My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was swallowed up
and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge alone endowed me with strength
and composure; it moulded my feelings and allowed me to be calculating and calm
at periods when otherwise delirium or death would have been my portion. My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country, which, when I was
happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became hateful. I
provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels which had
belonged to my mother, and departed. And now my wanderings began which are to cease but with life. I have traversed
a vast portion of the earth and have endured all the hardships which travellers
in deserts and barbarous countries are wont to meet. How I have lived I hardly
know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain and
prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared not die and leave my
adversary in being. When I quitted Geneva my first labour was to gain some clue by which I might
trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled, and I wandered
many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain what path I should pursue.
As night approached I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery where
William, Elizabeth, and my father reposed. I entered it and approached the tomb
which marked their graves. Everything was silent except the leaves of the
trees, which were gently agitated by the wind; the night was nearly dark, and
the scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested
observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around and to cast a
shadow, which was felt but not seen, around the head of the mourner. The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to rage
and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also lived, and to
destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass and kissed
the earth and with quivering lips exclaimed, “By the sacred earth on which I
kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the deep and eternal grief that I
feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and the spirits that preside over thee, to
pursue the dæmon who caused this misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal
conflict. For this purpose I will preserve my life; to execute this dear
revenge will I again behold the sun and tread the green herbage of earth, which
otherwise should vanish from my eyes for ever. And I call on you, spirits of
the dead, and on you, wandering ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me
in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of agony; let him
feel the despair that now torments me.” I had begun my adjuration with solemnity and an awe which almost assured me
that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion, but the
furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choked my utterance. I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiendish laugh. It
rang on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed it, and I felt as if
all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I
should have been possessed by frenzy and have destroyed my miserable existence
but that my vow was heard and that I was reserved for vengeance. The laughter
died away, when a well-known and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear,
addressed me in an audible whisper, “I am satisfied, miserable wretch! You have
determined to live, and I am satisfied.” I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded, but the devil eluded
my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose and shone full upon his
ghastly and distorted shape as he fled with more than mortal speed. I pursued him, and for many months this has been my task. Guided by a slight
clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The blue Mediterranean
appeared, and by a strange chance, I saw the fiend enter by night and hide
himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my passage in the same
ship, but he escaped, I know not how. Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I have
ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by this horrid
apparition, informed me of his path; sometimes he himself, who feared that if I
lost all trace of him I should despair and die, left some mark to guide me. The
snows descended on my head, and I saw the print of his huge step on the white
plain. To you first entering on life, to whom care is new and agony unknown,
how can you understand what I have felt and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue
were the least pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed by some devil
and carried about with me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good followed
and directed my steps and when I most murmured would suddenly extricate me from
seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes, when nature, overcome by
hunger, sank under the exhaustion, a repast was prepared for me in the desert
that restored and inspirited me. The fare was, indeed, coarse, such as the
peasants of the country ate, but I will not doubt that it was set there by the
spirits that I had invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens
cloudless, and I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky,
shed the few drops that revived me, and vanish. I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the dæmon generally
avoided these, as it was here that the population of the country chiefly
collected. In other places human beings were seldom seen, and I generally
subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with me and
gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing it; or I brought with me
some food that I had killed, which, after taking a small part, I always
presented to those who had provided me with fire and utensils for cooking. My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep
alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! Often, when most miserable, I
sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that
guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours, of happiness that I
might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I
should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was sustained and
inspirited by the hope of night, for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my
beloved country; again I saw the benevolent countenance of my father, heard the
