Chapter 24

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.

In my situation, all deliberate thought was overwhelmed and lost. Fury swept me along. Revenge alone gave me strength and self-control. It shaped my feelings and let me think clearly and stay calm when I would otherwise have gone mad or died.

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.

My first decision was to leave Geneva forever. I had loved my country when I was happy and loved. Now, in my misery, I hated it. I gathered some money and a few jewels that had belonged to my mother, and left.

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.

And now my wanderings began, and they would end only with my life. I have traveled across a vast part of the earth. I have endured all the hardships travelers usually face in deserts and barbarous countries. I hardly know how I have survived. Many times I have stretched my failing limbs out on the sandy plain and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive. I dared not die and leave my enemy alive.

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.

When I left Geneva, my first task was to find a clue that would help me track my fiendish enemy. But I had no clear plan. I wandered around the edge of town for many hours, unsure which path to take. As night approached, I found myself at the entrance to the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father were buried. I went in and approached the tomb that marked their graves. Everything was silent except for the leaves, which stirred gently in the wind. The night was nearly dark. The scene would have been solemn and moving even to a stranger. The spirits of the dead seemed to flit around me. They seemed to cast a shadow around the mourner’s head, a shadow that could be felt but not seen.

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.”

The deep grief this scene had first stirred in me quickly gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and I was alive. Their murderer was alive too, and I had to drag on with my weary life to destroy him. I knelt on the grass and kissed the earth. With trembling lips, I cried, “By the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the spirits wandering near me, and by my deep and eternal grief, I swear. By you, O Night, and the spirits who rule over you, I swear to pursue the demon who caused this misery. I will pursue him until he or I die in a deadly struggle. For this purpose I will stay alive. To carry out this cherished revenge, I will see the sun again and walk on the earth’s green grass. Otherwise, I would never see them again. And I call on you, spirits of the dead, and you, wandering servants of vengeance, to help and guide me in my work. Let the cursed, hellish monster suffer deeply. 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 began my solemn vow with awe, almost certain that the spirits of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion. But as I finished, fury took hold of me, and rage choked off my words.

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.”

A loud, fiendish laugh answered me through the stillness of the night. It rang in my ears for a long time. The mountains echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter. Surely I would have gone mad at that moment and ended my miserable life. But my vow had been heard, and I was kept alive for vengeance. The laughter died away. Then a familiar voice I hated spoke in an audible whisper, seemingly close to my ear: “I am satisfied, miserable wretch! You have decided 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 rushed toward the sound, but the devil slipped from my grasp. Suddenly, the full moon rose and shone directly on his ghastly, distorted figure. He fled faster than any human could.

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.

I chased him, and for many months this has been my task. Following a faint clue, I traced the winding Rhone, but found nothing. The blue Mediterranean came into view. By a strange chance, I saw the fiend board a ship at night and hide himself aboard. The ship was bound for the Black Sea. I booked passage on the same ship, but he escaped. I do not know 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.

Through the wilds of Tartary and Russia, I kept following his trail, though he still escaped me. Sometimes peasants, frightened by his horrible appearance, told me which way he had gone. Sometimes he left a sign to guide me. He feared that if I lost all trace of him, I would despair and die. Snow fell on my head, and I saw his huge footprints on the white plain. You are just beginning life. Worry is new to you, and you have never known agony. How can you understand what I have felt and still feel? Cold, hunger, and exhaustion were the least of the pains I was destined to suffer. I was cursed by some devil and carried my eternal hell with me. Yet a good spirit still followed me and guided my steps. When I complained most, it would suddenly rescue me from difficulties that seemed impossible to overcome. Sometimes hunger overcame me, and I collapsed from exhaustion. Then I would find a meal prepared for me in the wilderness, restoring my strength and spirits. The food was coarse, like the food the local peasants ate. But I will not doubt that the spirits I had called on for help had placed it there. Often, when everything was dry, the sky cloudless, and I was desperate with thirst, a small cloud would dim the sky. It would shed a few drops of rain that revived me, then 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.

