Frankenstein; or, the modern prometheus

When I was about fifteen, we witnessed a most violent thunderstorm. I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old oak twenty yards from our house, and when the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, nothing remaining but a blasted stump. A man of great research in natural philosophy, excited by this catastrophe, entered on the explanation of a theory he had formed on electricity and galvanism, which was new and astonishing to me. By some fatality, the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed studies. I gave up my former occupations and betook myself to the mathematics.

When I had attained the age of seventeen, my parents resolved that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. But before the day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred. Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe and she was in the greatest danger. My mother, who had at first yielded to our entreaties not to attend her, could no longer control her anxiety. She attended her sickbed; Elizabeth was saved, but the consequences were fatal to her preserver. On the third day my mother sickened, and on her deathbed 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.” She died calmly, her countenance expressing affection even in death.

My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was now again determined upon. The day of my departure arrived. Clerval spent the last evening with us; he had tried to persuade his father to permit him to accompany me, but in vain. We sat late and could not tear ourselves away. When at morning’s dawn I descended to the carriage, they were all there—my father again to bless me, Clerval to press my hand, my Elizabeth to renew her entreaties that I would write often.

I, who had ever been surrounded by amiable companions, was now alone. In the university I must form my own friends and be my own protector. My life had hitherto been remarkably secluded, and this had given me invincible repugnance to new countenances. As I proceeded on my journey, however, my spirits and hopes rose; I ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge.

At length the high white steeple of Ingolstadt met my eyes. The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction. Chance led me first to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy, an uncouth man deeply imbued in the secrets of his science. When I 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?” He declared that every instant I had wasted on those books was utterly and entirely lost, that I had burdened my memory with exploded systems, and that I must begin my studies entirely anew.

I returned home not disappointed, for I had long considered those authors useless. But 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: about fifty years of age, with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry and concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry: “The ancient teachers of this science 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 have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places.”

Such were the professor’s words—rather let me say such the words of fate—enounced to destroy me. As he went on, I felt as if my soul were grappling with a palpable enemy; 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. I paid M. Waldman a visit. His manners in private were even more mild and attractive than in public. He smiled at the names of Agrippa and Paracelsus, but without contempt, saying they were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their knowledge. He took me into his laboratory and explained the uses of his various machines.

“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.”

Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny.