Chapter 24 (1/2)

von Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

I found myself in a state where all voluntary thought was consumed by a raging fury. Revenge was my only source of strength and clarity; it shaped my emotions and allowed me to remain calculating and composed when, under normal circumstances, I would have succumbed to madness or death.

My first decision was to leave Geneva for good. The place that had once been dear to me, filled with happiness and love, now felt like a prison in my misery. I gathered some money and a few jewels that had belonged to my mother, and I set off.

Thus began my endless wanderings, which would only cease with my life. I traversed vast stretches of land, enduring the hardships that travelers face in deserts and wild territories. I hardly knew how I survived; there were countless times I lay down on the sandy ground, praying for death. Yet, revenge kept me alive; I couldn’t allow myself to die and leave my enemy unpunished.

When I left Geneva, my first goal was to find a way to track down my monstrous foe. But my plans were unclear, and I spent hours wandering the outskirts of the town, unsure of which path to take. As night fell, I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father were buried. I stepped inside and approached the tomb that marked their graves. The air was still, save for the rustling leaves stirred by the wind. The night was nearly dark, and the scene would have been solemn and moving even to a stranger. It felt as if the spirits of the departed were hovering nearby, casting an unseen shadow around me, the mourner.

The deep sorrow that this scene initially stirred within me quickly morphed into rage and despair. They were dead, and I was alive; their murderer still roamed the earth, and to destroy him, I had to endure this wretched existence. I knelt on the grass, kissed the ground, and with trembling lips declared, “By the sacred earth beneath me, by the shades that linger near, by the profound and eternal grief I feel, I swear; and by you, O Night, and the spirits that govern you, I will pursue the demon who caused this suffering until either he or I perish in a final confrontation. For this purpose, I will cling to life; for the sake of this revenge, I will once again see the sun and walk upon the green earth, which otherwise would vanish from my sight forever. I call upon you, spirits of the dead, and you, vengeful forces, to aid me in my quest. Let the cursed monster experience the depths of agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me.”

I began my vow with a solemnity and reverence that convinced me the spirits of my murdered friends were listening and approving of my devotion. But as I finished, fury consumed me, and rage choked my words.

Then, through the stillness of the night, I heard a loud, sinister laugh. It echoed in my ears, heavy and long, reverberating off the mountains, making me feel as if hell itself surrounded me with mockery and derision. In that moment, I should have been driven to madness and ended my own miserable existence, but my vow had been heard, and I was destined for revenge. The laughter faded, and a voice I recognized and loathed whispered close to my ear, “I am satisfied, miserable wretch! You have chosen to live, and I am satisfied.”

I lunged toward the source of the sound, but the devil slipped away from my grasp. Suddenly, the full moon rose, illuminating his ghastly, distorted figure as he fled with an unnatural speed.

I chased him, and for months, this became my singular purpose. Following a faint lead, I traced the winding path of the Rhone River, but to no avail. Then, the blue Mediterranean came into view, and by a strange twist of fate, I saw the fiend slip into a ship bound for the Black Sea under the cover of night. I boarded the same vessel, but somehow, he escaped.

In the desolate expanses of Tartary and Russia, I continued to chase him, even as he slipped further from my grasp. Sometimes, frightened peasants would tell me about his path, while at other times, he would leave subtle signs, perhaps out of fear that if I lost track of him completely, I would succumb to despair. The snow fell heavily around me, and I could see the imprint of his large footsteps on the white landscape.

For those of you just stepping into life, who have yet to experience care and agony, how could you possibly understand what I have endured? Cold, hunger, and exhaustion were merely the beginning of my suffering. I felt cursed, as if a devil had taken hold of me, dragging my eternal torment along. Yet, there was a flicker of goodness that seemed to guide my steps, rescuing me from seemingly insurmountable challenges just when I thought I would break.

There were moments when, overcome by hunger, I would collapse from fatigue, only to find a meal waiting for me in the wilderness that revived my spirit. The food was simple, the kind that the local villagers would eat, but I believed it was placed there by the very spirits I had called upon for help. Often, when the skies were clear and I was parched with thirst, a small cloud would appear, releasing just enough rain to refresh me before disappearing again.

