Chapter 4

From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation. I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination, which modern inquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the lectures and cultivated the acquaintance of the men of science of the university, and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I found a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism, and his instructions were given with an air of frankness and good nature that banished every idea of pedantry. In a thousand ways he smoothed for me the path of knowledge and made the most abstruse inquiries clear and facile to my apprehension. My application was at first fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded and soon became so ardent and eager that the stars often disappeared in the light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory.

From that day on, natural philosophy, especially chemistry in its broadest sense, became almost my only pursuit. I eagerly read the works of modern researchers on these subjects, full of genius and insight. I attended lectures and got to know the university’s scientists. Even M. Krempe, I found, had a great deal of sound judgment and useful knowledge. His face and manners were unpleasant, it is true, but his judgment and knowledge were no less valuable for that. In M. Waldman I found a true friend. He was always gentle and never dogmatic. He taught with such openness and good nature that he never seemed pedantic. In countless ways he made learning easier for me. He made even the most difficult questions clear and easy to understand. At first, my dedication to study was unsteady and uncertain. But it grew stronger as I went on. Soon I was so eager and absorbed that the stars often faded in the morning light while I was still working in my laboratory.

As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that my progress was rapid. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students, and my proficiency that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on, whilst M. Waldman expressed the most heartfelt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries which I hoped to make. None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science. In other studies you go as far as others have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate capacity which closely pursues one study must infallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the attainment of one object of pursuit and was solely wrapped up in this, improved so rapidly that at the end of two years I made some discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had arrived at this point and had become as well acquainted with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning to my friends and my native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay.

Because I worked so hard, it is easy to imagine that I made rapid progress. My enthusiasm amazed the students, and my skill amazed the teachers. Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa was getting on. Meanwhile, M. Waldman expressed heartfelt delight in my progress. Two years passed this way. During that time, I did not visit Geneva. Instead, I devoted myself, heart and soul, to discoveries I hoped to make. Only those who have experienced the attractions of science can understand them. In other studies, you go as far as others have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know. But in science, there is always more to discover and wonder at. Even a person of moderate ability who devotes close attention to one subject must become highly skilled in it. I pursued a single goal and thought of nothing else. As a result, I improved rapidly. At the end of two years, I made some discoveries that improved chemical instruments. These earned me great respect and admiration at the university. By then, I had learned all I could from the professors at Ingolstadt about the theory and practice of natural philosophy. Since staying there would no longer help me improve, I thought of returning to my friends and my hometown. But then something happened that prolonged my stay.

One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind and determined thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been irksome and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of anatomy, but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale of superstition or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy, and a churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of this decay and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in the change from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me—a light so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so many men of genius who had directed their inquiries towards the same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret.

One of the things that especially drew my attention was the structure of the human body, and indeed of any living animal. Where, I often asked myself, did the principle of life come from? It was a bold question, and one that had always been considered a mystery. Yet how many things might we be on the verge of discovering, if cowardice or carelessness did not hold back our inquiries? I turned these questions over in my mind. I decided from then on to focus on those branches of natural philosophy that deal with physiology. Without an almost supernatural enthusiasm, I would have found this study tedious and almost unbearable. To examine the causes of life, we must first turn to death. I learned the science of anatomy, but that was not enough. I also had to observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body. My father had taken great care in raising me not to fill my mind with supernatural horrors. I cannot remember ever trembling at a superstitious tale or fearing the appearance of a ghost. Darkness had no effect on my imagination. To me, a churchyard was merely a place for bodies without life. They had once been home to beauty and strength, but had become food for worms. Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of this decay. I was forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel houses. I focused my attention on things that were most unbearable to human sensibilities. I saw how the fine human form was degraded and wasted away. I saw the corruption of death replace the blooming cheek of life. I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused to examine and analyze every detail of the causes revealed in the change from life to death and from death to life. At last, a sudden light broke through the darkness. It was so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that the vast possibilities it revealed made me dizzy. I was surprised that I alone had been chosen to discover such an astonishing secret. So many men of genius had pursued the same science.

Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not more certainly shine in the heavens than that which I now affirm is true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter.

Remember, I am not describing a madman’s vision. What I now say is as surely true as the sun shines in the sky. A miracle might have brought it about, yet each step of the discovery was clear and plausible. After days and nights of incredible work and exhaustion, I discovered the cause of reproduction and life. More than that, I became capable of giving life to lifeless matter myself.