When I could, I followed the rivers. But the dæmon usually avoided them because most of the country's population lived along their banks. Elsewhere, I rarely saw people and generally lived on wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with me and made friends with the villagers by giving it to them. Or I brought food from an animal I had killed. After taking a small part, I always gave the rest to those who had provided me with fire and cooking utensils.

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.

My life had become hateful to me, and only in sleep could I find joy. Oh, blessed sleep! Often, when I was most miserable, I fell asleep, and my dreams soothed me into bliss. The spirits who guarded me had given me these moments, or rather hours, of happiness. They gave me the strength to continue my journey. Without this rest, I would have been crushed by my hardships. During the day, the hope of night sustained and encouraged me. In sleep, I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved country. I saw my father’s kind face again and heard the sweet tones of my Elizabeth’s voice. I saw Clerval, healthy and young. Often, exhausted by a difficult march, I convinced myself that I was dreaming until night came. Then I would experience reality in the arms of my dearest friends. How painfully I loved them! I clung to their dear images, which sometimes appeared even while I was awake. I convinced myself that they were still alive. At such moments, the vengeance burning within me died in my heart. I continued on my path to destroy the dæmon more as a duty commanded by heaven. It was more like the automatic urge of some power I was unaware of than my soul’s passionate desire.

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.”

I cannot know how the one I pursued felt. Sometimes he left messages on tree bark or carved in stone. They guided me and stirred my fury. One inscription read: “My reign is not yet over. You live, and my power is complete. Follow me. I am seeking the everlasting ice of the north, where you will suffer from cold and frost. They have no effect on me. If you follow soon enough, you will find a dead hare near this place. Eat and refresh yourself. Come on, my enemy. We must still fight for our lives, but you must endure many hard and miserable hours before that time comes.”

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!

Mocking devil! Once again, I swear revenge. Once again, I condemn you, miserable fiend, to torture and death. I will never stop searching until either he or I die. Then, with what joy I will join my Elizabeth and my departed friends! Even now, they are preparing my reward for my long, exhausting labor and horrible journey.

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.

As I continued north, the snow grew deeper and the cold became almost unbearable. The peasants stayed shut inside their huts. Only a few of the hardiest went out to catch animals that starvation had driven from hiding to seek prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and I could catch no fish. So I was cut off from my main source of food.

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 enemy’s triumph grew as my work became harder. One message he left read: “Prepare yourself! Your struggles are only beginning. Wrap yourself in furs and bring food. We will soon begin a journey where your suffering 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.

These mocking words strengthened my courage and determination. I resolved not to fail in my purpose and called on Heaven to support me. With undiminished passion, I continued across vast deserts until I saw the ocean in the distance, at the far edge of the horizon. Oh! How different it was from the blue seas of the south! It was covered with ice and could only be distinguished from the land by its greater wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when they saw the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia. They greeted it with delight as the end of their hardships. I did not weep, but I knelt down and thanked my guiding spirit with a full heart. It had brought me safely to the place where I hoped to meet and grapple with my adversary, despite his taunt.

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.

Some weeks earlier, I had obtained a sledge and dogs, which carried me across the snow at incredible speed. I did not know whether the fiend had the same advantage. Before, I had fallen farther behind him each day, but now I was gaining on him. When I first saw the ocean, he was only one day’s journey ahead. I hoped to catch him before he reached the shore. With renewed courage, I pressed on. Two days later, I reached a miserable village on the seashore. I asked the villagers about the fiend and received precise information. They said a gigantic monster had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols. His terrifying appearance had frightened the occupants of an isolated cottage into fleeing. He had stolen their winter food supply and loaded it onto a sledge. He had also seized a large pack of trained dogs and harnessed them to pull it. That same night, to the relief of the horrified villagers, he had continued across the sea toward no land. They thought he must soon die when the ice broke or freeze in the endless cold.

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.

When I heard this news, I was overcome by despair for a moment. He had escaped me. Now I had to begin a destructive, almost endless journey across the mountainous ice of the ocean. Few of its inhabitants could endure the cold for long. I came from a mild, sunny climate and could not hope to survive it. Yet the thought of the fiend living and triumphing brought back my rage and desire for revenge. Like a mighty tide, they overwhelmed every other feeling. After a short rest, I prepared for my journey. During my rest, the spirits of the dead hovered around me, urging me to keep going and seek revenge.