I tried to follow the rivers when I could, but my relentless pursuer generally avoided those areas, as they were where people gathered. In more remote places, I rarely encountered anyone and often had to rely on the wild animals that crossed my path for sustenance. I carried some money with me, which helped me gain the villagers' goodwill when I shared it, or I would offer them a portion of the game I had hunted, after taking just enough for myself, always grateful for their fire and cooking tools.

Living this way was a torment, and the only time I found any joy was in sleep. Oh, blessed sleep! In my darkest moments, I would drift off, and my dreams would bring me a sense of rapture. The spirits that watched over me seemed to provide these precious hours of happiness, allowing me to gather strength for my journey. Without these moments of respite, I would have crumbled under the weight of my hardships. During the day, I held on to the hope of night, for in sleep, I could see my friends, my wife, and my beloved homeland. I would see my father’s kind face, hear the sweet voice of Elizabeth, and watch Clerval in his youth and health.

Often, after a grueling day of travel, I would convince myself that I was merely dreaming until night fell, when I could embrace my dearest friends once more. The longing I felt for them was agonizing. I clung to their memories, even in my waking hours, convincing myself they were still alive. In those moments, the burning desire for vengeance that consumed me faded, and I pursued my quest against the creature more as a divine obligation than as a passionate desire.

I could only guess at the feelings of the being I hunted. Sometimes, he would leave messages carved into tree bark or stone, fueling my anger. One such inscription read, “My reign is not yet over. You live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I seek the eternal ice of the north, where you will feel the bitter cold that I can withstand. If you hurry, you will find a dead hare nearby; eat and regain your strength. Come, my enemy; we still have our lives to fight for, but many hard hours of suffering await you before that time comes.”

Cursed fiend! I vow once more to seek my revenge; I dedicate you to torment and death. I will not stop my pursuit until either he or I is dead. And then, oh, how ecstatically I will join Elizabeth and my departed friends, who are surely waiting to reward me for my arduous journey!

As I pressed onward to the north, the snow deepened, and the cold became nearly unbearable. The peasants huddled in their homes, and only the bravest ventured out to hunt the animals driven from their shelters by hunger. The rivers froze over, and I could catch no fish, leaving me cut off from my primary source of food.

With each passing day, my enemy’s triumph grew alongside the challenges I faced. One message he left taunted me: “Prepare! Your struggles are just beginning; wrap yourself in furs and gather provisions, for we are about to embark on a journey where your suffering will feed my everlasting hatred.”

My determination surged with renewed strength as I brushed off the mocking words that had been thrown at me. I promised myself that I wouldn’t falter in my quest. With a silent plea for divine support, I pressed on through vast, desolate stretches of snow until, in the distance, the ocean emerged, marking the farthest edge of the horizon.

Oh, how different it looked from the warm, blue waters of the south! It lay frozen, its wildness and ruggedness setting it apart from the land. I thought of the Greeks, who had wept tears of joy upon seeing the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, celebrating the end of their struggles. I didn’t weep, but I knelt down, my heart full of gratitude for the guiding spirit that had led me safely to this place, where I hoped to confront my adversary, despite his taunts.

Weeks earlier, I had managed to acquire a sled and a team of dogs, allowing me to traverse the snow with astonishing speed. I wasn’t sure if the creature had the same advantages, but I noticed that I was gaining on him. By the time I first caught sight of the ocean, he was only a day ahead of me, and I was determined to intercept him before he reached the shore.

With renewed resolve, I pushed forward and, after two days, arrived at a miserable little village by the sea. I asked the locals about the creature and received alarming news. They told me a massive figure had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and several pistols, scaring the inhabitants of a nearby cottage into fleeing. He had stolen their winter supplies, loading them onto a sled pulled by a pack of trained dogs, and that very night, to the villagers' relief, he had set off across the ice in a direction that led nowhere. They speculated that he would soon meet his end, either from the ice breaking beneath him or from the relentless cold.

