Letter 4

August 5th, 17—.

August 5, 17??.

So strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before these papers can come into your possession.

Something so strange has happened to us that I cannot resist recording it. Although you will probably see me before these papers reach you.

Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.

Last Monday (July 31st), ice nearly surrounded us. It closed in on all sides of the ship, leaving barely enough open water for her to float. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially because a very thick fog surrounded us. So we stopped and waited, hoping for a change in the atmosphere and weather.

About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted our attention and diverted our solicitude from our own situation. We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile; a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller with our telescopes until he was lost among the distant inequalities of the ice.

Around two o’clock, the mist cleared, and we saw vast, uneven plains of ice stretching in every direction. They seemed to have no end. Some of my companions groaned, and I began to watch anxiously. Then a strange sight suddenly caught our attention and drew our thoughts away from our own situation. Half a mile away, we saw a low carriage mounted on a sled and pulled by dogs. It was traveling north. A being shaped like a man, but apparently enormous, sat in the sled and guided the dogs. We watched the traveler move swiftly through our telescopes until he disappeared among the uneven ice in the distance.

This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed, many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had observed with the greatest attention.

This sight filled us with absolute wonder. We believed we were hundreds of miles from any land. But the figure seemed to suggest that land was not as far away as we had thought. We had watched his path very closely, but the ice trapped us, making it impossible to follow him.

About two hours after this occurrence we heard the ground sea, and before night the ice broke and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours.

About two hours after this happened, we heard the sea swell beneath the ice. Before nightfall, the ice broke and freed our ship. But we stayed where we were until morning. We feared running into the large, loose masses of ice floating in the darkness after the ice broke up. I used the time to rest for a few hours.

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking to someone in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human being within it whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but a European. When I appeared on deck the master said, “Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish on the open sea.”

In the morning, however, I went on deck as soon as it was light. I found all the sailors busy on one side of the ship, apparently talking to someone in the sea. In fact, a sledge like the one we had seen before had drifted toward us during the night. It was on a large piece of ice. Only one dog was still alive, but a man was in the sledge. The sailors were trying to persuade him to come aboard. He was European, unlike the other traveler, who had seemed to be a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island. When I came on deck, the master said, “Here is our captain, and he will not let you die on the open sea.”

On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a foreign accent. “Before I come on board your vessel,” said he, “will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?”

When the stranger saw me, he spoke to me in English, though with a foreign accent. “Before I come aboard your ship,” he said, “would you please tell me where you are going?”

You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to me from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom I should have supposed that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not have exchanged for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole.

You can imagine my astonishment at hearing such a question from a man on the brink of death. I would have thought he would not have traded the safety of my ship for the greatest riches on earth. However, I replied that we were on a voyage of discovery toward the North Pole.

Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board. Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his safety, your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted the fresh air he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy and forcing him to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life we wrapped him up in blankets and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow degrees he recovered and ate a little soup, which restored him wonderfully.

When he heard this, he seemed satisfied and agreed to come aboard. Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who agreed to these terms for his safety, you would have been astonished. His limbs were nearly frozen, and his body was terribly thin from exhaustion and suffering. I had never seen a man in such a miserable condition. We tried to carry him into the cabin, but he fainted as soon as he left the fresh air. So we brought him back on deck and revived him. We rubbed him with brandy and made him swallow a small amount. As soon as he showed signs of life, we wrapped him in blankets. Then we placed him near the kitchen stove chimney. He slowly recovered and ate a little soup, which helped him regain his strength remarkably.

Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak, and I often feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin and attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of wildness, and even madness, but there are moments when, if anyone performs an act of kindness towards him or does him any the most trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.

Two days passed this way before he could speak. I often feared that his suffering had robbed him of his reason. When he had recovered somewhat, I moved him to my own cabin. I cared for him as much as my duties allowed. I had never seen a more interesting person. His eyes usually have a wild, even mad expression. But when someone shows him kindness or does him even the smallest favor, his whole face lights up. It seems to glow with a kindness and sweetness I have never seen matched. But he is usually gloomy and despairing. Sometimes he grinds his teeth, as if he can no longer bear the weight of his troubles.

When my guest was a little recovered I had great trouble to keep off the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once, however, the lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle.

When my guest had recovered a little, I had great trouble keeping the men away. They wanted to ask him a thousand questions. But I would not let them torment him with their idle curiosity. His body and mind clearly needed complete rest to recover. Once, however, the lieutenant asked why he had traveled so far across the ice in such a strange vehicle.

His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom, and he replied, “To seek one who fled from me.”

His face instantly grew deeply gloomy, and he replied, “To find someone who fled from me.”

“And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?”

