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
shewed 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? Or to what do your questions tend? 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 feelings 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
real beings 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 felt as if I were 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 feeling, 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 shewn early, suspect
the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however
strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be invaded 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.”

       *       *       *       *       *

September 2d. MY BELOVED SISTER,

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.