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eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the
room; *he* can tell. Oh, save me! Save me! I imagined
that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously and fell
down in a fit.
Poor Clerval! What must have been his feelings? A
meeting, which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely
turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his grief,
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for I was lifeless and did not recover my senses for a long,
long time.
This was the commencement of a nervous fever which
confined me for several months. During all that time
Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards learned that,
knowing my father s advanced age and unfitness for so
long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would
make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing
the extent of my disorder. He knew that I could not have
a more kind and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in
the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not doubt that,
instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action
that he could towards them.
But I was in reality very ill, and surely nothing but the
unbounded and unremitting attentions of my friend could
have restored me to life. The form of the monster on
whom I had bestowed existence was forever before my
eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless
my words surprised Henry; he at first believed them to be
the wanderings of my disturbed imagination, but the
pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the same
subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its
origin to some uncommon and terrible event.
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By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses that
alarmed and grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember
the first time I became capable of observing outward
objects with any kind of pleasure, I perceived that the
fallen leaves had disappeared and that the young buds were
shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It
was a divine spring, and the season contributed greatly to
my convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and
affection revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and
in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was
attacked by the fatal passion.
Dearest Clerval, exclaimed I, how kind, how very
good you are to me. This whole winter, instead of being
spent in study, as you promised yourself, has been
consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you? I
feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I
have been the occasion, but you will forgive me.
You will repay me entirely if you do not discompose
yourself, but get well as fast as you can; and since you
appear in such good spirits, I may speak to you on one
subject, may I not?
I trembled. One subject! What could it be? Could he
allude to an object on whom I dared not even think?
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Compose yourself, said Clerval, who observed my
change of colour, I will not mention it if it agitates you;
but your father and cousin would be very happy if they
received a letter from you in your own handwriting. They
hardly know how ill you have been and are uneasy at your
long silence.
Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose
that my first thought would not fly towards those dear,
dear friends whom I love and who are so deserving of my
love?
If this is your present temper, my friend, you will
perhaps be glad to see a letter that has been lying here
some days for you; it is from your cousin, I believe.
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Chapter 6
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.
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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 return
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
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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
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