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Hello and welcome to Storytime for Grown Ups. I'm Faith Moore and this season we're reading Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. Each episode I'll read a few chapters from the book, pausing from time to time to give brief explanations so it's easier to follow along. It's like an audiobook with built in notes. So brew a pot of tea, find a cozy chair and settle in. It's story time. Hello. Welcome back. We made it. This is it. This is the final episode of Frankenstein, you guys. Well, actually, there'll be one more episode. I'll talk about that in a minute. But this is the final chapter that we are about to read today. So thank you for being here. Thank you for coming along with me on this journey through Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, through spooky season. I'll say much more about this in the next episode. But I really am so grateful always for all of you who are out there listening, but particularly this time, because I know that some of you weren't so sure about this book and I know some of you have come along for the ride because you trusted me and I really, really do appreciate it. Appreciate that trust. I'm so grateful for it. So thank you for being here for Frankenstein. So, yeah, this is our last episode of Chapters. Then on Thursday, we will have a concluding episode where we won't read any more book because there'll be no more book to read. But we will kind of wrap things up, right? We will have read this final part, so we have to talk about that. And in talking about that and answering some of your questions, I will try to kind of tie it all up with a lovely bow. Although this is not a book that goes very well with a lovely bow. But we'll do our best. Maybe the bow will be black, we'll dye it all up, and then we'll be ready to put it behind us and move joyfully into our Christmas spectacular, our Victorian Christmas, which is coming up. So that will begin on November 3rd, so there won't be any break. Right. The conclusion episode will be on Thursday, October 30th. And the Christmas season spectacular will begin on November 3rd. November 3rd will be our introduction episode to A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnet, which is what we are reading next for the months of November and December. In that episode, I will talk about a few logistics, how it's all going to go. And there are lots of really fun, exciting events and giveaways and things like that. That will be part of our Christmas spectacular. So that will be part of our intro episode, as well as what we always do at the start of a new book, which is just some introductory information about the book, about the author, about the time period and the place, the setting. Just things that you might need to know in Nothing that's a spoiler, nothing that's just going to bombard you with information. I never do that. But just a little bit. And that will be November 3rd and then away we will go with Monday and Thursday episodes, reading the book together until the end of December or just right before Christmas. Then we will have a very short break for Christmas and New Year and then we will come back with a new book in January and a trailer for that will drop at some point in December. So I'll keep you updated about all of that. But that's what's coming up here on Storytime. And I hope you'll join us and as I've been saying, I hope you will join us with your friends and your family and your kids for the Victorian Christmas that's coming up. It's appropriate for children. So I hope that you will bring your children so that we can have a cozy Victorian Christmas. Because Victorian Christmases are all about gathering together with your family and friends. So I hope we can do that. But via Storytime for Grown Ups and via this book, A Little Princess. I think it's going to be really, really fun. So I hope that you'll join us and I hope that you'll tell anyone in your life that you would like to share it with so that you can have people in real life listening as well and that you can talk to. So that's what is coming. The other reminder at this point is that tomorrow, Tuesday, October 28th at 8pm Eastern will be tea time over in the drawing room. We will get to talk about the end of this book. We will talk about any questions that you have. There are already a few questions in the drawing room community, some fun Halloween questions. We can talk about that. Anything that you would like to talk about. We can talk a little bit about our thoughts and feelings going into the Christmas Spectacular. So we've got lots and lots to talk about. So I'm really excited and I hope you will join us. If you are not a member of the drawing room and or if you are not a member of the landed gentry membership tier of the drawing room, you will not be able to participate in tea time. But there is still time if you are listening in real time to remedy that. So just scroll into the show notes of this episode. That's the description of this episode, click on the link to the online community that you'll find there and that'll give you more information. And if you would like to join us for tea time, which is just a lovely cozy voice chat, kind of like a group phone call where I get to talk to you, you can talk back to me or you can just listen. That's completely fine too. And so that will take you to more information. Click on that and if you'd like, sign up. I hope you will. I hope to hear some new voices and of course I am really looking forward to chatting to all my old friends. So that is tomorrow, Tuesday, October 28th at 8pm Eastern. Something else that I wanted to tell you about is that I have just published a review of the new Frankenstein movie. Did you guys know that there is a Frankenstein movie that just came out? It's directed by Guillermo del Toro. It's stars Oscar Isaac as Victor Frankenstein and Jacob Elordi. I think that's how you pronounce his last name as the creature. And I went to see it over the weekend and my review is out now. So I have put a link to that review in the show notes. So feel free to check it out. It gives a little bit of spoilers for the movie, not a whole lot. And it doesn't give away the ending. So you can read it before you listen to the end of the book. And if you want to, I would love to know if you have seen that movie too. It was really interesting. I have a lot of thoughts. Many of them didn't make it into the review because it could only be 800 words. And maybe we can find some way to all talk about it