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.

When I turned seventeen, my parents decided that I should study at the University of Ingolstadt. Until then, I had attended schools in Geneva. But my father thought I needed to learn about customs beyond those of my native country to complete my education. So my departure was set for an early date. But before that day arrived, I suffered the first misfortune of my life. It was, as it were, an omen 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.”

Elizabeth had caught scarlet fever. Her illness was severe, and she was in great danger. While she was ill, we tried many times to persuade my mother not to care for her. At first, she gave in to our pleas. But when she heard that her favorite’s life was in danger, she could no longer contain her anxiety. She went to Elizabeth’s bedside, and her watchful care overcame the deadly illness. Elizabeth was saved, but my mother’s unwise decision to care for her proved fatal. On the third day, my mother fell ill. Her fever came with the most alarming symptoms, and the looks on her doctors’ faces foretold the worst. On her deathbed, this best of women remained brave and kind. She joined Elizabeth’s hand with mine. “My children,” she said, “my greatest hope for future happiness was that you would marry. Your father will now take comfort in that hope. Elizabeth, my love, you must take my place with my younger children. Alas! I regret being taken from you. I have been so happy and so loved. Is it not hard to leave you all? But I should not dwell on such thoughts. I will try to accept death cheerfully and hope to meet 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.

She died peacefully, and even in death her face showed affection. I need not describe the feelings of those whose closest bonds are broken by death, that most irreparable evil. They feel an emptiness in their souls, and their faces show their despair. It takes so long for the mind to accept that she has gone forever. We saw her every day, and her very existence seemed part of our own. It is hard to believe that her beloved eyes will never shine again. Her voice, so familiar and dear to us, has fallen silent, never to be heard again. These are the thoughts of the first days. But when time proves that the loss is real, the true bitterness of grief begins. Yet whose dear bonds has death not cruelly torn apart? Why should I describe a sorrow that everyone has felt and must feel? Eventually, the time comes when grief is more an indulgence than a necessity. We no longer banish the smile that comes to our lips, though it may seem like a betrayal. My mother was dead, but we still had duties to perform. We had to continue our lives alongside everyone else. We had to learn to consider ourselves fortunate while anyone remained whom death had not taken.

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.

My departure for Ingolstadt had been delayed by these events, but now it was settled again. My father allowed me to wait a few more weeks. It seemed sacrilegious to leave our mourning house so soon. Its stillness was like death, and I could not bear to rush back into the thick of life. Sorrow was new to me, but it alarmed me no less. I did not want to leave those who remained to me. Above all, I wanted to see my sweet Elizabeth somewhat comforted.

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.

She hid her grief and tried to comfort us all. She faced life steadily and took up its duties with courage and enthusiasm. She devoted herself to those she had been taught to call her uncle and cousins. She had never been more enchanting than she was then, as she brought back her sunny smiles and shared them with us. She even forgot her own sorrow as she tried to make us forget ours.

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.

The day of my departure finally arrived. Clerval spent the last evening with us. He had tried to persuade his father to let him come with me and study alongside me, but without success. His father was a narrow-minded trader who thought his son’s hopes and ambitions would lead to idleness and ruin. Henry deeply felt the loss of a broad education. He said little, but when he spoke, I could see a restrained but firm resolve in his bright, lively eyes. He would not be chained to the miserable details of business.

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.

We stayed up late. We could not tear ourselves away from one another or bring ourselves to say “Farewell!” At last we said it and went to our rooms, pretending to seek rest. Each of us imagined the others were deceived. But at dawn, when I came downstairs to the carriage that would take me away, they were all there. My father came to bless me again, and Clerval came to clasp my hand once more. My Elizabeth came to beg me again to write often and to give her playmate and friend her last womanly attentions.

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 threw myself into the carriage that would take me away and gave myself over to sad thoughts. I had always been surrounded by pleasant companions, and we had constantly tried to make one another happy. Now I was alone. At the university where I was going, I would have to make my own friends and protect myself. Until then, I had led a remarkably sheltered life at home. This had given me a deep dislike of unfamiliar faces. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval. They were “old familiar faces,” but I believed myself entirely unsuited to the company of strangers. These were my thoughts as I began my journey, but my spirits and hopes rose as I traveled on. I was eager to gain knowledge. At home, I had often thought it hard to spend my youth cooped up in one place. I had longed to enter the world and take my place among other people. Now I had what I wanted, and it would indeed have been foolish to regret it.

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.

I had plenty of time for these and many other thoughts during my long, tiring journey to Ingolstadt. At last, I saw the town’s tall white steeple. I got out and was shown to my room, where I could spend the evening alone 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?”

The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction and visited some of the leading professors. Chance led me first to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. Or rather, it was the evil influence, the Angel of Destruction, who had ruled me with absolute power. He had done so since I reluctantly left my father’s door. M. Krempe was a crude man, but he knew the secrets of his science deeply. He asked me several questions about my progress in the different branches of natural philosophy. I answered carelessly and, partly out of contempt, named my alchemists as the main authors I had studied. The professor stared. “Have you,” he said, “really spent your time 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.”

