Frankenstein's Bride (24 page)

LETTER 3

TO MRS. SAVILLE, ENGLAND
JULY 7TH, 17—

My dear Sister,

I write a few lines in haste to say that I am safe—and well advanced on my voyage.
This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on its homeward
voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land,
perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold and
apparently firm of purpose, nor do the floating sheets of ice that continually pass
us, indicating the dangers of the region towards which we are advancing, appear
to dismay them. We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is the
height of summer, and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales,
which blow us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire to attain,
breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not expected.

No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a letter.
One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak are accidents which experienced
navigators scarcely remember to record, and I shall be well content if nothing
worse happen to us during our voyage.

Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake, as well as yours,
I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering, and prudent.

But success shall crown my endeavors. Wherefore not? Thus far I have
gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas, the very stars themselves being
witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the
untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart and
resolved will of man?

My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must finish.
Heaven bless my beloved sister!

R. W.

LETTER 4
TO MRS. SAVILLE, ENGLAND
AUGUST 5TH, 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.

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.

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 traveler with our telescopes until he was lost among the distant
inequalities of the ice.

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.

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.

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 traveler 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.”

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?”

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.

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.

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 equaled. But he is
generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if
impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.

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.

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

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

“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.”

This aroused the stranger's attention, and he asked a multitude of questions
concerning the route which the demon, 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.”

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

“And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have
benevolently restored me 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 traveler might
have arrived at a place of safety before that time; but of this I could not judge.

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.

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.

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.

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

August 13th, 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.

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 favor 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 ardor of my soul and to say, with all the fervor 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!”

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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 endeavored 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.

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 marvelous.
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.”