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 sickbed 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 returns 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 judgement
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 just 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 expression 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 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 in 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, and 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 Sanskrit 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
ramble 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 you did 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.