Frankenstein's Bride (26 page)

C H A PT E R 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 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 endeavor 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 endeavors to make us forget.

The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last evening with us. He had endeavored 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 endeavoring 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. Wald-man, 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 favor 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 fervor 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 labors 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 labors. 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.”