“And did the man you were chasing travel the same way?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Then I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked you up we saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice.”

“Then I think we have seen him. The day before we picked you up, we saw some dogs pulling a sled across the ice. A man was riding in it.”

This aroused the stranger’s attention, and he asked a multitude of questions concerning the route which the dæmon, as he called him, had pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said, “I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries.”

This caught the stranger’s attention. He asked many questions about the route the demon, as he called him, had taken. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said, “I have no doubt made you curious, as well as these good people. But you are too considerate to ask questions.”

“Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine.”

“Certainly. It would be very rude and cruel of me to trouble you with my questions.”

“And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have benevolently restored me to life.”

“And yet you rescued me from a strange and dangerous situation. You kindly brought me back to life.”

Soon after this he inquired if I thought that the breaking up of the ice had destroyed the other sledge. I replied that I could not answer with any degree of certainty, for the ice had not broken until near midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety before that time; but of this I could not judge.

Soon afterward, he asked whether I thought the breaking ice had destroyed the other sledge. I replied that I could not say for certain. The ice had not broken until nearly midnight, and the traveler might have reached safety before then. But I could not tell whether he had.

From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck to watch for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere. I have promised that someone should watch for him and give him instant notice if any new object should appear in sight.

From then on, a new spirit of life animated the stranger’s failing body. He was extremely eager to go on deck and watch for the sledge that had appeared earlier. But I have persuaded him to stay in the cabin, because he is far too weak to endure the bitter weather. I have promised that someone will watch for him and tell him at once if anything new comes into sight.

Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health but is very silent and appears uneasy when anyone except myself enters his cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle that the sailors are all interested in him, although they have had very little communication with him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother, and his constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must have been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so attractive and amiable.

This is my journal of the strange events up to today. The stranger’s health has gradually improved, but he is very quiet. He seems uneasy when anyone but me enters his cabin. Yet he is so friendly and gentle that all the sailors take an interest in him. They feel this way although they have spoken with him very little. For my part, I am beginning to love him like a brother. His constant, deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must have been a noble person in better days. Even now, though a wreck of his former self, he is so appealing and kind.

I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as the brother of my heart.

In one of my letters, my dear Margaret, I said I would find no friend on the wide ocean. Yet I have found a man I would have been happy to call a brother of my heart before misery broke his spirit.

I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals, should I have any fresh incidents to record.

I will continue writing about the stranger in my journal from time to time, if there are any new events to record.

August 13th, 17—.

August 13, 17...

My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery without feeling the most poignant grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated, and when he speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.

My affection for my guest grows every day. He inspires both my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see such a noble person destroyed by misery without feeling intense grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise. His mind is so well developed. Although he chooses his words with great care, they flow quickly and with unmatched eloquence.

He is now much recovered from his illness and is continually on the deck, apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery but that he interests himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him without disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour of my eventual success and into every minute detail of the measures I had taken to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he evinced to use the language of my heart, to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man’s life or death were but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should acquire and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my listener’s countenance. At first I perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before his eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle fast from between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused; at length he spoke, in broken accents: “Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!”

He has now mostly recovered from his illness. He is constantly on deck, apparently watching for the sledge that went ahead of his own. Yet, although he is unhappy, he is not so consumed by his misery that he cannot care deeply about other people’s plans. He has often spoken with me about my own plans, which I have shared with him openly. He listened carefully to all my arguments for why I would eventually succeed. He also listened to every small detail of the steps I had taken to ensure my success. His sympathy made it easy for me to speak from the heart and express the burning passion in my soul. With all the enthusiasm I felt, I told him how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my life, and every hope to advance my enterprise. One man’s life or death was a small price to pay for the knowledge I sought. It was a small price, too, for the power I would gain over the elemental forces that threaten our race, and pass on to others. As I spoke, a deep gloom came over his face. At first, I saw that he tried to hold back his emotion. He covered his eyes with his hands, and my voice trembled and failed as I saw tears streaming between his fingers. A groan burst from his heaving chest. I stopped. At last he spoke, his voice broken: “Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you also drunk from the intoxicating cup? Listen to me. Let me tell you my story, and you will throw the cup from your lips!”

Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened powers, and many hours of repose and tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his composure.

As you may imagine, his words greatly aroused my curiosity. But the stranger’s intense grief overwhelmed his weakened strength. He needed many hours of rest and quiet conversation to regain his composure.

Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of despair, he led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He asked me the history of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told, but it awakened various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a friend, of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than had ever fallen to my lot, and expressed my conviction that a man could boast of little happiness who did not enjoy this blessing.

