Chapter 24 (2/2)

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

He spoke with a voice that shifted with the emotions he expressed, his eyes filled with a sense of purpose and heroism. It’s no wonder the men were stirred by his words. They exchanged glances, unable to respond. I finally spoke up, telling them to take some time to think over what had been said. I assured them that I wouldn’t push them further north if they truly didn’t want to go, but I hoped that with some reflection, their courage would return.

As they withdrew, I turned to my friend, but he seemed lost in a haze, nearly lifeless.

I didn’t know how this would all end, but I would rather die than return in shame, my mission unfulfilled. Yet, I feared that would be my fate; the men, lacking inspiration from glory and honor, would never willingly endure the hardships ahead.

September 7th.

The decision has been made; I’ve agreed to turn back if we aren’t destroyed. My hopes have been shattered by cowardice and uncertainty. I’m returning feeling defeated and disappointed. It takes more strength than I have to endure this injustice with any semblance of patience.

September 12th.

It’s over; I’m heading back to England. I’ve lost my hopes for usefulness and glory; I’ve lost my friend. But I will try to share these painful circumstances with you, my dear sister. As I’m carried back to England and to you, I won’t let despair take hold.

On September 9th, the ice began to shift, and we heard thunderous cracks as the islands split apart. We were in grave danger, but with no choice but to wait, my main concern was for my unfortunate guest, whose illness had worsened to the point where he was confined to his bed. The ice cracked behind us, pushing northward, and a breeze from the west finally cleared the passage to the south on the 11th. When the sailors realized they could return home, a loud cheer erupted from them, filled with joy.

Frankenstein, who had been dozing, woke up and asked what was happening. “They’re cheering,” I replied, “because they’ll soon return to England.”

“Are you really going back?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, yes. I can’t ignore their pleas. I can’t lead them into danger against their will; I have to turn back.”

“Do as you wish; I won’t. You may abandon your mission, but mine is ordained by fate, and I cannot turn away. I may be weak, but surely the spirits that fuel my vengeance will give me the strength I need.” He tried to get out of bed, but the effort was too much, and he collapsed, fainting.

It took a long time for him to recover, and I often feared he was gone for good. Finally, he opened his eyes, breathing heavily and unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a calming potion and instructed us to let him rest. In the meantime, he informed me that my friend didn’t have many hours left.

His fate was sealed, and all I could do was grieve and be patient. I sat by his bedside, watching him. His eyes were closed, and I thought he was asleep. But soon, he called for me in a weak voice, asking me to come closer. “Alas! The strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I will soon die, and my enemy may still be out there. Don’t think, Walton, that in my final moments I feel the burning hatred and desire for revenge I once had. But I do feel justified in wanting my adversary dead.

In these last days, I’ve reflected on my past actions, and I don’t find them blameworthy. In a moment of passionate madness, I created a rational being and had a duty to ensure his happiness and well-being. That was my responsibility, but there was another that took precedence. My obligations to my fellow humans demanded more of my attention because they encompassed a greater share of happiness and suffering. Driven by this understanding, I rightly refused to create a companion for the first creature. He displayed unmatched malice and selfishness; he destroyed my friends and condemned beings capable of exquisite feelings, joy, and wisdom to ruin. I don’t know where this thirst for vengeance will lead.

He is miserable, and in his misery, he seeks to make others wretched. He deserves to die. The task of destroying him was mine, but I have failed. When I was driven by selfish motives, I asked you to take on my unfinished work, and I renew that request now, motivated by reason and virtue.

“I can’t ask you to give up your country and friends for this task. Now that you’re heading back to England, your chances of seeing him again are slim. I’ll leave it to you to weigh these considerations and what you believe your duties are. My mind is already clouded by the approach of death. I can’t ask you to do what I think is right, as I might still be driven by my own emotions.

“It troubles me that he’s still alive, capable of causing harm. Yet, in other ways, this moment—when I feel my release is near—is the happiest I’ve felt in years. The faces of those I’ve lost dance before me, and I long to be with them. Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in peace and steer clear of ambition, even if it seems harmless, like wanting to make a name for yourself in science and discovery. But why do I say this? I’ve seen my own hopes dashed, yet perhaps someone else will succeed.”

