“You come to me now to discuss a tragedy that took loved ones from me. Nothing can alleviate my sorrow. Can you even imagine
the effect Captain Walton's journal had upon me? The discovery only completed my misery. To be told after such time of the true nature of the murders, and to have revealed to me the person responsible for these murders as my brother and some horrible creature he had made. To find out so late when nothing could be done for any of them.
“And now Mr. Clerval seeks justice. I very much hope it will give him some form of respite, for I fear I shall never truly know peace again.”
“Captain Frankenstein, I have been to Scotland, Ireland, Geneva, Ingolstadt, Archangel, and now St. Petersburg, and have studied carefully all that I could related to the murders and the monster that is said to have committed them. In every place I have looked for definitive evidence of the existence of your brother Victor's monster.”
“Then I would guess that you have not found this definitive evidence or you would not need to meet with me,” Captain Frankenstein said sagely.
“Sadly, I cannot boast of having found any conclusive evidence either for or against Victor's claims of having created life from death. Common sense argues against such a concept, but I have striven to maintain as open a mind as possible.”
“You are in possession of Captain Walton's journal, and I have here the letter he sent me with the journal. What further help may I be to you?” he asked, passing me a slightly creased envelope. His movement caused a grimace of pain to briefly cross his face. Although curious to read the words sent with the journal by Captain Walton to Captain Ernest Frankenstein, I put the envelope in my pocket to consider fully at a later time.
“You are the last person alive who knew Victor well. My belief is that by knowing Victor Frankenstein I can better know what truly happened. I have a strong theory for what I believe may have occurred, but until I gain some tangible evidence, I cannot bring
my theory forward as anything more than a possibility. You were outside the murders and your brother's activities at university, but you can provide me with valuable insight into Victor's character.”
“I suppose it will hurt no one now. Indeed, there is no one left to hurt.” He said with some resignation. “For our parents, Victor was their idol, a child they never believed would happen. William and I came later. Seven years later on my part, and much later for William. Victor was their dream child, a symbol of all they had attained together and striven for, yet he was also a troubled child. Much changed with the birth of our youngest brother William. Victor remained the favourite of Father, but much of Mother's attention went to William, first because he was only a child, but also because Victor was a young man and I close to it, so we needed her less. What little strength my mother had in her, she placed almost solely upon the infant William.”
“To not be the centre of everyone's attention was an unusual circumstance for Victor. Elizabeth, Henry, and I worshipped Victor. He was our greatest playmate, and yet our greatest torment. At times, he was a source of great fun and ideas, we would put on plays or go on great adventures in the neighbourhood, but then mysteriously and suddenly, or so it appeared to us as children, he would turn unfriendly and morose, often angry even, and we would have to keep as much distance between us and him as possible or face his anger.
“I was the recipient of many a sound thrashing from my elder brother. I remember one instance when he wanted a new colt of mine and I refused. Victor began by cuffing me about the ears, and when I would not relent, he proceeded to hit me on the chest and pull me about the stable by the wrist. My arm was black to the shoulder. Father reprimanded Victor sharply, and Mother expressed her deep concern at Victor's behaviour, but little was done beyond that. My position with my brother changed only when I had grown sufficiently for him to feel it unwise to press his
luck with me, and yet I was ever cautious of his quick temper. He had a violent nature and could get quite passionate and vehement when provoked.”
“Would you know if Victor ever acted violently towards anyone else?”
“Yes, I am not certain about Henry, but I know on at least one occasion Victor did strike Elizabeth.” As Captain Frankenstein told me this I noticed the involuntary tightening of one of his hand into a fist so tight it caused the knuckles to turn white. Evidently, this memory caused him distress.
“Elizabeth?” I could not hide the surprise in my voice.
“I was still quite young, perhaps five or six years old, but old enough to remember. Victor gave Elizabeth a vicious slap because she would not agree with him. It was the only time I ever saw our mother angry with Victor. He was so shaken by her anger that he never dared raise even his voice in her presence for the rest of her life. From then on, at least in front of Mother, Victor was the soul of calm and reservedness â but I was not fooled.
“Even my father and little William were not immune to Victor's anger. I once caught Victor pinching William so hard it caused the babe to scream. Victor blamed it on a bee or some other insect that must have stung the infant.”
“You said that even your father dared not trespass on Victor?”
“Victor's methods were precise and his temper fierce. When on one rare occasion that my father did choose to venture into Victor's room, my brother threw himself onto the floor in a fit of rage, his face turned purple and he began to froth at the mouth. He was ill for many days. My father never again crossed Victor's will.
“Elizabeth always strove to calm him, and often she could, but never half so well as our mother could. Our mother's death marked a very dark time for my brother. She was his world; Elizabeth was but a gift â his playmate.
“Initially, Father had been concerned because of Victor's volatile nature, but his behaviour after our mother's death gave my father a sense that his eldest son had changed for the better. Victor had fallen into an unusual calm at that time. My father sent Victor to school after our mother's death, it had always been the plan but at that time it seemed best.”
“In any of Victor's letters home, did he mention a man named Dippel?”
“We heard little or nothing from Victor, and so assumed his attention was claimed by his studies. When he did write, it was most often simply to ask for more money. My father associated no news as good news, and sent whatever was asked for. Only after Henry's arrival in Ingolstadt did we hear much at all, and by then everything had begun to fall apart.”
“Your brother and Henry Clerval were best friends.”
“Victor and Henry, they had both, from childhood upwards, been friends at the same school. After Victor returned from Ingolstadt, he often vowed he saw the image of his former self in Henry, but at that time I had no idea what Victor meant. He seemed much the same, although more the tyrant than he had ever been; he forbade Elizabeth to even speak of William.
