Chapter 3



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

forever--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 Clenal; 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.

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