together. I will think about that. But it is in theaters now, but it's coming to Netflix very soon, I think November 7th. So if you have that, you can watch the movie. So that's a really fun connection. As we finish this book. There is a movie coming out and it's does try to stick a lot more closely to the themes of the book than maybe some of the past movies have done. And that's what makes it so interesting. I'm not sure it totally captures everything that we've been talking about, but it's a really, really interesting and fun movie. So check it out if you want to. But also check out my review and I've linked to that, as I said in the show notes so you can take a look at that. And the last reminder is that my novel Christmas Carol, that's Carol with a K now has a new PA paperback edition with a beautiful, beautiful new cover. Exactly the COVID the book should have by our very own Cynthia Angulo. It is now available for pre order. So there's a link to that as well in the show notes. So I hope that you will check that out, pick up a few copies. I will be giving out all kinds of goodies to people who buy the book and you'll learn more about that in the Christmas Spectacular. So get your book now. Just pre order it. It comes out November 6th and so it will come into your homes via whatever magical system, maybe the mail that brings books to you and it will come to you then if you pre order it now. So please do that if you are willing and able. Okay, let's get back into it for this final chapter. So last time we read chapter 23 and then half of chapter 24. Today we're going to read the second half of chapter 24 and then that will be that. Okay, so I have some questions. We're going to talk a bit, but first here is the the recap. Alright, so where we left off, Victor and Elizabeth arrive at an inn. And Victor sends Elizabeth to bed so that he can face the monster alone. But as he's searching the house for the monster, he hears a scream. He runs into the bedroom and finds that Elizabeth has been strangled by the monster. Victor then sees the monster at the window and fires his gun at him, but he misses. He runs out after him and the people nearby help, but no one can find the monster. Victor then rushes back to Geneva where worried that the monster will kill his family there next. And he tells his father about Elizabeth's death. This causes the father to be so filled with grief that he dies a few days later. This causes Victor to go completely mad and he's shut up in an asylum for several months. When he gets out, he tells a local magistrate about the monster, but the magistrate doesn't really believe him. So Victor decides he has to hunt down the monster on his own. Victor visits the graves of his loved ones and he swears revenge on the monster. He says he's going to hunt him down and either kill him or be killed. Killed by him. So Victor starts tracking the monster. He tracks him for months, but the monster is always just out of reach. But he's leaving him these kind of taunting notes along the way. Finally, he tracks him to the frozen tundra where he hires a dog sled and he heads onto the ice. He's catching up to him when the ice suddenly breaks apart and he's stranded on an ice floe. It's at this point that Walton's ship rescued Victor. So Victor then rescued, begs Walton. So now he's talking directly to Walton again. And he begs him to take up his cause after he dies, because he feels that he's going to die soon. And he tells them that when he's dead, if Walton has the opportunity to kill the monster, that he will be there in spirit, guiding his hand. All right, so I'm going to read two comments today. The first one comes from Joanna. Joanna writes, what struck me most profoundly about today's chapter was how even after losing everything and everyone that makes life worth living, Victor still, still will not take responsibility for the chaos he caused in the lab. He created an ugly being. He owned up to that. But he will not admit, even to himself, that it was his own refusal to accept, love, nurture, and guide his creation that twisted him into a monster. It wasn't Victor's scientific endeavors that ruined him. It was his own cruelty. And yes, like a true narcissist, he always views himself as the real victim. I wonder if Mary Shelley understood the depth her melodramatic little book contained. And the second one comes from John. John writes, the first rule of horror movies is don't split up. And Victor and Elizabeth split up. Also, was it just me or were there kind of sexual vibes going on in the scene where Victor finds Elizabeth? Okay, right. So those of us who have watched a few horror movies, and I put myself in this camp because in my youth, I was a fan of scary movies, although now that I'm older, I kind of can't sit through them anymore. But those of us who have watched a few know that there are these certain kind of horror movie tropes, certain things that seem to happen in all horror movies. The movie Scream was commenting on all of those. Right. That was kind of a parody of them. But one of these tropes is about splitting up, right? The minute the characters in the movie decide to split up, you know that someone is going to die. And that's exactly what happened here. Right? Victor sent Elizabeth off to bed because he thought the monster was coming for him. And it was exactly then that the monster showed up and went after Elizabeth. But I am so glad that John mentioned that there was something sort of sexual going on in this scene, because there absolutely is. So last time we talked about how the monster is coming to enact his revenge on Victor's wedding night, because a wedding night is what Victor denied the monster and I said last time that there was a prediction that many of you were making about what was going to happen. And I can now reveal that, that it was exactly what did happen. And I think that was being telegraphed to us in the story, right? Victor thought the monster was coming for him because Victor thinks that everything is about him. But actually the monster was coming for Elizabeth to make Victor have to live, just like the monster has had to live, right? Victor denied the monster a bride, so now the monster has denied Victor a bride. But it is even more than that, I think, because what do we imagine that Elizabeth thought was going to happen on her wedding night? I mean, what, especially back then, was the point of a wedding night? It was to sleep together. That's the consummation that we were talking about before. In fact, if you don't sleep together on your