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.