Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from my own
Elizabeth:--
"My dearest Cousin,
"You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear kind
Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account. You are
forbidden to write--to hold a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor,
is necessary to calm our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought
that each post would bring this line, and my persuasions have restrained
my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have prevented his
encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so long a
journey; yet how often have I regretted not being able to perform it
myself! I figure to myself that the task of attending on your sick bed
has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could never guess your
wishes, nor minister to them with the care and affection of your poor
cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes that indeed you are getting
better. I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon in
your own handwriting.
"Get well--and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home, and
friends who love you dearly. Your father's health is vigorous, and he
asks but to see you,--but to be assured that you are well; and not a
care will ever cloud his benevolent countenance. How pleased you would
be to remark the improvement of our Ernest! He is now sixteen, and full
of activity and spirit. He is desirous to be a true Swiss, and to enter
into foreign service; but we cannot part with him, at least until his
elder brother return to us. My uncle is not pleased with the idea of a
military career in a distant country; but Ernest never had your powers
of application. He looks upon study as an odious fetter;--his time is
spent in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear
that he will become an idler, unless we yield the point, and permit him
to enter on the profession which he has selected.
"Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children, has taken
place since you left us. The blue lake, and snow-clad mountains, they
never change;--and I think our placid home, and our contented hearts are
regulated by the same immutable laws. My trifling occupations take up my
time and amuse me, and I am rewarded for any exertions by seeing none
but happy, kind faces around me. Since you left us, but one change has
taken place in our little household. Do you remember on what occasion
Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably you do not; I will relate
her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a
widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl had
always been the favourite of her father; but, through a strange
perversity, her mother could not endure her, and, after the death of M.
Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this; and, when Justine
was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at
our house. The republican institutions of our country have produced
simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in the great
monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between the
several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders, being neither
so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined and moral. A
servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in France
and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the duties of
a servant; a condition which, in our fortunate country, does not include
the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being.
"Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours; and I
recollect you once remarked, that if you were in an ill-humour, one
glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that
Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica--she looked so
frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her,
by which she was induced to give her an education superior to that which
she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was
the most grateful little creature in the world: I do not mean that she
made any professions; I never heard one pass her lips; but you could see
by her eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her
disposition was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid
the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the
model of all excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and
manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.
"When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much occupied in their own
grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness
with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other
trials were reserved for her.
"One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the
exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience
of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her
favourites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her partiality. She
was a Roman catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea
which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure
for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor
girl! she wept when she quitted our house; she was much altered since
the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to
her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her
residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The
poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged
Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of
having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting
at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased
her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the
first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this last winter.
Justine has returned to us; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is
very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her
mien and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt.
"I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling
William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with
sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he
smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with
health. He has already had one or two little _wives_, but Louisa Biron
is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.
"Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip
concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has
already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage
with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon,
married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite
schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the
departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his
spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a very lively
pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older
than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with
everybody.
"I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety
returns upon me as I conclude. Write, dearest Victor,--one line--one
word will be a blessing to us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his
kindness, his affection, and his many letters: we are sincerely
grateful. Adieu! my cousin; take care of yourself; and, I entreat you,
write!
"ELIZABETH LAVENZA.
"Geneva, March 18th, 17--."
* * * * *
"Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed, when I had read her letter, "I will
write instantly, and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel." I
wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had
commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to
leave my chamber.
One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the
several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a kind
of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained.
Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of
my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of
natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the
sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous
symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view.
He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired a
dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these
cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M.
Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the
astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that
I disliked the subject; but not guessing the real cause, he attributed
my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement, to
the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me
out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as
if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments
which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel
death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt.
Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the
sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his
total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I
thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that
he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and
although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew
no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him that
event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared
the detail to another would only impress more deeply.
M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of
almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me
even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. "D--n the
fellow!" cried he; "why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us
all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster
who, but a few years ago, believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in
the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he
is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.--Ay, ay,"
continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, "M.
Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men
should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval: I was myself
when young; but that wears out in a very short time."
M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned
the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.
Clerval had never sympathised in my tastes for natural science; and his
literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me. He
came to the university with the design of making himself complete master
of the oriental languages, as thus he should open a field for the plan
of life he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue no inglorious
career, he turned his eyes toward the East, as affording scope for his
spirit of enterprise. The Persian, Arabic, and Sanscrit languages
engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on the same
studies. Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished to
fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in
being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction
but consolation in the works of the orientalists. I did not, like him,
attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for I did not
contemplate making any other use of them than temporary amusement. I
read merely to understand their meaning, and they well repaid my
labours. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating, to a
degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country.
When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and
a garden of roses,--in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the
fire that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and
heroical poetry of Greece and Rome!
Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was
fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several
accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable,
and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay
very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town and my beloved
friends. My return had only been delayed so long, from an unwillingness
to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted
with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully;
and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came its beauty
compensated for its dilatoriness.
The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily
which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a
pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid a
personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded with
pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had
always been my favourite companion in the rambles of this nature that I
had taken among the scenes of my native country.
We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits had
long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the
salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and
the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the
intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but
Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught me
to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children.
Excellent friend! how sincerely did you love me, and endeavour to
elevate my mind until it was on a level with your own! A selfish pursuit
had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and affection warmed
and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature who, a few years
ago, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy,
inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful
sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstasy. The
present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the
hedges, while those of summer were already in bud. I was undisturbed by
thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me,
notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible
burden.
Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathised in my feelings:
he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that
filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly
astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often,
in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of
wonderful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite
poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he supported with great
ingenuity.
We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were
dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits
were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and
hilarity.