Chapter 3

von Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

When I turned seventeen, my parents decided it was time for me to enroll at the University of Ingolstadt. Until then, I had been studying in Geneva, but my father believed it was important for me to experience different customs beyond our own. We set a date for my departure, but before that day arrived, I faced the first tragedy of my life—an ominous sign of the suffering that lay ahead.

Elizabeth fell ill with scarlet fever. Her condition was severe, and she was in grave danger. Despite our pleas for my mother to stay away, fearing for her health, she couldn’t resist the urge to care for Elizabeth when she learned how serious the situation was. My mother’s devoted attention helped Elizabeth recover, but it came at a terrible cost. Just three days later, my mother fell ill herself, her fever accompanied by alarming symptoms, and the worried expressions of the doctors hinted at the worst.

Even on her deathbed, my mother remained strong and kind. She took our hands, joining them together. “My children,” she said, “I had hoped for your happiness through your union. This hope will now be your father’s consolation. Elizabeth, my dear, you must take my place for your younger siblings. Oh, how I wish I could stay with you! It’s hard to leave you all, but I must try to accept my fate with grace and hold onto the hope of meeting you again in another life.”

She passed away peacefully, her face still radiating love even in death. I can’t describe the feelings of those left behind when such an irreplaceable bond is broken. The emptiness that fills the soul and the despair etched on our faces are too profound for words. It takes time for the mind to accept that someone who was part of our daily lives is gone forever—that the light in a beloved eye has been extinguished and the familiar voice we cherished will never be heard again. These thoughts consumed me in the early days of mourning, but as time went on, the harsh reality of loss settled in, bringing with it a deeper sorrow.

Everyone has experienced the pain of losing someone dear, so why should I dwell on a grief that is universal? Eventually, there comes a time when mourning becomes more of a choice than a necessity, and even a smile can slip through our lips, though it may feel like a betrayal. My mother was gone, but we still had responsibilities to uphold. We had to continue living, to find gratitude in the fact that at least one of us remained untouched by loss.

My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been postponed due to these events, was finally set again. My father granted me a few more weeks at home. It felt wrong to leave the quiet, almost death-like atmosphere of our mourning household and plunge back into the chaos of life. I was still grappling with my grief, and I didn’t want to leave behind those who remained, especially Elizabeth, who I hoped would find some comfort.

She masked her own sorrow and tried to be a source of strength for all of us. With determination, she faced life’s challenges and took on her responsibilities with grace. She devoted herself to her uncle and cousins, and never had she been more captivating than during this time, when she shared her radiant smiles with us. In her efforts to help us forget our pain, she even managed to push aside her own sadness.

Finally, the day of my departure arrived. Clerval spent my last evening with us, trying to convince his father to let him join me as a fellow student, but his efforts were in vain. His father, a narrow-minded trader, saw only idleness and ruin in his son’s ambitions. Henry felt the weight of this disappointment deeply. He spoke little, but I could see the fire in his eyes and the determination in his expression—a silent vow to break free from the mundane confines of commerce.

We lingered late into the night, unable to pull ourselves away from one another, unable to say the word “goodbye.” When we finally did part, we pretended it was just to seek rest, each of us hoping the other was none the wiser. But as dawn broke, I descended to the carriage that would take me away, and there they all were—my father, ready to bless me once more, Clerval, eager to shake my hand again, and Elizabeth, urging me to write often and showering me with the last affectionate gestures of a friend.

I climbed into the carriage, lost in the most melancholic thoughts. I had always been surrounded by wonderful companions, constantly engaged in bringing joy to one another. Now, I was alone. At the university I was heading to, I would have to make my own friends and stand as my own protector. My life had been so sheltered and domestic that the thought of strangers filled me with dread. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; they were my “old familiar faces,” and I felt completely unprepared for the company of anyone new. These were the thoughts that accompanied me as I began my journey, but as the miles passed, my spirits began to lift. I was filled with a burning desire for knowledge. Back home, I had often felt trapped, longing to step into the world and find my place among others. Now that my wishes were coming true, it would have been foolish to regret it.

I had plenty of time for these reflections during my long and tiring journey to Ingolstadt. Finally, the tall white steeple of the town came into view. I got out and was shown to my solitary room, where I could spend the evening as I wished.

The next morning, I delivered my letters of introduction and visited some of the main professors. By chance—or perhaps by the dark influence of fate that seemed to control me from the moment I left my father’s home—I first met M. Krempe, the professor of natural philosophy. He was an awkward man, but deeply knowledgeable in his field. He asked me several questions about my studies in the various branches of natural philosophy. I answered carelessly and, with a hint of disdain, mentioned the alchemists as my main sources of study. The professor looked taken aback.

“Have you really spent your time studying such nonsense?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Every minute you’ve wasted on those books is completely lost,” M. Krempe said passionately. “You’ve filled your mind with outdated theories and useless names. Good God! Where have you been living that no one told you these ideas are a thousand years old and as stale as they are ancient? I never expected to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus in this enlightened age. My dear sir, you need to start your studies from scratch.”