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 traded my land sledge for one suited to the uneven surface of the Frozen Ocean. I bought plenty of provisions and set out 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.

I cannot guess how many days have passed since then. I have suffered misery that only the constant feeling of rightful vengeance burning in my heart enabled me to endure. Huge, rugged mountains of ice often blocked my way. I often heard the thunder of the rough sea, which threatened to destroy me. But the frost returned and made the paths across the sea safe again.

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.

Judging by the amount of food I had consumed, I guessed that I had spent three weeks on this journey. Hope was constantly deferred, and the disappointment often brought bitter tears of despair and grief to my eyes. Despair had almost claimed me, and I would soon have succumbed to my misery. Once, the poor animals pulling me reached the top of a sloping mountain of ice after an incredible struggle. One of them collapsed from exhaustion and died. I gazed in anguish at the vast expanse before me. Suddenly, I spotted a dark speck on the dim plain. I strained my eyes to see what it was. When I made out a sledge and the distorted shape of a familiar figure inside, I cried out wildly with joy. Oh! How intensely hope rushed back into my heart! Warm tears filled my eyes, and I quickly wiped them away so they would not block my view of the demon. But the burning tears still blurred my sight. At last, overcome by emotion, 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 this was no time to delay. I freed the dogs from their dead companion and gave them plenty of food. Then I rested for an hour. The rest was absolutely necessary, but I bitterly resented it. Afterward, I continued on my way. The sled was still visible. From then on, I lost sight of it only briefly, when the jagged rocks of an ice formation hid it. I was clearly gaining on it. After nearly two days of travel, I saw my enemy less than a mile away, and my heart leaped.

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.

But now, when I seemed almost within reach of my enemy, my hopes were suddenly dashed. I lost all trace of him, more completely than ever before. I heard a deep swell in the sea. The water rolled and rose beneath me, and its thunder grew more frightening with every moment. I pressed on, but it was no use. The wind rose, and the sea roared. The ice split and cracked with a tremendous, overwhelming sound, as if struck by a powerful earthquake. It was over quickly. Within minutes, a churning sea rolled between my enemy and me. I was left drifting on a broken piece of ice that was steadily shrinking, preparing me for a terrible 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.

Many terrifying hours passed this way. Several of my dogs died, and I was about to collapse under the weight of my suffering. Then I saw your ship at anchor, and it gave me hope of rescue and survival. I had no idea that ships ever came so far north, and I was astonished to see it. I quickly broke apart some of my sledge to make oars. With these, I managed to move my ice raft toward your ship, though it took tremendous effort. If you were heading south, I had decided to trust myself to the mercy of the sea rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to persuade you to give me a boat so I could pursue my enemy. But you were heading north. You took me on board when my strength was exhausted. Soon, my many hardships would have overwhelmed me and brought me to my death. I still fear death, for my task is unfinished.

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.

Oh! When will my guiding spirit lead me to the demon and grant me the rest I long for? Or must I die while he still lives? If I die, swear to me, Walton, that he will not escape. Swear that you will seek him out and avenge me by killing him. But do I dare ask you to take up my journey and endure the hardships I have suffered? No, I am not so selfish. Yet if he should appear after my death, if the agents of vengeance should lead him to you, swear that he will not live. Swear that he will not triumph over all my suffering and live to add to his list of dark crimes. He is eloquent and persuasive, and his words once had power even over my heart. But do not trust him. His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and devilish malice. Do not listen to him. Call on the names of William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and wretched Victor, and thrust your sword into his heart. I will hover nearby and guide the blade true.

August 26th, 17—.

August 26, 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.

You have read this strange and terrifying story, Margaret. Does it not make your blood run cold with horror, as mine does even now? Sometimes sudden agony stopped him from continuing his story. At other times, his voice was broken yet piercing, and he struggled to speak words full of anguish. His beautiful eyes sometimes blazed with indignation. At other times, they grew downcast with sorrow and were dimmed by endless misery. Sometimes he controlled his expression and voice as he described the most horrible events calmly, hiding every sign of distress. Then, like an erupting volcano, his face would suddenly show the wildest rage as he screamed curses at 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.

