The creature's story begins almost plausibly. Wandering in the woods near the university town, during the first few days following his creation, the creature learned for himself that day and night appeared in alternation, that water slaked his thirst, fire burned his fingers, and people, when he approached them, invariably shrieked and fled.
Matters quickly take a less likely turn. The monster relates that he sought shelter in a "hovel." He soon discovered that this rude dwelling adjoined a neat peasant cottage. Through a handy hole in the wall of the cottage he spied on the inhabitants, and by this means learned language (French) —geography—the customs of society—how to read_and, for all I know, natural philosophy—how to count (except, perhaps, for bullet-holes; see below). The creature interested himself intensely in the affairs of the family, of cottagers whom he observed so intimately and for so many months. He absorbed the histories of their lives, and later recounted them at great length to Victor Frankenstein, who had to listen to all this in his mountain hut. (Walton on his almost ice-bound ship had to listen to it all again, as Frankenstein lay dying.) The creature described how, after living in his queer observation post beside the cottage for more than a year, he dared to reveal himself to the people in the cottage, was attacked for his pains, and driven away in the ensuing uproar.
It is all, need I say, quite unbelievable. It is so completely incredible that in my mind it only emphasizes the question we have been facing all along: What did the creature really do during that period? (I assume, as you have ordered me to assume for the purpose of this investigation, that the monster really does exist.) How did it occupy itself during the time between its disappearance from Ingolstadt (if one can disappear from a place where one has never really appeared) and the murder and execution in Geneva, six months later?
But to resume Walton's story: the creature, moving at last in the general direction of Geneva, rescued a young girl who was drowning in a river, and was shot in the shoulder as a reward.
For weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavoring to cure the wound… the ball had entered my shoulder, and I knew not whether it had remained there or passed through.
As I have already mentioned, counting bullet-holes was evidently beyond the sketchy mathematical education received by the monster during its studies at the peep-hole in the cottage wall. An alternative explanation for such uncertainty might be that the missile had in fact passed through its brain—or remained there.
However that may be, in two more months the creature, his wound now healed, had "reached the environs of Geneva."
It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding place among the fields… to meditate in what manner I should apply to you.
Presently, the musing monster was roused from "a slight sleep" by "the approach of a beautiful child," who
came running into the recess I had chosen, with all the sportiveness of infancy. Suddenly, as I gazed on him, an idea seized me that this little creature was unprejudiced and had lived too short a time to have imbibed a horror of deformity. If, therefore, I could seize him and educate him as my companion and friend, I should not be so desolate… urged on by this impulse, I seized the boy as he passed and drew him toward me. As soon as he beheld my form, he placed his hands before his eyes and uttered a shrill scream; I drew his hand forcibly from his face and said, "Child, what is the meaning of this? I do not intend to hurt you; listen to me."
He struggled violently. "Let me go," he cried. "Monster! Ugly wretch! You wish to eat me and tear me to pieces. You are an ogre. Let me go, or I will tell my papa."
"Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come with me."
"Hideous monster! Let me go. My papa is a syndic—he is M. Frankenstein—he will punish you. You dare not keep me."
"Frankenstein! You belong then to my enemy—to him towards whom I have sworn eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim."
I learned, esteemed parent, shortly after my arrival in the city of Geneva, that it presently boasts more than twenty thousand inhabitants. The number two years ago could not have been materially different. That the one out of twenty thousand first encountered by the monster in his random approach to the city, should happen to be the youngest brother of his creator… but I need not belabor the incredibility of it all.
The murder of young William, the work of only an instant, followed immediately. Then
As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering on his breast. I took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely woman… for a few moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes, her lovely lips… but presently my rage returned; I remembered that I was forever deprived of the delights that such beautiful creatures could bestow… while I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot where I had committed the murder, and seeking a more secluded hiding-place, I entered a barn… a woman was sleeping on some straw; she was young… blooming in the loveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought, is one of those whose joy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but me… not I, but she, shall suffer; the murder I have committed because I am forever robbed of all that she could give me, she shall atone. The crime had its source in her; be hers the punishment.
And with that the creature placed the stolen miniature in the pocket of the sleeping Justine_for of course it was she—and fled.
But no. It did not happen thus. Even supposing_by some miracle—that the rest of the Walton relation should be the truth, this I cannot believe.
Consider, Sir: the creature, on entering the barn, could have had no means of knowing that any connection existed between the sleeping girl before him and the child he had just murdered—no reason whatsoever to believe that the painting, once concealed in her pocket, would ever be discovered by anyone but her, would ever be revealed to the world as evidence of any kind.
And, of course, it was mere coincidence again that the creature happened to enter the one barn in which Justine was sleeping—no, I cannot go on, multiplying coincidence by coincidence, and trying to discuss it all seriously. There may be, for all I know, a monster—there may be a thousand monsters—but this portion, at least, of the Walton memoirs must be considered a tissue of lies from start to finish.
Unfortunately, the murder of the young child was all too real. And the execution of Justine Moritz was a very real occurrence too, whether or not the young woman was in fact guilty.
And we are told that it was shortly after this hideous crime that the monster supposedly confronted his creator in the mountain hut, boldly confessing his guilt, and in the next breath demanding help.
Speaking to Frankenstein, the creature declared himself
consumed by a burning passion that you alone can gratify. I am alone and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species and have the same defects. This being you must create.
My post is here. In haste, Sir, I dispatch this message. My next to you, God willing, will come from London.
Yr Son,
Benj Freeman
LETTER 5