Chapter 2

von Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

We grew up together, just a year apart in age. I don’t need to mention that we were never strangers to each other; there was no hint of conflict or disagreement between us. Harmony was the essence of our friendship, and the differences in our personalities only brought us closer. Elizabeth had a calm and focused nature, while I, with my intense passion, was driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge. She immersed herself in the imaginative worlds created by poets, finding endless inspiration in the breathtaking landscapes of our Swiss home—the towering mountains, the changing seasons, the stillness of winter, and the vibrant life of our Alpine summers. While she contemplated the beauty of the world with a serene satisfaction, I was eager to uncover the reasons behind it all. To me, the world was a mystery waiting to be solved. My curiosity and the joy I felt as I discovered the hidden laws of nature are among my earliest memories.

When my parents welcomed a second son, seven years my junior, they decided to settle down, abandoning their wandering lifestyle. We had a house in Geneva and a country home on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake, about a league from the city. We mostly lived in the latter, enjoying a life of relative seclusion. I preferred to avoid crowds and instead formed deep connections with a select few. I was indifferent to most of my schoolmates, but I formed a close friendship with one in particular: Henry Clerval, the son of a Geneva merchant. He was a boy of exceptional talent and imagination, drawn to adventure and even danger for its own sake. He devoured books of chivalry and romance, composed heroic songs, and began writing enchanting tales of knights and their quests. He often tried to get us to act in plays and participate in masquerades, drawing characters from the legends of Roncesvalles, the Round Table of King Arthur, and the brave souls who fought to reclaim the holy sepulchre from the infidels.

No one could have had a happier childhood than I did. My parents were the embodiment of kindness and indulgence. They weren’t tyrants imposing their will on us; instead, they were the architects of all the joys we experienced. When I interacted with other families, I clearly saw how fortunate I was, and that awareness deepened my love and gratitude for my parents.

I had a fiery temperament and intense passions, but rather than directing those towards trivial pursuits, they fueled my eager desire to learn—not just anything, but the deeper truths of the universe. I admit that the structure of languages, the intricacies of governments, and the politics of different nations didn’t interest me. I was captivated by the secrets of heaven and earth, whether it was the physical makeup of things or the deeper essence of nature and the mysterious soul of humanity. My inquiries always leaned towards the metaphysical and, in the broadest sense, the physical secrets of the world.

Meanwhile, Clerval focused on the moral dimensions of life. He was fascinated by the vibrant stage of human existence, the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men. His dream was to be among those whose names would be remembered as brave and noble benefactors of humanity. Elizabeth, with her saintly spirit, was like a lamp in our peaceful home, radiating warmth and love. Her empathy was a constant source of comfort; her smile, gentle voice, and the tender light in her celestial eyes were always there to uplift us. She embodied love, softening my sometimes harsh demeanor and tempering my passionate nature. And Clerval—could anything tarnish his noble spirit? Yet, I believe he might not have been as compassionate, as thoughtful in his generosity, or as kind-hearted amidst his adventurous pursuits if Elizabeth hadn’t shown him the true beauty of kindness and made doing good the ultimate goal of his ambitious dreams.

I find immense joy in reminiscing about my childhood, a time before misfortune clouded my thoughts and turned my bright dreams of usefulness into dark, self-centered reflections. As I paint the picture of my early years, I also recount the events that, almost imperceptibly, led to my later tale of despair. When I try to trace the origins of the passion that ultimately shaped my fate, I see it emerge like a mountain stream from humble, nearly forgotten beginnings. But as it flowed, it grew into a torrent that swept away all my hopes and joys.

Natural philosophy has been the force that shaped my destiny. Therefore, I want to share the experiences that sparked my interest in that field. When I was thirteen, my family took a trip to the baths near Thonon. Unfortunately, bad weather forced us to stay indoors for a day. While stuck in the inn, I stumbled upon a book containing the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with little interest, but the theories and astonishing facts within quickly ignited my enthusiasm. A new understanding seemed to light up my mind, and filled with excitement, I rushed to share my discovery with my father.

He glanced at the title page and said dismissively, “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, don’t waste your time on this nonsense.”

