Chapter 7

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

When I returned, I found a letter from my father waiting for me.

“My dear Victor,

“I know you’ve been eagerly waiting for news about when you can come home. At first, I thought I’d just write a quick note to let you know the date. But that would be a cruel kindness, and I can’t do that. Imagine your surprise, my son, expecting a joyful welcome, only to find tears and sorrow instead. How can I share our misfortune with you? Time apart can’t have made you indifferent to our joys and sorrows, and I dread causing you pain after so long apart. I want to prepare you for the terrible news, but I know that’s impossible. Even now, I can picture you scanning this letter, searching for the words that will bring you the awful tidings.

“William is dead! That sweet child, whose smiles warmed my heart, who was so gentle yet so full of life! Victor, he has been murdered!

“I won’t try to console you; I’ll just tell you what happened.

“Last Thursday (May 7th), I, your niece, and your two brothers went for a walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and peaceful, and we walked longer than usual. By the time we decided to head back, it was already getting dark, and we realized that William and Ernest, who had gone ahead, were nowhere to be found. We sat down on a bench to wait for them. Soon, Ernest returned and asked if we had seen his brother. He said he had been playing with William, who had run off to hide, and after searching for him in vain, he had waited for a long time but still hadn’t seen him.

“This worried us, and we continued searching until night fell. Elizabeth suggested that he might have gone back home, but he wasn’t there. We returned with torches because I couldn’t bear the thought of my sweet boy lost in the dark, exposed to the cold and damp. Elizabeth was in agony as well.

“By five in the morning, I found my beautiful boy, who just the night before had been so lively and healthy, lying on the grass, pale and still. The mark of the murderer’s hand was on his neck.

“We brought him home, and the anguish on my face revealed everything to Elizabeth. She insisted on seeing the body. At first, I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t relent. When she entered the room and saw the victim, she examined his neck and cried out, ‘Oh God! I have murdered my darling child!’

“She fainted, and it took a long time to bring her back to consciousness. When she finally came to, all she could do was weep and sigh. She told me that earlier that evening, William had begged her to let him wear a precious miniature of your mother that she owned. That picture is gone now, and it must have tempted the murderer to commit this heinous act. We have no leads on him at the moment, despite our relentless search, but nothing can bring my beloved William back!

“Come home, dear Victor; you alone can comfort Elizabeth. She is inconsolable, blaming herself unjustly for his death, and her words pierce my heart. We are all in mourning, but won’t that be a reason for you to return and be our source of comfort? Your dear mother! Oh, Victor! I can only thank God she didn’t live to see the cruel, tragic death of her youngest child!

“Come, Victor; don’t return with thoughts of vengeance against the killer, but with peace and kindness that can heal our wounds instead of deepening them. Enter this house of mourning with love and compassion for those who care for you, not with hatred for your enemies.

“Your loving and grieving father,

“Alphonse Frankenstein.

“Geneva, May 12th, 17—.”

Clerval, who had been watching my face as I read the letter, was taken aback by the despair that replaced the joy I had felt upon receiving news from home. I tossed the letter onto the table and buried my face in my hands.

“My dear Frankenstein,” Henry exclaimed, seeing the bitterness in my tears, “are you always going to be unhappy? What has happened?”

I gestured for him to read the letter while I paced the room, consumed by agitation. Tears streamed down Clerval’s face as he absorbed the news of my tragedy.

“I can’t offer you any comfort, my friend,” he said. “Your loss is beyond repair. What do you plan to do?”

“I’m going to Geneva immediately. Come with me, Henry; let’s get the horses ready.”

As we walked, Clerval tried to offer some words of comfort, but all he could manage was his heartfelt sympathy.

“Poor William,” he said, “that dear, beautiful child is now at peace with his angel mother. Who could have seen him so bright and joyful in his youth and not weep for his tragic loss? To die so wretchedly, to feel the grip of his murderer! How could anyone destroy such radiant innocence? That poor little fellow! We have only one consolation: while his friends mourn and weep, he is at rest. The pain is over; his suffering has ended forever. A patch of earth covers his gentle form, and he knows no more pain. He can no longer be an object of pity; we must save that for those of us who remain.”

Clerval spoke as we hurried through the streets, his words etched in my mind, lingering with me in my solitude. But as soon as the horses arrived, I jumped into a cabriolet and said goodbye to my friend.

The journey was heavy with melancholy. At first, I wanted to rush home to comfort my grieving friends, but as I neared my hometown, I slowed down. I could hardly bear the flood of emotions swirling inside me. I passed familiar places from my youth, scenes I hadn’t seen in nearly six years. How much could have changed in that time? One sudden, devastating loss had already occurred, but countless smaller changes could have quietly altered everything, and those felt just as significant. Fear gripped me; I hesitated, dreading a thousand unnamed horrors that made me tremble, though I couldn’t quite define them.

