(Events in these letters take place after Frankenstein has finished his tale)

September 15th, 17–

Beloved Sister,

Do you believe it, sister? Can you believe any of it? Can you believe anything at all that has transpired to my dear, distressed friend, Frankenstein? Of how he searched for graves to rob and harnessed the spark of the cavemen? Of how he summoned the muck and rot of the Earth to construct a demon that escaped and ran amok, destroying everything in its path? And of how it destroyed his family and how he found it necessary to reap what he had sown and chase it to the top of the world, where my crew found him, broken and beaten well beyond measure?

You have read this baffling and terrific tale for yourself, just as Victor imparted it to me, and do you not feel it? That “sensation of your blood congealed with horror,” infested with fear, (p. 165)? Bloody hell, he told it directly to me my face and I’m still having difficulty wrapping my mind behind it!

Dear lord, Margaret, his satchel told me he was a man of secrets but I never suspected them to be of this magnitude! I told you that I would wait for him to recuperate, for him to explain himself and his devices but in all frankness, I sorely wish that he hadn’t. “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,” (p. 165). It was clear that reliving this experience was torment for him, it must have taken every fiber in his being to calm himself from his volcanic outbursts of the creature to detail his journey from prince to pet.

Do I house a madman, Margaret? Surely he did not mean for any of this to happen to his fellow man, but he also never really took any active duty to stop it either, until he had lost it all. Any effort on my part to learn of the beast’s formation were met with either moments of disregard or deafening outbursts. The final time I asked him, he gripped me by the wrist and said, “would you also create for yourself and the world a demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace! Learn from my miseries, and do not ever seek to increase your own, (p. 166)!” The mix of rage and sadness in his eyes as he advised me were enough to drop the subject entirely.

“Our conversations were not always confined to his own history and misfortunes, however,” (p. 166). On quieter days, we would engage in a dialogue of intellectuals that would go on for hours upon hours on end. “On every point of general literature, he displayed unbounded knowledge, and quick, piercing apprehension,” (p. 166). Margaret, regardless of what he has done, I can’t help but fear for him. I have come to know his entire history and have come to see him as a friend. Though his faults and questionable actions are plenty, he is only human, a human who dared to dream for more, for glory, for purpose. Is that a crime? If so, lock me up with the entire human race for wanting to be more than our lives could provide us with. How I wish I could have met him in his prime, how majestic he would have soared, rather than knowing him in this ruined shell. He also sees how far he has fallen.

Even with the care we’ve provided him with, he weakens more and more everyday. God, “must I lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend who could sympathize and love me… as a brother, and behold I found one in ruin,” (p. 167). I would restore him to life if I could, but he abhors the idea, citing that he has no family to go back to and only a curse as his legacy. Oh dear, what else can he endure now that he is in his final moments? Just yesterday I peaked into his cabin and saw him talking in his sleep. From the phrases I heard and the way I saw him smile, I gather that he was dreaming– speaking to his dead family as if all were still in the living realm. How horrible it must be: to dream of Eden only to have it snatched away from you when you wake. I could not even hope to bear the thought of you living only in my fantasies, Margaret.

When he parts from this life, where shall his soul awaken? Shall he find himself at the Gates of Heaven, ready to be welcomed into grace and reunited with his family? Or shall he be cast into the Pits of Fire to relive the torments he is indirectly responsible for, being forever taunted by Lucifer for all eternity? I’ll pray for him. Victor is most in danger, but is it selfish to worry about myself in this hopeless predicament as well?

Aristotle once said, “Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies.” If that is the case, then I know now why I ache so much: I have finally found someone that I can learn from­– that I have been learning from all this time! And I am about to lose him to oblivion, where only God knows what will become of him! It isn’t fair! When he dies, I will be alone again, alone without a guide or teacher to learn from, without one to share experiences with, without one to welcome into my life and make this wicked existence somewhat bearable. Did I ask for too much on this Earth? I only have you to confide and request, Margaret. You have a husband and two beautiful children, how did you come to know happiness from them, rather than yearning for more, as I did?

It shames me greatly to admit to you my dear sister, that I have done nothing but concern and woe you with the status of my friend and I, when in fact, there was a much larger problem at hand. My crew and I were at death’s very door and I am just telling you about it now, deep into my letter. What does that say about me as a captain? As a man? Our ship was surrounded by mountains of ice, and were rooted to the spot without much hope of escape. As the moments ticked by, I wondered whether nature would crush the ship, whether in an instant my life as well as the lives of my men would be gone in an instant, without accomplishing anything. With dreams lost and wishes unfulfilled. It scared me more than the talks about a possible mutiny I heard about.

I was hesitant when on one night during our imprisonment, they made it known that if the vessel should be freed, I would instantly direct my course southward. I think of this now as I write this letter to you Margaret, what on Earth shall I do? I cannot merely ignore my crew’s desires yet the thought of turning back never occurred to me. Will they turn violent if I refuse? As my thoughts as documented here become your own, I keep coming back to something that Victor once said to me earlier. Do you remember it? I had to search through rough drafts of my letters to remember and sitting here thinking about what path to take on this journey has engrained it into my memory: “A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his tranquility. If the study to which you apply yourself has a tendency to weaken your affections and to destroy your taste for the simpler pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not benefiting the human mind,” (p. 36).