If my father had taken the time to explain that Agrippa's principles had been completely debunked and that a modern scientific framework had emerged with far greater power—because the old ideas were mere fantasies while the new ones were real and applicable—I would have set Agrippa aside and returned to my previous studies with renewed passion. It’s possible that my thoughts would never have taken the fateful turn that led to my downfall. But my father’s brief glance at the book didn’t convince me that he understood its contents, and I continued to read with fervor.

Once I returned home, my first priority was to acquire all the works of Agrippa, followed by those of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I devoured the wild ideas of these authors, feeling as though I had discovered treasures known to few others. I’ve always had a deep desire to uncover the secrets of nature. Despite the intense work and remarkable discoveries of modern philosophers, I often finished my studies feeling dissatisfied and restless. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have felt like a child picking up shells on the shore of a vast, unexplored ocean of truth. The successors in each branch of natural philosophy that I encountered seemed, even to my youthful mind, like novices engaged in the same quest.

The uneducated peasant saw the elements around him and understood their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more. He had partially revealed Nature’s face, but her eternal features remained a wonder and a mystery. He could dissect, analyze, and name, but aside from a final cause, the secondary and tertiary causes were completely unknown to him. I had gazed at the barriers that seemed to prevent humanity from entering the fortress of nature, and foolishly, I had lamented.

But here were books, and here were men who had delved deeper and understood more. I took their word for everything they claimed, and I became their eager disciple. It may seem odd that this should happen in the eighteenth century, but while I followed the standard education in the schools of Geneva, I was largely self-taught in my favorite subjects. My father was not a scientist, and I was left to navigate my childhood blindness alongside a student’s thirst for knowledge. Guided by my new mentors, I diligently pursued the search for the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life, but soon the latter captured my full attention. Wealth seemed trivial compared to the glory that would come from banishing disease from the human body and making man invulnerable to anything but a violent death.

I had more than my fair share of visions. The idea of summoning ghosts or demons was a promise that my favorite authors had generously offered, and I chased that fulfillment with eagerness. Whenever my attempts at incantation failed, I blamed my own inexperience rather than any shortcomings in my teachers. For a while, I found myself lost in outdated theories, mixing together a jumble of contradictory ideas, struggling through a swamp of confusing knowledge, driven by a passionate imagination and naive reasoning. Then, an unexpected event shifted my perspective once again.

When I was about fifteen, we had moved to our house near Belrive, where we experienced a violent and terrifying thunderstorm. It rolled in from behind the Jura mountains, and the thunder crashed around us with a terrifying intensity. I stood at the door, captivated and delighted by the storm's fury. Suddenly, I saw a stream of fire erupt from a beautiful old oak tree about twenty yards from our house. As the blinding light faded, the tree was gone, leaving only a charred stump behind. When we examined it the next morning, we discovered the tree had been shattered in a bizarre way. It wasn’t splintered by the force; it had been reduced to thin ribbons of wood. I had never seen anything so completely destroyed.

Before this, I was somewhat familiar with the basic principles of electricity. That day, a knowledgeable man in natural philosophy was with us, and the event sparked his explanation of a new and astonishing theory about electricity and galvanism. His insights overshadowed the likes of Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus—those figures who had once captivated my imagination. Yet, strangely, the downfall of these great thinkers made me reluctant to continue my studies. It felt as if nothing could ever truly be known. What had once fascinated me suddenly seemed worthless. In one of those whimsical shifts of thought that often plague young minds, I abandoned my previous pursuits, dismissing natural history and its offshoots as a grotesque failure, and developed a deep disdain for any science that couldn’t even touch the realm of real knowledge. In this state of mind, I turned to mathematics and its related fields, convinced they were built on solid foundations and worthy of my attention.

How peculiar our souls are, and how fragile the threads that bind us to success or failure. Looking back, it feels as if this almost miraculous shift in my desires was a last-ditch effort from the guardian angel of my life—a final attempt by the spirit of preservation to steer me away from the storm that was already brewing in the stars, ready to engulf me. Her victory was marked by an unusual sense of peace and joy that followed my decision to abandon my former, increasingly tormenting studies. I learned to associate evil with their pursuit and happiness with their neglect.

It was a powerful intervention from the spirit of good, but ultimately, it was in vain. Fate was too strong, and its unyielding laws had determined my inevitable and terrible downfall.