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
your
self; and, I
entreat
you, write! "Elizabeth Lavenza. "Geneva,
March
18, 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
sympathized
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.