Work Text:
My dear Frankenstein,
Well! What a bizarre line that was to pen; addressing a letter to you, my friend, of all men. Is it not entirely silly that I had never considered the possibility that we might be apart for long enough to necessitate the exchange of letters? As you well know, I have had very little need to compose correspondence throughout my lifetime, and I bid you forgive any failures in stylistic rigour. But be yet at ease. I have consulted my father’s style manual, grew miserable with boredom after a formidable twenty seconds, and now feel indomitably prepared to pen this letter.
Three days have elapsed since the chariot delivering you to Ingolstadt dissolved into the dawn (Alas! must business thee from hence remove?)1. Perhaps it is logistically unwise to send a letter when you are not even certain to have reached your destination by the time it is conveyed thither — the specifics of these matters rather puzzle me — but you will not, I suspect, be displeased to find my letter waiting upon the table of your empty apartment. I have been of late envisioning you going about your daily affairs in far-off Ingolstadt. Ingolstadt! I am most eager to learn of how life as a student engages you, for I would find consolation in the most benign and prosaic facts concerning your life, given how sorely I long for the blessing you possess, to fly to the land of knowledge.
As for my affairs, they remain static. I quarrel with my father as well-established habit, and to cope have taken up the Homeric dialect of Greek, that I might begin penning a rendering of the Iliad, as a poetic companion to Madame Dacier’s prose translation. I am wary of inflating your pride and exciting your boredom by bemoaning my feelings concerning your absence, but be soothed to know I am often too occupied to brood. Yet at times a sight — more often a scent, a touch, a taste — will recall to me how instinctual it is to tell you details of the most ineffectual mundanity. I roll onto my side in the grass to tell you how seasonable the morning is for September, to suggest we pick oranges before the sun sets, point to a little insect crawling up my wrist, and am each time bewildered to find the space beside me empty, whereupon I straighten into a sit, I lift my gaze to the cloudless sky and the sticky leaves tumbling on the exhale of wind, I lift my palm to my breast and worry the button of my waistcoat that sits nearest my heart. You are dear to the world, my friend, a soreness, a softness — best of my life, farewell. Since we must part, heaven hath a hand in 't2. Geneva regrets thy absence, with the ardor of a young, delirious summer.
Anyway! Your cousin is much employed and deeply regrets her prognosticated inability to write, at least not for a great while, and bids me on her account to request that you send her a list of volumes by Thomasius she has been unable to procure in Geneva. Enclosed within is the list she has drawn up and a thaler for your troubles. Please convey these forthwith, or she promises to “take up a pair of breeches and ride there herself, that she might be liberated from childrearing.” (She is in dire need. Indeed, I am struggling with how to inform her that she often smells of William’s napkin.) I am, chere,
Yrs. affectionately
Henry Clerval
My dear Clerval,
Your correspondence dated the 26th indeed arrived in advance of my arriving in Ingolstadt, and imbued me with a swell of delight, a well desired taste of home following my laborious journey, and in service of your request I mean to relay a survey of how I have passed my first few days at Ingolstadt, which I hope shall quench your curiosity.
My instructors seem unanimously to disapprove of the studies that have comprised my knowledge of the unhallow'd arts, which I cautiously anticipated. I have attended a most miserable lecture given by a Doctor Krempe, a plain and portly fellow, bald as Elisha, with a fleshy, rosy face that bespeaks excessive indulgence in drink; and indeed his manner of instruction and strong, penetrative scent betrays the odious habit. Doubtless you pause here, and mean to scorn me for uttering so uncharitable a description to a man who has done me no material harm, but I assure you in entirely discrediting the genius of Agrippa and Paracelsus he has done me the greatest offense, so deeply personal to the fabric of my character that were I not of; might I politely reference it as insufficient stature; I am sure he and I might have come to blows concerning the subject. Ah! beloathed creature of ignorance!
But I endeavor to cease this tangent; I am, as you often comment, “working myself up” over that which I have no jurisdiction. Another of my instructors is one Waldman, with whom I am significantly more enamored, and though he does not entirely acknowledge the accuracy of my alchemical studies, yet I perceive he thinks I possess promise in the field of chemistry, for there is such tremendous sweetness in his disposition that I feel nearly indignant that he conducts himself with such humility, for he is well within his right to be intolerably arrogant.
