Frankenstein's Bride (43 page)

In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs died, and I myself was about to sink under the accumulation
of distress when I saw your vessel riding at anchor and holding forth to me hopes of succor and life. I had no conception
that vessels ever came so far north and was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars,
and by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move my ice raft in the direction of your ship. I had determined,
if you were going southwards, still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce
you to grant me a boat with which I could pursue my enemy. But your direction was northwards. You took me on board when my
vigor was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships into a death which I still dread, for my task
is unfulfilled.

Oh! When will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the daemon, allow me the rest I so much desire; or must I die, and he
yet live? If I do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape, that you will seek him and satisfy my vengeance in his death.
And do I dare to ask of you to undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No; I am not so selfish.
Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear, if the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he shall not
live—swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated woes and survive to add to the list of his dark crimes. He is eloquent
and persuasive, and once his words had even power over my heart; but trust him not. His soul is as hellish as his form, full
of treachery and fiend-like malice. Hear him not; call on the names of William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and
of the wretched Victor, and thrust your sword into his heart. I will hover near and direct the steel aright.

Walton, in continuation.

August 26th, 17—

You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not feel
your blood congeal with horror, like that which even now curdles mine? Sometimes,
seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his tale; at others, his
voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with difficulty the words so replete with
anguish. His fine and lovely eyes were now lighted up with indignation, now
subdued to downcast sorrow and quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes
he commanded his countenance and tones and related the most horrible incidents
with a tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a volcano
bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression of the wildest
rage as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor.

His tale is connected and told with an appearance of the simplest truth, yet
I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me, and the
apparition of the monster seen from our ship, brought to me a greater conviction
of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations, however earnest and connected.
Such a monster has, then, really existence! I cannot doubt it, yet I am lost
in surprise and admiration. Sometimes I endeavored to gain from Frankenstein
the particulars of his creature's formation, but on this point he was impenetrable.

“Are you mad, my friend?” said he. “Or whither does your senseless curiosity
lead you? Would you also create for yourself and the world a demoniacal
enemy? Peace, peace! Learn my miseries and do not seek to increase your own.”

Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history; he asked
to see them and then himself corrected and augmented them in many places, but
principally in giving the life and spirit to the conversations he held with his
enemy. “Since you have preserved my narration,” said he, “I would not that a
mutilated one should go down to posterity.”

Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest tale
that ever imagination formed. My thoughts and every feeling of my soul have
been drunk up by the interest for my guest which this tale and his own elevated
and gentle manners have created. I wish to soothe him, yet can I counsel one so
infinitely miserable, so destitute of every hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no!
The only joy that he can now know will be when he composes his shattered
spirit to peace and death. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude and
delirium; he believes that when in dreams he holds converse with his friends
and derives from that communion consolation for his miseries or excitements to
his vengeance, that they are not the creations of his fancy, but the beings themselves
who visit him from the regions of a remote world. This faith gives a
solemnity to his reveries that render them to me almost as imposing and interesting
as truth.

Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and misfortunes.
On every point of general literature he displays unbounded knowledge
and a quick and piercing apprehension. His eloquence is forcible and touching;
nor can I hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident or endeavors to move
the passions of pity or love, without tears. What a glorious creature must he
have been in the days of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in
ruin! He seems to feel his own worth and the greatness of his fall.

“When younger,” said he, “I believed myself destined for some great enterprise.
My feelings are profound, but I possessed a coolness of judgment that fitted
me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my nature
supported me when others would have been oppressed, for I deemed it criminal
to throw away in useless grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow
creatures. When I reflected on the work I had completed, no less a one than the
creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the
herd of common projectors. But this thought, which supported me in the commencement
of my career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my
speculations and hopes are as nothing, and like the archangel who aspired to
omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet
my powers of analysis and application were intense; by the union of these qualities
I conceived the idea and executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot
recollect without passion my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod
heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea
of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty
ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! My friend, if you had known me as I once
was, you would not recognize me in this state of degradation. Despondency
rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell, never,
never again to rise.”

Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I have
sought one who would sympathize with and love me. Behold, on these desert
seas I have found such a one, but I fear I have gained him only to know his
value and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea.

