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 reassure1 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 apprehensions2. For a long time I have thought that each post would bring this line, and my persuasions3 have restrained my uncle from undertaking4 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 benevolent5 countenance6. 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 odious7 fetter8; 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 alteration9, 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 placid10 home and our contented11 hearts are regulated by the same immutable12 laws. My trifling13 occupations take up my time and amuse me, and I am rewarded for any exertions14 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 perversity16, 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 monarchies17 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 recollect18 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 attachment19 for her, by which she was induced to give her an education superior to that which she had at first intended. This benefit was fully20 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 disposition21 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 excellence22 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 chastise23 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 repentant24 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 remarkable25 for vivacity26. Nor was her residence at her mother’s house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance27. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting28 at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased her irritability29, 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 mein 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 rosy30 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 blessing31 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 entreat32 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 exertion15 greatly fatigued33 me; but my convalescence34 had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to leave my chamber35.
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 antipathy36 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 apparatus37 from my view. He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had previously38 been my laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted39 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 modesty40, 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 tormented41 me. I felt as if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my five * those instruments which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I writhed42 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, alleging43, 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 reverence44 that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide45 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 docile46; and in my condition at that time, of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation47 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 expressive48 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 eulogy49 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 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 consolation50 in the works of the orientalists. I did not, like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for I did not contemplate51 making any other use of them than temporary amusement. I read merely to understand their meaning, and they well repaid my labours. Their melancholy52 is soothing53, 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 manly54 and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome!
Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was fixed55 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 retarded56 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 unwillingness57 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 uncommonly58 late, when it came its beauty compensated59 for its dilatoriness60.
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 acceded61 with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had always been my favourite companion in the ramble62 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 secluded63 me from the intercourse64 of my fellow — creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but Clerval called forth65 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 cramped66 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 bestowing67 on me the most delightful68 sensations. A serene69 sky and verdant70 fields filled me with ecstasy71. 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 invincible72 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 ingenuity73. 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 hilarity74.
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1
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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fetter
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| n./vt.脚镣，束缚 | |
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alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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immutable
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| adj.不可改变的，永恒的 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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monarchies
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| n. 君主政体, 君主国, 君主政治 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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chastise
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| vt.责骂，严惩 | |
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repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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eulogy
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| n.颂词；颂扬 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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unwillingness
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| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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dilatoriness
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| n.迟缓，拖延 | |
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61
acceded
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| v.（正式）加入( accede的过去式和过去分词 )；答应；（通过财产的添附而）增加；开始任职 | |
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62
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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