Skip to main content
SearchLoginLogin or Signup

Chapter VI.

Published onJun 17, 2019
Chapter VI.
·

Chapter VI.

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

“To V. FRANKENSTEIN.

“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 gay 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 an absent child? 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 inquired if we had seen his brother: he said, that they had been playing together, that William had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and afterwards waited for him 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 infant!’

“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 teazed 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 to the joy I at first expressed on receiving news 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 to 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 raise my spirits. He did not do this by common topics of consolation, but by exhibiting the truest sympathy. “Poor William!” said he, “that dear child; he now sleeps with his angel mother. His friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest: he does not now feel the murderer’s grasp; a sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a fit subject for pity; the survivors are the greatest sufferers, and for them time is the only consolation. Those maxims of the Stoics, that death was no evil, and that the mind of man ought to be superior to despair on the eternal absence of a beloved object, ought not to be urged. Even Cato wept over the dead body of his brother.”

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 cabriole, 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 not 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 half a league to the east of 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 lightnings 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 that 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 storm, 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 that 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 towards the creation; the appearance of the work of my own hands alive at my bed side; 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 toward 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. Besides, 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 as 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 respectable parent! He still remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the mantle-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. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see 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. But we are now unhappy; and, I am afraid, tears instead of smiles will be your welcome. Our father looks so sorrowful: this dreadful event seems to have revived in his mind his grief on the death of Mamma. Poor Elizabeth also is quite inconsolable.” Ernest began to weep as he said these words.

“Do not,” said I, “welcome me thus; try to be more calm, that I may not be absolutely miserable the moment I enter my father’s house after so long an absence. But, tell me, how does my father support his misfortunes? and how is my poor Elizabeth?”

“She indeed 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 do not know what you mean; but we were all very unhappy when she was discovered. 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 all at once become so extremely wicked?”

“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 to-day, and you will then hear all.”

He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed; and, after several days, 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 shewed 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 ingratitude 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 to-day, 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; and, in this assurance, I calmed myself, expecting the trial with eagerness, but without prognosticating an evil result.

We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had made great alterations in her form since I had last beheld her. Six years before she had been a pretty, good-humoured girl, whom every one loved and caressed. She was now a woman in stature and expression of countenance, which was uncommonly lovely. An open and capacious forehead gave indications of a good understanding, joined to great frankness of disposition. Her eyes were hazel, and expressive of mildness, now through recent affliction allied to sadness. Her hair was of a rich dark auburn, her complexion fair, and her figure slight and graceful. 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 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.

“Sweet niece,” said my father, “dry your tears. If she is, as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our judges, and the activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality.”

Comments
16
?
Michael Wilcoxen:

The reason why i have decided to vote the monster as guilty of murder was because that it was very mindful of it’s actions. This murder was an act of rage and revenge, this was, in no way, involuntary. The monster has proven to us several times that it is perfectly capable of understanding it’s own actions.

?
Joshua Hill:

Most of this paragraph supports the fact that Dr. Frankenstein and the Creature are guilty of murder. Dr. Frankenstein is the one who made the Creature and could have done many things to prevent the murder of William. I believe Dr. Frankenstein is guilty of involuntary manslaughter and the Creature is guilty of manslaughter.

?
McKenna Bustamante:

As the side of prosecution, the greatest piece of evidence is William’s locket found in Justine’s pocket after his murder. As for the monster, he was abandoned at birth and left to fend for himself, therefore he did not know right from wrong. Frankenstein is the true monster, selfish and irresponsible. The monster was the way he was because of neglect.

?
Julia Schubert:

The monster, considering his intelligence, must have run away to avoid any consequence that may have come from being discovered. meaning that he is at least cognizant that murdering the child was wrong. Regardless if he understood this in a moral or lawful sense, escaping indicates that he knows the price of his crimes. He cannot be acquitted on account of lacking knowledge or wisdom of murder, pain, etc.

?
Mim Montgomery:

Representing Victor Frankenstein. As a witness to seeing The Monster at the location of William’s murder, as well as, within the time period of the murder. Frankenstein also has a deeper relation to The Monster, being it’s creator, relating the likeness of the figure to that of The Monster. Therefore, placing the monster at the location, and in the time period, of William’s murder.

?
Alex Blanford:

Elizabeth’s relationship with Justine is strong. She is sure of Justine’s character and innocence. Her testament to Justine’s character along with the evidence showing that the murder could not have been committed by an average human, let alone Justine, proves that the Monster is in someway responsible for William’s death.

Gerardo Cortez:

Evidence points to the monster murdering the child but when you really think about this situation don’t you think Dr. Frankenstein is equally at fault for the murder of William Frankenstein? He created the monster, a monster with superhuman abilities. Creating something like that without raising it or hiding it obviously wasn’t the right thing to do. If he properly raised it things would have been different; William and Justine would have been alive. This is why I believe that with that logic in mind Dr. Frankenstein should be charged for involuntary manslaughter. Even his own creation should be charged for involuntary manslaughter as well if he truly murdered the child. Justine was unrightfully accused of murder and killed for it which would mean that the creature also committed involuntary manslaughter along with his creator. Therefore, Dr. Frankenstein should be charged for the crime of involuntary manslaughter and the Creature should also be charged with involuntary manslaughter and manslaughter. 