He told me this for a reason, Margaret! My journey has given me anything but a peaceful and quiet mind! We are constantly in danger of sinking or freezing to death! At night I lie awake, wondering if we’ll ever make it out, if I’ll be on solid ground again, if I’ll eat my favorite dishes again, if I’ll read novels I’ve been meaning to read, if I’ll survive to sleep in my own bed again. I am wondering if I’ll ever see you again, to argue and dance, hug, kiss and cherish you as my only sibling. I pray I’ll know what to do if we ever come out of this prison of ice. If this ever finds you, know that I will always love you.

Your loving brother,

 

 

September 17th, 17–

Beloved Sister,

The deed is done: the die has been cast, cemented in history forever. I have consented to return. We are coming back to England. “I have lost my hopes of utility and glory and have lost my friend,” (p. 172). The relief on my crews faces– it was a sight to behold. The sound of the ice cracking beneath us was thunderous, but my crew’s screams of relief dwarfed even the forces of nature. I confess to you my sister, that I am secretly relieved as well. Seeing how we fared earlier, of how all our lives were dictated by chance, I couldn’t take it. Everyday that I woke to the crew, my mind was never at ease. At the chance of seeing death, all I could think about was if I’d ever see you again, Margaret, the simple pleasures of talking, reminiscing of earlier times, of simply seeing the faces of my niece and nephew, that is something I want to see again. Victor was right. This was always too much for me to take on, I let my want– my need for a place in history dictate the separation and uneasiness of my family, but no more. Victor was right. I will not have this hopeless campaign tear me apart, mind and body, from what truly matter. As joy broke across the deck, I checked on my friend to see how he fared. Our conversation was brief. Even at the very brink of death, he tried with whatever strength was still within that broken body of his to get up off his bed.

His final attempt to rid the world of what he created. “The task of his destruction was mine, but I have failed. I cannot ask you to renounce your country, your friends to fulfill this task,” he told to me, “I leave you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the approach of death, I dare not ask you to do what I think is right, for I may still be misled by passion,” (p. 174). It looks like he was right, doesn’t it, Margaret? Even at our weakest points, we are still in danger of being plagued by ambition and passion to deter us onto a path empty of pleasures and delight. He died soon after, with my hand in his and one final smile. I closed his eyes and covered his body in the sheet he laid on. His last message to not pursue what he had left. All that was left to me was my journey back to my home country and my sorrow.

I thought that was the end of the matter. My grieving for him, however, was interrupted by something that would petrify even I, who had just heard an impossible tale, to the deepest part of my soul. I had heard a noise– footsteps coming from where the remains of Frankenstein lied. I entered the cabin and came face to face with rage incarnate. He was perhaps 8 feet tall in stature, his skin was a pale yellow, his face wore a loathsome expression, one held together by stitches and staples, beyond hideous and obscured by his ragged hair. From his hands, I saw that he had the texture of a mummy.

He had been crouching over the coffin when I had come in and had turned to face me. I was frozen to the spot, Margaret, too frightened to move, too hypnotized to utter a syllable. He seemed to forget I was there many moments during this confrontation, only caressing the face of his dead creator with his black-nailed hands. “‘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, (p. 175)!’”

His voice was deep and suffocating. “Does it matter anymore that I ask for forgiveness, Frankenstein? That I feel nothing but remorse for what I have done?” I abhorred myself after each murder I committed: the young boy, the man Clerval, and Elizabeth, the precious wife. The wrath I felt for seeing your happiness father!  Why should you fulfill your passions while I was left to rot?” I had hoped to acclimate myself into your society, but I see that as impossible. I see now that I have degraded below the ugliest animal, have fallen further and faster than the worst serpent to ever exist, that no compassion shall ever be shown to me.”

He then turned to me. “What of you, Captain?” You call this dead man your friend but did he ever tell you of how I suffered? How I slept from cave to cave, how I ran through snowstorms, how I ate grass and dirt, only to see my compatriot in this duel dead? What do you think of me? You have heard of my past doings, are you too disgusted with me, as your fellow humans are? What was I ever given but death? I was created from it was I not? And many times over people of all kinds attempted to end me! Did it ever occur to any of your kind that death would be the least of my needs?  That I might desire to know of something past my essence? NO– DON’T YOU DARE SHUT YOUR EYES WHEN I SPEAK TO YOU, I WILL NOT BE IGNORED!”

I opened my eyes and he stood inches away from me. I could’ve sworn I saw a tear slide down his face as he stood above me then. “Ha! Your reaction speaks for itself. But know Captain, that you will be the first and final witness for your entire race to hear my confession.

‘I was condemned before my first cries of life were ever heard. The world is my prison, I will conquer it and die, “and what I feel now ill no longer be felt,’ (p.179), and when I do, I shall engage in funeral triumphantly, and exult the agony of the burning flames, I will be eternally free then, free from your devices and machinations and prejudices.” He walked to the cabin window and put one foot through before turning to face me one last time: “…Long is the way, and hard, that out of hell leads up to the light.” And like that, he was gone, flowed away by the waves, lost in the darkness. While the experience left me terrified, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for this being when I heard what he felt, of his desires. We all desire past our essence. Isn’t it the most “human” thing about us?

Strange, is it not? I came expecting to make something of myself, believing that I had already seen everything the world could possibly show me, thinking I had prepared for anything and everything. Writing this now, I don’t think we can ever fully prepare ourselves for the difficulties that will face us. Victor was right. We must not allow our spark to shine brighter than our reach can go. The star that shines twice as bright shines for half as long, and I have every intention of surviving this and more.

Your loving brother,

Wolfson, Susan J., and Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. “Volume I, Letters VIII, IX, X, XI.” Frankenstein. 2nd ed. N.p.: Longman, 2007. 165-179. Print.

Milton, John, Paradise Lost.

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