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When I had attained the age of seventeen, my parents resolved
that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt.
I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva; but my father
thought it necessary, for the completion of my education, that
I should be made acquainted with other customs than those of my
native country. My departure was therefore fixed at an early
date; but before the day resolved upon could arrive, the first
misfortune of my life occurred--an omen, as it were, of my
future misery.
Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe,
and she was in the greatest danger. During her illness, many
arguments had been urged to persuade my mother to refrain from
attending upon her. She had, at first, yielded to our
entreaties; but when she heard that the life of her favourite
was menaced, she could no longer control her anxiety. She
attended her sick bed--her watchful attentions triumphed over
the malignity of the distemper--Elizabeth was saved, but the
consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver.
On the third day my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied
by the most alarming symptoms, and the looks of her medical
attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her death-bed
the fortitude and benignity of this best of women did not
desert her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself:--
"My children," she said, "my firmest hopes of future happiness
were placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation
will now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my
love, you must supply my place to my younger children. Alas!
I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved as I
have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are not
thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself
cheerfully to death, and will indulge a hope of meeting you in
another world."
She died calmly; and her countenance expressed affection even
in death. I need not describe the feelings of those whose
dearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil; the void
that presents itself to the soul; and the despair that is
exhibited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind
can persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day, and whose
very existence appeared a part of our own, can have departed
for ever--that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been
extinguished, and the sound of a voice so familiar, and dear to
the ear, can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the
reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time
proves the reality of the evil, then the actual bitterness of
grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand rent
away some dear connection? and why should I describe a sorrow
which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length
arrives, when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity;
and the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be
deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we
had still duties which we ought to perform; we must continue
our course with the rest, and learn to think ourselves
fortunate, whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not seized.
My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these
events, was now again determined upon. I obtained from my
father a respite of some weeks. It appeared to me sacrilege so
soon to leave the repose, akin to death, of the house of
mourning, and to rush into the thick of life. I was new to
sorrow, but it did not the less alarm me. I was unwilling to
quit the sight of those that remained to me; and, above all, I
desired to see my sweet Elizabeth in some degree consoled.
She indeed veiled her grief, and strove to act the comforter to
us all. She looked steadily on life, and assumed its duties
with courage and zeal. She devoted herself to those whom she
had been taught to call her uncle and cousins. Never was she
so enchanting as at this time when she recalled the sunshine of
her smiles and spent them upon us. She forgot even her own
regret in her endeavours to make us forget.
The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the
last evening with us. He had endeavoured to persuade his
father to permit him to accompany me, and to become my fellow
student; but in vain. His father was a narrow-minded trader,
and saw idleness and ruin in the aspirations and ambition of
his son. Henry deeply felt the misfortune of being debarred
from a liberal education. He said little; but when he spoke,
I read in his kindling eye and in his animated glance a
restrained but firm resolve not to be chained to the miserable
details of commerce.
We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other,
nor persuade ourselves to say the word "Farewell!" It was
said; and we retired under the pretence of seeking repose, each
fancying that the other was deceived: but when at morning's
dawn I descended to the carriage which was to convey me away,
they were all there--my father again to bless me, Clerval to
press my hand once more, my Elizabeth to renew her entreaties
that I would write often, and to bestow the last feminine
attentions on her playmate and friend.
I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away, and
indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever
been surrounded by amiable companions, continually engaged in
endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure, I was now alone. In
the university, whither I was going, I must form my own
friends, and be my own protector. My life had hitherto been
remarkably secluded and domestic; and this had given me
invincible repugnance to new countenances. I loved my
brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were "old familiar
faces;" but I believed myself totally unfitted for the company
of strangers. Such were my reflections as I commenced my
journey; but as I proceeded my spirits and hopes rose. I
ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had often,
when at home, thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped
up in one place, and had longed to enter the world, and take my
station among other human beings. Now my desires were compiled
with, and it would, indeed, have been folly to repent.
I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections
during my journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing.
At length the high white steeple of the town met my eyes. I
alighted, and was conducted to my solitary apartment, to spend
the evening as I pleased.
The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction and
paid a visit to some of the principal professors. Chance--or
rather the evil influence, the Angel of Destruction, which
asserted omnipotent sway over me from the moment I turned my
reluctant steps from my father's door led me first to M.
Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He was an uncouth
man, but deeply embued in the secrets of his science. He asked
me several questions concerning my progress in the different
branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I
replied carelessly; and, partly in contempt, mentioned the
names of my alchymists as the principal authors I had studied.
The professor stared: "Have you," he said, "really spent your
time in studying such nonsense?"
I replied in the affirmative. "Every minute," continued M.