With that, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of books on natural philosophy that he wanted me to get. He dismissed me after mentioning that he would begin a series of lectures on natural philosophy the following week, and that M. Waldman, another professor, would lecture on chemistry on the alternate days.

I returned home not disappointed; I had long considered the authors M. Krempe criticized to be useless. However, I wasn’t any more inclined to revisit those studies. M. Krempe was a short man with a gruff voice and an unappealing face, which didn’t endear me to his subjects. Perhaps I had been too philosophical in my reflections on them during my youth. As a child, I had been dissatisfied with the results promised by modern natural science. Confused and lacking guidance, I had retraced the steps of knowledge back in time, trading the discoveries of contemporary researchers for the dreams of long-forgotten alchemists. I also held a disdain for the practical applications of modern natural philosophy. It had been different when the masters of science sought immortality and power; those ambitions, though futile, were grand. Now, however, the focus seemed to be on dismissing the very visions that had drawn me to science in the first place. I was being asked to trade the lofty dreams of greatness for mundane realities.

During my first few days in Ingolstadt, I spent most of my time getting to know the area and the key people in my new surroundings. But as the following week began, I remembered what M. Krempe had told me about the lectures. Although I wasn’t keen on listening to that arrogant little man preach from his podium, I recalled his words about M. Waldman, whom I had yet to meet since he had been out of town.

Out of curiosity and a bit of boredom, I decided to enter the lecture hall. M. Waldman arrived shortly after I did. He was nothing like his colleague. He looked to be around fifty, with a kind expression on his face. A few strands of gray hair adorned his temples, while the hair at the back of his head was still nearly black. He was short but stood very straight, and his voice was the sweetest I had ever heard.

He began his lecture by summarizing the history of chemistry and the various advancements made by different scholars, passionately pronouncing the names of the most notable discoverers. He then provided an overview of the current state of the science and explained many of its basic terms. After performing a few preliminary experiments, he concluded with a tribute to modern chemistry that I would never forget.

“The ancient teachers of this science,” he said, “promised the impossible and delivered nothing. The modern masters, however, promise very little; they understand that metals cannot be transformed and that the elixir of life is a fantasy. Yet these philosophers, whose hands seem made only for working with dirt and whose eyes are trained to peer through microscopes or over crucibles, have indeed performed miracles. They delve into the depths of nature and reveal how she operates in her hidden corners. They reach into the heavens; they have uncovered how blood circulates and the nature of the air we breathe. They have gained new and almost limitless powers; they can command the thunder, mimic earthquakes, and even challenge the invisible world with its own shadows.”

As he spoke, I felt as if my very soul was battling a tangible enemy. Each word struck a chord within me, and soon my mind was consumed by a single thought, a singular purpose. So much has been accomplished, my inner voice shouted—more, so much more, I will achieve. Following the paths already laid out, I would forge a new way, explore uncharted powers, and reveal to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.

That night, I couldn’t close my eyes. My thoughts were in chaos, a storm of emotions and ideas swirling within me. I sensed that some kind of order would emerge from this turmoil, yet I felt powerless to create it. Gradually, as dawn broke, sleep finally came. When I awoke, the thoughts from the previous night felt like a distant dream. All that remained was a firm resolution to return to my earlier studies and dedicate myself to a science I believed I had a natural talent for.

Later that day, I visited M. Waldman. His demeanor in private was even more gentle and inviting than in public; the dignity he carried during his lecture was replaced by warmth and kindness in his home. I shared nearly the same account of my previous pursuits that I had given to his colleague. He listened attentively to my story about my studies and smiled at the mention of Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus, but without the disdain that M. Krempe had shown.

He remarked, “These were men to whom modern philosophers owe much of the foundation of their knowledge. They have made it easier for us to give new names and organize the facts they largely helped uncover. The efforts of brilliant minds, even when misguided, rarely fail to ultimately benefit humanity.”

I absorbed his words, delivered without arrogance or pretense, and then mentioned that his lecture had changed my views on modern chemists. I spoke with the respect and humility appropriate for a young student addressing his mentor, careful not to let slip any of the enthusiasm that fueled my ambitions. I asked for his advice on which books I should acquire.

“I’m glad to have you as a student,” M. Waldman said, a smile spreading across his face. “If your dedication matches your talent, I have no doubt you’ll succeed. Chemistry is the field of natural philosophy where the most significant advancements have been made and can still be achieved. That’s why I’ve focused on it so intently. However, I haven’t ignored other areas of science. A person would be a poor chemist if they only concentrated on that one aspect of knowledge. If you truly want to be a scientist and not just a minor experimenter, I suggest you explore every branch of natural philosophy, including mathematics.”

He then led me into his laboratory, where he explained the functions of his various machines. He guided me on what equipment I should acquire and promised that I could use his own tools once I had progressed enough in my studies to handle them without causing any issues. He also provided me with the list of books I had asked for, and I took my leave.

That day marked a turning point for me; it shaped my future in ways I could hardly imagine.