[07] Frankenstein or, The Modern Prometheus [프랑켄슈타인]

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 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.