silver tones of my Elizabeth’s voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and
youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was
dreaming until night should come and that I should then enjoy reality in the
arms of my dearest friends. What agonising fondness did I feel for them! How
did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking
hours, and persuade myself that they still lived! At such moments vengeance,
that burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the
destruction of the dæmon more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the mechanical
impulse of some power of which I was unconscious, than as the ardent desire of
my soul. What his feelings were whom I pursued I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he left
marks in writing on the barks of the trees or cut in stone that guided me and
instigated my fury. “My reign is not yet over”—these words were legible in one
of these inscriptions—“you live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I seek
the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of cold and
frost, to which I am impassive. You will find near this place, if you follow
not too tardily, a dead hare; eat and be refreshed. Come on, my enemy; we have
yet to wrestle for our lives, but many hard and miserable hours must you endure
until that period shall arrive.” Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee, miserable
fiend, to torture and death. Never will I give up my search until he or I
perish; and then with what ecstasy shall I join my Elizabeth and my departed
friends, who even now prepare for me the reward of my tedious toil and horrible
pilgrimage! As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened and the
cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support. The peasants were shut
up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to seize
the animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places to seek for
prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be procured; and thus
I was cut off from my chief article of maintenance. The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours. One
inscription that he left was in these words: “Prepare! Your toils only begin;
wrap yourself in furs and provide food, for we shall soon enter upon a journey
where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred.” My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I
resolved not to fail in my purpose, and calling on Heaven to support me, I
continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts, until the ocean
appeared at a distance and formed the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh! How
unlike it was to the blue seasons of the south! Covered with ice, it was only
to be distinguished from land by its superior wildness and ruggedness. The
Greeks wept for joy when they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia,
and hailed with rapture the boundary of their toils. I did not weep, but I
knelt down and with a full heart thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in
safety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary’s gibe, to meet
and grapple with him. Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs and thus
traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know not whether the fiend
possessed the same advantages, but I found that, as before I had daily lost
ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him, so much so that when I first saw
the ocean he was but one day’s journey in advance, and I hoped to intercept him
before he should reach the beach. With new courage, therefore, I pressed on,
and in two days arrived at a wretched hamlet on the seashore. I inquired of the
inhabitants concerning the fiend and gained accurate information. A gigantic
monster, they said, had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many
pistols, putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage through fear
of his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter food, and
placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a numerous drove of
trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same night, to the joy of the
horror-struck villagers, had pursued his journey across the sea in a direction
that led to no land; and they conjectured that he must speedily be destroyed by
the breaking of the ice or frozen by the eternal frosts. On hearing this information I suffered a temporary access of despair. He had
escaped me, and I must commence a destructive and almost endless journey across
the mountainous ices of the ocean, amidst cold that few of the inhabitants
could long endure and which I, the native of a genial and sunny climate, could
not hope to survive. Yet at the idea that the fiend should live and be
triumphant, my rage and vengeance returned, and like a mighty tide, overwhelmed
every other feeling. After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the
dead hovered round and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my
journey. I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities of the Frozen
Ocean, and purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I departed from land. I cannot guess how many days have passed since then, but I have endured misery
which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution burning within my
heart could have enabled me to support. Immense and rugged mountains of ice
often barred up my passage, and I often heard the thunder of the ground sea,
which threatened my destruction. But again the frost came and made the paths of
the sea secure. By the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should guess that I had
passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual protraction of hope,
returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of despondency and
grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her prey, and I should
soon have sunk beneath this misery. Once, after the poor animals that conveyed
me had with incredible toil gained the summit of a sloping ice mountain, and
one, sinking under his fatigue, died, I viewed the expanse before me with
anguish, when suddenly my eye caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I
strained my sight to discover what it could be and uttered a wild cry of
ecstasy when I distinguished a sledge and the distorted proportions of a
well-known form within. Oh! With what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart!
Warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might not
intercept the view I had of the dæmon; but still my sight was dimmed by the
burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that oppressed me, I wept
aloud. But this was not the time for delay; I disencumbered the dogs of their dead
companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food, and after an hour’s rest,
which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I
continued my route. The sledge was still visible, nor did I again lose sight of
it except at the moments when for a short time some ice-rock concealed it with
its intervening crags. I indeed perceptibly gained on it, and when, after
nearly two days’ journey, I beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my
heart bounded within me. But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe, my hopes were suddenly
extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I had ever done
before. A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its progress, as the waters
rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous and terrific. I
pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose; the sea roared; and, as with the
mighty shock of an earthquake, it split and cracked with a tremendous and
overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished; in a few minutes a tumultuous
sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered
piece of ice that was continually lessening and thus preparing for me a hideous
death. 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 succour 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 vigour 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 dæmon, 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 endeavoured 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 endeavours 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 recognise 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 sympathise 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 fulfil 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 2d. 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 endeavours 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 vigour. 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 honourable
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
honour 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. They retired and I turned towards my friend, but he was sunk in languor and
almost deprived of life. How all this will terminate, I know not, but I had rather die than return
shamefully, my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my fate; the men,
unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never willingly continue to
endure their present hardships. September 7th. The die is cast; I have consented to return if we are not destroyed. Thus are
my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back ignorant and
disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess to bear this injustice
with patience. September 12th. It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility and
glory; I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these bitter
circumstances to you, my dear sister; and while I am wafted towards England and
towards you, I will not despond. September 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard at a
distance as the islands split and cracked in every direction. We were in the
most imminent peril, but as we could only remain passive, my chief attention
was occupied by my unfortunate guest whose illness increased in such a degree
that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice cracked behind us and was
driven with force towards the north; a breeze sprang from the west, and on the
11th the passage towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw
this and that their return to their native country was apparently assured, a
shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and long-continued. Frankenstein,
who was dozing, awoke and asked the cause of the tumult. “They shout,” I said,
“because they will soon return to England.” “Do you, then, really return?” “Alas! Yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them unwillingly to
danger, and I must return.” “Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose, but mine is
assigned to me by Heaven, and I dare not. I am weak, but surely the spirits who
assist my vengeance will endow me with sufficient strength.” Saying this, he
endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too great for him; he
fell back and fainted. It was long before he was restored, and I often thought that life was entirely
extinct. At length he opened his eyes; he breathed with difficulty and was
unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing draught and ordered us to
leave him undisturbed. In the meantime he told me that my friend had certainly
not many hours to live. His sentence was pronounced, and I could only grieve and be patient. I sat by
his bed, watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept; but
presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and bidding me come near, said,
“Alas! The strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I shall soon die, and he,
my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being. Think not, Walton, that in the
last moments of my existence I feel that burning hatred and ardent desire of
revenge I once expressed; but I feel myself justified in desiring the death of
my adversary. During these last days I have been occupied in examining my past
conduct; nor do I find it blamable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created
a rational creature and was bound towards him to assure, as far as was in my
power, his happiness and well-being. This was my duty, but there was another
still paramount to that. My duties towards the beings of my own species had
greater claims to my attention because they included a greater proportion of
happiness or misery. Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right in
refusing, to create a companion for the first creature. He showed unparalleled
malignity and selfishness in evil; he destroyed my friends; he devoted to
destruction beings who possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom;
nor do I know where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself that
he may render no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction
was mine, but I have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I
asked you to undertake my unfinished work, and I renew this request now, when I
am only induced by reason and virtue. “Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends to fulfil this task;
and now that you are returning to England, you will have little chance of
meeting with him. But the consideration of these points, and the well balancing
of what you may esteem your duties, I leave to you; my judgment and ideas are
already disturbed by the near approach of death. I dare not ask you to do what
I think right, for I may still be misled by passion. “That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in other
respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the only happy
one which I have enjoyed for several years. The forms of the beloved dead flit
before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in
tranquillity and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one
of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I
have myself been blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed.” His voice became fainter as he spoke, and at length, exhausted by his effort,
he sank into silence. About half an hour afterwards he attempted again to speak
but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes closed for ever, while
the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away from his lips. Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this glorious
spirit? What can I say that will enable you to understand the depth of my
sorrow? All that I should express would be inadequate and feeble. My tears
flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of disappointment. But I journey
towards England, and I may there find consolation. I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is midnight; the breeze
blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again there is a sound as of
a human voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin where the remains of
Frankenstein still lie. I must arise and examine. Good night, my sister. Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy with the
remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power to detail it;
yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete without this final and
wonderful catastrophe. I entered the cabin where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable friend.
Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to describe—gigantic in stature,
yet uncouth and distorted in its proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his
face was concealed by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand was
extended, in colour and apparent texture like that of a mummy. When he heard
the sound of my approach, he ceased to utter exclamations of grief and horror
and sprung towards the window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his
face, of such loathsome yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily
and endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to this destroyer.
