Frankenstein
To Mrs. Saville, England.
St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—.
Robert Walton writes to his sister Margaret, rejoicing that no disaster has accompanied the start of his polar expedition. A bracing northern breeze kindles his dreams. He imagines the pole not as frozen desolation but as a region of eternal light, where snow is banished and wonders await. He hopes to discover the secret of the magnet or a passage to the Pacific—either would benefit mankind. Nothing calms the mind like a steady purpose, and this voyage has been his dream since boyhood.
Raised on Uncle Thomas’ library of voyages, Walton was self-taught. He once hoped to be a poet, but failure and a small inheritance turned his thoughts back to the sea. For six years he has trained: enduring cold and hunger aboard whalers, sailing as an under-mate, studying mathematics and medicine by night. He wonders if he deserves success, then confesses his courage is firm though his spirits fluctuate. He plans to depart for Archangel in a fortnight, hire a ship, and sail in June. If he succeeds, years may pass before they meet; if he fails, never.
To Mrs. Saville, England.
Archangel, 28th March, 17—.
Time passes slowly amid frost and snow. Walton has hired a vessel and gathered bold sailors, yet he feels a sharper want: he has no friend to share his triumphs or console his disappointments. Self-educated, now twenty-eight, he feels more illiterate than many schoolboys—his daydreams need “keeping.” His lieutenant is courageous and madly desirous of glory; his master is gentle and merciful.
The master’s story moves him deeply: years ago, the man loved a Russian lady who, weeping, confessed she loved another. He abandoned his suit, bestowed his savings on the rival, and only returned when she was married to her choice. “What a noble fellow!” Walton exclaims—though the man is wholly uneducated.
Walton’s resolve remains fixed. Spring is early; soon he may sail. He feels a trembling, half-pleasurable sensation at the prospect. He confesses his passion for ocean mysteries traces back to Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner.” He begs Margaret to keep writing.
July 7th, 17—.
A hurried note: Walton is safe and well advanced. His men are bold, ice drifts past, and southern gales waft them northward. He will be cool and prudent—but success shall crown his endeavours.
To Mrs. Saville, England.
August 5th, 17—.
Last Monday the ship was nearly beset by ice in a thick fog. As they lay to, a strange sight appeared: a low sledge drawn by dogs, carrying a man of gigantic stature, gliding northward half a mile away. They watched him vanish into the distant ice.
Two hours later the ice broke and freed the ship. At dawn, the sailors found another sledge drifted toward them on a floe, holding one surviving dog and a European man nearly dead with cold. Walton rushed on deck; the master declared, “Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish on the open sea.” When Walton said they were bound for the North Pole, the stranger consented to come aboard.
His limbs were nearly frozen, his body emaciated. Restored with brandy and soup, he lay near the stove for two days before he could speak. Walton never saw a more interesting creature: eyes wild with madness, yet capable of heavenly benevolence. When the lieutenant asked why he had come so far on the ice, the stranger answered, “To seek one who fled from me.” Asked about the earlier sledge, he called its driver a “dæmon.”
Walton began to love him as a brother.
August 13th.
His affection daily increases. The stranger is cultivated, eloquent, gentle. He listened attentively to Walton’s ambitions. Then Walton, carried away, declared he would sacrifice his fortune, his existence, his every hope for knowledge. At once a dark gloom spread: the stranger covered his eyes, tears trickled through his fingers, and in broken accents he cried, “Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!”
August 19th.
The stranger said, “I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had determined the memory should die with me, but you have won me to alter my determination. You seek knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; I hope the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has been.” He promised to begin his tale the next day. Walton resolved to record it nightly, in words as nearly his own as possible. Even now, as he begins, the stranger’s full-toned voice swells in his ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on Walton with melancholy sweetness. Strange and harrowing must be that story, frightful the storm which wrecked the gallant vessel and dashed it thus.
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