Frankenstein Remade

by Marly Shelley

  Chapter 7

  On my return, I found the following letter from my father:--

  'My dear Victoria,

  '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 daughter, when you expected a happy and glad welcome, to behold, on the contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victoria, 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 maid to seek the words which are to convey to you the horrible tidings.

  'Wilma is dead!--that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victoria, she 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 sisters, 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 Wilma and Ernestine, who had gone on before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until they should return. Presently Ernestine came, and enquired if we had seen her brother; she said, that she had been playing with her, that Wilma had run away to hide herself, and that she vainly sought for her, and afterwards waited for a long time, but that she did not return.

  'This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for her until night fell, when Elisha conjectured that she might have returned to the house. She was not there. We returned again, with torches; for I could not rest, when I thought that my sweet girl had lost herself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night; Elisha also suffered extreme anguish. About five in the morning I discovered my lovely girl, 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 her neck.

  'She was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my countenance betrayed the secret to Elisha. He was very earnest to see the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent his but he persisted, and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the victim, and clasping his hands exclaimed, 'O God! I have murdered my darling child!'

  'He fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When he again lived, it was only to weep and sigh. He told me, that that same evening Wilma had teased his to let her wear a very valuable miniature that he 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 her at present, although our exertions to discover her are unremitted; but they will not restore my beloved Wilma!

  'Come, dearest Victoria; you alone can console Elisha. He weeps continually, and accuses himself unjustly as the cause of her death; his words pierce my heart. We are all unhappy; but will not that be an additional motive for you, my daughter, to return and be our comforter? Your dear mother! Alas, Victoria! I now say, Thank God he did not live to witness the cruel, miserable death of his youngest darling!

  'Come, Victoria; 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 mother,

  'Alpha 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 Henrietta, when she perceived me weep with bitterness, 'are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend, what has happened?'

  I motioned her 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 she read the account of my misfortune.

  'I can offer you no consolation, my friend,' said she; 'your disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do?'

  'To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henrietta, to order the horses.'

  During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation; she could only express her heartfelt sympathy. 'Poor Wilma!' said she, dear lovely child, she now sleeps with her angel mother! Who that had seen her bright and joyous in her young beauty, but must weep over her 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; her friends mourn and weep, but she is at rest. The pang is over, her sufferings are at an end for ever. A sod covers her gentle form, and she knows no pain. She can no longer be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for her 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 Wilma 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 figure
s. 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, 'Wilma, 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 she there? Could she be (I shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my sister? 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 her to me hanging among the rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Saleve, a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the south. She 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 she first received life; and was this her first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had she not murdered my sister?

  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 she 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 mother'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 mother'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 mother before my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent! She 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 mother's desire, and represented Carol Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of his dead mother. His garb was rustic, and his 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 Wilma; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged, Ernestine entered: she had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me: 'Welcome, my dearest Victoria,' said she. '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 you presence will, I hope, revive our mother, who seems sinking under her misfortune; and your persuasions will induce poor Elisha to cease his vain and tormenting self- accusations.--Poor Wilma! she 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 Ernestine; I enquired more minutely concerning my mother, and his I named my cousin.

  'He most of all,' said Ernestine, 'requires consolation; he accused himself of having caused the death of my sister, and that made his very wretched. But since the murderer has been discovered--'

  'The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt to pursue her? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw. I saw her too; she was free last night!'

  'I do not know what you mean,' replied my sister, 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 Elisha will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit that Justin Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family, could suddenly become so capable of so frightful, so appalling a crime?'

  'Justin Moritz! Poor, poor boy, is he the accused? But it is wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernestine?'

  'No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have almost forced conviction upon us; and his 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 he will be tried today, and you will then hear all.'

  She then related that, the morning on which the murder of poor Wilma had been discovered, Justin had been taken ill, and confined to his bed for several days. During this interval, one of the servants, happening to examine the apparel he had worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in his 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, Justin was apprehended. On being charged with the fact, the poor boy confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by his 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. Justin, poor, good Justin, is innocent.'

  At that instant my mother entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on her countenance, but she endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, after we had exchanged our mournfu
l greeting, would have introduced some other topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernestine exclaimed, 'Good God, papa! Victoria says that she knows who was the murderer of poor Wilma.'

  'We do also, unfortunately,' replied my mother, '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 mother, you are mistaken; Justin is innocent.'

  'If he is, God forbid that he should suffer as guilty. He is to be tried today, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that he will be acquitted.'

  This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that Justin, 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 him. 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 her senses convinced her, 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 Elisha. Time had altered his since I last beheld him; it had endowed him with loveliness surpassing the beauty of his childish years. There was the same candour, the same vivacity, but it was allied to an expression more full of sensibility and intellect. He welcomed me with the greatest affection. 'Your arrival, my dear cousin,' said he, 'fills me with hope. You perhaps will find some means to justify my poor guiltless Justin. Alas! who is safe, if he be convicted of crime? I rely on his innocence as certainly as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only lost that lovely darling girl, but this poor boy, whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If he is condemned, I never shall know joy more. But he will not, I am sure he will not; and then I shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my little Wilma.'

  'He is innocent, my Elisha,' said I, 'and that shall be proved; fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of his acquittal.'

  'How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in his 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.' He wept.

  'Dearest niece,' said my mother, 'dry your tears. If he 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.'