I called on him to stay. He paused, looking on me with wonder, and again turning towards the lifeless
form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and every feature and
gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion. “That is also my victim!” he exclaimed. “In his murder my crimes are
consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its close! Oh,
Frankenstein! Generous and self-devoted being! What does it avail that I now
ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by destroying all
thou lovedst. Alas! He is cold, he cannot answer me.” His voice seemed suffocated, and my first impulses, which had suggested to me
the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend in destroying his enemy,
were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion. I approached this
tremendous being; I dared not again raise my eyes to his face, there was
something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness. I attempted to speak, but
the words died away on my lips. The monster continued to utter wild and
incoherent self-reproaches. At length I gathered resolution to address him in a
pause of the tempest of his passion. “Your repentance,” I said, “is now superfluous. If you had listened to the
voice of conscience and heeded the stings of remorse before you had urged your
diabolical vengeance to this extremity, Frankenstein would yet have lived.” “And do you dream?” said the dæmon. “Do you think that I was then dead to agony
and remorse? He,” he continued, pointing to the corpse, “he suffered not in the
consummation of the deed. Oh! Not the ten-thousandth portion of the anguish
that was mine during the lingering detail of its execution. A frightful
selfishness hurried me on, while my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think you
that the groans of Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be
susceptible of love and sympathy, and when wrenched by misery to vice and
hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change without torture such as
you cannot even imagine. “After the murder of Clerval I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken and
overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror; I abhorred myself.
But when I discovered that he, the author at once of my existence and of its
unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness, that while he accumulated
wretchedness and despair upon me he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and
passions from the indulgence of which I was for ever barred, then impotent envy
and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I
recollected my threat and resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew that
I was preparing for myself a deadly torture, but I was the slave, not the
master, of an impulse which I detested yet could not disobey. Yet when she
died! Nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all feeling, subdued all
anguish, to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil thenceforth became my good.
Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I
had willingly chosen. The completion of my demoniacal design became an
insatiable passion. And now it is ended; there is my last victim!” I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet, when I called to
mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence and persuasion, and
when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was
rekindled within me. “Wretch!” I said. “It is well that you come here to whine
over the desolation that you have made. You throw a torch into a pile of
buildings, and when they are consumed, you sit among the ruins and lament the
fall. Hypocritical fiend! If he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be
the object, again would he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is
not pity that you feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is
withdrawn from your power.” “Oh, it is not thus—not thus,” interrupted the being. “Yet such must be the
impression conveyed to you by what appears to be the purport of my actions. Yet
I seek not a fellow feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I
first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the feelings of happiness and
affection with which my whole being overflowed, that I wished to be
participated. But now that virtue has become to me a shadow, and that happiness
and affection are turned into bitter and loathing despair, in what should I
seek for sympathy? I am content to suffer alone while my sufferings shall
endure; when I die, I am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should
load my memory. Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and
of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings who, pardoning my
outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of
unfolding. I was nourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But now
crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No guilt, no mischief, no
malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine. When I run over the
frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same creature
whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the
beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes
a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and
associates in his desolation; I am alone. “You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my crimes
and his misfortunes. But in the detail which he gave you of them he could not
sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured wasting in impotent
passions. For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires.
They were for ever ardent and craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and
I was still spurned. Was there no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the
only criminal, when all humankind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix,
who drove his friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the
rustic who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous
and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an abortion, to
be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my blood boils at the
recollection of this injustice. “But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the
helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept and grasped to death his
throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have devoted my
creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among
men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin. There he
lies, white and cold in death. You hate me, but your abhorrence cannot equal
that with which I regard myself. I look on the hands which executed the deed; I
think on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived and long for
the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt
my thoughts no more. “Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly
complete. Neither yours nor any man’s death is needed to consummate the series
of my being and accomplish that which must be done, but it requires my own. Do
not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your
vessel on the ice raft which brought me thither and shall seek the most
northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile and consume to
ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious
and unhallowed wretch who would create such another as I have been. I shall
die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me or be the prey of
feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and
when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish.
I shall no longer see the sun or stars or feel the winds play on my cheeks.
Light, feeling, and sense will pass away; and in this condition must I find my
happiness. Some years ago, when the images which this world affords first
opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer and heard the
rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to me,
I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes
and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death? “Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of humankind whom these eyes will
ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive and yet cherished a
desire of revenge against me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my
destruction. But it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction, that I might not
cause greater wretchedness; and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst
not ceased to think and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance
greater than that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still
superior to thine, for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in
my wounds until death shall close them for ever. “But soon,” he cried with sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I shall die, and what I
now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I
shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly and exult in the agony of the
torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will
be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace, or if it
thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell.” He sprang from the cabin-window as he said this, upon the ice raft which lay
close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness
and distance.