His story is coherent and sounds entirely truthful. Yet I admit that other evidence convinced me more than his claims, however earnest and coherent. He showed me letters from Felix and Safie, and we saw the monster from our ship. So such a monster really does exist! I cannot doubt it, yet I am filled with surprise and wonder. At times, I tried to learn from Frankenstein how he had made his creature, but he would reveal nothing.

“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.”

“Are you mad, my friend?” he said. “Where will your foolish curiosity lead you? Would you also create a devilish enemy for yourself and the world? Stop, stop! Learn from my suffering, 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.”

Frankenstein discovered that I was taking notes on his story. He asked to see them, then corrected and added to them in many places. Above all, he brought his conversations with his enemy to life. “Since you have recorded my story,” he said, “I would not want an incomplete version passed down to future generations.”

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.

A week has passed while I have listened to the strangest tale anyone could imagine. The tale and my guest's noble and gentle manners have made me care deeply for him. That feeling has consumed all my thoughts and feelings. I want to comfort him. Yet can I advise someone so utterly miserable, with no hope of comfort, to go on living? Oh, no! His only remaining joy will come when he lays his shattered spirit to rest in peace and death. Yet he has one comfort, born of solitude and delirium. He dreams of speaking with his friends, and their company comforts him in his misery or stirs his desire for revenge. He believes that they are not creations of his imagination, but the friends themselves, visiting him from a distant world. This belief gives his dreams a solemnity that makes them almost as powerful and compelling to me 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.

Our conversations are not always limited to his own life and misfortunes. On every subject in literature, he shows boundless knowledge and a quick, sharp understanding. His speech is powerful and moving. Whenever he tells a sad story or tries to stir feelings of pity or love, I cannot listen without tears. What a glorious creature he must have been in his better days, if he is so 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.”

“When I was younger,” he said, “I believed I was destined for some great undertaking. My feelings run deep, but I had the calm judgment needed for great achievements. My belief in my own worth sustained me when others would have been overwhelmed. I thought it a crime to waste in useless grief talents that might help my fellow creatures. I had created a feeling, rational creature. When I thought of what I had done, I could not put myself among ordinary dreamers. But that thought sustained me at the start of my career. Now it only plunges me deeper into the dust. All my plans and hopes have come to nothing. Like the archangel who sought all-powerful rule, I am chained in an eternal hell. “My imagination was vivid, yet I also had great powers of analysis and application. Together, these qualities enabled me to conceive and carry out the creation of a man. Even now, I cannot remember my daydreams while the work was unfinished without strong emotion. In my thoughts, I walked in heaven. At times I rejoiced in my powers. At others, I burned with excitement at what they might bring about. From childhood, I was filled with high hopes and grand ambitions. But how far I have fallen! Oh, my friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would not recognize me now. I have fallen so low. Despair rarely touched my heart. A great destiny seemed to carry me forward, until I fell, never, never to rise again.”

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.

Must I lose this wonderful person? I have longed for a friend who would understand and love me. Here, on these empty seas, I have found such a friend. But I fear I found him only to learn his worth and then lose him. I want to make him want to live, but he rejects 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.”

“Thank you, Walton,” he said, “for your kindness toward such a miserable wretch. But when you speak of new bonds and new affections, do you think anyone can replace those who are gone? Can any man be to me what Clerval was, or any woman another Elizabeth? “Even when childhood companions have no exceptional qualities that inspire deep affection, they always hold a certain power over our minds. Hardly any friend we make later can have the same power. They know the traits we had as children. Those traits may change later, but they are never erased. So childhood companions can judge our actions with greater certainty about the honesty of our motives. A sister or brother can never suspect the other of deceit or dishonesty, unless signs of it appeared early. But another friend, however close, may be viewed with suspicion, even against one’s will. “But my friends were dear to me not only because of habit and shared memories, but because of their own virtues. Wherever I am, I will always hear the gentle voice of my Elizabeth and Clerval’s conversation whispered in my ear. They are dead, and in such loneliness, only one feeling can persuade me to stay alive. If I were engaged in some great task or plan that would be widely useful to my fellow creatures, I could live to complete it. But that is not my fate. I must pursue and destroy the being I brought to life. Then my work on earth will be finished, and I may die.”

