wild.”
“He is not savage, Florence. He is very thoughtful.”
“Is that what you call it? Well.” She took my trunk, and hauled it into the bedroom where she began to unpack my shirts and general linen. “Whatever is this?” I heard the question, and knew at once what she meant. I had placed for safekeeping among my linen a small model of vitreous clay; it was a simulacrum of the human brain, perfect in all of its details,that I had purchased from an apothecary in Dean Street. He had told me that it was a copy of the brain of one Davy Morgan, a notorious highwayman who had been hanged a few months before.
“It is nothing, Florence. Leave it on the table.”
“I will not touch it, Mr. Frankenline. It is worm-eaten.”
I went into the bedroom, and picked up the model. “These are not worms. These are the fibres of the brain. Do you see? They are like the channels and currents of the ocean.” How slight was the knowledge of the human organism! There was not one person in a thousand—a hundred thousand—who had stopped to consider the workings of the mind or of the body.
“It isn’t natural,” she said.
“It is nature itself, Florence. I believe that to be the optic lobe.”
“It is no good telling me things like that, sir.” She looked at me in horror. “I want nothing to do with it.”
“If we could stimulate that area, then we might see for many miles. Would that not be an advantage?”
“It would not. With your eyes popping out of your head? Oh dear, no.”
I put the model on the work-table I had set up by the window of the room. “I am afraid that you will remain in ignorance, Florence.”
“At least, sir, I will be happy.”
It did not occur to me then that Florence’s words expressed some instinctive truth; the natural sentiments of mankind, however coarsely expressed, have a justice of their own. But I had already separated myself for ever from the ordinary pursuits of men. My mind was filled with one thought, oneconception, one purpose. I wished to achieve more, far more, than those around me and I fully believed that I would pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.
I read widely in the libraries of Oxford, straying very far from the directions of my moral tutor who seemed to know nothing beyond Galen and Aristotle. Once a week I climbed the stairs to Professor Saville’s rooms, across the quadrangle from my own, where I always found him sitting in a high-backed chair with a tumbler of brandy and cold water by his side. My early education in Geneva had given me a sufficiency of Greek and Latin, so that the weekly requirements of translation caused no difficulties for me. I had already informed him that my interest lay in the growth and development of the human frame, at which he seemed genuinely astonished.
“It is not a pursuit,” he said, “that I associate with gentlemen.”
“But if gentlemen do not venture upon it, sir, who will?”
“Are there not anatomists in the world?”
“I am concerned with the workings of human life. What subject is of more importance?”
“Surely Galen and Avicenna have informed us on all such matters?” Saville had a habit of rising from his seat, after delivering an opinion, and then walking around the room before resuming his position. Only then would he take a sip from the tumbler.
“I believe, sir, that Galen used the anatomy of a Barbary ape?”
“Quite satisfactory.” He took another tour of the room. “You are not suggesting that we defile the human temple?”
“How else can we learn from where the principle of life proceeds?”
“You need only open your Bible, Mr. Frankenstein, to be assured on these matters.”
“I know the Bible well, sir—”
“I very much hope so.”
“But I confess myself ignorant of the actual mechanism.”
“Mechanism? Whatever do you mean?”
“We learn in Genesis, sir, that God formed man out of the dust of the ground and
“He is not savage, Florence. He is very thoughtful.”
“Is that what you call it? Well.” She took my trunk, and hauled it into the bedroom where she began to unpack my shirts and general linen. “Whatever is this?” I heard the question, and knew at once what she meant. I had placed for safekeeping among my linen a small model of vitreous clay; it was a simulacrum of the human brain, perfect in all of its details,that I had purchased from an apothecary in Dean Street. He had told me that it was a copy of the brain of one Davy Morgan, a notorious highwayman who had been hanged a few months before.
“It is nothing, Florence. Leave it on the table.”
“I will not touch it, Mr. Frankenline. It is worm-eaten.”
I went into the bedroom, and picked up the model. “These are not worms. These are the fibres of the brain. Do you see? They are like the channels and currents of the ocean.” How slight was the knowledge of the human organism! There was not one person in a thousand—a hundred thousand—who had stopped to consider the workings of the mind or of the body.
“It isn’t natural,” she said.
“It is nature itself, Florence. I believe that to be the optic lobe.”
“It is no good telling me things like that, sir.” She looked at me in horror. “I want nothing to do with it.”
“If we could stimulate that area, then we might see for many miles. Would that not be an advantage?”
“It would not. With your eyes popping out of your head? Oh dear, no.”
I put the model on the work-table I had set up by the window of the room. “I am afraid that you will remain in ignorance, Florence.”
“At least, sir, I will be happy.”
It did not occur to me then that Florence’s words expressed some instinctive truth; the natural sentiments of mankind, however coarsely expressed, have a justice of their own. But I had already separated myself for ever from the ordinary pursuits of men. My mind was filled with one thought, oneconception, one purpose. I wished to achieve more, far more, than those around me and I fully believed that I would pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.
I read widely in the libraries of Oxford, straying very far from the directions of my moral tutor who seemed to know nothing beyond Galen and Aristotle. Once a week I climbed the stairs to Professor Saville’s rooms, across the quadrangle from my own, where I always found him sitting in a high-backed chair with a tumbler of brandy and cold water by his side. My early education in Geneva had given me a sufficiency of Greek and Latin, so that the weekly requirements of translation caused no difficulties for me. I had already informed him that my interest lay in the growth and development of the human frame, at which he seemed genuinely astonished.
“It is not a pursuit,” he said, “that I associate with gentlemen.”
“But if gentlemen do not venture upon it, sir, who will?”
“Are there not anatomists in the world?”
“I am concerned with the workings of human life. What subject is of more importance?”
“Surely Galen and Avicenna have informed us on all such matters?” Saville had a habit of rising from his seat, after delivering an opinion, and then walking around the room before resuming his position. Only then would he take a sip from the tumbler.
“I believe, sir, that Galen used the anatomy of a Barbary ape?”
“Quite satisfactory.” He took another tour of the room. “You are not suggesting that we defile the human temple?”
“How else can we learn from where the principle of life proceeds?”
“You need only open your Bible, Mr. Frankenstein, to be assured on these matters.”
“I know the Bible well, sir—”
“I very much hope so.”
“But I confess myself ignorant of the actual mechanism.”
“Mechanism? Whatever do you mean?”
“We learn in Genesis, sir, that God formed man out of the dust of the ground and
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