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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.
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Waldman. D n the fellow! cried he. Why, M. Clerval,
I assure you he has outstripped 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 a eulogy 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, as 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 towards the
East as affording scope for his spirit of enterprise. The
Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit languages engaged his
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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
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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
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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 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 everyone we met appeared gay
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and happy. My own spirits were high, and I bounded
along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.
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Chapter 7
On my return, I found the following letter from my
father:
My dear Victor,
You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to
fix the date of your return to us; and I was at first tempted
to write only a few lines, merely mentioning the day on
which I should expect you. But that would be a cruel
kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be your
surprise, my son, when you expected a happy and glad
welcome, to behold, on the contrary, tears and
wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate our
misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to
our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on my long
absent son? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news, but
I know it is impossible; even now your eye skims over the
page to seek the words which are to convey to you the
horrible tidings.
William is dead! that sweet child, whose smiles
delighted and warmed my heart, who was so gentle, yet so
gay! Victor, he is murdered! I will not attempt to console
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you; but will simply relate the circumstances of the
transaction.
Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two
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