Hearing this news sent a wave of despair crashing over me. He had escaped, and I was faced with the daunting prospect of a perilous journey across the treacherous ice of the ocean, in conditions that even the locals struggled to endure. As a man from a warm, sunny climate, I doubted my ability to survive. Yet the thought of that creature living freely, victorious, ignited a fierce rage within me, overwhelming all other emotions. After a brief moment of rest, during which the spirits of the fallen urged me on toward vengeance, I prepared for the journey ahead.

I traded my land sled for one designed to navigate the uneven surface of the frozen ocean and stocked up on supplies before setting off from the shore.

I can’t say how many days have passed since then, but I endured a level of misery that only the burning desire for justice in my heart could sustain. Towering, jagged mountains of ice often blocked my path, and the thunderous roar of the sea beneath threatened my destruction. Yet again, the frost came, solidifying the sea and making my passage possible.

Based on the provisions I had consumed, I estimated that I had been traveling for about three weeks. The constant ebb and flow of hope weighed heavily on my heart, often drawing tears of despair from my eyes. Despair was close to claiming me, and I felt I would soon succumb to this agony.

Once, after my weary dogs had struggled to the top of a sloping ice mountain, one of them collapsed and died from exhaustion. I looked out over the bleak expanse before me, filled with anguish, when suddenly I spotted a dark shape against the gray landscape. Straining my eyes, I let out a wild cry of joy as I recognized a sled and the familiar, twisted figure within. Hope surged through me like a flood! Warm tears filled my eyes, which I quickly wiped away, desperate not to lose sight of the creature. But still, my vision blurred with emotion, and I couldn’t hold back my tears.

But there was no time to waste. I freed the dogs from their fallen companion, gave them a generous portion of food, and after an hour of necessary rest—though it felt painfully long—I resumed my pursuit. The sled remained in view, and I didn’t lose sight of it again, except when the jagged ice briefly obscured it. I could see that I was gaining on it, and after nearly two days of relentless travel, I spotted my enemy just a mile away. My heart raced with exhilaration.

But now, just when I felt I was almost within reach of my enemy, all my hopes were suddenly dashed. I lost sight of him completely, more than I ever had before. The sea began to churn ominously beneath me, the sound of its relentless waves growing more terrifying with each passing moment. I pressed on, but it was futile. The wind picked up, the sea roared, and with a force like an earthquake, it split and cracked with a deafening noise. In mere minutes, a chaotic sea surged between me and my foe, leaving me adrift on a shrinking piece of ice, facing a gruesome death.

Hours passed in this horrifying state. Several of my dogs perished, and I felt myself on the brink of collapse under the weight of my despair when I spotted your ship anchored in the distance, offering me a glimmer of hope and a chance at survival. I had no idea that vessels ventured this far north, and I was stunned by the sight. In a frantic effort, I dismantled part of my sledge to fashion oars, allowing me, after immense struggle, to steer my ice raft toward your ship. I had resolved that even if you were heading south, I would trust myself to the mercy of the sea rather than abandon my quest. I wanted to persuade you to give me a boat so I could chase down my enemy. But your course was northward. You welcomed me aboard just as my strength was fading, and I was about to succumb to my many hardships, facing a death I still dread, for my mission remains unfinished.

Oh! When will my guiding spirit lead me to the monster and grant me the peace I so desperately seek? Or must I die while he lives? If that happens, I implore you, Walton, swear to me that he will not escape, that you will hunt him down and avenge my suffering with his death. Do I dare ask you to take on my journey, to endure the trials I have faced? No, I won’t be so selfish. But when I am gone, if he should appear, if the forces of vengeance bring him to you, swear that he will not live—swear that he will not triumph over my suffering and continue to add to his list of dark deeds. He is charming and persuasive, and once his words even swayed my heart; but do not trust him. His soul is as wicked as his appearance, filled with treachery and malice. Do not listen to him; call out the names of William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and the wretched Victor, and drive your sword into his heart. I will be near to guide your aim.

Walton, _continuing._

August 26th, 17—.

You have read this strange and terrifying story, Margaret; don’t you feel your blood run cold with horror, just as mine does? At times, seized with sudden pain, he struggled to continue his tale; at others, his voice, broken yet piercing, struggled to convey the anguish of his words. His beautiful eyes would light up with indignation, then dim with sorrow, filled with endless despair. Sometimes he managed to maintain his composure, recounting the most horrific events in a calm voice, suppressing any signs of agitation; then, like a volcano erupting, his expression would shift to one of wild rage as he hurled curses at his tormentor.

