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Frankenstein: Chapters 5-6

Storytime for Grownups

Thu Sep 18 2025

Summary

Summary of "Storytime for Grownups" – Frankenstein: Chapters 5-6

Host: Faith Moore
Date: September 18, 2025

Episode Overview

In this episode, Faith Moore leads listeners through Chapters 5 and 6 of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, blending dramatic readings with insightful commentary and responsive discussion to listener questions. The main focus is the pivotal creation scene—where Victor brings his creature to life—and the immediate aftermath, both physical and psychological. The episode explores themes of creation, obsession, the dangers of overreaching, and the contrast between natural and artificial life, all while demystifying the classic’s 19th-century language and evocative, melodramatic prose.

Key Discussion Points and Insights

1. Listener Community & The Importance of Shared Reading

Faith reiterates the show's mission: making classic literature accessible and enjoyable, likening it to "an audiobook with built-in notes" ([00:11]).
Announces the upcoming virtual "tea time" for community discussion, emphasizing the value of gathering to talk about books, especially during "dicey" times ([01:04–03:10]).

2. Recap of Previous Chapters

Faith recaps core events: Victor’s mother's death, his move to university, meeting professors Krempe (unpleasant) and Waldman (inspiring), and his descent into the obsession of creating life ([04:17–05:28]).
Highlights Victor’s neglect of loved ones and developing God-complex as he isolates himself to forge a new being.

3. Listener Comments & Thematic Exploration

Faith responds to four insightful listener comments, each opening thematic avenues:

a. Difficulty with Shelley's Language

Denise Ellison finds Shelley's language impenetrable; Faith reassures listeners: "I give you permission to feel like the language is a little much... and to laugh sometimes at how over the top Shelley can get" ([09:31–11:42]).
Faith frames the prose as part of the book’s unique "mood" and “vibes,” inviting listeners to lean into the melodrama and not stress over comprehension:

"The mood of these books, the feel of them, is created by the language the author uses. That's what makes them great" ([10:29]).

b. Theme of Physical Beauty

Mary M. Matuszek notes Victor’s bias toward beauty and asks if this will affect his treatment of the creature ([06:12]).
Faith connects this observation to Victor’s later horror, suggesting that “Victor seems to feel a sense that beauty... indicates correctness” ([19:17]).

c. Warning Against Obsession

Monica Souza sees Victor’s mania as a cautionary tale about addiction to ambition and science ([06:58]).
Faith elaborates: Victor’s obsession, “as obsession often does, causes him to set aside all the things... most important in life: friends, family, human connection, love" ([19:42–20:46]).

d. Natural vs. Artificial Creation

Amanda McCall contrasts Victor’s scientific hubris with humanity’s natural gift for creation through love and biology ([07:20]).
Faith raises a central question: Just because you can, should you? She invites listeners to reflect and write in:

"Just because you can create a human-like being from scratch in a lab, should you?" ([14:08]).

4. Deep Dive: Victor’s “Act of Creation” and Its Fallout

Bringing the Creature to Life:
The reading opens with Victor animating his patchwork creation in a "dreary night of November" ([26:39]). The memorable line:

“His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath... His hair was of a lustrous black and flowing, his teeth of a pearly whiteness. But these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes... his shriveled complexion and straight black lips.” ([28:23])
Immediate Horror and Regret:
Victor is overtaken by revulsion and dread. The dream sequence where he kisses Elizabeth and she turns into a corpse like his mother is chilling ([29:30]).

“But now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.” ([28:44])
The Creature’s First Movements:
The monster’s first motion is “a convulsive agitation of its limbs” ([26:39]), and its presence drives Victor into a state of terror and extreme physical distress.
Psychological Collapse and Friendship:
Victor flees, wanders the streets, and only recovers temporarily upon seeing his dear friend, Henry Clerval. The reunion is described as:

“His presence brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune.” ([34:46])
Victor’s Breakdown & Recovery:
Victor’s joy spirals into madness and illness; Clerval’s care is instrumental in restoring him, though Clerval has no idea of the true cause.