I spent two days in Lausanne, trapped in this painful state of mind. I gazed at the lake; its waters were calm, the surroundings peaceful, and the snowy mountains—“the palaces of nature”—remained unchanged. Gradually, the serene beauty of the scene began to restore me, and I continued my journey toward Geneva.

The road hugged the lakeshore, narrowing as I approached my hometown. I could see the dark slopes of Jura more clearly and the bright peak of Mont Blanc. Tears streamed down my face. “Dear mountains! My beautiful lake! How do you welcome your wanderer? Your peaks are clear; the sky and water are blue and tranquil. Is this a sign of peace, or a mockery of my sorrow?”

I worry, my friend, that I might bore you by dwelling on these early moments, but they were days of relative happiness, and I remember them fondly. My country, my beloved homeland! Who but a native can understand the joy I felt in seeing your streams, your mountains, and, above all, your lovely lake again?

Yet, as I drew closer to home, grief and fear washed over me once more. Night fell, and as the dark mountains faded from view, my gloom deepened. The landscape loomed like a vast, shadowy scene of despair, and I sensed that I was destined to become one of the most wretched souls alive. Alas! I was right in my foreboding, though I underestimated the depth of anguish I was about to endure.

When I finally arrived near Geneva, it was completely dark; the town gates were already shut. I had to spend the night in Secheron, a village half a league from the city. The sky was clear, but unable to rest, I decided to visit the place where my poor William had been murdered. Since I couldn’t pass through the town, I took a boat across the lake to reach Plainpalais.

During that short voyage, I saw lightning dancing on the summit of Mont Blanc, creating the most beautiful shapes. The storm seemed to be approaching quickly, and once I landed, I climbed a low hill to watch its progress. It rolled in; the sky darkened, and soon large drops of rain began to fall slowly, quickly turning into a downpour.

I left my seat and walked on, even as the darkness and storm intensified. Thunder crashed terrifyingly above me, echoing off Salêve, the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy. Bright flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake and making it look like a vast sheet of fire. Then, for a moment, everything plunged into pitch darkness until my eyes adjusted after the last flash.

The storm, as often happens in Switzerland, erupted in various parts of the sky. The most violent storm loomed directly north of the town, over the stretch of lake between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copêt. Another storm flickered faintly over Jura, while yet another darkened and occasionally revealed the peak of Môle, a mountain to the east of the lake.

As I watched the storm, both beautiful and terrifying, I hurried along, my heart racing. The fierce battle in the sky lifted my spirits, and I clasped my hands, exclaiming, “William, my dear angel! This is your funeral, your dirge!”

Just then, I noticed a figure emerging from behind a cluster of trees nearby. I froze, staring intently; I couldn’t be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the figure, revealing its massive form and a grotesque appearance that was more monstrous than human. In that moment, I knew it was the wretch, the filthy demon I had brought to life. What was he doing here? Could he possibly be—my heart sank at the thought—the murderer of my brother? As that idea crossed my mind, I felt a chilling certainty wash over me. My teeth chattered, and I had to lean against a tree for support.

The figure moved past me quickly, disappearing into the darkness. No one in human form could have taken the life of my precious child. He was the murderer! I couldn’t doubt it. The very thought of it felt like undeniable proof. I considered chasing after the creature, but it would have been futile. Another flash of lightning revealed him clinging to the rocks of the steep Mont Salêve, the hill that bordered Plainpalais to the south. He soon reached the summit and vanished from sight.

I stood there, motionless. The thunder had stopped, but the rain continued to pour, wrapping the scene in an impenetrable darkness. My mind raced through the events I had desperately tried to forget: the entire journey that led to my creation, the sight of my own handiwork at my bedside, and its subsequent departure. Nearly two years had passed since that fateful night when he first came to life. Was this his first crime? Oh, how I had unleashed a depraved wretch into the world, one who thrived on carnage and misery. Had he not killed my brother?

No one could understand the anguish I endured for the rest of the night, which I spent cold and drenched in the open air. Yet, I hardly noticed the weather; my imagination was consumed by visions of evil and despair. I thought of the being I had cast into the world, endowed with the will and power to commit horrors, like the act he had just carried out. It felt as if I had released my own vampire, my spirit unleashed from the grave, forced to destroy everything I held dear.

As dawn broke, I made my way toward the town. The gates were open, and I rushed to my father’s house. My first thought was to find out what I could about the murderer and to initiate an immediate pursuit. But I hesitated when I considered the story I had to tell. A being I had created, given life to, had confronted me at midnight on the cliffs of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered the fever that had gripped me around the time of my creation, which would make my tale sound like the ramblings of a madman. I knew that if someone else had shared such a story with me, I would have dismissed it as insanity. Besides, the creature’s strange nature would make it impossible to track him down, even if I could convince my family to help. And what good would a pursuit do? Who could catch a being capable of scaling the sheer cliffs of Mont Salêve? These thoughts solidified my resolve, and I decided to remain silent.

It was around five in the morning when I stepped into my father’s house. I instructed the servants not to disturb the family and went to the library to wait for their usual waking hour.

