Chapter: WALTON, _in continuation_.

August 26th, 17--.

You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not
feel your blood congealed 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 agony. 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
shewed 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? Or to what do your questions tend? 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 feelings 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
real beings 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 felt as if I were 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 feeling, 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 shewn early, suspect
the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however
strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be invaded 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."

       *       *       *       *       *

September 2d.

MY BELOVED SISTER,

I write to you, encompassed by peril, and ignorant whether I am ever
doomed to see again dear England, and the dearer friends that inhabit
it. I am surrounded by mountains of ice, which admit of no escape, and
threaten every moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows, whom I have
persuaded to be my companions, look towards me for aid; but I have none
to bestow. There is something terribly appalling in our situation, yet
my courage and hopes do not desert me. We may survive; and if we do not,
I will repeat the lessons of my Seneca, and die with a good heart.

Yet what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of
my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass,
and you will have visitings of despair, and yet be tortured by hope. Oh!
my beloved sister, the sickening failings of your heart-felt
expectations are, in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death.
But you have a husband, and lovely children; you may be happy: heaven
bless you, and make you so!

My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He
endeavours to fill me with hope; and talks as if life were a possession
which he valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents have
happened to other navigators, who have attempted this sea, and, in spite
of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the
power of his eloquence: when he speaks, they no longer despair: he
rouses their energies, and, while they hear his voice, they believe
these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills, which will vanish before the
resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day's
expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny
caused by this despair.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 desired 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 demand, 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
desired, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise, that if
the vessel should be freed, I would instantly direct my coarse
southward.

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, and these dangers 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 name
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 fire-sides. 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 might be; it is mutable, 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 further
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.

       *       *       *       *       *

September 7th.

The die is cast; I have consented to return, if we are not destroyed.
Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back
ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess,
to bear this injustice with patience.

       *       *       *       *       *

September 12th.

It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility
and glory;--I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these
bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and, while I am wafted
towards England, and towards you, I will not despond.

September 19th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were
heard at a distance, as the islands split and cracked in every
direction. We were in the most imminent peril; but, as we could only
remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest,
whose illness increased in such a degree, that he was entirely confined
to his bed. The ice cracked behind us, and was driven with force towards
the north; a breeze sprung from the west, and on the 11th the passage
towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw this, and
that their return to their native country was apparently assured, a
shout of tumultuous joy broke from, them, loud and long-continued.
Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke, and asked the cause of the tumult.
"They shout," I said, "because they will soon return to England."

"Do you then really return?"

"Alas! yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them
unwillingly to danger, and I must return."

"Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose; but
mine is assigned to me by heaven, and I dare not. I am weak; but surely
the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with sufficient
strength." Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the
exertion was too great for him; he fell back, and fainted.

It was long before he was restored; and I often thought that life was
entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes, but he breathed with
difficulty, and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing
draught, and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the mean time he
told me, that my friend had certainly not many hours to live.

His sentence was pronounced; and I could only grieve, and be patient. I
sat by his bed watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he
slept; but presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and, bidding me
come near, said--"Alas! the strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I
shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being.
Think not, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I feel that
burning hatred, and ardent desire of revenge, I once expressed, but I
feel myself justified in desiring the death of my adversary. During
these last days I have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor
do I find it blameable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a
rational creature, and was bound towards him, to assure, as far as was
in my power, his happiness and well-being. This was my duty; but there
was another still paramount to that. My duties towards my
fellow-creatures had greater claims to my attention, because they
included a greater proportion of happiness or misery. Urged by this
view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to create a companion for
the first creature. He shewed unparalleled malignity and selfishness, in
evil: he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction beings who
possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know
where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself, that he may
render no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction
was mine, but I have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious
motives, I asked you to undertake my unfinished work; and I renew this
request now, when I am only induced by reason and virtue.

"Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends, to fulfil
this task; and now, that you are returning to England, you will have
little chance of meeting with him. But the consideration of these
points, and the well-balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I
leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the near
approach of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I
may still be misled by passion.

"That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in
other respects this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the
only happy one which I have enjoyed for several years. The forms of the
beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell,
Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity, and avoid ambition, even if it
be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in
science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been
blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed."

His voice became fainter as he spoke; and at length, exhausted by his
effort, he sunk into silence. About half an hour afterwards he attempted
again to speak, but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes
closed for ever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away
from his lips.

Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this
glorious spirit? What can I say, that will enable you to understand the
depth of my sorrow? All that I should express would be inadequate and
feeble. My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of
disappointment. But I journey towards England, and I may there find
consolation.

I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is midnight; the
breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again; there
is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin
where the remains of Frankenstein still lie. I must arise, and examine.
Good night, my sister.

Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy with the
remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power to
detail it; yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete
without this final and wonderful catastrophe.

I entered the cabin, where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable
friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to describe;
gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its proportions. As he
hung over the coffin, his face was concealed by long locks of ragged
hair; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture
like that of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my approach, he ceased
to utter exclamations of grief and horror, and sprung towards the
window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such
loathsome, yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily, and
endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to this
destroyer. I called on him to stay.

He paused, looking on me with wonder; and, again turning towards the
lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and every
feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some
uncontrollable passion.

"That is also my victim!" he exclaimed; "in his murder my crimes are
consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its close! Oh,
Frankenstein! generous and self-devoted being! what does it avail that I
now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by
destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! he is cold; he may not answer me."