Of my proficiency in acquainting myself with the students of this institution, I shall not surprise you to profess that I can say very little. I sense acutely that my general disposition repels my fellow student, though I am hardly unfamiliar with being regarded as strange and unfit for companionship; you will recall the consensus among our schoolfellows that I was too bizarre to be discoursed with, and disturbing by half in my engagements, plucking the delicate limbs from insects in place of playing marbles, and intolerable to nearly all with the unpredictable and sensitive temper I possessed, owed to my ever-choleric humors. I am in want, and dare I say need, of you solely to sustain my desire for companionship, my family and cousin notwithstanding. Yet I might be pleased to divorce myself entirely from the society of my fellow man, if solely to sustain that thread that incandesces between my breast and yours. It will not but for the dissolution of the world be severed, beloved friend.
I have sent the requested volumes to my cousin, and I am not loath to part with them, as I have about as much patience for matters of judicial politics as I did for the tedium of reciting catechism as a boy. Write thoroughly and often, Clerval, that I might be yet reminded and consoled that my most esteemed companion is well.
.Your sincere friend and obt. svt
V. Frankenstein
P.S. Also in this envelope shall you find a few small, dried and pressed leaves from my various rambles in this new country. I have taken to, in my free time, investigating the wild and diverse flora that blush the landscape of dear Ingolstadt, including many flowers and leaves I have only ever seen diagrams of in my alchemical perusals, and have never encountered in material form. The first is beifuß for vitality of spirit, the second, carraway, for celestial protection, and the third, a star-shaped borage. There is no alchemical purpose (of which I am aware) for the final particular herb; I merely thought you might find it beautiful. I find, lately, that I revere beauty most of all because it reminds me of you: j’exprime à mon Dieu ma reconnaissance chaque fois que je pense à vous.3
My dear Frankenstein,
Boundless thanks for your recent correspondence proposing revisions for my translation of Book XI — the grandiosity of the section rather intimidates me, but piece by piece I believe I have constructed a translation that, for a first pass, satisfies me.
You inquire regarding Libby and Ernest, and I assure you they remain in high health, especially your cousin, now that Ernest is old enough to come to her assistance for basic domestic chores, and nearly entirely liberated from the sickness that characterized his youth. Your schoolfellows are well, save persistently-despairing Manoir, whose recent history would take an entire library of volumes to adequately relay. He will probably be fine. William – darling child! – is growing wonderfully, has not so much as caught cold, and is beloved by all. His sweet mother attends his side, I suspect, shielding him from all sorrow from her seat of benevolence in Heaven. I love the playful child, and even nurse l’espoir that I may one day possess angels of my own!
In the spirit of that subject, you might permit me discourse on a topic which will in equal parts perplex and astonish you: I will perhaps marry soon (!). Nay, close thy jaw, for what I am about to relate to you is sadly not the tale of a spontaneous and passionate romance.
My father recently bade me make the acquaintance of Eloise Sartori, the daughter of a minor Italian nobleman, with whom he is friends on account of their shared veneration of our Sorrowful Mother. I am frightened that she may be in love with me. You will concede for now that she is exceptionally handsome and sufficiently clever (though gentlemen are advised to be wary of that in a wife, for what reason I cannot comprehend), agreeable and competent, and in union with her I would want for absolutely nothing — I am not in love, but that has never stopped a man and woman well-suited to each others’ dispositions from marrying. I have, truthfully, never given much thought to the sort of woman I might fall in love with, or that I might indeed never marry for love, though I will do anything ere I will be married to a sponge4. We too will then have this in common, our marriages — though I observe you love your cousin in your way, and do not request you deny this notion.
Two nights ago I was pondering upon this possibility – precisely, of marriage to Miss Sartori – and was startled to find myself rather afflicted with agitation concerning the proposition. I stood and paced once, directionlessly, about my rooms, and lit a candle at my desk. I opened my volume of terrific, lauded Sappho I have been making leisurely work of, so as to not lose my Aeolic Greek in favor of my Homeric — and happened upon a poem on nighttime, and the enormous loneliness that attends her. Imagine, my dear Victor! How serendipitous an availing, and how the divine poetess bade me follow her eternal wisdom in my answerless and desolate hour! The piece is thus:
Δἐδυκε μὲν ἀ σελάννα
καὶ πληΐαδες μέσαι δε
νύκτες, πα ὰ δ‘ ἔ χετ‘ ὤρα,
ἔγω δὲ μόνα κατεύδω. 5
Such simple, minimal lines, and yet by the vehicle of poetry she has reached into my mind and unspooled my thoughts entire. I indeed lay alone, and wish to concede that marriage shall remedy that status, should I desire, and yet some nebula of feeling, of hesitance, gives me pause. Would that you were here to advise me! I conclude by reiterating that I miss you tenderly, mon corbeau6, and recall you each time my eyes close upon my pillow and flutter open to the dawn. Write soon to
Yrs. inviolably
Henry
P.S. Be assured of the depth of my affection. I am in congruence with Sappho on this particular point, as I for one thought on the dark, night-like gaze of Eloise, and then on you, and perceive that ἔρως φιλότης ἐστι ῥοδοδάκτυλος Ἠώς.7
My dear Clerval,
This afternoon I have been granted a short, rare recess from my studies, and reserve a few minutes of my respite to reply to your letters. In this engagement I acknowledge I have been grossly inadequate and neglectful, for which you may pardon me, which I hope is still your wont; M. Waldman and the University’s many lecturers in the field of natural philosophy seem impressed with me, and so does their enthusiasm compel them to demand my undivided attention.
