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 sickbed; 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 deathbed 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 complied 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 imbued 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 alchemists 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, a 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 alchemists. 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 the
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.