Chapter 6

von Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Clerval handed me a letter from Elizabeth, my beloved cousin.

“My dearest Cousin,

“I’ve been so worried about you. You’ve been very ill, and even Henry’s constant letters haven’t been enough to ease my mind. You’re not allowed to write, but I need just one word from you, dear Victor, to calm my fears. I’ve been hoping that each letter would bring news from you, and I’ve managed to convince my uncle not to travel to Ingolstadt. I didn’t want him to face the difficulties and dangers of such a long journey, but I often wish I could go myself. I can’t help but imagine that some indifferent nurse is taking care of you, someone who doesn’t understand your needs or wishes like I do. But Clerval has written to me that you’re getting better, and I hope you’ll confirm that soon in your own handwriting.

“Please get well and come back to us. You’ll find a happy home waiting for you, filled with friends who love you dearly. Your father is in good health and just wants to see you, to know that you’re okay; his kind face will never show a hint of worry. You would be so pleased to see how much Ernest has grown! He’s now sixteen, full of energy and spirit. He wants to be a true Swiss and join the military, but we can’t bear to part with him until you return. My uncle isn’t thrilled about the idea of him going off to fight in a distant land, but Ernest isn’t as dedicated to his studies as you were. He sees learning as a burden and spends his time outdoors, climbing hills or rowing on the lake. I worry he’ll become lazy unless we let him pursue the career he wants.

“Not much has changed since you left, except for the growth of our dear children. The blue lake and snow-covered mountains remain the same, and I believe our peaceful home and content hearts are governed by the same unchanging laws. My little tasks keep me busy and entertained, and I’m rewarded by the sight of happy, kind faces around me. Since you’ve been gone, only one thing has changed in our household. Do you remember when Justine Moritz joined our family? You might not, so let me share her story briefly. Justine’s mother, Madame Moritz, was a widow with four children, and Justine was the third. She was her father’s favorite, but her mother couldn’t stand her and treated her poorly after Mr. Moritz passed away. My aunt noticed this and convinced her mother to let Justine live with us when she was twelve.

“The simpler, happier ways of our country have created a society where there’s less distinction between classes. The lower classes aren’t as poor or looked down upon, so their manners are more refined. A servant in Geneva is not the same as a servant in France or England. Justine, welcomed into our family, learned the responsibilities of a servant, a role that here doesn’t imply ignorance or a loss of dignity.

“You might remember how much you adored Justine. I recall you once saying that if you were ever in a bad mood, just one look from her could lift your spirits, much like Ariosto described Angelica’s beauty—she seemed so genuine and happy. My aunt grew very fond of her and decided to give her a better education than she had originally planned. Justine repaid this kindness with her gratitude; she never spoke of it, but her eyes showed how much she adored my aunt. Though her nature was cheerful and sometimes carefree, she paid close attention to everything my aunt did. She saw her as the epitome of excellence and tried to mirror her speech and mannerisms, so much so that she often reminds me of her even now.

“When my dear aunt passed away, everyone was too caught up in their own sorrow to notice poor Justine, who had cared for her with such devoted affection during her illness. Justine was very ill herself, but she had even more challenges ahead.”

One by one, her brothers and sister passed away, leaving their mother with only her neglected daughter. The weight of her loss began to haunt her conscience. She started to believe that the deaths of her beloved children were a punishment from above for her favoritism. Being a Roman Catholic, it’s likely her confessor only reinforced this troubling notion.

A few months after I left for Ingolstadt, Justine was called back home by her remorseful mother. Poor girl! She cried as she left our house. She had changed so much since my aunt’s death; grief had softened her demeanor, replacing her once vibrant spirit with a gentle, endearing calmness. Unfortunately, her time at her mother’s house didn’t help restore her joy. Madame Moritz was inconsistent in her repentance. Sometimes she begged Justine to forgive her for her past cruelty, but more often, she blamed her for the deaths of her siblings.

This constant turmoil eventually took a toll on Madame Moritz, leading her into a decline. Initially, her irritability grew worse, but she eventually found peace. She passed away at the onset of the cold weather last winter. Justine has just returned to us, and I can honestly say I love her dearly. She’s intelligent, kind, and incredibly beautiful; as I mentioned before, her presence and expression constantly remind me of my beloved aunt.

I must also share a few words about little William, my dear cousin. I wish you could see him; he’s quite tall for his age, with bright, laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curly hair. When he smiles, two adorable dimples appear on his rosy cheeks, a testament to his health. He’s already had one or two little “wives,” but his favorite is Louisa Biron, a lovely little girl of just five years.

Now, dear Victor, I’m sure you’d like to hear some gossip about the good people of Geneva. The lovely Miss Mansfield has already begun receiving congratulations on her upcoming marriage to a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her less attractive sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, the wealthy banker, last autumn. Your old school friend, Louis Manoir, has faced several misfortunes since Clerval left Geneva. However, he seems to have regained his spirits and is reportedly on the verge of marrying a lively and charming Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She’s a widow and quite a bit older than Manoir, but she’s well-liked and admired by everyone.

I’ve managed to write myself into a better mood, dear cousin, but as I finish this letter, my anxiety returns. Please write back, Victor—just a line or even a word would mean the world to us. I’m so grateful to Henry for his kindness, affection, and all his letters; we truly appreciate it. Take care of yourself, and I implore you, please write!

Elizabeth Lavenza

Geneva, March 18th, 17—.

