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 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.
Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus