[08] Frankenstein or, The Modern Prometheus [프랑켄슈타인]

2021. 5. 25. 02:33카테고리 없음

Chapter 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 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.

 

“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 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 Salêve, 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

Copêt. Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another

darkened and sometimes disclosed the Môle, 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

dæmon, 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 Salêve, 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 Salêve? 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.”