“Dear, dear Elizabeth!” I exclaimed after reading her letter. “I will write back immediately to ease their worries.” I penned my response, though it left me feeling quite drained. Still, my recovery had begun, and it was progressing steadily. In another two weeks, I was finally able to leave my room.

One of the first things I had to do after I started feeling better was introduce Clerval to the professors at the university. But as I did this, I felt a kind of rough treatment that didn’t match the wounds my mind had endured. Ever since that fateful night—the end of my work and the beginning of my troubles—I had developed a strong aversion to even the mention of natural philosophy. Even when I had mostly recovered, just seeing a chemical instrument would bring back all the pain of my nervous symptoms.

Henry noticed this and made sure to keep all my equipment out of sight. He even changed my room because he realized I had grown to dislike the space that had once been my laboratory. But despite Clerval’s care, I couldn’t escape the discomfort when I met the professors. M. Waldman was particularly torturous; he praised my progress in the sciences with such warmth that it felt like a knife twisting in my gut. He quickly picked up on my discomfort but, not understanding the real reason behind it, assumed it was just modesty. He shifted the conversation from my achievements to the subject itself, clearly hoping to draw me out.

What could I do? He was trying to be encouraging, yet he only made me suffer more. It felt as if he had deliberately placed each instrument in my line of sight, knowing they would later be used to bring about my slow and painful demise. I squirmed under his words but couldn’t show the pain I felt. Clerval, always sensitive to the feelings of others, quickly changed the subject, claiming ignorance as his excuse. I was grateful for his intervention, though I remained silent. I could see he was surprised, but he never pressed me for my secret. Even though I loved him deeply, with a mix of affection and respect that knew no bounds, I couldn’t bring myself to share the memories that haunted me. I feared that telling him would only make the pain more real.

M. Krempe, on the other hand, was far less tactful. In my fragile state, his blunt praise hurt me even more than M. Waldman’s kind words. “Damn that guy!” he exclaimed. “M. Clerval, I assure you he’s outstripped us all. Go ahead and stare, but it’s true. A kid who just a few years ago believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as he believed in the gospel has now put himself at the top of the university. If he’s not brought down soon, we’ll all be embarrassed.”

He noticed my pained expression and continued, “M. Frankenstein is modest—an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be humble, you know, M. Clerval. I was myself when I was young, but that wears off pretty quickly.”

M. Krempe then launched into a self-praise that thankfully shifted the conversation away from a topic that was so distressing to me.

Clerval had never shared my passion for natural science; his literary interests were completely different from mine. He came to the university with the goal of mastering the oriental languages, hoping to carve out a path for himself. Determined to avoid a life of mediocrity, he looked East for inspiration and adventure. He immersed himself in Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit, and I found it easy to join him in those studies. Idleness had always been a burden for me, and now that I wanted to escape my thoughts and loathed my previous studies, I found great relief in being a fellow student with my friend. I discovered not only knowledge but also comfort in the works of the orientalists.

Unlike Clerval, I didn’t strive for a deep understanding of their dialects; I wasn’t planning to use them for anything serious. I read just to grasp their meaning, and they rewarded my efforts richly. Their melancholy was soothing, and their joy uplifting in a way I had never experienced with authors from any other culture. When I read their writings, life felt like a warm sun and a garden of roses—filled with the smiles and frowns of a beautiful enemy and the fire that burned within my own heart. How different it was from the bold and heroic poetry of Greece and Rome!

Summer slipped away as I immersed myself in various activities, and I had planned to return to Geneva at the end of autumn. However, a series of delays pushed my journey into winter, where snow made the roads impassable. I found this postponement incredibly frustrating; I yearned to see my hometown and my dear friends. The only reason I had stayed so long was my reluctance to leave Clerval in an unfamiliar place before he had a chance to meet anyone there.

Despite the delays, winter passed pleasantly. When spring finally arrived, although it was late, its beauty made up for the wait.

By May, I was eagerly anticipating the letter that would confirm my departure date when Henry suggested we take a walking tour around Ingolstadt. He thought it would be a nice way for me to say goodbye to the land I had called home for so long. I happily agreed; I loved being active, and Clerval had always been my favorite companion on these kinds of adventures through my homeland.

We spent two weeks wandering the countryside. My health and spirits had returned, and the fresh air, the natural beauty around us, and my friend’s company only strengthened my well-being. My studies had isolated me from others, making me withdrawn, but Clerval brought out the best in me. He reminded me how to appreciate the beauty of nature and the joy of children’s laughter. My dear friend, how deeply you cared for me and how hard you worked to lift my spirits to match your own! My selfish pursuits had confined me, but your kindness and warmth opened my heart again. I became the happy person I had once been, loved by many and free of sorrow. Nature, in all its glory, filled me with joy. The clear skies and lush fields brought me pure ecstasy. This season was truly magical; spring flowers bloomed in the hedges, while summer buds were already forming. I was free from the heavy thoughts that had burdened me the previous year, despite my attempts to shake them off.

Henry shared in my joy and genuinely empathized with my feelings. He made an effort to keep me entertained while expressing the emotions that filled him. His creativity was astonishing; his conversations were rich with imagination. Often, he would craft tales inspired by Persian and Arabic writers, full of wonder and passion. At other times, he recited my favorite poems or drew me into discussions that he supported with remarkable insight.

We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon, where we found peasants dancing, and everyone we encountered seemed joyful and carefree. My spirits soared, and I moved through the streets with unrestrained happiness and excitement.