wedding night or at some point after your wedding, then your marriage isn't valid. It can be annulled, right? So the tradition is that you get married and then you get into bed with each other, because that's actually a part of the marriage ceremony. So Elizabeth presumably was expecting that she and Victor would consummate their marriage, that they would join together in this new way that would take them from sort of chaste cousins to romantic partners. But instead, Victor sends her up to the wedding chamber alone. Okay, here's what he says. Suddenly, I reflected how fearful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife. And I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy. So I'm kind of imagining Elizabeth here being like, okay, Victor, I'll go to bed alone, right? Because she's too discreet and delicate to say what she's probably actually thinking, which is like, hello, there is more to this whole marriage thing. And she's probably feeling pretty bad about herself, I would imagine, since she was already worried that Victor didn't want to be marry her and that he was in love with someone else. So this is probably pretty devastating for her right now. And. And not to do too much like literary analysis here, but symbolically, what's happening seems to me to be that Victor has renounced human procreation, right? In making this monster without a woman, he has undone the natural order of things. And so here he is doing it again. He's denying the fact that female part of marriage, of sexual connection and of potential children. But there is more. Listen to the way that Victor describes the scene he encounters when he rushes into the Room after hearing Elizabeth scream. Okay, this is what he says. She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down. And her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair. Everywhere I turn, I see the same figure. Her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal beard. Okay, it's an almost sexual description of death, isn't it? It's like sex and death mingle together, right? The way she's lying across the bed could almost be the description of, like, the aftermath of a sex scene. But then it's not that at all. It's a murder. Okay, so the imagery here is that what should have been sex, right? What should have been reproduction, and life has instead become death. And the thing that Victor should have done initially, right, which is go to bed with her and embrace her as husband and wife. This is the thing that he's doing now when she's actually dead. Okay, here's what he says. I rushed towards her and embraced her with ardor. But the deadly languor and coldness of the limbs told me that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be Elizabeth, whom I had loved and cherished. Okay? He embraced her with ardor. That's really specific language. It's the language of a lover. Of someone who is going to bed with his new wife, let's say. But he's not going to bed with her. He's clasping her dead body, right? Death in this scene is inexorably mixed up with sex. It even says the wedding bier, right? A bier is the thing that you put the coffin on so you can get it into the grave. So a beer has no business being at a wedding at all. But there it is, right? It's sex and death both. Because in a way, that's kind of what this book is all about. And I think it all has to do with Victor's, like, initial sin, if you will, which was creating a human being without a woman. Like, subverting the natural order of things, playing God. And I also think it has to do with what the monster wanted but couldn't have. Which was the natural order of things. He wanted a bride, sex, children. But which would have been made unnatural because the monster himself is unnaturally made. And now, like Joanna points out in her letter, Victor is kind of doubling down on his victim complex, right? Here is what he says. A fiend had snatched from me every hope of future happiness. No creature had ever been so miserable as I was. So frightful an event is single in the history of man. I mean, that's the language of a self proclaimed victim if I ever heard it. Since he can't see that it was his cruelty that led the creature to become what he is now, which is a monster, right? He feels like he's doing a good and heroic thing in dropping everything and like chasing the monster to the ends of the earth. He thinks he is the hero of this story, but really I think at least that he is the villain or maybe one of two villains. Because the monster has also become a villain now. They are sort of drawing closer and closer to each other, right? The parallels are getting more and more direct. I mean, just listen to what he says about the magistrate's reaction to his story, right? He tells this magistrate, this judge about the monster. He finally tells someone his story, but it doesn't get the reaction he wanted. And this is what he. There was a frenzy in my manner and something doubt, not of that haughty fierceness which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness. He just called himself a martyr. Did you catch that? I'm not imagining that. Victor thinks that what he's doing now is akin to martyrdom. But it is his fault, right? He created this being in the first place. He abandoned, abandoned and rejected him. He continued to abandon and reject him and hate him after he learned that he was in fact a human being or a human like being. At every turn, he treated the creature with absolute unfeeling hatred and he turned the creature into a monster. But now he's a martyr for going after the monster to try and kill him. I mean, blah. It's so frustrating. But now the monster and Victoria really are kind of one in the same, right? Because they are both out to revenge themselves on the other. Okay, here's what Victor. But revenge kept me alive. I dared not die and leave my adversary in being. Alright, so Victor is out for revenge and the monster is out for revenge. But I think it is worth noting that while Victor thinks that the monster is dangerous to like the entire world, that he'll kill anyone and everyone. Really, the monster is only dangerous to Victor and the people that Victor loves. Like, if Victor died, I don't know that the monster would keep killing. He's killing because he's so angry with Victor for condemning him to this life that he now has to lead. And that's why I think the Monster seems to want to keep Victor alive. He's even sort of leaving him these little notes and some food and stuff. Because if Victor dies, then the monster's whole game is