which
I had been
seized
just
at
the
time
that
I dated my creation,
and
which
would
give
an
air
of
delirium
to
a
tale
otherwise
so
utterly
improbable. I
well
knew
that
if
any
other
had
communicated
such
a
relation
to
me, I
should
have
looked
upon
it
as
the
ravings
of
insanity. Besides,
the
strange
nature
of
the
animal
would
elude
all
pursuit,
even
if
I
were
so
far
credited
as
to
persuade
my
relatives
to
commence
it.
And
then
of
what
use
would
be
pursuit?
Who
could
arrest
a
creature
capable
of
scaling
the
overhanging
sides
of
Mont Saleve?
These
reflections
determined me,
and
I resolved
to
remain
silent.
It
was
about
five
in
the
morning
when
I
entered
my father's house. I
told
the
servants
not
to
disturb
the
family,
and
went
into
the
library
to
attend
their
usual
hour
of
rising.
Six
years
had elapsed,
passed
in
a
dream
but
for
one
indelible
trace,
and
I stood
in
the
same
place
where
I had
last
embraced
my father
before
my
departure
for
Ingolstadt. Beloved
and
venerable
parent!
He
still
remained
to
me. I gazed
on
the
picture
of
my mother,
which
stood
over
the
mantel-piece.
It
was
an
historical
subject, painted
at
my father's desire,
and
represented
Caroline
Beaufort
in
an
agony
of
despair,
kneeling
by
the
coffin
of
her
dead
father.
Her
garb
was
rustic,
and
her
cheek
pale;
but
there
was
an
air
of
dignity
and
beauty,
that
hardly
permitted
the
sentiment
of
pity.
Below
this
picture
was
a miniature
of
William;
and
my
tears
flowed
when
I
looked
upon
it.
While
I
was
thus
engaged,
Ernest
entered:
he
had
heard
me
arrive,
and
hastened
to
welcome
me: "Welcome, my
dearest
Victor," said he. "Ah! I
wish
you
had
come
three
months
ago,
and
then
you
would
have
found
us
all
joyous
and
delighted.
You
come
to
us
now
to
share
a
misery
which
nothing
can
alleviate;
yet
your
presence
will, I hope,
revive
our
father,
who
seems
sinking
under
his
misfortune;
and
your
persuasions
will
induce
poor
Elizabeth
to
cease
her
vain
and
tormenting
self-accusations.—Poor William!
he
was
our
darling
and
our
pride!" Tears, unrestrained,
fell
from
my brother's eyes; a sense
of
mortal
agony
crept
over
my frame. Before, I had
only
imagined
the
wretchedness
of
my desolated home;
the
reality
came
on
me
as
a new,
and
a
not
less
terrible, disaster. I tried
to
calm
Ernest; I enquired
more
minutely
concerning my father,
and
here
I
named
my cousin. "She
most
of
all," said Ernest, "requires consolation;
she
accused
herself
of
having
caused
the
death
of
my brother,
and
that
made
her
very
wretched.
But
since
the
murderer
has been discovered—" "The
murderer
discovered!
Good
God!
how
can
that
be?
who
could
attempt
to
pursue
him?
It
is
impossible;
one
might
as
well
try
to
overtake
the
winds,
or
confine
a mountain-stream
with
a straw. I
saw
him
too;
he
was
free
last
night!" "I
do
not
know
what
you
mean," replied my brother,
in
accents
of
wonder, "but
to
us
the
discovery
we
have
made
completes
our
misery.
No
one
would
believe
it
at
first;
and
even
now
Elizabeth
will
not
be
convinced,
notwithstanding
all
the
evidence. Indeed,
who
would
credit
that
Justine
Moritz,
who
was
so
amiable,
and
fond
of
all
the
family,
could
suddenly
become
so
capable
of
so
frightful,
so
appalling a crime?" "Justine Moritz! Poor,
poor
girl,
is
she
the
accused?
But
it
is
wrongfully;
every
one
knows
that;
no
one
believes
it, surely, Ernest?" "No
one
did
at
first;
but
several
circumstances came out,
that
have
almost
forced
conviction
upon
us;
and
her
own
behaviour
has been
so
confused,
as
to
add
to
the
evidence
of
facts
a
weight
that, I fear,
leaves
no
hope
for
doubt.
But
she
will
be
tried today,
and
you
will
then
hear
all."