“But I was not the witness of his grief, 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." ([38:54])

5. Correspondence from Elizabeth

A letter from Elizabeth (read aloud) brings news from Geneva, introduces the character Justine Moritz, and paints a warm portrait of Victor’s family and home ([42:32–51:39])—a sharp contrast to Victor’s isolation and horror.
Elizabeth’s concern and the depiction of home reinforce the novel’s foundational theme: the sustaining power of human connection.

6. Victor’s Aversion to Science

After his ordeal, Victor cannot bear the sight or discussion of anything scientific, associating it entirely with trauma and guilt ([51:40–53:50]).
To distract himself, Victor joins Clerval in the study of languages.

7. Clerval’s Uplifting Friendship

The two friends take long walks, converse, and Victor’s spirits gradually recover.
Faith highlights the restorative power of “nature and the cheerful faces of children,” echoing Romantic ideals ([59:57]).

Notable Quotes & Memorable Moments (with Timestamps)

On Shelley's language and melodrama:
"Feel free to kind of chuckle and go, no idea what you're on about right now, Mary, but I love you and I'm here for this, whatever it is, because chances are you'll pick up what you need to pick up" – Faith Moore ([11:45])
On Victor’s obsession:
"'Treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.'" – Faith reading Victor ([20:01])
On the creature's creation:
"It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils... by the glimmer of the half extinguished light I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open. It breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs." ([26:39])
On the horror of creation:
"'His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! ...But these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast.'" ([28:23])
Victor’s insight after collapse:
"'If the study to which you apply yourself has a tendency to weaken your affections, and to destroy your taste for those simple pleasures... then, that study is certainly unlawful, not befitting the human mind.'" – Victor Frankenstein ([21:13])
Faith on playing God:
"Within the Christian worldview, God is the creator... So Victor is essentially playing God here, and he knows it." ([21:55])

Important Segment Timestamps

Community and Listener Comments: [01:04–09:08]
Language and Thematic Commentary: [09:08–14:08]
Deep Thematic Discussion – Creation, Morality, and Obsession: [14:08–24:50]
Reading: Creature is Animated: [26:39–31:15]
Reading: Victor’s Collapse, Recovery, and Friendship: [31:15–38:54]
Elizabeth’s Letter: [42:32–51:39]
Victor’s Aversion to Science: [51:40–53:50]
Clerval’s Friendship Restores Victor: [59:57–61:10]

Engagement and Call to Action

Faith continuously invites listeners to write in with questions, reflections, and essays on the pressing philosophical questions raised by the chapters (e.g., "Just because you can, should you?"). She encourages readers to enjoy the ride—even through confusing language—and promises “notes along the way.”

The Original Tone and Style

Faith maintains an inviting, warm, and humorous tone throughout, interweaving cozy imagery (“fire is blazing and the wind is starting to pick up outside... but don’t worry, we’re together and we’re safe in here,” [00:23]) with moments of playful irreverence toward the story’s excesses and melodrama. She treats Shelley’s Gothic horror as both “deliciously creepy” and emotionally rich, echoing the book’s spirit while making its complexities approachable.

In Summary

This episode captures the harrowing turning point of Frankenstein—the disastrous birth of the creature—and skillfully connects it to timeless quandaries about science, morality, and the risks of human ambition. With Faith’s accessible, comforting narrative and clear commentary, listeners gain not just a reading, but a guide through the thicket of Mary Shelley’s masterpiece.

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Transcript

A (0:00)

Hello and welcome to Storytime for Grown Ups. I'm Faith Moore and this season we're reading Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.

B (0:09)

Each episode I'll read a few chapters.

A (0:11)

From the book, pausing from time to time to give brief explanations so it's.

B (0:16)

Easier to follow along. It's like an audiobook with built in notes. So brew a pot of tea, find.