September 2d.

September 2.

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.

I write to you surrounded by danger, unsure whether I will ever see dear England again, or the even dearer friends who live there. Mountains of ice surround us, blocking any escape and threatening to crush my ship at any moment. The brave men I persuaded to join me look to me for help, but I have none to give. Our situation is truly terrifying, yet I have not lost my courage or hope. Still, it is terrible to think that all these men’s lives are in danger because of me. If we are lost, my mad plans will be 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!

And what will you feel, Margaret? You will not hear of my death, and you will anxiously wait for me to return. Years will pass, and you will sometimes despair, yet hope will still torment you. Oh, my beloved sister, the thought of your deepest hopes painfully fading frightens me more than my own death. But you have a husband and lovely children. You may be happy. Heaven bless you and grant you happiness!

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.

My unfortunate guest looks at me with the deepest compassion. He tries to fill me with hope and speaks as if he valued his life. He reminds me how often other sailors exploring this sea have suffered the same setbacks. Despite myself, I begin to see hopeful signs. Even the sailors feel the power of his words. When he speaks, they no longer despair. He stirs their energy, and while they hear his voice, they believe these vast mountains of ice are mere molehills. They believe the ice will vanish before the determination of men. But these feelings do not last. Each day of waiting fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny born of their despair.

September 5th.

September 5.

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.

Something so extraordinarily interesting has just happened that I cannot resist writing it down. I must record it, even though these papers will most likely never reach you.

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.

We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, in immediate danger of being crushed as they collide. The cold is extreme, and many of my unfortunate companions have already died in this desolate place. Frankenstein’s health has worsened each day. A feverish fire still glimmers in his eyes, but he is exhausted. When suddenly stirred to make any effort, he quickly sinks back into a seemingly lifeless state.

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.

In my last letter, I mentioned my fears of a mutiny. This morning, I sat watching my friend's pale face. His eyes were half closed, and his limbs hung limply. Then half a dozen sailors interrupted me, demanding to come into the cabin. They entered, and their leader addressed me. He said the other sailors had chosen him and his companions to make a request. He said that, in fairness, I could not refuse it. We were trapped in ice and would probably never escape. But the sailors feared the ice might break up and open a clear passage. If that happened, they feared I would be reckless enough to continue the voyage. Then, after they had managed to overcome this danger, I would lead them into new ones. So they insisted that I solemnly promise to turn south immediately if the ship broke free.

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,

This speech troubled me. I had not given up hope, nor had I yet thought of returning if I were released. But could I fairly, or even possibly, refuse this demand? I hesitated before answering. Frankenstein had been silent at first and had seemed barely strong enough to listen. But now he stirred. His eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed with a brief burst of energy. He turned to the men and 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.”

“What do you mean? What are you demanding of your captain? Are you so easily turned away from your goal? Didn’t you call this a glorious expedition? “And why was it glorious? Not because the way was smooth and calm as a southern sea, but because it was full of danger and terror. With every new challenge, you would have to show your strength and courage. Danger and death surrounded the expedition, and you were to face and overcome them. That was what made it a glorious and honorable undertaking. In time, you would have been praised as benefactors of humanity. Your names would have been honored as those of brave men who faced death for honor and humanity’s benefit. And now, at the first thought of danger, you draw back. Or, if you prefer, you draw back at the first great and terrifying test of your courage. You are content to be remembered as men who lacked the strength to endure cold and danger. Poor souls, they were chilly and returned to their warm firesides. Why, you didn’t need all this preparation for that. You needn’t have come so far and dragged your captain into the shame of defeat just to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! Be men, or be more than men. Hold fast to your purpose and be firm as a rock. This ice is not made of the same stuff your hearts can be made of. It changes, and it cannot withstand you if you declare that it shall not. Do not return to your families with the mark of disgrace on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered and who do not know what it means to turn their backs on the enemy.”

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.

His voice changed with the feelings he expressed, and his eyes shone with noble purpose and heroism. Can you wonder that the men were moved? They looked at one another, unable to reply. I spoke and told them to go away and consider what had been said. I would not lead them farther north if they strongly opposed it. But I hoped that, after thinking it over, they would regain their courage.

