Neither of us possessed the slightest pre-eminence over the
other; the voice of command was never heard amongst us; but mutual
affection engaged us all to comply with and obey the slightest desire of
each other. CHAPTER II. 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; but her illness was not severe,
and she quickly recovered. During her confinement, 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 her
favourite was recovering, she could no longer debar herself from her
society, and entered her chamber long before the danger of infection was
past. The consequences of this imprudence were fatal. On the third day
my mother sickened; her fever was very malignant, and the looks of her
attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her death-bed the
fortitude and benignity of this admirable woman 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 your younger cousins. 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 connexion; 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 journey to Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was
now again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of some
weeks. This period was spent sadly; my mother’s death, and my speedy
departure, depressed our spirits; but Elizabeth endeavoured to renew the
spirit of cheerfulness in our little society. Since the death of her
aunt, her mind had acquired new firmness and vigour. She determined to
fulfil her duties with the greatest exactness; and she felt that that
most imperious duty, of rendering her uncle and cousins happy, had
devolved upon her. She consoled me, amused her uncle, instructed my
brothers; and I never beheld her so enchanting as at this time, when she
was continually endeavouring to contribute to the happiness of others,
entirely forgetful of herself. The day of my departure at length arrived. I had taken leave of all my
friends, excepting Clerval, who spent the last evening with us. He
bitterly lamented that he was unable to accompany me: but his father
could not be persuaded to part with him, intending that he should become
a partner with him in business, in compliance with his favourite theory,
that learning was superfluous in the commerce of ordinary life. Henry
had a refined mind; he had no desire to be idle, and was well pleased to
become his father’s partner, but he believed that a man might be a very
good trader, and yet possess a cultivated understanding. We sat late, listening to his complaints, and making many little
arrangements for the future. The next morning early I departed. Tears
gushed from the eyes of Elizabeth; they proceeded partly from sorrow at
my departure, and partly because she reflected that the same journey was
to have taken place three months before, when a mother’s blessing would
have accompanied me. 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, and among others to M.
Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He received me with politeness,
and asked me several questions concerning my progress in the different
branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I mentioned, it
is true, with fear and trembling, the only authors I had ever read upon
those subjects. The professor stared: “Have you,” he said, “really spent
your time in studying such nonsense?”

I replied in the affirmative.