Forgive me, for this subject does not well engage your interest, and I might rather express the shock that attended my learning of your impending romance. You, marry? My Henry Clerval? And with such little forewarning, stripped of the fantasies of courtly love you have often raved to me about, as tempestuous and devouring as the flaming maws of malebolge8! You, my friend, I insist are not suited for the fate in marriage which I have been allotted; that is, an inoffensive, loveless arrangement; and to resign yourself to so temperate and passionless a marriage would be to deny the essential facts of your invigorated spirit, which can accommodate romance far exceeding what you have described. You were fashioned to love enormously and entirely, and you might not expend that to a woman who hardly seems to excite your vague approval, never-mind your desire, which you are bound to find in another woman, as they naturally seem to take to you. Thus repent of this design my friend; you must not marry yet.
Consider my counsel; Elizabeth will, I imagine, tell you the same. Your updates concerning my family are enormously appreciated, as are your bids for my recommendations on Homer. Be well, and write no less than you do presently, for I receive each one humbled by your endless attentiveness.
.,Yours etc
V. Frankenstein
P.S. You will forgive the poverty of my fluency in Greek, for you know my Latin is far superior, but I for a great period considered the poem you copied for me. My Henry, συ ουποτ ἔρημος ἔσσῃ, φίλος γαρ μοι ἐσσι. 9
My dear Henry,
You may credit the presently low light by the disoriented, frantic slant of my script, for it is night, and my hands tremble too terribly, that I should not trust myself to attempt to light a candle. I think on you and your impending marriage and cannot contain myself to the catacombs of my soul, and must inform you, my dear friend, of the truth that has grown in me since we separated.
No, it does not appease me to open my heart to you; I desire to turn it inside out before you, to be beheld in your tender warmth, blindingly angelic like the absolute, white-hot belly of flame. I credit no other salvation nor mercy at the threshing-floor.
You already anticipate, perhaps, that I love you. Wh
I would not say
I do and I must. I admit I am ashamed to want for fame or glory when I recall your affection of lightness, of love: each pearl of grace with which God has endowed me seems to fall from my hands, when I recall that I have lain on the grass beside you, my beloved friend, the breeze of Heaven exhaling sleepily upon my head. For I have drank of the fatal cup; I have committed myself entirely to the enterprise of bacchanal wretchedness, and have defiled the Earth with my sheets soaked in perspiration; for I wake each night, accursed beyond a capacity ever before witnessed, and love you. I have felt for you every sentiment that can possibly be exchanged between a man and his friend, between a man and his lover, between a man and the swallow of golden light that animates flesh into soul.
Do I shock you? Do you drop this paper in the agony of disgust, and watch it swing softly to the ground, your fingertips livid with the blister of burn?
Mentr'io portava i be' pensier' celati,
ch'ànno la mente desïando morta,
vidivi di pietate ornare il volto;
ma poi ch'Amor di me vi fece accorta,
fuor i biondi capelli allor velati,
et l'amoroso sguardo in sé raccolto.10
Nay: you are horrified and rendered miserable, as anyone might be who has heard such repugnant news from he whom he considered noble and decent, perhaps even deserving of reverence, but not shocked. You know my heart as you know your own, as you are sure of the blood that sustains your glowing being, and you have ever known what lives within me, how my sentiments contort in a grotesque display as mutability in your gaze; it grows as a network of ivy in the architecture of your ribs. It defiles me, molesting my thoughts with the most detestable of visions: me at your side, as thy husband, thy wife, soul of your soul. Great God! I cannot continue. I defile you, my sweet friend, with what I feel, and for it I express the most sorrowful and arduous repentance.
Victor
*Unsent. Committed to flame the following morning
My dear Frankenstein,
Ἀνερρίφθω κύβος11! Rejoice, for the proposition between Miss Sartori and I has been positively abandoned, and my marital status restored to its previous situation.