over. So the monster isn't a danger to the whole world necessarily. He's really only a danger to Victor. But anyway, we now have, at least to my mind, two monsters. Victor and his creature. But the creature seems to understand that what he's doing is monstrous, right? He's said several times that he's essentially embracing his monster nature. He's not Adam. He's Satan. He's gonna make Victor pay and all of this. But Victor thinks that he himself is a martyr. He thinks he is now on, like, the most righteous and glorious crusade to rid the world of this horrible evil. And he swears this kind of truly awesome and very melodramatic oath at the graves of his loved ones, right? And if he were our hero, we would feel like, yeah, rock on, or whatever. But because he's so misguided and maybe even at this point, a little bit evil, it all feels kind of sinister, right? I mean, he's in this graveyard and he's talking about the shadow shades of his loved ones floating around, and he's uttering this oath. I don't know about you, but to me, it kind of feels like a curse or like a magic spell or something. And also, if you notice, he is not swearing to God. He's swearing to kind of, like, everything but God. And that makes sense because in this whole scenario, Victor is the God, but he's a totally unnatural and kind of unholy one. Here's that oath that he swears. He says, by the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear. And by thee, O night, and the spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the demon who caused this misery until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose, I will preserve my life. To execute this dear revenge, will I again behold the sun and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my eyes forever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead, and on you, wandering ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of agony. Let him feel the despair that now torments me. I mean, it's wonderful, but it's also awful, right? And it's a kind of packed, it seems to me, with, like, evil or unholy forces. But he thinks it's like the holy vow of a martyr. And he seems to think that when it's all done, he'll be headed to heaven to meet up with Elizabeth and everybody else. Here's what he never Will I give up my search until he or I perish. And then with what ecstasy shall I join my Elizabeth and my departed friends, who even now prepare for me the reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage? But I don't know. Is he headed for heaven? I mean, only God can know that. But. But Victor seems to have sort of abandoned God here. But now Victor's story is actually over. We are about to go back to Walton as our narrator. That's why I broke chapter 24 up the way that I did. Victor's narrative ends with Victor asking Walton to essentially take up his quest if he should die. Since it kind of looks like he's actually dying now, he knows it's a big ask. And he's not saying that Walton should now chase the monster all over the world. But he is saying that should the monster ever show up, Walton shouldn't hesitate to kill it. Here is what he and do I dare to ask of you to undertake my pilgrimage to endure the hardships that I have undergone. No, I am not so selfish. Yet when I am dead, if he should appear, if the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he shall not live. Swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated woes and survive to add to the list of his dark crimes. Which is kind of an awful thing to ask Walton to swear to, if you ask me, right? But there you are. And here we go into the last little bit of the story. How will it all play out? Victor is in Walton's ship, near death. We've come back around to where we started. Walton's ship is headed to the North Pole, but it's frozen in ice. The creature is somewhere nearby, right? Since Walton saw him rush by at the very beginning of the story. And Victor is at death's door. So let's read this final chapter. And of course, write to me when it's all done. It's faithkmoore.com and click on Contact or scroll into the Show Notes and click the link that's there. We will have one more episode on Thursday to talk about the end of this book, and I'll read some of your comments and questions there. I'll also read some comments and questions I've been saving, so it should be great. I hope you'll tune in to that episode and Then, of course, please gather round with your friends and family and tune in on November 3 for the Christmas Spectacular. And please join us in the drawing room tomorrow, the 28th, at 8pm Eastern. There's lots to do, lots of ways to connect. I hope that you'll join us. All right, let's get started with part two of chapter 24 of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. It's story time. Walton in continuation. 8-26-17. Blank. You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret, and do you not feel your blood congeal 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 anguish. 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. Imprecations are like curses. 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 showed 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 endeavored 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? 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 spirit 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 creation of his fancy, but the beings themselves 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 endeavors to move the passions of pity or love without tears. What a glorious creature he must 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 believed myself 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 A1 than the creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the herd of common projectors. But this thought, 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 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 end 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 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 wretched. 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 shown early, suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however strongly he may be attached, may in spite of himself be contemplated 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. My beloved sister, September 2nd. 