Chapter 24: Frankenstein: The 1818 Text by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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 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.”

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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!

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

Walton, _in continuation._


August 26th, 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.

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.

“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.”

Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history; he asked
to see them and then himself corrected and augmented them in many places,
but principally in giving the life and spirit to the conversations he held
with his enemy. “Since you have preserved my narration,” said
he, “I would not that a mutilated one should go down to
posterity.”

Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest
tale that ever imagination formed. My thoughts and every feeling of my
soul have been drunk up by the interest for my guest which this tale
and his own elevated and gentle manners have created. I wish to soothe
him, yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of
every hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no! The only joy that he can
now know will be when he composes his shattered 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.

Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and
misfortunes. On every point of general literature he displays
unbounded knowledge and a quick and piercing apprehension. His
eloquence is forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when he relates
a pathetic incident or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love,
without tears. What a glorious creature must he have been in the days
of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin! He seems
to feel his own worth and the greatness of his fall.

“When younger,” said he, “I 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.”

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.

“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.”

My beloved Sister,

September 2d.


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.

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!

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.

September 5th.


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.

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.

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.

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,

“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.”

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.

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

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.

September 7th.


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.

September 12th.


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.

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.”

“Do you, then, really return?”

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

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.

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.

“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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

“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.

“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!”

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.”

“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.

“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.

“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.

“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?

“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.

“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.”

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.