They retired and I turned towards my friend, but he was sunk in languor and almost deprived of life.

They left, and I turned to my friend. But he was weak and barely alive.

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.

I do not know how all this will end, but I would rather die than return in shame without fulfilling my purpose. Yet I fear that will be my fate. Without the support of ideas of glory and honor, the men can never willingly continue to endure their present hardships.

September 7th.

September 7.

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.

The decision is made. I have agreed to return if we are not destroyed. And so cowardice and indecision have shattered my hopes. I return ignorant and disappointed. It takes more wisdom than I possess to bear this injustice patiently.

September 12th.

September 12.

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.

It is over. I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of being useful and achieving glory. I have lost my friend. But I will try to tell you about these bitter events, my dear sister. As I sail toward England and toward you, I will not lose heart.

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.”

On September 9th, the ice began to move. The islands of ice split and cracked in every direction, and distant roars sounded like thunder. We were in immediate danger, but we could do nothing. So I gave most of my attention to my unfortunate guest. His illness had grown so severe that he was confined to bed. The ice behind us cracked and was driven forcefully north. A breeze sprang up from the west, and on the 11th, the passage south became completely clear. When the sailors saw this, their return to their native country seemed assured. They let out a loud, long cry of wild joy. Frankenstein, who had been dozing, woke and asked what the commotion was about. “They shout,” I said, “because they will soon return to England.”

“Do you, then, really return?”

“Are you really coming back, then?”

“Alas! Yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them unwillingly to danger, and I must return.”

“Sadly, yes. I cannot resist their demands. I cannot lead them into danger against their will, so 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.

“Do so if you wish, but I will not. You may give up your purpose, but Heaven has assigned me mine. I dare not give it up. I am weak, but surely the spirits helping me seek revenge will give me enough strength.” With these words, he tried to jump out of bed, but the effort was too much 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.

It was a long time before he regained consciousness, and I often thought he was dead. At last he opened his eyes. He had difficulty breathing and could not speak. The surgeon gave him a calming drink and told us to leave him undisturbed. Meanwhile, the surgeon told me that my friend certainly had only a few 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.

His fate was sealed, and I could only grieve and wait patiently. I sat by his bed, watching him. His eyes were closed, and I thought he was asleep. But soon he called to me in a weak voice and asked me to come closer. He said, “Alas! The strength I relied on is gone. I feel that I will soon die, and my enemy and persecutor may still be alive. Do not think, Walton, that in my final moments I feel the burning hatred and fierce desire for revenge I once expressed. But I believe I am justified in wanting my adversary dead. “During these last days I have examined my past actions, and I do not find them blameworthy. In a fit of passionate madness, I created a thinking creature. I was bound to ensure his happiness and well-being as far as I could. That was my duty, but I had an even greater one. My duties to other human beings deserved more attention because they involved more happiness or misery. For that reason, I refused to create a companion for the first creature, and I was right to refuse. “He showed unmatched malice and selfishness in his evil deeds. He destroyed my friends. He doomed beings capable of deep feelings, happiness, and wisdom to destruction. And I do not know where his thirst for revenge may end. He is miserable himself, and he ought to die so that he can make no one else miserable. Destroying him was my task, but I have failed. When I was driven by selfish and wicked motives, I asked you to finish my work. I make the same request now, when I am guided only 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.

“Yet I cannot ask you to leave your country and friends to carry out this task. And now that you are returning to England, you will have little chance of meeting him. But I leave it to you to consider these points and weigh what you believe your duties to be. My judgment and thoughts are already clouded by the nearness of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think is right, because passion may still be misleading me.

“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.”

“It troubles me that he will live to cause harm. Apart from that, this hour is the only happy one I have had in several years. I expect my release at any moment. The figures of my beloved dead appear before me, and I hurry into their arms. Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in a peaceful life and avoid ambition. Avoid it even if it seems as innocent as wanting to make a name for yourself through science and discovery. Yet why do I say this? My own hopes have been destroyed, but someone else 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.

