Frankenstein: The Valley of Chamounix

After Justine’s death I could not rest, for I knew that I was the true murderer — not by my own hand, but by what I had made.I avoided everyone and wandered alone, and when I slept, I had only terrible dreams.My father saw my sadness and tried to help me. “Too much grief, Victor, is not fair to those who are still alive,” he said.

We moved to our house by the lake, and at night I often took a boat out alone and let it drift on the dark water.I lived in fear that the creature would strike again, and I longed to meet him so that I could punish him for William and Justine.Elizabeth had grown sad too. “When I think of Justine,” she said, “the world seems full of cruelty, and people seem like monsters.”

Her words hurt me deeply, because I knew that the real monster was the one I had made.At last, in August, I could bear it no longer, and I set off alone on horseback for the valley of Chamounix.I had often gone there as a boy, and I hoped the mountains would help me forget my sorrow.

As I climbed higher, the valley grew wilder and more beautiful, with dark pine forests, rushing rivers and white waterfalls.Above everything rose Mont Blanc, the highest mountain of all, silent and magnificent above the glaciers.For a moment my heart felt lighter, and I remembered the happy days of my childhood.

The wind seemed to whisper comfort to me, and nature seemed to tell me not to weep.But then the sad memories came back, and I rode on, crying like a child.When I reached the village of Chamounix at last, I was too tired to think.

I sat at my window, watching pale lightning play above Mont Blanc and listening to the rushing of the river below.The sounds worked like a lullaby, and slowly my painful thoughts grew quiet.That night, for the first time in many weeks, I fell into a deep sleep.