After he had mastered his intense feelings, he seemed to despise himself for being a slave to passion. He overcame the dark tyranny of despair and turned the conversation back to me. He asked about my early years. I quickly told my story, but it stirred many thoughts. I spoke of my desire for a friend. I longed for a deeper understanding with another person than I had ever known. I said I believed that a man could claim little happiness without this blessing.

“I agree with you,” replied the stranger; “we are unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves—such a friend ought to be—do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for despair. But I—I have lost everything and cannot begin life anew.”

“I agree with you,” the stranger replied. “We are unfinished creatures, only half formed, unless someone helps us improve our weak and flawed natures. That person must be wiser, better, and dearer to us than we are to ourselves. That is what a friend should be. I once had a friend who was the noblest of human beings, so I have the right to judge friendship. You have hope and the world before you, and no reason to despair. But I have lost everything and cannot start life again.”

As he said this his countenance became expressive of a calm, settled grief that touched me to the heart. But he was silent and presently retired to his cabin.

As he said this, his face showed a calm, lasting grief that touched me deeply. But he said nothing more and soon went to his cabin.

Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions seem still to have the power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointments, yet when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.

Even with his spirit broken, no one feels the beauty of nature more deeply than he does. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight in these wonderful regions still seem able to lift his soul above the earth. A man like him lives a double life. He may suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointment. Yet when he withdraws into himself, he will be like a heavenly spirit surrounded by a halo. No grief or folly dares enter that circle.

Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine wanderer? You would not if you saw him. You have been tutored and refined by books and retirement from the world, and you are therefore somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit to appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses that elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment, a quick but never-failing power of judgment, a penetration into the causes of things, unequalled for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression and a voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.

Will you smile at my enthusiasm for this divine wanderer? You would not if you saw him. Books and a life apart from the world have educated and refined you, making you somewhat hard to please. But this only makes you better able to appreciate the extraordinary qualities of this wonderful man. Sometimes I have tried to discover what quality raises him so far above anyone else I have ever known. I believe it is his intuitive insight and his quick, never-failing judgment. His understanding of the causes of things is unequaled in its clarity and precision. Add to this his ease with words and a voice whose changing tones are music that moves the soul.

August 19th, 17—.

August 19, 17...

Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive, Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had determined at one time that the memory of these evils should die with me, but you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you in case of failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might fear to encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which would provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed.”

Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You can easily see, Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unequaled misfortunes. I once decided that the memory of these evils should die with me, but you have persuaded me to change my mind. You seek knowledge and wisdom, as I once did. I sincerely hope that having your wishes fulfilled will not be a serpent that stings you, as it has stung me. I do not know whether the story of my disasters will be useful to you. Yet you are following the same path and exposing yourself to the same dangers that have made me what I am. When I think of this, I imagine that you may draw a fitting lesson from my tale. It may guide you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you if you fail. Prepare to hear of events that are usually thought marvelous. If we were surrounded by calmer scenes of nature, I might fear that you would not believe me, or perhaps even ridicule me. But here, in these wild and mysterious regions, many things will seem possible. Those unfamiliar with nature’s endlessly varied powers would laugh at them. And I cannot doubt that my tale itself provides evidence of the truth of its events.”

You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered communication, yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the promised narrative, partly from curiosity and partly from a strong desire to ameliorate his fate if it were in my power. I expressed these feelings in my answer.

You can easily imagine how pleased I was that he offered to tell me his story. Yet I could not bear to have him renew his grief by recounting his misfortunes. I was eager to hear the story he had promised. I was partly curious, but I also deeply wanted to improve his situation if I could. I expressed these feelings in my reply.

“I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is useless; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling,” continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; “but you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my destiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined.”

“Thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is useless. My fate is nearly fulfilled. I am waiting for just one event, and then I will rest in peace. I understand how you feel,” he continued, seeing that I wanted to interrupt him. “But you are mistaken, my friend, if you will let me call you that. Nothing can change my destiny. Listen to my story, and you will see how irrevocably it has been decided.”

He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who know him, and who hear it from his own lips—with what interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I commence my task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story, frightful the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course and wrecked it—thus!

He then told me he would begin his story the next day, when I had time to listen. I thanked him warmly for this promise. Every night, unless my duties demand my attention, I intend to record what he told me during the day. I will use his own words as closely as I can. If I am busy, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will surely give you great pleasure. But I know him and hear the story from his own lips. With what interest and sympathy I will read it someday! Even now, as I begin, his rich voice rings in my ears. His bright eyes rest on me with all their sad sweetness. I see his thin hand raised in excitement, his face lit by the soul within. His story must be strange and harrowing. What a terrible storm must have caught that brave ship on its course and wrecked it so completely!