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.
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.
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 bow irrevocably it is determined.
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 bear 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!