His story flowed seamlessly, told with an air of simple truth. Yet, I must admit, the letters from Felix and Safie that he showed me, along with the sighting of the monster from our ship, convinced me of the truth of his narrative more than his earnest declarations ever could. Such a creature truly exists! I cannot doubt it, yet I am left in awe and confusion. I sometimes tried to extract from Frankenstein the details of how he created his creature, but he remained elusive on that subject.

“Are you mad, my friend?” he asked. “Or where does your reckless curiosity lead you? Would you also create a demonic enemy for yourself and the world? Enough! Learn of my suffering and do not seek to add to your own.”

When Frankenstein discovered that I was taking notes about his story, he asked to see them. He then corrected and expanded them in many places, especially in bringing life and spirit to the conversations he had with his enemy. “Since you are preserving my narrative,” he said, “I would not want a distorted version to be passed down through the ages.”

A week has gone by, and I’ve been captivated by the most extraordinary story I’ve ever heard. Every thought and feeling I have has been consumed by the interest I feel for my guest, both from his tale and his refined, gentle demeanor. I want to comfort him, but how can I advise someone so deeply miserable, so utterly devoid of hope, to continue living? No, the only joy he can find now will come from finding peace in death. Yet he clings to one comfort, born from solitude and madness: he believes that when he dreams of his friends and finds solace in those encounters, they are not mere figments of his imagination but real beings visiting him from another realm. This belief gives a weight to his dreams that makes them almost as compelling and significant as reality.

Our conversations often drift beyond his own tragic story. He displays a vast knowledge of literature and possesses a sharp, insightful mind. His eloquence is powerful and moving; I can’t help but shed tears when he recounts a touching moment or tries to evoke feelings of compassion or love. What a magnificent person he must have been in his prime, so noble and godlike even in his ruin! He seems acutely aware of his own worth and the magnitude of his downfall.

“When I was younger,” he said, “I believed I was destined for something great. I had deep feelings, but I also had a calm judgment that suited me for remarkable achievements. This sense of my own value kept me going when others would have crumbled, for I felt it was wrong to waste my talents in pointless sorrow. When I thought about the work I had done, creating a sensitive and rational being, I couldn’t see myself as just another ordinary dreamer. But that thought, which once lifted me at the start of my journey, now only drags me deeper into despair. All my dreams and aspirations have come to nothing, and like the archangel who sought omnipotence, I find myself trapped in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, and my analytical skills were sharp; it was this combination that allowed me to conceive and create a man. Even now, I can’t recall the passion I felt during those moments when my work was still unfinished. I soared in my thoughts, sometimes reveling in my abilities, other times consumed by the consequences of my actions. From childhood, I was filled with high hopes and grand ambitions, but look at me now! Oh, my friend, if you had known me back then, you wouldn’t recognize me in this pitiful state. Despair rarely touched my heart; I felt destined for greatness until I fell, never to rise again.”

Must I lose this remarkable person? I’ve longed for a friend, someone who would understand and care for me. Here, on these desolate seas, I’ve found such a person, but I fear I’ve only come to appreciate his worth just to lose him. I want to help him find a reason to live, but he pushes the idea away.

“I appreciate your kindness, Walton,” he said, “but when you talk about forming new bonds and finding fresh love, do you really think anything can replace what I’ve lost? Can anyone be to me what Clerval was, or can any woman take the place of Elizabeth? Even when feelings aren’t strongly influenced by exceptional qualities, childhood companions hold a unique power over our hearts that few later friends can match. They know our youthful selves, which, no matter how much we change, can never be completely erased. They can judge our actions with a clearer understanding of our true intentions. A brother or sister can’t, unless there have been early signs, suspect the other of deceit, while another friend, no matter how loyal, might be viewed with doubt. I had friends who were dear not just because of our shared history but because of their own merits. Wherever I go, I will always hear the soothing voice of Elizabeth and the conversations with Clerval echoing in my mind. They are gone, and only one feeling can persuade me to keep living in this solitude. If I were engaged in a grand endeavor that could benefit humanity, then I could find a reason to live. But that is not my fate; I must pursue and destroy the being I brought to life. Only then will my time on this earth be complete, and I can finally rest.”