His voice seemed suffocated; and my first impulses, which had suggested
to me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend, in destroying
his enemy, were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion.
I approached this tremendous being; I dared not again raise my looks
upon his face, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his
ugliness. I attempted to speak, but the words died away on my lips. The
monster continued to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches. At
length I gathered resolution to address him, in a pause of the tempest
of his passion: "Your repentance," I said, "is now superfluous. If you
had listened to the voice of conscience, and heeded the stings of
remorse, before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this
extremity, Frankenstein would yet have lived."

"And do you dream?" said the daemon; "do you think that I was then dead
to agony and remorse?--He," he continued, pointing to the corpse, "he
suffered not more in the consummation of the deed;--oh! not the
ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine during the lingering
detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me on, while
my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think ye that the groans of Clerval
were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love
and sympathy; and, when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did
not endure the violence of the change without torture such as you cannot
even imagine.

"After the murder of Clerval, I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken
and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror: I
abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he, the author at once of my
existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness;
that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me, he sought
his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence of which
I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter indignation filled
me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat, and
resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for
myself a deadly torture; but I was the slave, not the master of an
impulse, which I detested, yet could not disobey. Yet when she
died!--nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all feeling,
subdued all anguish to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil
thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt
my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The completion of
my demoniacal design became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended;
there is my last victim!"

I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet when I
called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence and
persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my
friend, indignation was re-kindled within me. "Wretch!" I said, "it is
well that you come here to whine over the desolation that you have made.
You throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they are consumed
you sit among the ruins, and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend! if he
whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would he
become the prey of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you
feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn
from your power."

"Oh, it is not thus--not thus," interrupted the being; "yet such must be
the impression conveyed to you by what appears to be the purport of my
actions. Yet I seek not a fellow-feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I
ever find. When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the
feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being
overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now, that virtue has
become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into
bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am
content to suffer alone, while my sufferings shall endure: when I die, I
am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory.
Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of
enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings, who, pardoning my
outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was
capable of bringing forth. I was nourished with high thoughts of honour
and devotion. But now vice has degraded me beneath the meanest animal.
No crime, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable
to mine. When I call over the frightful catalogue of my deeds, I cannot
believe that I am he whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and
transcendant visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it
is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that
enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am
quite alone.

"You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my
crimes and his misfortunes. But, in the detail which he gave you of
them, he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I
endured, wasting in impotent passions. For whilst I destroyed his hopes,
I did not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and craving;
still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there
no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all
human kind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his
friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic
who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous
and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an
abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my
blood boils at the recollection of this injustice.

"But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the
helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to
death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have
devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love
and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that
irremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me;
but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look
on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the
imagination of it was conceived, and long for the moment when they will
meet my eyes, when it will haunt my thoughts, no more.

"Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is
nearly complete. Neither your's nor any man's death is needed to
consummate the series of my being, and accomplish that which must be
done; but it requires my own. Do not think that I shall be slow to
perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft which
brought me hither, and shall seek the most northern extremity of the
globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this
miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and
unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have been. I shall
die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the
prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me
into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both
will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel
the winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and sense, will pass away;
and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, when the
images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the
cheering warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of the leaves and the
chirping of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to
die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes, and torn by the
bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death?

"Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of human kind whom these
eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive,
and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better
satiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not so; thou
didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness;
and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hast not yet ceased to
think and feel, thou desirest not my life for my own misery. Blasted as
thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine; for the bitter sting of
remorse may not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close
them for ever.

"But soon," he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, "I shall die, and
what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be
extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly, and exult in the
agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade
away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will
sleep in peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus.
Farewell."

He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the ice-raft
which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves, and
lost in darkness and distance.

 In the first letter, dated August 26, 17 -- , Walton is now the narrator for the remainder of the story. Walton tells how Victor proves his tale by producing the letters of Felix and Safie. Victor tells Walton to learn from his mistakes, that knowledge for evil ends leads to disaster. Walton comforts Victor in his last days and the two pass the time discussing other topics, such as literature, when Walton notices that it has taken a full week for Victor to narrate this story. Victor tells Robert that he must carry on the mission to destroy the monster. In the letter dated September 2, 17 -- , Walton grieves at the fact that he has found a friend who seems on the verge of death and that his own mission to discover a northwest Arctic passage has failed. He writes to his sister to remember him fondly and to wish her family well. In the letter dated September 5, 17 -- , Walton writes that Victor is now dying, and Walton has a near mutiny aboard his ship. The crew wants the ship to return to warmer waters before the ship is crushed by the weight of the ice. Walton chides the crew for their lack of adventure, and they agree to rescind their demand to turn the ship southward to escape a certain death. In the letter dated September 7, Walton is in deep despair, now far short of his goal. He informs the crew that they will return to England if they are not destroyed. In the last letter of the book, dated September 12, Victor wants to remain in this inhospitable climate even if Walton's ship returns home. However, Walton cannot lead the men to their deaths. Victor will not return to Europe or England without confronting his enemy. Walton knows that Victor will die soon from exhaustion and exposure. In the end, Victor dies. The monster breaks into the ship's cabin where Victor's body lies in state. Walton and the monster startle each other and the monster begins to tell his part of the story when he began his reign of terror. The monster finds that he can gain no sympathy from man, so he pledges to remain in the frozen north until he dies. The monster tells that he has suffered along with Victor and made evil his version of good. The monster promises no harm to Walton or his crew and leaves the ship to live out his days in the frozen land of ice. To the monster, dying is his only consolation to relieve the pain he has endured since he was given that spark of life in Ingolstadt. He swears "I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly and exult in the agony of the torturing flames." With this statement, the monster leaps overboard from the ship and disappears in the mist.