Krempe with warmth, "every instant that you have wasted on
those books is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened
your memory with exploded systems and useless names. Good God!
in what desert land have you lived, where no one was kind
enough to inform you that these fancies, which you have so
greedily imbibed, are a thousand years old, and as musty as they
are ancient? I little expected, in this enlightened and
scientific age, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and
Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must begin your studies
entirely anew."
So saying, he stepped aside, and wrote down a list of several
books treating of natural philosophy, which he desired me to
procure; and dismissed me, after mentioning that in the
beginning of the following week he intended to commence a
course of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general
relations, and that M. Waldman, fellow-professor, would
lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he omitted.
I returned home, not disappointed, for I have said that I had
long considered those authors useless whom the professor
reprobated; but I returned, not at all the more inclined to
recur to these studies in any shape. M. Krempe was a little
squat man, with a gruff voice and a repulsive countenance; the
teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favour of his
pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and connected a
strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I
had come to concerning them in my early years. As a child, I
had not been content with the results promised by the modern
professors of natural science. With a confusion of ideas only
to be accounted for by my extreme youth, and my want of a guide
on such matters, I had retrod the steps of knowledge along the
paths of time, and exchanged the discoveries of recent
inquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchymists. Besides, I
had a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It
was very different when the masters of the science sought
immortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand:
but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer
seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on
which my interest in science was chiefly founded. I was
required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for
realities of little worth.
Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of
my residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in
becoming acquainted with the localities, and the principal
residents in my new abode. But as the ensuing week commenced,
I thought of the information which M. Krempe had given me
concerning the lectures. And although I could not consent to
go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver sentences out
of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M. Waldman,
whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town.
Partly from curiosity, and partly from idleness, I went into
the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after.
This professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared
about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of the
greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his temples, but
those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person
was short, but remarkably erect; and his voice the sweetest I
had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of
the history of chemistry, and the various improvements made by
different men of learning, pronouncing with fervour the names
of the most distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory
view of the present state of the science, and explained many of
its elementary terms. After having made a few preparatory
experiments, he concluded with a panegyric upon modern
chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget:--
"The ancient teachers of this science," said he, "promised
impossibilities, and performed nothing. The modern masters
promise very little; they know that metals cannot be
transmuted, and that the elixir of life is a chimera. But
these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in
dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible,
have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the
recesses of nature, and show how she works in her hiding places.
They ascend into the heavens: they have discovered how
the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe.
They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can
command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even
mock the invisible world with its own shadows."
Such were the professor's words--rather let me say such the
words of fate, enounced to destroy me. As he went on, I felt
as if my soul were grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one
the various keys were touched which formed the mechanism of my
being: chord after chord was sounded, and soon my mind was
filled with one thought, one conception, one purpose. So much
has been done, exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein--more, far
more, will I achieve: 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.
I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was in a
state of insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would
thence arise, but I had no power to produce it. By degrees,
after the morning's dawn, sleep came. I awoke, and my
yesternight's thoughts were as a dream. There only remained a
resolution to return to my ancient studies, and to devote
myself to a science for which I believed myself to possess a
natural talent. On the same day, I paid M. Waldman a visit.
His manners in private were even more mild and attractive than
in public; for there was a certain dignity in his mien during
his lecture, which in his own house was replaced by the
greatest affability and kindness. I gave him pretty nearly the
same account of my former pursuits as I had given to his
fellow-professor. He heard with attention the little narration
concerning my studies, and smiled at the names of Cornelius
Agrippa and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M.
Krempe had exhibited. He said, that "these were men to whose
indefatigable zeal modern philosophers were indebted for most
of the foundations of their knowledge. They had left to us, as
an easier task, to give new names, and arrange in connected
classifications, the facts which they in a great degree had
been the instruments of bringing to light. The labours of men
of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in
ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind." I
listened to his statement, which was delivered without any
presumption or affectation; and then added, that his lecture
had removed my prejudices against modern chemists; I expressed
myself in measured terms, with the modesty and deference due
from a youth to his instructor, without letting escape
(inexperience in life would have made me ashamed) any of the
enthusiasm which stimulated my intended labours. I requested
his advice concerning the books I ought to procure.
"I am happy," said M. Waldman, "to have gained a disciple;
and if your application equals your ability, I have no doubt of
your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy
in which the greatest improvements have been and may be made:
it is on that account that I have made it my peculiar study;
but at the same time I have not neglected the other branches of
science. A man would make but a very sorry chemist if he
attended to that department of human knowledge alone. If your
wish is to become really a man of science, and not merely a
petty experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every
branch of natural philosophy, including mathematics."
He then took me into his laboratory, and explained to me the
uses of his various machines; instructing me as to what I ought
to procure, and promising me the use of his own when I should
have advanced far enough in the science not to derange their
mechanism. He also gave me the list of books which I had
requested; and I took my leave.
Thus ended a day memorable to me: it decided my future destiny.
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