The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires was the most gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so great and overwhelming that all the steps by which I had been progressively led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation of the world was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened upon me at once: the information I had obtained was of a nature rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them towards the object of my search than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead and found a passage to life, aided only by one glimmering and seemingly ineffectual light.

At first, the discovery astonished me, but my astonishment soon gave way to delight and joy. After so much painful work, reaching my greatest goal at last was the most gratifying reward for my efforts. But the discovery was so immense and overwhelming that I forgot all the steps that had gradually led me there. I saw only the result. What the wisest men had studied and sought since the creation of the world was now within my grasp. Not that everything appeared before me at once, as if by magic. The knowledge I had gained would guide my efforts once I turned them toward my goal. It did not show me that goal already achieved. I was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead and found a way back to life. He had only one faint light to guide him, and it seemed hardly strong enough to help.

I see by your eagerness and the wonder and hope which your eyes express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which I am acquainted; that cannot be; listen patiently until the end of my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow.

My friend, I can see your eagerness and the wonder and hope in your eyes. You expect me to tell you the secret I know, but I cannot. Listen patiently until the end of my story. Then you will easily understand why I will not speak about it. I was once as reckless and eager as you are now. I will not lead you to destruction and certain misery. Learn from me, if not from my advice, then at least from my example. See how dangerous it is to gain knowledge. See, too, how much happier a man is who believes his hometown is the whole world. He is happier than the man who strives to become greater than his nature allows.

When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour. I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like myself, or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was too much exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as complex and wonderful as man. The materials at present within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an undertaking, but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect, yet when I considered the improvement which every day takes place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least lay the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider the magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argument of its impracticability. It was with these feelings that I began the creation of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature, that is to say, about eight feet in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this determination and having spent some months in successfully collecting and arranging my materials, I began.

When I found such astonishing power in my hands, I hesitated for a long time over how to use it. Although I could give life, preparing a body to receive it was still an incredibly difficult and laborious task. The body needed an intricate network of fibers, muscles, and veins. At first, I doubted whether I should try to create a being like myself or one with a simpler structure. But my first success had excited my imagination too much. I could not doubt my ability to give life to a creature as complex and wonderful as a human being. The materials I had at hand hardly seemed adequate for such a difficult undertaking. Still, I had no doubt that I would eventually succeed. I prepared myself for many setbacks. My efforts might be frustrated again and again, and my work might be imperfect in the end. Yet science and mechanics were improving every day. That encouraged me to hope that my present attempts would at least lay the foundations for future success. Nor did I see the size and complexity of my plan as reasons to think it impossible. With these feelings, I began creating a human being. The tiny size of the parts slowed my work considerably. So, contrary to my original intention, I decided to make the being gigantic. It would be about eight feet tall, with every part proportionately large. After making this decision, I spent several months successfully collecting and arranging my materials. Then I began.

No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve theirs. Pursuing these reflections, I thought that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to corruption.

No one can imagine the range of feelings that swept me forward like a hurricane in my first excitement at succeeding. Life and death seemed like imaginary boundaries that I would be the first to break through. I would pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as its creator and source. Many happy and excellent beings would owe their existence to me. No father could deserve his child’s gratitude as completely as I would deserve theirs. As I continued to think about this, I realized that if I could give life to lifeless matter, I might eventually restore life to a body that death had apparently left to decay. Although I now found this impossible, I thought it might be possible in time.

These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or the next hour might realise. One secret which I alone possessed was the hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless and almost frantic impulse urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance, that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I collected bones from charnel-houses and disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my human nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a conclusion.

