Читать книгу Франкенштейн, или Современный Прометей / Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus. Уровень 2 - Мэри Шелли - Страница 9

On my return, I found a letter from my father:

“My dear Victor,

You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of your return to us. At first, I wanted to write only a few lines and mention the day. But that will be cruel it. My son, how can I relate our misfortune? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news.

William is dead! That sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed my heart, who was so gentle! Victor, he is murdered!

Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene. It was already dusk when we discovered that William and Ernest were absent. We sat on a bench. Soon Ernest came. ‘Where is William?’ he asked. They played hide-and-seek, and Ernest could not find William.

We began to search for him until night fell. He was not anywhere. We came home and returned with torches. About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy. He was on the grass, livid and motionless. The print of the murder’s finger was on his neck.

We brought him home. Elizabeth hastily examined the neck of the victim and exclaimed, ‘O God! I have murdered my darling child!’

She fainted. Then she told me, that that same evening William teased her to let him wear a very valuable miniature of your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless the temptation for the murderer.

Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth! We are all unhappy. Your dear mother! Alas, Victor! Thank God she did not live to witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest son!

Come, Victor. 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 father,

Alphonse Frankenstein.

Geneva, May 12th, 17-.”

I threw the letter on the table, and covered my face with my hands.

“My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed Henry, “my dear friend, what has happened?”

I showed him the letter. Tears also gushed from the eyes of Clerval, as he read it.

“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 said a few words of consolation.

“Poor William!” said he, “dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! To die so miserably! Poor little fellow!”

My journey was very melancholy. Fear overcame me; I trembled. I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I contemplated the lake. The waters were placid; all around was calm. The snowy mountains were not changed. Then I continued my journey towards Geneva.

Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. When I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil.

It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva. The gates of the town were already shut. I passed the night at Secheron, a village near the city. The sky was serene. As I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot where my poor William was murdered. I crossed the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais.

During this short voyage I saw the lightning on the summit of Mont Blanc. The storm approached rapidly. Then I ascended a hill to observe everything. The heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain. Its violence quickly increased.

I walked on, although the darkness and storm increased every minute. The thunder burst with a terrific crash over my head.

I watched the tempest. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits. I clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud, “William, dear angel! This is your funeral, this is your dirge!”

As I said these words, I perceived a figure which stood behind trees near me. I gazed intently. A flash of lightning illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me. It was the wretch, the filthy demon, to whom I gave life. What did he do there? Was he the murderer of my brother? That idea came to me, and I became convinced of its truth. My teeth chattered, and I was leaned against a tree. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom.

He was the murderer! No doubt. I was ready to pursue the devil; but it was useless. Another flash showed him on the of summit Mont Saleve, that bounds Plainpalais on the south. Soon he disappeared.

I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still continued. Last time I saw him two years ago. That night he first received life. Was this his first crime? Alas! I gave life to a depraved wretch, who murdered my brother!

I spent the night in the open air. It was cold and wet. But I did not feel the inconvenience of the weather. My imagination was busy in scenes of evil and despair. The monster destroys all that is 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. But I paused when I reflected on my story. I well knew that if any other communicates such a relation to me, I will say that he is crazy. My relatives will say that I am ill again. Besides, the strange animal will elude all pursuit. Who will arrest a creature that can climb the mountains so fast? So 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.

Six years passed. My father! Beloved and venerable parent! I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the mantel-piece. Below this picture was a miniature of William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it.

Ernest entered: he heard me and hastened to welcome me:

“Welcome, my dearest Victor,” said he. “Why didn’t you arrive three months ago? That time we were joyous and delighted. You come to us now to share a misery which nothing can alleviate. Poor William! He was our darling and our pride!”

Tears fell from my brother’s eyes. I tried to calm Ernest.

“Our cousin Elizabeth,” said Ernest, “requires consolation; she accused herself of the death of my brother. But since the murderer has been discovered-”

“The murderer discovered! Good God! How can that be? It is impossible. I saw him; he was free last night!”

“I do not know what you mean,” replied my brother, “but listen to me. No one believed it at first; and even now Elizabeth is not convinced. Indeed, who will think that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, could be a murderer?”

“Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the murderer? But it is wrong! Every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?”

“No one did at first; but several circumstances forced conviction upon us. And her own behaviour was very confused. That, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried today[16], and you will then hear all.”

In the morning of the murder of poor William, Justine was ill. One of the servants examined her apparel that she wore on the night of the murder. The servant discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which was the temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly showed it to another servant, who went to a magistrate. So they arrested Justine. The poor girl confirmed the suspicion by her extreme confusion.

This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith. I replied earnestly,

“You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good Justine, is innocent.”

At that instant my father entered. Ernest exclaimed,

“Good God, papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of poor William.”

“We do also, unfortunately,” replied my father, “and I prefer to be ignorant than to see so much depravity and ungratitude in that girl.”

“My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent.”

“If she is, God will help her. She will be tried today.”

This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced that Justine was guiltless of this murder.

Soon Elizabeth joined us. 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 poor guiltless Justine. Alas! I believe in her innocence. If she is condemned[17], 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, “fear nothing!”

“How kind and generous you are! Every one believes in her guilt, and that makes me sad. I know that it is impossible.” She wept.

“Dearest niece,” said my father, “dry your tears. If she is, as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws.”