Chapter Text
My dearest Victor,
I find it difficult to remain here in Geneva alone. There's something in the way that the wind seems to still, and the leaves of the trees seem to droop, as if they too are saddened by your absence. Sometimes I find it difficult to rise in the mornings, acutely aware that I will be spending another day separate from you, another day wandering my path, naught but spectres to keep me company. I wonder how long it's been since you thought of the beauty of Geneva, I would like to tell you about what I can see, simply looking out of the window here. Down by the lake there's the same old willows surrounding it, their branches twisting together like how Elizabeth used to braid her hair. If I squint, I'm able to see the great mountains in the distance, their peaks tipped with snow that will only spread further down, I don't expect to see much green from the trees two months from now. It is dark, twilight, and a storm is rolling in. You can hear how the clouds shake the ground and how the thunder charges through the air, my hair standing on ends. I expect it will rain later, and I will be left to write by candlelight, there's an excitement to that thought, a feeling of rebellious secrecy, even though there's nothing written worth hiding.
I have yet again spoken to my father about joining you in Ingolstadt, but of course you are aware of how narrow-minded he his, and he still wishes for me to change my 'childlike' ways. Sometimes I wonder if he knows truly the depth of children and their hearts, understands the stories they create in their small games. I want to say that I find it complimentary to be compared to children, so gay and full of joy, and yet I can only find pain in his voice, the sharp edges which tell me that he only wishes for me to become a hollow version of himself. However, I find myself absolute in my decision, I won't ever find interest in his commerce, and I do not seek to learn it. I would rather teach myself the ways of the arts and the breadth of my potential with no mentor to look up to than spend days listening to his duties in a corner of his study. Because of this I spend many days out of the house, reading books, and writing when the inspiration comes to me. I know you give little time to literature and the arts, but I hope someday you may read my writings and that you will love them as I do you.
You are a man of science Victor, and I wish for your opinion on something. I know I am not what my father wants of a son, my fraternisation with literature one of my many failures in his eyes, yet there is still no reprieve. I believe there's some part of me that still wishes for my father's acceptance, for him to see my potential and allow me to chase it, otherwise I would have run off to join you in Ingolstadt already. Yet, I believe there are some parts of me that I feel he shouldn't see, some which I want to keep private to myself, and it is becoming increasingly difficult in this stifling atmosphere. From my father there is a constant reminder that I am yet to find myself a wife, that it is something which must be done with increasing urgency, but I do not wish for a wife. Many of the boys we grew up with in school have also found themselves wives or betrotheds, and you yourself are promised to Elizabeth, which makes me an anomaly. When my father feels it pertinent to bring attention to it, I feel as though there is a greater divide between myself and others, as though there is some flaw inside of me growing since birth. The only company I wish for is your own, and not of a woman I have not yet met, and tell me, is that wrong of me to wish for?
I fear as though if I speak to others about it, I will only injure myself further, leading them to accuse me of sodomy and male venery. They would not listen beyond the fact that I wish for your company over a wife and relegate the rest of my mind to perversion. >I have done no wrong and yet< I fear prosecution, as though I walk down the street with this title clear as a cloudless sky, all others believing they know the monster I am. However, despite all this, I find myself feeling grief over those who suffer this curse like me. I have read of many men who chase male lovers, and before their persecution they often claimed that it was natural to them, and it feels completely natural to myself too, that the idea of a wife was one they could never conceive. How is it that I am to be these men have been wounded so, simply for emotions which came naturally to them? There is something to be said for those that persist against the oncoming tide of this meagre social life. They may be shunned, and yet many spoke to feeling quite unique joy in finding the companionship they sought, and someday I hope that I too will be able to be content with those I surround myself with. Yet, I couldn't live that life, one of hate and hounding, running from those I loved, one filled with the effort of living a falsehood.
It is odd how some thoughts, like these, seem to circulate in my mind for months at a time. Initially I read this topic out of accident, and now I read out of a growing curiosity. I do not think it would be in my nature to hate someone such as them, I want to believe that I would offer them sanctuary and friendship in a world where they'd be otherwise rejected. I am also familiar with such disappointment, and I feel as though it's too heavy of a burden to wish on others. However, even despite my many plays and masquerades I found delight in as a child, I could not imagine going through the rigorous process of concealing my true self every waking hour, just to ensure my safety. Do you feel the same Victor, would you offer such sanctuary and care to me? one so hated by society?
Although I feel I must change the topic and cease troubling your mind with my own contemplations. It has been some time since I last wrote, and I can only explain it through the fact that it has been some time since anything worth writing happened here in Geneva. At times it feels odd writing this letter to you, one with little purpose other than ensuring you read it, yet it also reminds me of something I read a while ago. It spoke about how even the most simple and meaningless forms of communication can be quite necessary even in the closest of bonds, and I hope that's what this letter is to you. I may not be in Ingolstadt for a while yet, and you may not return to Geneva for many months, and yet I could never dispel you from my mind. It is a kind of comfort, in writing this, the idea that even though I may not be by your side, my letters are still keeping a place in your life, that some pretence of my figure haunts your workspace, relishing in keeping you from your experiments just as I did when you were back here.
If you may, please write back soon. It is a tiring life, one without you, and your letters always serve to remind me why I so love literature and my affinity for it. Words spark in my mind like the fire in your eyes, and the same breeze that you feel running through your hair is one that brings inspiration to me, tainted in shades of you. I still see you there, sitting under the willows and reading one of your own books, and it inspires me to join you, like a dagger in my heart I am reminded of you in every scene here in Geneva, and it carries through into my work. My good Frankenstein, I can only wish that someday you shall be able to read my utter devotion for you that's weaved into my writings, the way every passage I create is dedicated to your rare smile and the hope that someday soon I shall see you. Tell me of your experiments, what you're learning in that university. Are there any teachers who have a particular attention for you, do you think any would appreciate my work? The only thing I can wish for is your company to keep me preoccupied, even with father's business the house seems so empty. I know you don't believe me learned enough to understand the complexity of some of your wild concoctions, but I would adore hearing of them none the less, it would be something to work my own mind over in the still of the afternoon. Maybe it will drive me to ask my father yet again to join you.
One final thing, your family is asking me to forward to you that they wish for you to write more. They're awfully nervous of how few letters they receive, believing you to be too engrossed in your work. I understand that that's true, but even sparing them a page will ease their mind. I shall set the
challenge for you to tell me how Elizabeth is. I may easily speak to her, but I believe you should ask her yourself; it would be a grand gesture that she will surely adore.
Your closest friend,
Henry Clerval
Geneva, October. 15th 17—