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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