I said yes. “Every minute,” M. Krempe continued passionately, “every instant you have wasted on those books is completely lost. You have filled your memory with discredited theories and useless names. Good God! What desert have you lived in, where no one was kind enough to tell you the truth? These ideas you have absorbed so eagerly are a thousand years old and as musty as they are ancient. In this enlightened age of science, I never expected to find a follower of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must start your studies all over again.”

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.

After saying this, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of books on natural philosophy that he wanted me to get. Before dismissing me, he said he would begin a series of lectures on natural philosophy and its general connections early the following week. His fellow professor, M. Waldman, would lecture on chemistry on the days between his lectures.

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.

I returned home without disappointment. As I have said, I had long considered the authors the professor condemned to be useless. But I was no more inclined to take up these studies in any form. M. Krempe was a short, squat man with a gruff voice and a repulsive face. The teacher, therefore, did not make me look favorably on his field of study. Perhaps I have described my early conclusions about these studies in too philosophical and orderly a way. As a child, I had not been satisfied with the results promised by modern professors of natural science. My ideas were confused, as I was extremely young and had no one to guide me in such matters. I had traveled backward along the paths of knowledge, exchanging recent discoveries for the dreams of forgotten alchemists. Besides, I despised the practical uses of modern natural philosophy. Things had been very different when the masters of science sought immortality and power. Such aims were futile, but they were grand. Now the scene had changed. The investigator’s ambition seemed limited to destroying the visions on which my interest in science chiefly rested. I was expected to exchange dreams 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.

These were my thoughts during my first two or three days in Ingolstadt. I spent most of that time getting to know the area and the main residents of my new home. But when the next week began, I thought about what M. Krempe had told me about the lectures. I could not bring myself to listen to that conceited little fellow speak from a lectern. Still, I remembered what he had said about M. Waldman. I had never met M. Waldman, because he had been out of town until then.

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:

Partly out of curiosity and partly because I had nothing to do, I went into the lecture room. M. Waldman entered shortly afterward. This professor was very different from his colleague. He looked about fifty, and his face showed great kindness. A few gray hairs covered his temples, but the hair at the back of his head was nearly black. He was short but stood remarkably straight, and his voice was the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by reviewing the history of chemistry and the advances made by various scholars. He spoke the names of the most distinguished discoverers with enthusiasm. He then gave a brief overview of the current state of the science and explained many of its basic terms. After performing a few preliminary experiments, he ended by praising modern chemistry in words 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.”

“The early teachers of this science,” he said, “promised the impossible and achieved nothing. Modern masters promise very little. They know that metals cannot be changed into other metals and that the elixir of life is a fantasy. Yet these philosophers have indeed performed miracles. Their hands seem made only to play in dirt, and their eyes to peer into microscopes or crucibles. They reach into nature’s secrets and show how she works in her hiding places. They rise into the heavens. They have discovered how blood circulates and what the air we breathe is made of. They have gained new and almost unlimited powers. They can command the thunder of heaven, imitate earthquakes, and even mimic 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.

Those were the professor’s words. Or rather, they were the words of fate, spoken to destroy me. As he continued, I felt as if my soul were struggling with a real enemy. One by one, he touched the keys that controlled my being. Chord after chord sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought, one idea, one purpose. So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein. I will achieve more, far more. Following the paths already marked, I will forge a new way. I will explore unknown powers and reveal the deepest mysteries of creation to the world.

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 did not sleep that night. My whole being was in revolt and turmoil. I felt that order would eventually emerge, but I had no power to bring it about. After dawn, sleep gradually came. When I woke, the thoughts of the night before seemed like a dream. All that remained was my resolve to return to my old studies. I would devote myself to a science for which I believed I had a natural talent. That same day, I visited M. Waldman. In private, his manner was even gentler and more appealing than in public. During his lecture, he had carried himself with a certain dignity. At home, this gave way to the greatest warmth and kindness. I gave him much the same account of my earlier pursuits that I had given his fellow professor. He listened attentively to my brief account of my studies. He smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus, but without the contempt M. Krempe had shown. He said, “These men worked tirelessly and with great zeal. Modern scientists owe them most of the foundations of their knowledge. They left us the easier task of giving new names to the facts they helped bring to light. They also left us to arrange those facts in connected classifications. The work of men of genius, however misguided, almost always eventually brings real benefits to humanity.” I listened to him speak without any arrogance or affectation. Then I said that his lecture had removed my prejudices against modern chemists. I spoke carefully, with the modesty and respect a young man owes his teacher. I did not reveal any of the enthusiasm that drove my plans. My inexperience in life would have made me ashamed to do so. I asked his advice about which books I should get.

“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.”

“I am happy,” said M. Waldman, “to have gained a student. If you work as hard as your ability deserves, I have no doubt you will succeed. Chemistry is the branch of science in which the greatest advances have been made and may still be made. That is why I have made it my particular field of study. But I have not neglected the other branches of science. A man who studied chemistry alone would make a very poor chemist. If you wish to become a true scientist and not merely a minor experimenter, I advise you to study every branch of science, 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.

He then took me into his laboratory and explained what his various machines were used for. He told me what equipment I should get. He also promised to let me use his machines once I knew enough about the science not to damage them. He gave me the list of books I had requested, and I left.

Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny.

So ended a day I would always remember. It decided my future.