His voice grew fainter as he spoke. At last, exhausted by the effort, he fell silent. About half an hour later, he tried to speak again but could not. He weakly pressed my hand, and his eyes closed forever as a gentle smile faded 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.

Margaret, what can I say about the untimely death of this glorious spirit? What can I say to help you understand the depth of my sorrow? Anything I could say would be weak and inadequate. My tears flow, and a cloud of disappointment hangs over my mind. But I am traveling to England, and I may find comfort there.

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.

I am interrupted. What do these sounds mean? It is midnight. The wind is favorable, and the watch on deck hardly moves. Again, I hear a sound like a human voice, but hoarser. It comes from the cabin where Frankenstein's remains still lie. I must get up and investigate. 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.

Great God! What a scene has just taken place! I am still dizzy at the memory of it. I hardly know whether I can describe it. Yet the story I have recorded would be incomplete without this final, astonishing disaster.

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.

I entered the cabin where the remains of my unfortunate and admirable friend lay. A figure was bent over him, one I cannot find words to describe. He was gigantic, yet awkward and distorted in shape. As he bent over the coffin, long strands of ragged hair hid his face. But one huge hand was stretched out, its color and apparent texture like a mummy’s. When he heard me approach, he stopped crying out in grief and horror and sprang toward the window. I had never seen anything as horrible as his face, so disgustingly and shockingly hideous. I shut my eyes without meaning to and tried to remember my duties toward this destroyer. I called out to 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.

He paused and looked at me in wonder. Then he turned again toward the lifeless body of his creator and seemed to forget I was there. Every expression and gesture seemed driven 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.”

“He is my victim too!” he exclaimed. “His murder completes my crimes. My miserable life is coming to an end! Oh, Frankenstein! You were so generous and selfless! What good does it do to ask your forgiveness now? I destroyed you beyond recovery by destroying everyone you loved. 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.

His voice sounded choked. At first, I had felt it was my duty to obey my friend's dying request and destroy his enemy. But now curiosity and compassion held me back. I approached this fearsome being. I dared not look at his face again. His ugliness was so frightening and unearthly. I tried to speak, but the words died on my lips. The monster continued to blame himself in wild, incoherent cries. At last, during a pause in his storm of emotion, I gathered the courage to speak to him.

“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.”

“Your repentance,” I said, “is useless now. If you had listened to your conscience and felt remorse before taking your wicked revenge this far, Frankenstein would still be alive.”

“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.

“And do you imagine,” said the demon, “that I felt no agony or remorse then? He,” he continued, pointing to the corpse, “did not suffer when the deed was done. Oh! Not one ten-thousandth of the anguish I felt throughout its drawn-out execution. A terrible selfishness drove me on, while remorse poisoned my heart. Do you think Clerval’s groans were music to my ears? My heart was made to feel love and sympathy. When misery twisted it into vice and hatred, the violent change caused me torture 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!”

“After Clerval’s murder, I returned to Switzerland, heartbroken and overwhelmed. I pitied Frankenstein, and my pity grew into horror. I hated myself. He had created me and caused my unspeakable suffering. Yet I discovered that he dared to hope for happiness. While he brought misery and despair upon me, he sought pleasure in feelings and passions I could never enjoy. Then helpless envy and bitter outrage filled me with an endless thirst for revenge. I remembered my threat and resolved to carry it out. I knew I was preparing a deadly torture for myself. But I was the slave, not the master, of an impulse I hated yet could not resist. Yet when she died! No, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all feeling and overcome all anguish, so I could revel in the depths of my despair. From then on, evil became my good. Having gone so far, I had no choice but to adapt my nature to the life I had willingly chosen. Completing my devilish plan became an obsession I could never satisfy. And now it is over. 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.”

At first, his expressions of misery moved me. But then I remembered what Frankenstein had said about his power to speak eloquently and persuade others. I looked again at my friend’s lifeless body, and my anger flared up again. “Wretch!” I said. “How fitting that you come here to whine over the destruction you caused. You throw a torch into a pile of buildings. Then, when they have burned down, you sit among the ruins and mourn their destruction. Hypocritical monster! If the man you mourn were still alive, he would still be the target of your cursed vengeance. He would once again become its prey. You feel no pity. You mourn only because the victim of your malice is beyond your reach.”