A (0:23)

A cozy chair and settle in. It's story time. Oh, Victor, don't do it. Hi, everybody. Welcome back to Storytime for Grown Ups. Welcome to our cozy room where the fire is blazing and the. The wind is starting to pick up outside, isn't it? And the leaves are starting to rattle on the trees. But don't worry, we're together and we're safe in here. But things are getting a little, I don't know, a little dicey here in Frankenstein and I'm here to talk to you about it. I cannot wait. I'm so excited. Got lots of great comments and questions this time, so we're gonna get into it. I do want to just remind you before we get started that next week is tea time for September. It is the 23rd. So Tuesday, September 23rd at 8pm Eastern, we'll be meeting in our online community, the drawing room, for our monthly voice chat, which is called tea time. So a little bit closer to that cozy room. I wish it could be real. I wish we could all be together in that cozy room. But tea time is our way of trying to do that virtually. So it's a time when we all get together. Those of you who are signed up for the drawing room in the landed gentry membership tier and we chat, we will be talking about this book. We will be talking about some questions. I always do ask me anything, so you can ask anything. Sometimes people post some questions in the chat over in the drawing room. So I've already got some that we'll be discussing and you can bring your own. You can talk in the call if you want to, or you can just listen. And it's a lovely time for us to really come together. And I just think, think that coming together and talking about books and being with people who want to talk about books is so important right now. I cannot stress this enough. So this is our way of trying to do that.

B (2:29)

So if you're not already a part.

A (2:31)

Of the drawing room and you'd like to be, and you'd like to join us on the 23rd at 8pm Eastern for tea time, just scroll into the show notes, which is the description of this episode, and you'll find a link that will take you to the community. It won't sign you up for anything automatically. You just will be taken to a page that will tell you a bit more about it and a bit more about how how to sign up. And I hope that you will. I hope we'll have lots of people together on September 23rd. It's a Tuesday at 8pm I will be there. I'm always so happy to chat with you. The time flies by and I cannot wait. So please, please join us if you can. Other than that, spread the word.

A (9:11)

Ease that it's not you. All right. Shelley's language is not only old fashioned, it's also often kind of flowery or unnecessarily complex, and it's filled with sort of twists and turns and things like that. And I will be honest with you, in my opinion, she is not the best prose writer that ever lived. I think she's a good writer. I think the way she writes is really evocative, and it creates a really specific mood that works very well for this particular story. But the genius of Mary Shelley is less in her prose style and more in the kind of thematic elements that she weaves into her plot. That's why we've jumped right into themes right up front with this book. But essentially, this book is like a mood. It's some vibes, it's some themes. Okay, So I give you permission to feel like the language is a little much. I. I also give you permission, by the way, to laugh sometimes at how over the top Shelley can Get, there's a lot of melodramatic language and imagery in this book and a lot of kind of helpful coincidences and things like that. And I actually really love it, but I love it for how kind of insane it is. I love the melodrama, not because I take it all that seriously, but because it adds to the vibes and the mood. Like, I give you permission to periodically go dun, dun, dun to yourself as we go along. And if you don't think you'll scare anyone around, you feel free to maniacally laugh. It's that kind of book. And the over the top sort of ornate language adds to that feeling. Many of you have heard me say this before, so forgive me if I'm repeating myself, but one of the ideas that I had to help people get to enjoy the classics who hadn't felt able to. One of the ideas I had before I came up with the format that became this show was. Was kind of like Denise is jokingly saying in her letter, kind of translating these books into modern English. But I quickly realized that this was a terrible idea, potentially one of the worst ideas I'd ever had. Because the mood of these books, the feel of them, is created by the language the author uses. That's what makes them great. That's part of what makes them classics. So we can't do that, but I can do notes along the way, and I will. And please do feel free anytime to write in with parts that you found confusing if I didn't specifically address them. I'm always happy to explain things that were confusing. And chances are, if you're wondering, someone else is too. So feel free to do that. Remember, it's faithkmore.com and click on Contact or scroll into the Show Notes for the links.

