Letter 2

Archangel, 28th March, 17—.

Archangel, March 28, 17...

How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow! Yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend and are certainly possessed of dauntless courage.

How slowly time passes here, surrounded as I am by frost and snow! Yet I have taken a second step toward my undertaking. I have hired a ship and am gathering my sailors. Those I have already hired seem dependable and are certainly fearless.

But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy, and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil, I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who could sympathise with me, whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas’ books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more and that my daydreams are more extended and magnificent, but they want (as the painters call it) keeping; and I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.

But there is one thing I have never been able to find, and I now feel its absence as a terrible hardship. I have no friend, Margaret. When I am glowing with the excitement of success, there will be no one to share my joy. If I face disappointment, no one will try to lift my spirits. I will put my thoughts on paper, of course, but that is a poor way to communicate feelings. I want the company of a man who could understand me, whose eyes would answer mine. You may think me romantic, dear sister, but I bitterly feel the lack of a friend. I have no one near me who is gentle yet brave, both educated and broad-minded, and who shares my tastes. Such a friend could approve or correct my plans. How much he could do to remedy your poor brother’s faults! I am too eager to act and too impatient with difficulties. But an even greater disadvantage is that I am self-educated. For the first fourteen years of my life, I ran wild on a common. I read nothing but our Uncle Thomas’ books about voyages. At fourteen, I discovered the famous poets of our own country. But I realized the need to learn other languages only when it was too late to gain the greatest benefits from knowing them. Now I am twenty-eight, and I am actually less educated than many fifteen-year-old schoolboys. It is true that I have thought more, and my daydreams are grander and more expansive. But they lack what painters call keeping, a sense of proportion. I badly need a friend with enough sense not to despise me as romantic, and enough affection to try to guide my mind.

Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or rather, to word my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his profession. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel; finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.

Well, these complaints are useless. I will certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, or even here in Archangel, among merchants and sailors. Yet even in these rugged men, there are feelings untouched by the baseness of human nature. My lieutenant, for example, is a man of remarkable courage and initiative. He is madly eager for glory. Or, to put it in terms more suited to his character, he is eager to advance in his profession. He is an Englishman, with national and professional prejudices that education has not softened. Yet he retains some of the noblest human qualities. I first met him aboard a whaling ship. When I found that he was unemployed in this city, I easily persuaded him to help with my undertaking.

The master is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance, added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage, made me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of my character that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on board ship: I have never believed it to be necessary, and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his kindliness of heart and the respect and obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to secure his services. I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union. My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover, instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young woman’s father to consent to her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to my friend, who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his former mistress was married according to her inclinations. “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct the more astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would command.

The ship’s master has an excellent nature. He is known aboard for his gentleness and the mild way he maintains discipline. His well-known honesty and fearless courage made me even more eager to hire him. I spent my youth alone and my best years under your gentle, feminine care. That upbringing has refined my character so much that I cannot overcome my intense dislike of the brutality common aboard ships. I have never believed such brutality necessary. So when I heard of a sailor known equally for his kindness and for his crew’s respect and obedience, I felt especially fortunate to secure his services. I first heard of him in a rather romantic way, from a lady who owes her happiness in life to him. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago, he loved a young Russian lady of modest means. He had saved a considerable sum in prize money, so her father agreed to their marriage. He saw her once before the planned ceremony, but she was in tears. She threw herself at his feet and begged him to spare her. She confessed that she loved another man, but he was poor, and her father would never agree to their marriage. My generous friend reassured her. When she told him her lover’s name, he immediately gave up his pursuit of her. He had already used his money to buy a farm, where he had planned to spend the rest of his life. But he gave the whole farm to his rival, along with the rest of his prize money to buy livestock. He then asked the young woman’s father himself to let her marry her lover. But the old man firmly refused, believing he was bound in honor to my friend. When my friend found that the father could not be persuaded, he left his country. He did not return until he heard that the woman he had loved had married the man she chose. “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim. He is indeed, but he is entirely uneducated. He is as silent as a Turk, and he has a kind of ignorant carelessness. Though this makes his conduct all the more astonishing, it also lessens the interest and sympathy he would otherwise inspire.

Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little or because I can conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate, and my voyage is only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully severe, but the spring promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably early season, so that perhaps I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly: you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.

But do not think my resolve is weakening because I complain a little. Nor is it weakening because I can imagine a comfort for my hardships that I may never know. My resolve is as fixed as fate. My voyage is delayed only until the weather allows me to leave. The winter has been terribly severe, but spring looks promising and is considered unusually early. So perhaps I may sail sooner than I expected. I will do nothing rash. You know me well enough to trust me to be cautious and thoughtful when others' safety is in my care.

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to “the land of mist and snow,” but I shall kill no albatross; therefore do not be alarmed for my safety or if I should come back to you as worn and woeful as the “Ancient Mariner.” You will smile at my allusion, but I will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to, my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean to that production of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand. I am practically industrious—painstaking, a workman to execute with perseverance and labour—but besides this there is a love for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore.

I cannot describe how I feel as the time for my journey draws near. I cannot convey the trembling excitement, half pleasure and half fear, with which I prepare to leave. I am going to unexplored regions, to “the land of mist and snow,” but I will kill no albatross. So do not fear for my safety or worry that I might return to you as worn and sorrowful as the “Ancient Mariner.” You will smile at the reference, but I will tell you a secret. I have often credited that work by the most imaginative of modern poets with my passionate fascination for the ocean’s dangerous mysteries. Something is at work in my soul that I do not understand. I am practical and hardworking. I take pains and carry out my work with perseverance and effort. But a love of the marvelous, and a belief in it, are woven into all my plans. They drive me away from the ordinary paths of life, even to the wild sea and unexplored regions I am about to visit.

But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions when I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.

But let me return to what matters more to me. Will I see you again after crossing vast seas and returning by the southernmost cape of Africa or America? I hardly dare hope to succeed, yet I cannot bear to think of failure. For now, keep writing to me whenever you can. I may receive your letters when I need them most to lift my spirits. I love you very dearly. Remember me with affection if you never hear from me again.