Chapter VI

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 sick bed 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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.

Footnotes

  1. The tone of this chapter starkly contrasts the grotesque description and mood of the previous chapter. Victor’s levity and joy after the dark mood he expressed in the previous chapter might surprise the reader. This chapter marks a moment in the novel in which Victor tries to block out the creature’s creation. This chapter takes place in an almost dreamlike, or unreal space in which Victor neglects the consequences of his actions.

    — Caitlin, Owl Eyes Staff
  2. Frankenstein’s emotional outbursts, such as this one, remind the audience that he is telling the story from a detached future perspective and knows what is going to happen. While the moment he narrates is serene or mundane, these outbursts foreshadow the danger, tragedy, and horror that is soon to come.

    — Caitlin, Owl Eyes Staff
  3. Notice how Frankenstein’s perspective on praise and school has drastically changed since the creature’s creation. The attention and praise that he once craved now “torture” him. His own guilt and shame transforms their recognition of his success into a painful reminder of his sins.

    — Caitlin, Owl Eyes Staff
  4. Notice how the creature and Victor’s recognition of his deeds ominously creeps into his mind throughout this chapter. While Victor tries to pretend that the creature does not exist, he cannot shake these misfortunes from his mind.

    — Caitlin, Owl Eyes Staff
  5. Justine’s reaction to the deaths of her family members underscores Frankenstein’s own beliefs later in the text. This story, while seemingly tangential, builds the idea that the deaths of one’s loved ones is god’s punishment for a person’s sins. Frankenstein should take this story as a lesson and make right the sin he has created. His failure to do so will cause him misery very similar to Justine’s.

    — Caitlin, Owl Eyes Staff
  6. This is an allusion to the poem “Orlando Furioso” by Ludovico Ariosto. In it, a beautiful woman Angelica attracts anyone who sees her because her beauty is so stunning and pure.

    — Caitlin, Owl Eyes Staff
  7. Notice the absence of the creature or a recognition of what he has done at the beginning of this chapter. Frankenstein, awoken from his long sleep, seems to be repressing his knowledge of the creature and avoiding the consequences of his actions.

    — Caitlin, Owl Eyes Staff
  8. The importance of this chapter is one of contrast both in description and in mood. Chapter five and chapter six of Shelley’s novel serve in direct contrast to each other. Where chapter five is all about the gruesome creation of the creature with all of its disgusting attributes, chapter six is all about the joy of leaving that creature behind (at least in the mind) for the focus on family and friendship and study. Although the concentration in Elizabeth’s letter on Justine (as opposed to Victor’s own brothers) might seem strange to the novice reader, most scholars suggest that this is the way Shelley comments on her own situation in life, not being accepted or adored by her own stepparents. It is also interesting to see that Elizabeth’s love is what fully restores Victor to full health. Denial become complete when Clerval takes away all of the chemical instruments that remind Victor of the creature. It is the praise of his professors that make Victor the most uncomfortable, as he cannot escape the words of success because the “reality” of his success is so upsetting to him. Victor gets quite wrapped up in the difference between western and eastern languages, seemingly forgetting his past love of science. It is interesting that he sees such a difference between classic western literature as more burly and classic eastern literature as more emotional and “Romantic.” This is an important, albeit subtle, point in regards to the Romantic period from which Shelley’s actual novel comes.

    — Noelle Thompson
  9. The creature is almost forgotten here as Victor is restored to health and returns to the daily life of a university student. Henry Clerval puts directly into Victor’s hands a letter from his own Elizabeth and is glad to hear about Justine Moritz (a good friend of the Frankenstein family who cleaned their house) and how she continues to be good and true even after being poorly treated by her own family. Further, the letter proves that Elizabeth is in good health as well and desires greatly for Victor to come home, something that is quite restorative to Victor. Back in the university vein, Victor shows his friend Clerval around to everyone, including his favorite (and not so favorite) professors. Everyone seems to be praising Victor. This tortures the poor young man: “Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I had made in the sciences.” They start attending classes together and switch pursuits to suit Henry Clerval’s taste (more than Victor’s previous taste for science) by studying all sorts of languages, both past and present. Through these studies, both Henry and Victor seem happy, and Victor is excited even more by a return trip to his native Geneva come fall. However, the trip becomes impossible due to both studies and weather, so the winter approaches. Victor, then, puts off his return trip home until May.

    — Noelle Thompson
  10. Note the stark contrast between the grotesque from the former chapter and the "happy" demeanor of this one. These last two lines portray the contrast better than any other. In the back of readers' minds, the creature should still be looming.

    — Noelle Thompson
  11. As the reader most likely observes, the monster is quite forgotten in this chapter except for a few lines like this.  The creature is foreboding in the background of our thoughts.

    — Noelle Thompson
  12. As the reader observes, much of the content of Elizabeth's letter is about the family friend (and servant), Justine, who was treated poorly by  her own family, but who is adored by all in the Frankenstein family.

    — Noelle Thompson
  13. Here, Elizabeth's love restores Victor Frankenstein. She truly desires him to come home. Readers will observe that by the end of the chapter, that is exactly his plan.

    — Noelle Thompson