These thoughts kept my spirits up as I pursued my work with tireless passion. My face had grown pale from study, and I had grown thin from staying indoors. Sometimes I failed when I was on the very brink of certainty. Yet I still clung to the hope that the next day or even the next hour might bring success. I had devoted myself to the hope of discovering a secret that I alone would possess. The moon looked down on my midnight labors as I pursued nature into her hiding places with relentless, breathless eagerness. Who can imagine the horrors of my secret work? I handled the unholy dampness of the grave and tortured living animals to bring life to lifeless clay. Even now, my limbs tremble and my eyes grow dim at the memory. But then an irresistible, almost frantic impulse drove me forward. I seemed to have lost every feeling and all sense of humanity except for my devotion to this one pursuit. It was only a passing trance. Once that unnatural drive faded and I returned to my old habits, my feelings returned with renewed intensity. I collected bones from burial vaults and disturbed the awesome secrets of the human body with unholy hands. I kept my workshop of filthy creation in a solitary room, or rather a cell, at the top of the house. A gallery and staircase separated it from all the other rooms. My eyes seemed ready to burst from their sockets as I attended to every detail of my work. The dissecting room and the slaughterhouse supplied many of my materials. Often, my human nature turned from my work in disgust. Yet my eagerness kept growing and driving me on, and I brought my work close to completion.

The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow a more plentiful harvest or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage, but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not seen for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them, and I well remembered the words of my father: “I know that while you are pleased with yourself you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear regularly from you. You must pardon me if I regard any interruption in your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are equally neglected.”

The summer months passed while I devoted myself heart and soul to a single pursuit. It was a beautiful season. The fields had never produced a more plentiful harvest, nor had the vines yielded more abundant grapes. But I was blind to the beauty of nature. The same feelings that made me neglect my surroundings also made me forget my friends. They were many miles away, and I had not seen them for so long. I knew my silence worried them, and I remembered my father’s words well: “I know that while you are pleased with yourself, you will think of us with affection. We will hear from you regularly. You must forgive me if I take any break in your letters as proof that you are neglecting your other duties too.”

I knew well therefore what would be my father’s feelings, but I could not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it were, to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection until the great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be completed.

So I knew well how my father would feel. But I could not tear my thoughts away from my work. The work was disgusting in itself, yet it had an irresistible hold on my imagination. I wanted, in a way, to put off everything connected with my feelings of affection until my great task was complete. That task had consumed every habit of my nature.

I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect to vice or faultiness on my part, but I am now convinced that he was justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from blame. A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself has a tendency to weaken your affections and to destroy your taste for those simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic affections, Greece had not been enslaved, Cæsar would have spared his country, America would have been discovered more gradually, and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.

I thought then that my father would be unfair to blame my neglect on a flaw or fault in me. But I am now convinced that he was right to think I was not entirely blameless. A perfect human being should always keep a calm and peaceful mind. He should never allow passion or a passing desire to disturb his peace. I do not think the pursuit of knowledge is an exception to this rule. Suppose your studies tend to weaken your affections and destroy your enjoyment of simple pleasures untouched by any taint. Then those studies are surely wrong, meaning they are not suited to the human mind. If this rule had always been followed, and no man had let any pursuit disturb his peaceful family affections, Greece would not have been enslaved. Cæsar would have spared his country, America would have been discovered more gradually, and the empires of Mexico and Peru would not have been destroyed.

But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my tale, and your looks remind me to proceed.

But I am preaching at the most interesting part of my story. Your expression reminds me to go on.

My father made no reproach in his letters and only took notice of my silence by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before. Winter, spring, and summer passed away during my labours; but I did not watch the blossom or the expanding leaves—sights which before always yielded me supreme delight—so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation. The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near to a close, and now every day showed me more plainly how well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other unwholesome trade than an artist occupied by his favourite employment. Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful degree; the fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow creatures as if I had been guilty of a crime. Sometimes I grew alarmed at the wreck I perceived that I had become; the energy of my purpose alone sustained me: my labours would soon end, and I believed that exercise and amusement would then drive away incipient disease; and I promised myself both of these when my creation should be complete.

My father did not scold me in his letters. He acknowledged my silence only by asking about my activities in more detail than before. Winter, spring, and summer passed while I worked. But I did not notice the blossoms or the leaves unfolding, though these sights had always delighted me before. I was too absorbed in my work. The leaves had withered that year before my work neared completion. Every day made it clearer how well I had succeeded. But anxiety held back my enthusiasm. I seemed less like an artist engaged in his favorite work than someone condemned to labor in the mines or another unhealthy trade. Every night I suffered from a lingering fever, and my nerves became painfully strained. A falling leaf startled me, and I avoided other people as if I had committed a crime. Sometimes I was alarmed by the wreck I had become. Only the strength of my purpose kept me going. My work would soon be finished, and I believed that exercise and recreation would then drive away the illness beginning to take hold. I promised myself both once my creation was complete.