“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.

“Oh, that is not so, not so,” the being interrupted. “Yet my actions must appear to suggest otherwise. But I do not seek sympathy for my misery. I can never find sympathy. When I first sought it, I wanted to share my love of virtue. I wanted to share the happiness and affection that filled my whole being. But now virtue is only a shadow to me. Happiness and affection have turned into bitter despair and loathing. What sympathy could I seek now? I am content to suffer alone for as long as my suffering lasts. When I die, I am content for my memory to be burdened with hatred and disgrace. “Once I found comfort in dreams of virtue, fame, and pleasure. Once I falsely hoped to meet beings who would overlook my appearance. I hoped they would love me for the excellent qualities I was capable of developing. I cherished noble thoughts of honor and devotion. But now crime has brought me lower than the lowest animal. No guilt, no wrongdoing, no malice, no misery can compare to mine. When I think over the terrible list of my sins, I can hardly believe I am the same creature. My thoughts were once filled with sublime visions of the beauty and majesty of goodness. But I am that same creature. The fallen angel becomes a malicious devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and companions 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.

“You call Frankenstein your friend, and you seem to know about my crimes and his suffering. But his account could not convey the hours and months of misery I endured, wasting away in helpless passion. Although I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They remained intense and unfulfilled. I still longed for love and companionship, and I was still rejected. Was that not unjust? Am I the only one to be called a criminal, when all humankind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who insulted his friend and drove him from his door? Why do you not condemn the villager who tried to kill the person who saved his child? No, these people are virtuous and spotless! I am miserable and abandoned, a monstrosity to be rejected, kicked, and trampled on. Even now, my blood boils when I remember 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.

“But it is true that I am wretched. I have murdered the lovely and the helpless. I have strangled innocent people in their sleep. I have strangled a man who never harmed me or any other living thing. I have condemned my creator to misery. He was the finest example of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men. I pursued him even to that irreparable ruin. There he lies, pale and cold in death. You hate me, but your hatred cannot equal the hatred I feel for myself. I look at the hands that committed the deed. I think of the heart where the idea of it was born. I long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes and that idea 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?

“Do not fear that I will cause any more harm. My work is nearly complete. Neither your death nor any other man’s is needed to complete the course of my existence and accomplish what must be done. But my own death is required. Do not think I will hesitate to make this sacrifice. I will leave your ship on the ice raft that brought me here. I will seek the northernmost point of the globe. I will gather wood for my funeral pyre and burn this miserable body to ashes. Then its remains will reveal nothing to any curious and unholy wretch who might create another being like me. I will die. I will no longer feel the agony that consumes me now. Nor will I be tormented by feelings that remain unsatisfied and unquenched. The man who brought me into being is dead. When I too am gone, all memory of us both will soon vanish. I will no longer see the sun or stars or feel the wind on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and awareness will pass away. In that state, I must find my happiness. Some years ago, the sights of this world first opened before me. I felt the comforting warmth of summer, heard the leaves rustle, and heard the birds sing. These things were everything to me then, and I would have wept at the thought of dying. Now death is my only comfort. Stained by crimes and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest except 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.

“Farewell! I leave you, the last human being my eyes will ever see. Farewell, Frankenstein! If you were still alive and still wanted revenge against me, my life would satisfy you more than my destruction. But that was not so. You sought to destroy me so that I could cause no greater suffering. And if you had not ceased to think and feel, in some way unknown to me, you would not want greater vengeance against me than the torment I feel. Though you were ruined, my agony was still greater than yours. The bitter sting of remorse will keep tormenting me until death closes my wounds forever.

“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.”

“But soon,” he cried with sad and solemn passion, “I will die, and I will no longer feel what I feel now. Soon these burning miseries will end. I will climb onto my funeral pyre in triumph and rejoice in the agony of the flames. The light of that fire will fade. The winds will sweep my ashes into the sea. My spirit will sleep in peace. Or, if it thinks, it surely will not think as it does now. 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.

As he said this, he leaped from the cabin window onto the ice raft beside the ship. Soon the waves carried him away, and he disappeared into the darkness and distance.