His voice faded as he spoke, and eventually, worn out from the effort, he fell silent. About half an hour later, he tried to speak again but couldn’t. He weakly squeezed my hand, his eyes closed for the last time, and a gentle smile slipped away from his lips.

Margaret, how can I express the sudden loss of this extraordinary spirit? What can I say that would convey the depth of my grief? Words fail me; my tears flow freely, and my mind is clouded with disappointment. But I’m on my way to England, where I hope to find some comfort.

I’m interrupted. What do these sounds mean? It’s midnight; the breeze is gentle, and the crew on deck hardly stirs. Again, I hear a noise that sounds like a human voice, but it’s rougher. It’s coming from the cabin where Frankenstein’s remains lie. I must get up and check. Good night, my sister.

Oh my God! What a scene has just unfolded! I’m still dizzy from the memory of it. I can hardly find the strength to describe it, but the story I’ve told would be incomplete without this final, astonishing event.

I entered the cabin where my unfortunate and admirable friend lay. Above him stood a figure I can hardly describe—towering yet grotesque in its form. As it loomed over the coffin, its face was hidden beneath long, tangled hair, but one enormous hand was stretched out, resembling that of a mummy in both color and texture. When it heard me approach, it stopped its cries of grief and horror and leaped toward the window. I had never seen a face so horrifying, so disturbingly hideous. I shut my eyes instinctively, trying to remember what I was supposed to do about this creature. I called out to it to stop.

It hesitated, looking at me with a mix of wonder and rage, then turned back to the lifeless body of its creator, seemingly forgetting I was there. Every feature and gesture was driven by a wild fury.

“That is also my victim!” it shouted. “In his murder, my crimes are complete; the miserable cycle of my existence has come to an end! Oh, Frankenstein! Noble and self-sacrificing being! What good does it do for me to ask your forgiveness now? I, who irreparably destroyed you by taking away everything you loved. Alas! He is cold; he cannot answer me.”

Its voice was choked with emotion, and my initial impulse to fulfill my friend’s dying wish by destroying his enemy was now clouded by a mix of curiosity and compassion. I approached this terrifying being, unable to raise my eyes to its face again, for its ugliness was so frightening and otherworldly. I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat. The creature continued to voice wild and incoherent self-reproaches. Finally, I found the courage to address it during a pause in its fury.

“Your remorse is pointless now,” I said. “If you had listened to your conscience and felt the pangs of guilt before you took your revenge this far, Frankenstein would still be alive.”

“Do you really think I was free from pain and regret?” the creature replied. “He,” it said, pointing to the corpse, “he didn’t suffer as I did in the moments leading up to the act. Oh, not even a fraction of the torment I endured while carrying out the deed. A terrible selfishness drove me forward, and my heart was poisoned with remorse. Do you think the cries of Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was made to feel love and compassion, and when it was twisted by misery into vice and hatred, it didn’t withstand the change without unimaginable suffering.”

After Clerval's murder, I returned to Switzerland, utterly heartbroken and overwhelmed. I felt a deep pity for Frankenstein, but it quickly turned into horror; I loathed myself. When I realized that he, the one who had brought me into existence and subjected me to unimaginable torment, dared to hope for happiness while he piled misery and despair upon me, I was consumed by a bitter envy and a desperate thirst for revenge. I remembered my vow and decided it had to be fulfilled. I knew I was setting myself up for a torment that would be deadly, but I was a slave to an impulse I despised yet couldn’t resist.

But when she died—then I felt no sorrow. I had pushed aside all emotion, silencing my anguish to revel in the depths of my despair. From that point on, evil became my solace. Driven to this point, I had no choice but to adapt to the darkness I had willingly embraced. The completion of my sinister plan became an all-consuming obsession. And now it was over; there lay my final victim.

At first, I was moved by the depth of his misery. But as I recalled Frankenstein's claims of eloquence and persuasion, and as I looked again at the lifeless body of my friend, anger flared within me. “You wretch!” I exclaimed. “How fitting that you come here to mourn the destruction you’ve caused. You set fire to a building and then sit among the ashes, lamenting the loss. Hypocritical fiend! If the one you mourn were still alive, he would still be your target, still be prey to your cursed vengeance. What you feel isn’t pity; you grieve only because your victim is no longer within your grasp.”