My beloved sister,

September 2nd.

I write to you, surrounded by danger and unsure if I will ever see dear England and my beloved friends again. I find myself trapped among towering mountains of ice that offer no escape and threaten to crush our ship at any moment. The brave men I convinced to join me look to me for guidance, but I have nothing to offer them. Our situation is terrifying, yet somehow, my courage and hope remain intact. Still, it weighs heavily on me to think that all these men’s lives are at risk because of my reckless ambitions. If we are lost, it will be my fault.

And what about you, Margaret? How will you cope with the news of my demise? You will not hear of my fate, and you will wait for my return with anxious hope. Years will pass, and you will experience moments of despair, all while clinging to the hope that I might still come back. Oh, my dear sister, the thought of your heart breaking under the weight of expectation is more painful to me than the idea of my own death. But you have a husband and beautiful children; you may find happiness. May heaven bless you and keep you safe!

My unfortunate companion looks at me with deep compassion. He tries to instill hope in me, speaking as if life were something to cherish. He reminds me how many navigators have faced similar challenges in these icy waters, and despite myself, I find his words uplifting. Even the sailors respond to his encouragement; when he speaks, their despair lifts, and they start to believe that these massive icebergs are mere obstacles that will yield to human determination. But these feelings are fleeting; each day of waiting fills them with dread, and I fear a mutiny born from this despair.

September 5th.

Something extraordinary just happened, and even though it’s likely these words will never reach you, I must write it down.

We are still trapped in this icy prison, still at risk of being crushed by the shifting ice. The cold is unbearable, and many of my unfortunate comrades have already succumbed to this bleak landscape. Frankenstein’s health continues to decline; a fever burns in his eyes, but he is weak, and when he is stirred to action, he quickly falls back into a state of near lifelessness.

I mentioned my fears of a mutiny in my last letter. This morning, as I sat watching my friend’s pale face—his eyes half-closed and his limbs hanging limply—I was interrupted by a group of sailors who demanded to speak with me. They entered, and their leader stepped forward. He explained that he and his companions had been chosen by the others to approach me with a request that, in fairness, I could not ignore. We were trapped in ice and might never escape, but they feared that if the ice melted and a passage opened, I might recklessly continue our voyage and lead them into further danger after they had just endured this ordeal. They insisted that I make a solemn promise that if we were freed, I would immediately head south.

This request troubled me. I hadn’t given up hope, nor had I considered turning back if we were set free. But could I, in good conscience, refuse their demand? I hesitated, unsure of how to respond, when Frankenstein, who had been silent and seemed barely able to focus, suddenly stirred. His eyes brightened, and a flush of energy returned to his cheeks. Turning to the men, he said,

“What are you saying? What do you want from your captain? Are you really so quick to abandon your mission? Didn’t you call this a glorious adventure?

And what made it glorious? Not because the journey was easy and calm like a warm sea, but because it was filled with dangers and challenges. Every time we faced something new, your strength and bravery were put to the test. Danger and death surrounded us, and you were meant to confront and overcome them. That’s what made this a glorious and honorable pursuit. You were meant to be celebrated as the saviors of humanity, your names revered as those of brave individuals who faced death for the sake of honor and the greater good.

And now, look at you. At the first hint of danger, or the first real test of your courage, you shrink back and seem satisfied to be remembered as those who lacked the strength to endure hardship and risk. So, poor souls, you felt a chill and returned to the comfort of your warm homes. That doesn’t require any preparation; you didn’t need to come this far and drag your captain into the shame of defeat just to prove you’re cowards.

Oh! Be men, or be more than men. Stay true to your goals and be as steadfast as a rock. This ice is not made of the same stuff as your hearts; it is changeable and will yield if you decide it will. Don’t go back to your families with the mark of disgrace on your foreheads. Return as heroes who have fought and triumphed, who know nothing of turning their backs on the enemy.”