Frankenstein’s Story
The Secret of Life
Oh, Walton, if only I had stopped there. I had succeeded in bringing dead matter back to life – surely that was enough. But no. I would not rest until I had taken my experiments as far as they would go. I wanted to create a living being, a creature like myself but perfect and original. I believed that this new creature would know was its maker. It would bless me and be grateful.
So I returned to the graveyard, to the slaughter house and the dissecting room, and brought back to my lonely room the materials I needed – bone and flesh and muscle and arteries. Can you imagine the horror of all this? Dabbling in damp graves and torturing living animals to bring dead flesh to life? Oh yes, I was often appalled by what I was doing, but I could not stop. It was as if there were something inside driving me on.
I worked feverishly throughout that summer, becoming more and more weary in mind and body. Then, one dreary night in November, with the rain beating against my window, I stood back from my work and knew that it was almost done. On the bench before me lay a huge figure assembled from the gory fragments I had collected. All that was required now was the spark that would bring it to life, a flash of electricity like the one I’d seen destroy the tree. I worked on into the morning until, at last, that moment came.
There was a rush of air as its massive chest heaved. I saw its eyes open.
I felt a surge of triumph, but it lasted no more than an instant. Then I was overcome with a feeling of disgust. I had chosen parts from bodies that would make the creature beautiful, but it was nothing of the kind. The skin which covered its face was like dry. Yellow paper. Its eyes were dull and its lips black and straight. I could not bear the sight of it. I ran from the room in horror and shut myself in my bedroom. There I paced about, asking myself: what have I done? What have I done?
Later that night, I woke from a restless sleep. My teeth were chattering and the sweat of fever made every limb shake. There at the foot of my bed was the monster I had created. It was standing in the moonlight, its eyes fixed on me and its jaw open in an evil grin. One hand was stretched out to me and from its throat came a harsh, unearthly sound. I did not wait to hear what it meant to say, or if it was capable of meaning at all. I pushed past it and hurried madly down the stairs – down, down and out into the cold night air of the town.
I wandered the streets, tormented by the failure of my dream and the horror of what I had done. It was light before I dared to return. I was about to climb the stairs to that dreadful room again when there was a knock at the door. Imagine my relief when I saw my old friend, Henry Clerval, on the doorstep.
‘My dear Frankenstein,’ he said, grasping my hand. ‘Can you guess? Father has agreed at last. I am to study at the University!’
Then he looked into my eyes and his face clouded with worry.
‘But, Victor, what’s the matter?’ he said. ‘You don’t look well.’
I assured him it was nothing – no more than the effects of hard work.
‘Are you sure? Has something happened? You’ve written no letters, sent no news, and we’ve all been so worried about you. . . ‘
‘Only because I’ve been so busy, Henry, I promise you,’ I said. ‘But my work is over now and I am free again.’
But was I free? Could I ever be free while that dreadful thing was waiting for me in my work room? I could not bear to think of Henry discovering my secret. So I asked him to wait awhile and I hurried up the stairs. I reached my door and hesitated, shuddering at the thought of what might still lurk behind it. Then I flung it open.
The room was empty. The monster had gone.
Henry Clerval was right, of course. The strain of all this had made me ill, and during the next few months I was confined to my bed. All this time Henry watched over me. I was too unwell to write home, so he wrote for me and then sat beside me to read the letters Elizabeth sent back. It was in one of these letters that I first heard about Justine. She was a girl my father had employed to look after my brothers. She was sweet-natured, Elizabeth wrote, and a great help to the whole family. Elizabeth’s letters made me long to regain my strength so that I could go to see her. Long years had passed since I first parted from those I loved.
Henry’s good company did much to restore my health, and, in time, I felt well enough to study again. However. I refused to have any more to do with my old work. Instead I joined Henry who was studying Oriental languages. My decision puzzled him.
‘But why, Victor?’ he asked. ‘Surely you haven’t lost your love of science?’
I told him I wanted to learn something new: I could not tell him my real reason.