A (14:09)

All it's going to have as its source is Victor. So I don't know about you, but to my mind there are some, let's just say, problems with this. Okay, Last time we touched very briefly on AI, because I was using it as an example of a technology that we currently have that can do a variety of things. But I think it's probably clear to most people that we should at least be asking Whether it should do all the things that it is capable of doing. And I think that's the same question we have to be asking ourselves here with Victor's little science experiment. Just because you can create a human like being from scratch in a lab, should you? And honestly, I would love it if you would write in with your answers to that question. In fact, if you want to pause this episode right now and scroll into the show notes and click that contact link and just shoot me your thoughts on that. That would be amazing. If this were like a class or something, I would give you this as a short essay prompt or something like that. But it's not. So forget that. But I'd love to know what you think about that. Just because you can create a human like being from scratch in a lab, should you? For me? And I think this is what Shelley is getting at too, though of course, this is just my interpretation. But I think this is what is there in the book. To me, there are two main avenues to explore when trying to think about this question of whether what Victor is doing is a good idea, whether he should create this new being, even though he can. And Amanda, in her letter has hit on one of people can already be created. We have a system for that. It's called reproduction. But the difference, or at least one big difference, between reproduction and what Victor is doing is that reproduction requires, as Amanda points out, two people, a man and a woman. And the fact of that then results in two important societal a father and a mother. Now, remember, Victor's story began with this extended image of how important family and human connection is. And this saintly mother and this strong moral father, this being that Victor is trying to create, will sort of have a father, in that Victor is his creator. But there is no trace at all of a mother. So the first avenue of exploration when trying to answer whether Victor should do this is, is humanity somehow tied up in human reproduction in mothers, in growing up from a baby to an adult? In other words, is the normal way of creating human beings inherently essential to their creation? There's another short essay prompt for you, so write in. But the second avenue, I think, which follows logically from the first one, if you see stipulate that this book is written within a Christian worldview. So the second avenue is, is it okay to create life out of nothing? Or is that God's job and his alone? Again, let's just stipulate that we're going to come at this from a Christian perspective. Because Mary Shelley was herself a Christian. And even though not all the Romantic poets, for example, were Christians. They were still all living in a world that was deeply rooted in Christian theology and thought. So the idea of God the Creator would have been sort of a given. So we do need to look at it from that perspective because that's what's there in the book as opposed to some other perspective that you might personally hold, but which would have been completely unknown to Mary Shelley. So from a Christian perspective, there is only one person who can create new species, new forms of life, and that's God. And Victor, though he might wish it sometimes, Victor, well, he ain't God. So this its second avenue.

B (26:39)

Chapter five it was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning. The rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out when, by the glimmer of the half extinguished light I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open. It breathed hard and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs. How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe? Or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful, Great God. His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath. His hair was of a lustrous black and flowing, his teeth of a pearly whiteness. But these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes that seemed almost of the same color as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shriveled complexion and straight black lips. The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardor that far exceeded moderation. But now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing my bedchamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep at length. Lassitude, which means mental exhaustion, succeeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavoring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain. I slept indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her. But as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death. Her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms. A shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror. A cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed. When, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch, the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed, and his eyes, if eyes, they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear. One hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped and rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited, where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life. Oh, no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A countenance is a face. So he sang.

