Chapter: Clerval then put the following letter into my hands.

"_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN.

"MY DEAR COUSIN,

"I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all felt concerning
your health. We cannot help imagining that your friend Clerval conceals
the extent of your disorder: for it is now several months since we have
seen your hand-writing; and all this time you have been obliged to
dictate your letters to Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have been
exceedingly ill; and this makes us all very wretched, as much so nearly
as after the death of your dear mother. My uncle was almost persuaded
that you were indeed dangerously ill, and could hardly be restrained
from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. Clerval always writes that you
are getting better; I eagerly hope that you will confirm this
intelligence soon in your own hand-writing; for indeed, indeed, Victor,
we are all very miserable on this account. Relieve us from this fear,
and we shall be the happiest creatures in the world. Your father's
health is now so vigorous, that he appears ten years younger since last
winter. Ernest also is so much improved, that you would hardly know him:
he is now nearly sixteen, and has lost that sickly appearance which he
had some years ago; he is grown quite robust and active.

"My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about what profession
Ernest should follow. His constant illness when young has deprived him
of the habits of application; and now that he enjoys good health, he is
continually in the open air, climbing the hills, or rowing on the lake.
I therefore proposed that he should be a farmer; which you know, Cousin,
is a favourite scheme of mine. A farmer's is a very healthy happy life;
and the least hurtful, or rather the most beneficial profession of any.
My uncle had an idea of his being educated as an advocate, that through
his interest he might become a judge. But, besides that he is not at all
fitted for such an occupation, it is certainly more creditable to
cultivate the earth for the sustenance of man, than to be the confidant,
and sometimes the accomplice, of his vices; which is the profession of a
lawyer. I said, that the employments of a prosperous farmer, if they
were not a more honourable, they were at least a happier species of
occupation than that of a judge, whose misfortune it was always to
meddle with the dark side of human nature. My uncle smiled, and said,
that I ought to be an advocate myself, which put an end to the
conversation on that subject.

"And now I must tell you a little story that will please, and perhaps
amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz? 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 her 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.

"After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the heroine of my
little tale: for Justine was a great favourite of your's; 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 eye-lashes, 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 every
body.

"I have written myself into good spirits, dear cousin; yet I cannot
conclude without again anxiously inquiring concerning your health. Dear
Victor, if you are not very ill, write yourself, and make your father
and all of us happy; or----I cannot bear to think of the other side of
the question; my tears already flow. Adieu, my dearest cousin."

"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. Aye, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster
who, but a few years ago, believed Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as 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.--Aye, aye,"
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 was no natural philosopher. His imagination was too vivid for
the minutiae of science. Languages were his principal study; and he
sought, by acquiring their elements, to open a field for
self-instruction on his return to Geneva. Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew,
gained his attention, after he had made himself perfectly master of
Greek and Latin. For my own part, 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. 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
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, loving 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 ecstacy. 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 sympathized 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.

 Victor opens Elizabeth's letter and is rather depressed at the contents. Elizabeth and the family have been extremely concerned about him for the past few months. They had become anxious because he never kept in touch, and they learned of his illness from Henry. Victor's father had wanted to pay him a visit, but Elizabeth stopped him from doing so. She says that Ernest has grown up to be a splendid young lad. He wants to start a military career. He is not interested in gaining bookish knowledge but would rather be outdoors in nature. She goes on to tell the tale of Justine Moritz, who was badly treated by her own mother and later adopted by Caroline, Victor's mother. Justine was very attached to Caroline, and even became ill after her death. In the meantime, her siblings had died, leaving her mother virtually childless. Justine's mother called her back home after the death of her siblings. Then her mother died. Justine has now returned to live with the Frankensteins. She also mentions William, who is now five years old and already has two "wives." She ends the letter with the general gossip about the town, but not without repeated pleas for him to write back. Victor immediately decides to write to his family, whom he has ignored for so long. He introduces Henry to some of the professors at the university. The sight of laboratory instruments is now loathsome for Victor. Henry notices this and tries to keep him away from them. But Professor Waldman cannot be avoided, and he praises Victor for his accomplishments. Henry, realizing that Victor is rather uncomfortable, excuses himself and gently changes the topic. Henry is at the university to study the "oriental languages" , and Victor joins him. The summer passes away and they head homewards. A harsh winter delays their departure for Geneva until the following May. Clerval proposes a walking tour of Ingolstadt. Victor returns to his previous enjoyment of nature. He is trying to forget the past, and Henry helps him in this attempt.

