Frankenstein's Bride (29 page)

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 favorite 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.

C H A PT E R 7

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 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 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.

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 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 endeavored 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 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 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 concep-tion) 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!”