Ch. 4: Letter 4

Letter 4

To Mrs. Saville, England.

August 5th, 17—.

So strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear

recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me before

these papers can come into your possession.

Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed

in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which

she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we

were compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to,

hoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.

About two o’clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out

in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to

have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to

grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly

attracted our attention and diverted our solicitude from our own

situation. We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by

dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile; a

being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature,

sat in the sledge and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress

of the traveller with our telescopes until he was lost among the

distant inequalities of the ice.

This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed,

many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote that

it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by

ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had observed with the

greatest attention.

About two hours after this occurrence we heard the ground sea, and before

night the ice broke and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the

morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which

float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to

rest for a few hours.

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck and

found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently

talking to someone in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we

had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night on a large

fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human

being within it whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel.

He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of

some undiscovered island, but a European. When I appeared on deck the

master said, “Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish

on the open sea.”

On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a

foreign accent. “Before I come on board your vessel,” said he,

“will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?”

You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed

to me from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom I should have

supposed that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not

have exchanged for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I

replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery towards the

northern pole.

Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board.

Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for

his safety, your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were

nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and

suffering. I never saw a man in so wretched a condition. We attempted

to carry him into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted the fresh

air he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck and

restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy and forcing him to

swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life we

wrapped him up in blankets and placed him near the chimney of the

kitchen stove. By slow degrees he recovered and ate a little soup,

which restored him wonderfully.

Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak, and I often

feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he

had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin and

attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more

interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of

wildness, and even madness, but there are moments when, if anyone

performs an act of kindness towards him or does him any the most

trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with

a beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he

is generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his

teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.

When my guest was a little recovered I had great trouble to keep off

the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not

allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body

and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose.

Once, however, the lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice

in so strange a vehicle.

His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom, and

he replied, “To seek one who fled from me.”

“And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?”

“Yes.”

“Then I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked you up we

saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice.”

This aroused the stranger’s attention, and he asked a multitude of

questions concerning the route which the dæmon, as he called him, had

pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said, “I have,

doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good

people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries.”

“Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to

trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine.”

“And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have

benevolently restored me to life.”

Soon after this he inquired if I thought that the breaking up of the

ice had destroyed the other sledge. I replied that I could not answer

with any degree of certainty, for the ice had not broken until near

midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety

before that time; but of this I could not judge.

From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the

stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck to watch for

the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in

the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere.

I have promised that someone should watch for him and give him instant

notice if any new object should appear in sight.

Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the

present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health but is very

silent and appears uneasy when anyone except myself enters his cabin.

Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle that the sailors are all

interested in him, although they have had very little communication

with him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother, and his

constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must

have been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck

so attractive and amiable.

I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend

on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had been

broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as the brother

of my heart.

I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals,

should I have any fresh incidents to record.

August 13th, 17—.

My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my

admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so

noble a creature destroyed by misery without feeling the most poignant

grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated, and

when he speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art,

yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.

He is now much recovered from his illness and is continually on the deck,

apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although

unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery but that he

interests himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently

conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him without

disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour of my

eventual success and into every minute detail of the measures I had taken

to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he evinced to use the

language of my heart, to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul

and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would

sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my

enterprise. One man’s life or death were but a small price to pay for

the acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should

acquire and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a

dark gloom spread over my listener’s countenance. At first I

perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before

his eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle

fast from between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast. I

paused; at length he spoke, in broken accents: “Unhappy man! Do you

share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me;

let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!”

Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the

paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened

powers, and many hours of repose and tranquil conversation were

necessary to restore his composure.

Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise

himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of

despair, he led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He asked

me the history of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told, but it

awakened various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a

friend, of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than

had ever fallen to my lot, and expressed my conviction that a man could

boast of little happiness who did not enjoy this blessing.

“I agree with you,” replied the stranger; “we are

unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than

ourselves—such a friend ought to be—do not lend his aid to

perfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most

noble of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting

friendship. You have hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for

despair. But I—I have lost everything and cannot begin life

anew.”

As he said this his countenance became expressive of a calm, settled

grief that touched me to the heart. But he was silent and presently

retired to his cabin.

Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he

does the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight

afforded by these wonderful regions seem still to have the power of

elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he

may suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointments, yet when he

has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit that has a

halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.

Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine

wanderer? You would not if you saw him. You have been tutored and

refined by books and retirement from the world, and you are therefore

somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit to

appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I

have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses that

elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I

believe it to be an intuitive discernment, a quick but never-failing

power of judgment, a penetration into the causes of things, unequalled

for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression and a

voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.

August 19th, 17—.

Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive, Captain

Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had

determined at one time that the memory of these evils should die with

me, but you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for

knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the

gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine

has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be

useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same

course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me

what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one

that may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you

in case of failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually

deemed marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might

fear to encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things

will appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which would

provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers

of nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series

internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed.”

You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered

communication, yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by

a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear

the promised narrative, partly from curiosity and partly from a strong

desire to ameliorate his fate if it were in my power. I expressed

these feelings in my answer.

“I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is

useless; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I

shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling,” continued he,

perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; “but you are mistaken, my

friend, if thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my

destiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is

determined.”

He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day when I

should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have

resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to

record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during

the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This

manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who

know him, and who hear it from his own lips—with what interest and

sympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I commence my

task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me

with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand raised in

animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by the soul

within. Strange and harrowing must be his story, frightful the storm which

embraced the gallant vessel on its course and wrecked it—thus!