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 recognize 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 sympathize 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.