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Chapter III, IV & V from Mary Shelley's 1831
edition of Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus
Variations in the 1831 edition from the 1818 edition are marked in yellow.
To view the 1818 edition click the
Notes for the text are indicated by the
Analysis of the text is indicated by the
Title Page
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter III
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.