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.