I did resolve to discuss the subject with Libby — I cleverly slipped it within the conversation concerning M. Thomas Paine’s new political publication into which she drew me, for in such matters she vastly outwits and humbles me, and I can only tolerate so much of that before I feel a little humiliated — and she concurred that it mightn’t serve my ambitions to marry so young (you will recall that you have turned twenty in advance of me, an entire three months my senior, while I still enjoy the freedom of cherubic youth). I relayed this sentiment to the honorable Miss Sartori, who was not the least bit offended, and has agreed to remain my companion in intellect, for she is actually enormously intelligent, especially on the subject of languages. The only thing I regret is that, in rejecting our marriage, I should not be permitted to inherit their family’s three large, old hounds — how I adore the animals! I hope to have an army of my own when I am permitted to fly from beneath my father’s thumb, that we might stroll together in the woods behind the little cabin which I have described to you I long after, made of logs of walnut, surrounded by a bed of tall, fluffy bluegrass studded in lilies-of-the-valley… but I should not utter my fantasies, lest I wish they not come true, heaven forfend.
In other news, I hope soon to pay Ingolstadt a visit, should the weather and work permit. How I wish, my friend, that I could promise it to you, and bid you await the arrival of your adoring companion! My professional labors, however, have begotten many a sleepless night and beautiful, balmy day wasted sitting at my writing-desk (bookkeeping takes me much longer than it ought, owed to my abhorrence for numbers and computing) and I am not certain my father should permit so long an absence from my post as his assistant.
Then, enough of me! Your success at the College does not the least surprise me, and I urge you to prioritize such matters over making sense of these many ramblings I commit to Ingolstadt’s postmaster, for I shall fare all the better knowing that you thrive in your pursuits, as my confidence that you shall be great has never wavered. Await then, with dread, the next correspondence of
He that thou knowest thine;12
Henry
P.S. While wrestling with one of the aforementioned dogs a few days ago (the 3rd), I entirely neglected to mind that my chalumeau was in my bookbag, and after the fact found it cracked and chipped in a few places, such that it does not play as it once did. You will tsk tsk! and curse my thoughtlessness, but I have received rather an abundance of that from my father. I do not think it is damaged severely enough to consider that I may have to discard it entirely, but there is nary a player of this instrument with whom I am acquainted, and I am presently incapable of travelling to have it fixed. I attempted to work on it myself with an old manual — but seeing as it was my mother’s, the minute chance that I might damage it beyond repair is entirely anathema to me. Are you aware of any makers of this instrument in Ingolstadt, to whom I might send my chalumeau for repair? I shall supply whatever pay is required.
My dear Clerval,
I am not deceived that you have not taken notice that the gaps between my letters; to you and my family; have grown swiftly and abruptly protracted. I have oft thought on your correspondence dated the 8th and grown embarrassed that I should become so derelict, for even through your endless occupations you have written me with a duty and care that far surpasses necessity.
But as of late I am become an agent for something far greater than I, which I cannot withhold from you, and which will excuse my recent silence. For, my dear Henry, I believe I am on the cusp of something extraordinary. I am convinced that my existence is meritless but for this passion, this worthy mission; if you ever possessed faithfulness in my greatness, pray on my account that it should be realized, for if my labors reach their intended conclusion the knowledge I shall bestow upon the race of man will revolutionize our conception of life and death. Alas! On this subject I am purposefully oblique, and must not let this divine secret fall into any hands other than its intended, to evade the possibility of sabotage.
Your translation, my discovery; I have no doubt that we two shall attain the rapture of boundless success. In my pursuit I promise to neither neglect or forget you (neglect you! forget you!), to write at least with my current frequency, for all I do at its essence is in service of the affection and love of my friends. I ever aspire, my dear companion, to a mere fraction of your amity, kindness, and heavenly person.
.Ton corbeau and humble svt
V. Frankenstein
P.S. Send me your chalumeau and I shall locate an artisan to have it made up for you posthaste; there is many competent windsmith in Ingolstadt who can make quick work of whatever repairs you require. Perish the thought of compensation, for the cost is negligible to me.
P.P.S. Should we ever occupy the same abode, I am afraid I cannot permit any dogs. The abundance with which the creatures shed drives me mad; and I have had more than my share with such a grievance, for though I have been absent of you nearly two years, I still find strands of long, red curls caught in the buttons of my cuffs and buckles of my bags.
My dear Frankenstein,
An uncharacteristically short letter I pen afternoon, to gently, and with no more than encouraging curiosity, inquire after your well-being, and the progress of your pursuits. Everyone at home is in very fine health, even your father, seeing as summer, as is her exclusive power, has inspirited him thoroughly, that you would hardly mark his advanced age.
