Frankenstein

Chapter 6

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 related 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 reined 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.

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