“Poor Elizabeth, so tormented by her own self-accusations at the death of my youngest brother William. She accused herself of having caused his death, that the murderer had been attracted by the valuable miniature she had pinned to little William's coat, and that made her wretched. That Justine Moritz was arrested and executed for the murder only increased Elizabeth's feelings of guilt for having been the cause of the tragedy.”
As he spoke, the Captain's voice became quieter, as if he wanted no one to overhear, even though we were completely alone in the room. His face betrayed no emotion, but his every word spoke of his deep admiration and love, perhaps even reverence, for her.
“I have met many women from all stations in life, but none that
can compare with Elizabeth,” he said after a few moments lost in thought. “She was an unspoiled gem that none of us cherished properly. Dear, sweet, lovely Elizabeth was too generous and too good to consider any wish of her own over the happiness of the family that had done so much for her. You have seen her portrait. Elizabeth was more than passably attractive; she was beautiful in both her look and her manner. She was a woman of unblemished character, and would have made any man an estimable wife. Victor wanted a great deal more.
“He never fully appreciated the treasure he had in her. He did not guard her and keep her safe as he should, and it is because of him that she is dead.” The Captain did not even try to hide the bitterness of his words. “While Victor was away at university, he all but forgot her, barely writing her at all. Elizabeth did not deserve to be forgotten. She should have been remembered and cherished, not cast aside like the plaything of a spoiled child who has moved on to be amused by new and interesting toys.”
“Captain, I have just a few more questions and then I shall leave you to rest,” I said, noting the fatigue evident on my companion's face. “The last time you saw Victor, would you describe his strength and vitality as having completely wasted away?”
“For sure, when last I saw Victor he had lost some weight, but none of his menace, I could see it in his eyes, nor any of his strength.”
“Your brother's intention was to find the monster and kill it, although he had not before, even though he had had opportunities. Do you think Victor was capable of killing?”
“Could he have killed his own creation? That which he had toiled so carefully over with such great care and concern? That for which he was responsible? Could Victor have killed? Yes.”
As promised, I ended our meeting, and thanked Captain Frankenstein. As I moved towards the door, I noticed for the first time a cameo upon the desk, truly the only personal belonging in
the room, but it had been placed at an angle so that I could not confirm who had sat for it. The Captain noticed my hesitation and at that which had caught my eye. Leaning across the desk, he turned the cameo so I might see it fully.
“Victor had Elizabeth's portrait put in the setting that once held our mother's portrait. It was sent to me along with Captain Walton's journal.” As he spoke, Captain Frankenstein had picked up the object of discussion and pulled it apart to reveal the unfinished back of the miniature portrait. There was another miniature, rendered in Victor's hand, also of Elizabeth. With his anatomist's eye, Victor had sketched her in perfectly miniaturized skeletal form. Hastily, yet carefully, I returned the cameo to the Captain and once more made to leave.
“Mr. Freame, although you are an investigator, you have never once questioned my constant scrutiny of your person, but then you may already be aware of why I find your face and bearing of such interest.”
“I believe I can know what you mean,” I replied, my hand yet upon the door handle.
“Then others before me have commented on your likeness to my brother Victor? Your looks, height, even certain mannerisms you have are distinctly similar to his. Except that where you are fair, Victor was very dark, and he wore his hair much longer, particularly after he was in Ingolstadt. You have seen Victor's portrait, I know. Can you say you did not see the resemblance?”
“Yes, I have been aware of this for some time now. Almost since the start of my investigation,” I told him.
“The likeness is truly remarkable. It is in the eyes, the look you have as if you stared long and hard enough you would eventually discern the answer to all your questions. Good day Mr. Freame, and best of luck.”
“Good day Captain Frankenstein.”
Sir,
You do not know me, and until now had no reason to consider my existence. Over the course of a few weeks, I had the privilege to get to know your brother quite intimately, and we were close companions during that time. It is with a heavy heart that I inform you of the passing of your brother. Although this may cause you great pain, I have chosen to include with this letter your brother's story, as told to me by him, so that you might know better what came to pass and why. Also, you will know how your brother died, and all he did to rectify what had happened.
I believe that it would have been his greatest wish that those closest to him understand the seriousness of his plight and how he worked to undo what he had created. All this he did to hope that you would understand his great vision and great remorse at what it wrought, and how he ultimately gave his own life to ensure the end of the unhappy creature's reign on this earth.
My journal will answer questions perhaps raised at your brother's death and his unusual behaviour, to know what occurred that you and others involved may put your mind at rest. You will be glad to find that the motivation behind his actions was completely honourable. His life before was done; he could not go back. Perhaps
you can take some gratification from the knowledge that your brother was given only the most reverential burial at sea. In this way, the wondrous yet tragically melancholic story of your brother Victor can be laid to rest.
I remain respectfully yours,
Captain Robert Walton
After my interview with Captain Ernest Frankenstein, I have gained a much better understanding of Victor Frankenstein, but am no closer to naming, not with any certainty anyhow, the true murderer. He had told me much but to what did it truly amount beyond anecdotal family history. I looked in the mirror at my eyes to see if I could see what he claimed to see, but was unsatisfied. In Captain Frankenstein I saw a man who mourned still the loss of his family and also the death of a woman he had loved â not as an adopted cousin raised in the same home, but as a man loves a woman. He had loved, and still loved, even though the love was as hopeless now as it had ever been, for Elizabeth Lavenza had never been meant for him.