He
then
related that,
the
morning
on
which
the
murder
of
poor
William
had been discovered,
Justine
had been taken ill,
and
confined
to
her
bed
for
several
days.
During
this
interval,
one
of
the
servants, happening
to
examine
the
apparel
she
had
worn
on
the
night
of
the
murder, had
discovered
in
her
pocket
the
picture
of
my mother,
which
had been
judged
to
be
the
temptation
of
the
murderer.
The
servant
instantly
showed
it
to
one
of
the
others, who,
without
saying
a
word
to
any
of
the
family, went
to
a magistrate; and,
upon
their
deposition,
Justine
was
apprehended.
On
being
charged
with
the
fact,
the
poor
girl
confirmed
the
suspicion
in
a
great
measure
by
her
extreme
confusion
of
manner.
This
was
a
strange
tale,
but
it
did
not
shake
my faith;
and
I replied earnestly, "You
are
all
mistaken; I
know
the
murderer. Justine, poor,
good
Justine,
is
innocent."
At
that
instant
my father entered. I
saw
unhappiness
deeply
impressed
on
his
countenance,
but
he
endeavoured
to
welcome
me
cheerfully; and,
after
we
had
exchanged
our
mournful greeting,
would
have
introduced
some
other
topic
than
that
of
our
disaster, had
not
Ernest
exclaimed, "Good God, papa!
Victor
says
that
he
knows
who
was
the
murderer
of
poor
William." "We
do
also, unfortunately," replied my father, "for
indeed
I had
rather
have
been
for
ever
ignorant
than
have
discovered
so
much
depravity
and
ungratitude
in
one
I
valued
so
highly." "My
dear
father,
you
are
mistaken;
Justine
is
innocent." "If
she
is,
God
forbid
that
she
should
suffer
as
guilty.
She
is
to
be
tried today,
and
I hope, I sincerely hope,
that
she
will
be
acquitted."
This
speech
calmed
me. I
was
firmly
convinced
in
my
own
mind
that
Justine,
and
indeed
every
human
being,
was
guiltless
of
this
murder. I had
no
fear, therefore,
that
any
circumstantial
evidence
could
be
brought forward
strong
enough
to
convict her. My
tale
was
not
one
to
announce
publicly;
its
astounding
horror
would
be
looked
upon
as
madness
by
the
vulgar.
Did
any
one
indeed
exist,
except
I,
the
creator,
who
would
believe, unless
his
senses
convinced
him,
in
the
existence
of
the
living
monument
of
presumption
and
rash
ignorance
which
I had
let
loose
upon
the
world?
We
were
soon
joined
by
Elizabeth. Time had
altered
her
since
I
last
beheld her;
it
had endowed
her
with
loveliness
surpassing
the
beauty
of
her
childish
years.
There
was
the
same
candour,
the
same
vivacity,
but
it
was
allied
to
an
expression
more
full
of
sensibility
and
intellect.
She
welcomed
me
with
the
greatest affection. "Your arrival, my
dear
cousin," said she, "fills
me
with
hope.
You
perhaps
will
find
some
means
to
justify
my
poor
guiltless
Justine. Alas!
who
is
safe,
if
she
be
convicted
of
crime? I
rely
on
her
innocence
as
certainly
as
I
do
upon
my own.
Our
misfortune
is
doubly
hard
to
us;
we
have
not
only
lost
that
lovely
darling
boy,
but
this
poor
girl,
whom
I sincerely love,
is
to
be
torn
away
by
even
a
worse
fate.
If
she
is
condemned, I
never
shall
know
joy
more.
But
she
will
not, I
am
sure
she
will
not;
and
then
I
shall
be
happy
again,
even
after
the
sad
death
of
my
little
William." "She
is
innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and
that
shall
be
proved;
fear
nothing,
but
let
your
spirits
be
cheered
by
the
assurance
of
her
acquittal." "How
kind
and
generous
you
are!
every
one
else
believes
in
her
guilt,
and
that
made
me
wretched,
for
I
knew
that
it
was
impossible:
and
to
see
every
one
else
prejudiced
in
so
deadly
a
manner
rendered
me
hopeless
and
despairing."
She
wept. "Dearest niece," said my father, "dry
your
tears.
If
she
is,
as
you
believe, innocent,
rely
on
the
justice
of
our
laws,
and
the
activity
with
which
I
shall
prevent
the
slightest shadow
of
partiality."