Mary Shelley

            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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