Alek Cabanes:

In my eyes, the monster’s presence in Geneva helps to prove its guilt in the murder of William. I believe it to be beyond coincidence for Frankenstein’s creation to be present in Geneva so soon after the death of William, especially after two who years after its creation. Along with this, the creation purposefully approached Frankenstein here, implying that he knew Victor would come here upon hearing news of William’s death. Considering the hostility between the two, would it be out of the question to consider the idea that the monster killed William in order to draw out Victor?

?
Cole Richards:

This is the moment that Victor Frankenstein first saw his creation after it had escaped from his apartment. This very moment at the scene of his younger brothers death he saw the beast lurking. It takes no time at all for Victor to make the connection that his monster was the true murderer. This connection is made sound based off of what he has been told about the murder thus far. That his brother was strangled by a man with large hands and was left alone with the only than missing being the picture of their mother. We also know that the monster has proper motive for the murder, his creator abandoned him and left him alone, this could have been the motivating factor; revenge. This is a very strong indicator that the Frankenstein’s monster is the true killer.

?
Aric Maiden:

Victor appears to subscribe to physiognomy. Though the idea had existed for thousands of years, popular essays had been published in German in 1772 (Lavater), which were then translated into French and English. The concept had been growing in popularity in the early 1800s.

Brittany Salazar:

The influence of the Romantic Era on Shelly’s writing is very evident in these lines as Victor is used to display the Romantic ideal that nature heals, that the return to nature is the est source of bliss and healing to man. Previous to being in the mountains, Victor was in a state of despair due to the news of his brother dying but upon returning to “the palaces of nature” he was “restored” by the “calm and heavenly scene.”

?
Millie Lopez:
  • There appears to be a theme of Victor against nature. Early on, Victor expresses the desire to exceed nature and its established rules by creating his own man. He, prior to his conversation with M. Waldman, believes that nature’s limits makes physical philosophy boring and unstimulating compared to the grandiose promises of ancient philosophers. However, after he creates the monster and gets ill, nature becomes the thing that heals him with the help of Henry. While on his way back to his hometown, nature, once again, shows its power over Victor and continues on like normal while he is miserable and stressed. Nature shows no regard for Victor.

Jetzubely Cruz:

As Victor traverses back home, I believe he begins to have an inner conflict with destiny and reality. This is shown when he begins to say, “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.” He is ridden with guilt at the remembrance that he created a creature, or as he calls it, a “daemon.” With such thoughts plaguing his mind, he begins to dissociate in a sense as he is afraid to truly take responsibility for what he created.

Health & MedicinePhilosophy & PoliticsScience
Frankenbook Editor:

Want to learn more about how contemporary scientists are thinking about the definition and classification of life on multiple scales? Watch “Organization from Chaos,” featuring commentary by Sara Imari Walker, a theoretical physicist and astrobiologist at Arizona State University, and Caleb Scharf, an exoplanetary scientist and astrobiologist at Columbia University.

Watch more episodes of our Reanimation! series on our Media page.

Influences & AdaptationsMotivations & Sentiments
?
Joel Gereboff:

In Greek myth, Prometheus fashions the clay into which Athena, goddess of wisdom, breathes life, creating the human race. Over the objections of Zeus, Prometheus then provides humans with fire, an element essential for human life. Similarly, Victor uses electricity, a form of fire, to animate his creation. Flashes of light recur throughout the novel, often leading to perceptions by Victor. He continues to characterize the creature as physically “hideous,” which he equates with the demonic. The latter is by nature found amid darkness and filth. Victor labors at times to balance what he sees in dreams and what he sees in actual physical existence. Both, however, are for the romantic age sources of knowledge. But having realized he is not simply observing a phantom in the glimpses he catches of the creature, Victor immediately reacts to the “hideous” being as a demon. His realization results in his bodily response of fear as his teeth chatter. (Contrast this interpretation with Charles E. Robinson’s; see here)

Motivations & SentimentsPhilosophy & Politics
?
April Miller:

Victor links his feelings of foreboding to the romantic notion of the sublime, combining that era’s captivation with the immense beauty of the natural world with a perception of its dangers and a willingness to entertain the possibility of personal annihilation. Just before this passage, Victor speaks with tremendous affection and pride about the impressive mountains surrounding his home, using the salutation “Dear” and the possessive pronoun phrase “my own.” However, in his encounter with the sublime, he fails to achieve what philosopher Edmund Burke (1729–1797) called “sublime transcendence,” which means to experience a sudden relief from horror. Because Victor views the sublime from a position of great personal risk, he can see in this natural vista only his personal suffering and ultimate destruction. This passage also highlights an essential contradiction in Victor’s personality: he is both tremendously confident and self-effacing, both a director of his own fate and a passive object at the mercy of uncontrollable forces. As with his renegade approach to scientific discovery, here he simultaneously lauds his powers of prophesy and admits to their deficiencies. Egoism, a flaw that greatly facilitates Victor’s hubris, also surfaces here with the repeated use of the first-person pronoun I, used to emphasize both his vulnerability and his power.