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 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. Yet it is terrible to reflect that the lives of all these men are endangered through me. If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause. And 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 failing of your heartfelt expectations is, 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. Auguries are signs of the future. So Victor's trying to keep Walton's spirits up by telling him that things will turn out alright for him in the end. 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 molehills which will vanish before the resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory. Each day of 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. Okay, so they're trapped in the ice, their ship can't move, and his crew is dying. 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 demanded 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 requisition 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 insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise that if the vessel should be freed, I would instantly direct my course southwards. Meaning they want him to promise to turn around if they ever can, and go home, as opposed to continuing toward the north. This speech troubled me. I had not despaired. Nor had I yet conceived the idea of returning if set free. Yet could I, injustice, 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 vigor. 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 it. And these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious. For this was it an honorable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species, your names adored as belonging to brave men who encounter death for honor 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 firesides. 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 may be. It is mutable and 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 farther 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 honor 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 9th. The ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard at a distance as the island 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 sprang 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. Him. And 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. 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 meantime, 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 blamable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature and would 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 the beings of my own species 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 showed 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 revenge 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 that 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. So Victor is saying he wants to ask Walton to take up his mission to kill the monster. But he can't outright ask him, because that would be unfair and it would consign Walton to the same fate as Victor. Like traveling all over the world in search of the monster. 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 sank into silence. About half an hour afterwards, he attempted again to speak, but was unable. He pressed my hand feebly and his eyes closed forever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away from his lips. Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of. 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 color 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 endeavored 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 uncontrolled 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. O 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 lovest. Alas, he is cold. He cannot 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 eyes to 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 strings of remorse, before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this ext. Extremity. Frankenstein would yet have lived. And do you dream, said the demon. Do you think that I was then dead to agony and remorse? He. He continued, pointing to the corpse. He suffered not in the consummation of the deed. Oh, not the 10,000th 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 you that the groans of Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy. And when wretched 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, heartbroken 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 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 forever 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 rekindled 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 suffering 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 unfolding. I was nourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But now crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no misery can be found comparable to mine. When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins. I cannot believe that I am the same creature. Whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions. Of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so the fallen angel becomes the malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation. I am 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 while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They were forever 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 mankind 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 irredeemable 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 these hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more. Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly complete. Neither yours 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 meaning. He sees that what must happen now is that he himself must die. Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice raft which brought me thither 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 warbling 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 humankind, 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 mood unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine. For the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close them forever. 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, triumphant. 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 sprang 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. This concludes our reading of Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. Thank you so much for listening. Will return on Thursday with a concluding episode and then on Monday, November 3rd, with our Christmas Spectacular, where we'll be reading A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Alright, everyone, story time is over. The Sam.