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.
“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