B (31:24)

I had gazed on him while unfinished. He was ugly then. But when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived. Okay, so Dante wrote the Inferno. So he's saying that this creation is even worse than some sort of demon from hell. I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery. At others, I sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment. Dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a hell to me. And the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete. Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned and discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on. Although drenched by the rain which poured from a black and comfortless sky, I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavoring by bodily exercise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets without any clear conception of where I was or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear, and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me like one who on a lonely road doth walk in fear and dread, and, having once turned round, walks on and turns no more his head, because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. So that was a quote from a poem by Coleridge called the Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn, at which the various diligences and carriages usually stopped. So a diligence is a large public carriage. Here I paused. I knew not why, but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me from the Other end of the street. As it drew nearer, I observed that it was the Swiss diligence, so meaning this is the carriage that's come from Switzerland. It stopped just where I was standing, and on the door being opened, I perceived Henry Clairvaux, who, on seeing me instantly sprung out. My dear Frankenstein, exclaimed he, how glad I am to see you. How fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting. Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval. His presence brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune. I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore in the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for some time about our mutual friends and his own good fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. Okay, so Clerval has come here to study. You may easily believe that, said he.

B (35:53)

Only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account myself. But, my dear Frankenstein, continued he, stopping short and gazing full in my face, I did not before remark how very ill you appear. So thin and pale. You look as if you had been watching for several nights. You have guessed right. I have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see. But I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an end and that I am at length free. I trembled excessively. I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the thought Made me shiver that the creature whom I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive and walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster, but I feared still more that Henry should see him. Entreating him therefore to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused, and a cold shiver came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on the other side. But nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in. The apartment was empty, and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good fortune could have befallen me. But when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy and ran down to Clerval. We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast. But I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me. I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place. I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival, but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account, and my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter frightened and astonished him. My dear Victor, cried he. What, for God's sake is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are. What is the cause of all this? Do not ask me.

B (38:54)

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, 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, meaning the persistency with which I continually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible events. 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 deepest 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.

B (42:34)

Friend, you will perhaps be glad to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you. It's from your cousin, I believe. Chapter six. 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. That 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. Ernest is Victor's brother. He is now 16 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 changed. 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 favorite of her father, but through a strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and after the death of Mr. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this, and when Justine was 12 years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at our house.

B (47:55)

When my dearest aunt died, everyone 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 favorites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her partiality. So Justine's mother, who never liked Justine, began to think that maybe the fact that her favorite children died was a punishment for the fact that she had disliked one of her other children. 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 forever. 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. William is another of Victor's brothers. I wish you could see him. He is very tall for 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 Byron is his favorite. 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 Ms. Mansfield has already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esquire. Her ugly sister Manon married Monsieur Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favorite 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 favorite 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. 10,000 thanks to Henry, for his kindness, his affection, and his many letters, we are sincerely grateful. Adieu, my cousin. Take care of yourself, and I entreat you. Write Elizabeth Lavenza. Geneva, 3-18-17. Blank. My dear Elizabeth, I exclaimed when I.

B (51:40)

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 labors, and the beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of natural philosophy. So ever since he brought his creation to life and was so horrified by it, he couldn't bear to think 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, Mr. 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. So he feels he can't tell Clerval about his creation, and now he can't even look at scientific equipment or talk about scientific subjects without becoming agitated and upset. Mr. Crimpy was not equally docile, and in my condition at that time of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh, blunt encomiums are speeches of high praise, gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation of Mr. Waldman. Damn the fellow. Cried he. Why, Mr. 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. Mr. Frankenstein is modest, an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be diffident about themselves, you know, Mr. Clerval. So diffident means shy, so quimpy, saying that young men shouldn't think too highly of themselves. I was myself when young, but that wears out in a very short time. Mr. Crimpy had now communicated 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. 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 Sanskrit languages engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on the same studies. So Victor is going to study languages with Clerval because he can't study science anymore. 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 labors. 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 writing things. 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. Dilatoriness means lateness. 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, meaning a walking 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 favorite companion. In the ramble of this nature that I had taken among the scenes of my native country. We passed a fortnight in these perambulations, meaning these walks. So they spent two weeks walking around. 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. An endeavor 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, 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 passionate. At other times he repeated my favorite 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 and happy. My own spirits were high and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.