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 enquirers 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 enquiries 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.
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 heart-felt 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 wrapt 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.
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 enquiries. 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 minutiæ 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 enquiries towards the
same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing
a secret.
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.
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.
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.
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
hinderance 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.
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.
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 eye-balls 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.
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."
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.
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.
But I forget that I am moralising in the most interesting part of my
tale; and your looks remind me to proceed.
My father made no reproach in his letters, and only took notice of my
silence by enquiring 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.