“Oh, it’s not like that—not at all,” the creature interrupted. “But I understand how my actions might give you that impression. I don’t seek your sympathy in my misery. I’ve never found any. When I first sought it, I was filled with a love for virtue, happiness, and affection that I wanted to share. But now, virtue is just a shadow to me, and happiness and affection have turned into bitter despair. What could I possibly seek sympathy for? I’m content to suffer alone for as long as my suffering lasts. When I die, I accept that my memory will be burdened with hatred and scorn. Once, I dreamed of virtue, fame, and joy. I foolishly hoped to meet beings who would look past my appearance and love me for the qualities I could show. I was filled with noble thoughts of honor and devotion. But now, crime has dragged me down to the level of the lowest creature. No guilt, no evil, no malice, no suffering can compare to mine. When I think of my terrible sins, I can hardly believe I was once filled with such grand visions of goodness. But it’s true; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Even that enemy of God and man had friends in his desolation; I am utterly alone.

“You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to know of my crimes and his misfortunes. But in the details he shared with you, he couldn’t possibly convey the hours and months of misery I endured, consumed by impotent passions. While I destroyed his hopes, I never satisfied my own desires. They remained forever intense and unfulfilled; I still longed for love and companionship, yet I was still rejected. Is there no injustice in this? Am I to be seen as the only criminal when all of humanity has sinned against me? Why don’t you hate Felix, who cast his friend out with scorn? Why don’t you condemn the villager who tried to kill the savior of his child? No, those are virtuous beings! I, the miserable and abandoned, am the one to be shunned, kicked, and trampled on. Even now, my blood boils at the thought of this injustice.

“But it’s true; I am a wretch. I have murdered the innocent and the helpless; I have strangled those who were defenseless in their sleep and taken the life of someone who never harmed me or anyone else. I have condemned my creator, the very embodiment of all that is worthy of love and admiration, to a life of misery; I have pursued him to his irreversible ruin. There he lies, cold and lifeless. You hate me, but your loathing cannot match the self-hatred I feel. I look at the hands that committed the deed; I think of the heart that conceived it, and I long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when that haunting thought will no longer plague me.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be the cause of any more trouble. My work is almost done. I don’t need your death or anyone else’s to finish what I started; I only need my own. Don’t think I’ll hesitate to make that sacrifice. I’ll leave your ship on the ice raft that brought me here and head to the farthest point of the North. I’ll gather my funeral pyre and burn this wretched body to ashes, so that nothing remains to tempt any curious, unholy soul to create another being like me. I will die. I won’t have to endure the pain that consumes me or be tormented by unfulfilled desires. The one who brought me to life is gone, and when I’m gone, the memory of both of us will quickly fade. I won’t see the sun or the stars again, nor will I feel the wind on my face. Light, sensation, and feeling will all disappear; and in that state, I will find my peace.

Years ago, when I first experienced the beauty of this world—the warmth of summer, the rustling leaves, the singing birds—I would have cried at the thought of dying. Now, it’s my only comfort. Burdened by my sins and tormented by deep remorse, where else can I find solace but in death?

“Goodbye! I leave you, and you are the last human I will ever see. Farewell, Frankenstein! If you were still alive and wanted revenge against me, it would be better to do it while I’m alive than to destroy me. But that’s not the case; you sought my end so I wouldn’t bring more misery. And if, in some way I don’t understand, you still think and feel, you wouldn’t wish for a vengeance greater than the pain I already carry. Though you suffered, my agony has been worse, for the sting of remorse will continue to torment me until death finally puts an end to it.

“But soon,” he exclaimed with a heavy, solemn passion, “I will die, and I won’t feel this anymore. Soon, these burning torments will be extinguished. I will ascend my funeral pyre with triumph and revel in the pain of the flames. The light of that fire will fade; my ashes will be scattered into the sea by the winds. My spirit will find peace, or if it thinks, it won’t think of this. Goodbye.”

With that, he leaped from the cabin window onto the ice raft that lay close to the ship. The waves quickly carried him away, and he vanished into the darkness and distance.