“I thank you, Walton,” he said, “for your kind intentions towards so miserable
a wretch; but when you speak of new ties and fresh affections, think you
that any can replace those who are gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval
was, or any woman another Elizabeth? Even where the affections are not
strongly moved by any superior excellence, the companions of our childhood
always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later friend
can obtain. They know our infantine dispositions, which, however they may be
afterwards modified, are never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions
with more certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A sister or a
brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown early, suspect
the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however strongly he
may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be contemplated with suspicion. But
I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit and association, but from their
own merits; and wherever I am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth and the conversation
of Clerval will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead, and but
one feeling in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life. If I were
engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught with extensive utility to my
fellow creatures, then could I live to fulfill it. But such is not my destiny; I must
pursue and destroy the being to whom I gave existence; then my lot on earth
will be fulfilled and I may die.”

My beloved Sister,

September 2nd

I write to you, encompassed by peril and ignorant whether I am ever doomed
to see again dear England and the dearer friends that inhabit it. I am surrounded
by mountains of ice which admit of no escape and threaten every
moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows whom I have persuaded to be my
companions look towards me for aid, but I have none to bestow. There is something
terribly appalling in our situation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert
me. Yet it is terrible to reflect that the lives of all these men are endangered
through me. If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause.

And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of
my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass, and
you will have visitings of despair and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! My beloved
sister, the sickening failing of your heart-felt expectations is, in prospect, more
terrible to me than my own death.

But you have a husband and lovely children; you may be happy. Heaven
bless you and make you so!

My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He
endeavors to fill me with hope and talks as if life were a possession which he
valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents have happened to other
navigators who have attempted this sea, and in spite of myself, he fills me with
cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the power of his eloquence; when he
speaks, they no longer despair; he rouses their energies, and while they hear his
voice they believe these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills which will vanish
before the resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day of expectation
delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny caused by this
despair.

September 5th

A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest that, although it is highly probable
that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot forbear recording it.

We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of
being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of my unfortunate
comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of desolation.
Frankenstein has daily declined in health; a feverish fire still glimmers in his
eyes, but he is exhausted, and when suddenly roused to any exertion, he speedily
sinks again into apparent lifelessness.

I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. This morning,
as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend—his eyes half closed
and his limbs hanging listlessly—I was roused by half a dozen of the sailors, who
demanded admission into the cabin. They entered, and their leader addressed
me. He told me that he and his companions had been chosen by the other sailors
to come in deputation to me to make me a requisition which, in justice, I could
not refuse. We were immured in ice and should probably never escape, but they
feared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate and a free passage be
opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage and lead them into fresh
dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They insisted, therefore,
that I should engage with a solemn promise that if the vessel should be
freed I would instantly direct my course southwards.

This speech troubled me. I had not despaired, nor had I yet conceived the
idea of returning if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in possibility, refuse
this demand? I hesitated before I answered, when Frankenstein, who had at
first been silent, and indeed appeared hardly to have force enough to attend,
now roused himself; his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed with momentary
vigor. Turning towards the men, he said, “What do you mean? What do you
demand of your captain? Are you, then, so easily turned from your design? Did
you not call this a glorious expedition? And wherefore was it glorious? Not
because the way was smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was
full of dangers and terror, because at every new incident your fortitude was to
be called forth and your courage exhibited, because danger and death surrounded
it, and these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious,
for this was it an honorable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed
as the benefactors of your species, your names adored as belonging to brave men
who encountered death for honor and the benefit of mankind. And now, behold,
with the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific
trial of your courage, you shrink away and are content to be handed down as
men who had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls,
they were chilly and returned to their warm firesides. Why, that requires not
this preparation; ye need not have come thus far and dragged your captain to
the shame of a defeat merely to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! Be men, or be
more than men. Be steady to your purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not
made of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand
you if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma
of disgrace marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered
and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe.” He spoke
this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings expressed in his speech,
with an eye so full of lofty design and heroism, that can you wonder that these
men were moved? They looked at one another and were unable to reply.
I spoke; I told them to retire and consider of what had been said, that I would
not lead them farther north if they strenuously desired the contrary, but that I
hoped that, with reflection, their courage would return.