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.
...
Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children, has taken place since you left us. We 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.
...
[I have written about other women: deaths, families, loves. Just "trifling things."]
...
I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety returns upon me as I conclude.
...
[I have writen a performance of what you would like to see, an inverted reflection of your present state--you are sick while I am a happy, kind, placid, regulated and content. Are these words even my own? Have they been written or altered by Clareval? Do I even get to speak a sound? Or am I pinned here in the story to represent your frozen desire and fear?]
...
Write, dearest Victor -- one line -- one word ...Adieu! My cousin, take care of yourself, and, I entreat you, write!
Elizabeth Lavenza
Geneva, March 18th, 17 -- "(Shelley 50-52).