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. |