Six years had passed, a blur except for one indelible mark, and I found myself in the same spot where I had last embraced my father before leaving for Ingolstadt. My beloved and venerable parent! He was still here. I gazed at the portrait of my mother hanging over the mantelpiece. It was an emotional scene, painted at my father’s request, depicting Caroline Beaufort in deep despair, kneeling by her father’s coffin. She wore simple clothing, her face pale, yet there was a dignity and beauty about her that made it hard to feel pity. Beneath the portrait was a miniature of William, and tears streamed down my face as I looked at it.

Just then, Ernest entered. He had heard me arrive and rushed to greet me. “Welcome, my dearest Victor,” he said. “I wish you had come three months ago; you would have found us all joyful and happy. Now, you return to share in a sorrow that nothing can ease. Yet, I hope your presence will revive our father, who seems to be fading under his grief, and that you can persuade poor Elizabeth to stop her endless self-blame. Oh, William! He was our darling and our pride!”

Tears streamed down my brother’s face, and a wave of despair washed over me. Until now, I had only imagined the devastation of our home, but facing the reality felt like a new, equally terrible disaster. I tried to comfort Ernest and pressed him for more details about our father, and that’s when I mentioned our cousin.

“She needs the most comfort,” Ernest said, “She blames herself for my brother’s death, and it’s made her utterly miserable. But now that the murderer has been found—”

“The murderer found? Good God! How can that be? Who could possibly catch him? It’s impossible; it’s like trying to chase the wind or dam a river with a straw. I saw him too; he was free just last night!”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” my brother replied, his voice filled with confusion, “but for us, the discovery only deepens our misery. At first, no one would believe it, and even now Elizabeth refuses to accept it, despite all the evidence. Honestly, who would think that Justine Moritz, who was so kind and loved by our family, could suddenly commit such a horrific crime?”

“Justine Moritz! Poor girl, is she the one accused? That’s so wrong; everyone knows she didn’t do it, right? No one believes it, surely, Ernest?”

“At first, no one did; but then several facts came to light that almost forced us to believe it. Her behavior has been so erratic that it only adds to the weight of the evidence. I fear it leaves no room for doubt. She’s being tried today, and you’ll hear everything then.”

He went on to explain that on the morning poor William’s murder was discovered, Justine had fallen ill and had been bedridden for several days. During that time, one of the servants examined the clothes she wore on the night of the murder and found a picture of my mother in her pocket, which was thought to have tempted the murderer. The servant immediately showed it to another, who, without telling anyone in the family, went to a magistrate. Based on their testimony, Justine was arrested. When confronted, the poor girl’s extreme confusion only seemed to confirm the suspicions against her.

It was a strange story, but it didn’t shake my belief. I replied earnestly, “You’re all wrong; I know who the murderer is. Justine, sweet, innocent Justine, is not guilty.”

Just then, my father walked in. His face was etched with sorrow, but he tried to greet me warmly. After our somber exchange, he would have changed the subject, but Ernest interrupted, “Good God, Papa! Victor says he knows who murdered poor William.”

“We do too, unfortunately,” my father replied, “I would have preferred to remain ignorant than to discover such depravity and ingratitude in someone I held in high regard.”

“Father, you’re mistaken; Justine is innocent.”

“If she is, then God forbid she should suffer as if she were guilty. She’s being tried today, and I sincerely hope she will be acquitted.”

His words calmed me. I was convinced that Justine, and indeed every person, was innocent of this murder. I had no fear that any circumstantial evidence could be strong enough to convict her. My story was not one to share publicly; its shocking horror would be dismissed as madness by most. Did anyone else exist, besides me, the creator of this nightmare, who would believe in the living embodiment of arrogance and ignorance that I had unleashed upon the world?

Before long, Elizabeth joined us. Time had changed her since I last saw her; she was now even more beautiful than in her childhood. The same openness and liveliness remained, but it was paired with a deeper sense of sensitivity and intelligence. She greeted me with warmth. “Your arrival, dear cousin,” she said, “fills me with hope. Perhaps you can find a way to prove Justine’s innocence. Who is safe if she is convicted? I trust her innocence as surely as I trust my own. Our misfortune is doubly cruel; we’ve lost our lovely boy, and now this dear girl, whom I love, faces an even worse fate. If she is condemned, I will never know joy again. But I believe she won’t be; I’m sure of it. Then I can be happy again, even after the tragic loss of little William.”

“She is innocent, Elizabeth,” I assured her, “and that will be proven. Don’t worry; let your spirits be lifted by the certainty of her acquittal.”

“How kind and generous you are! Everyone else thinks she’s guilty, and that made me so unhappy because I knew it wasn’t true. Seeing everyone else so biased against her left me feeling hopeless and desperate.” She broke down in tears.

“Dear niece,” my father said gently, “please don’t cry. If she is, as you believe, innocent, trust in the fairness of our laws and know that I will do everything in my power to ensure there’s no hint of bias.”