I mean to steal as little time from your labors as possible, and there is very little intriguing about the way my life passes here, but upon you I must impart what compelled me to write you in the first place, seeing as there has been rather a gap in our correspondence recently. I compose this letter outside (to credit this claim you may observe the smear of ruby at the bottom of this page, the remnants of a berry-bug I killed — you know I despise killing insects, but the bites of these mites ache so) in the company of the lake, clothed in the hot-honey of sunlight, where we once used to ramble as boys, beneath that tree from which you fell and broke your nose, to which you credit the inability of your spectacles to sit quite evenly on your face. I see the soft brown flash of chamois glide in the space between the great, swelling hills, I see the clouds twirl by, and pray that you are well.
Please do write, my friend, if only to reassure me that you are all-right. I am
,Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him13
Henry Clerval
Clerval,
I am well. As necessary should my whereabouts be inquired of by my family and Elizabeth I have no intention of returning home for Christmas or upon the approach of any similar occurrence.
I am much occupied apologies for brevity.
Little time and have had very little sleep
.F
My dear Frankenstein,
Seeing as two months have elapsed since your last (succinct and strangely composed indeed!) correspondence, I am comforted to know you must simply be busy with those pursuits for which you expressed such enthusiasm…
My dear Frankenstein,
I know and do not begrudge how little time you likely have to convey letters to your friends, but your father grows somewhat alarmed at your prolonged silence, and so has requested I ask after you once more…
Frankenstein,
I do not write for me, for this is about much more than you and I. One line will suffice – you torture your family thus, and poor Libby is worried to death…
Victor,
It has been a year since I or your family has heard from you, and ἔμεθεν δ᾽ ἔχεισθα λάθαν14. I am not anxious, as your family is, that you may have perished, of illness or overwork or otherwise — I would feel it if you were in material danger — but so long has passed deprived of you and I... well.
Nothing has changed here, and certainly not in my affairs, in my transient, unactualized life. On temperate nights I wander on the lake and touch the toe of my boot to the surface of the water, agitate the kingdom of bright algae atop the depths, and watch little wrinkles resound upon the inky surface. I think of you. Have I been presumptuous and naive, to suppose that this would not happen, that your absence might not breed this very situation?
It may very well be so. Perhaps you have, with the cool clarity of indifference, decided to forgo our correspondence and commit yourself entirely to a place I cannot follow, unfolding, blossoming, becoming, in my absence for the rest of your life. Yet upon you I shall this impart: should you ever doubt that you are missed beyond love, that you are ached for as though my heart has been severed from its arteries: know that before bed I retrieve your letters from the drawer of my nightstand and press my lips to the place you sign your name — how I wish the ink might smudge my lip and remain ‘till the worms gnaw their way through the gaps in my shroud (I can credit so uncharacteristically morbid a metaphor to nothing but how often I have been thinking of you).
Yes, my friend, I love you and am not ashamed, not for the weight of the Lord’s gaze — it whistles in the summer grass and glitters on the night and swells, bursts in the violet-buds of young spring — as you once said somewhat similarly, the thread between my heart and yours is boundless. It inhabits infinities.
My dear Victor, eternally you luminesce in my vision, eternally you melt formlessly in my dreams — that is, I miss and love you, endlessly and gently — thus.
Yours
Henry Clerval
*Unopened
1. "Break of Day" by John Donne (1572-1631) return to text
2. The Duchess of Malfi by John Webster (1578-1626), Act III, Scene V return to text
3. Philippians 1:3-11: “I thank my God upon every remembrance of you.” return to text
4. The Merchant of Venice, Act I, Scene II return to text
5. Midnight poem, by Sappho. “The moon has set, and the Pleiades; it is midnight, the time is going by, and I sleep alone.” return to text
6. "My raven" return to text
7. "Desire affection is rosy-fingered dawn" return to text
8. "Evil pouches, ditches"; the eighth circle of Hell in Dante Alighieri’s (1265-1321) Divine Comedy return to text
9. "You are never alone, for you are dear to me" return to text
10. “Il Cazoniere” (The Songbook) by Francis Petrarch (1304-1374): "While I held the lovely thoughts concealed,/that make the mind desire death,/I saw your face adorned with pity:/but when Love made you wary of me,/then golden hair was veiled,/and loving glances gathered to themselves." return to text
11. Koine Greek: The die is cast! return to text
12. Hamlet, Act IV, Scene VI return to text
13. Hamlet, Act II, Scene II return to text
14. Sappho, fragment 21: Thou forgettest me. return to text