 At these moments I wept bitterly and wished that peace would revisit my mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that could not be.  Remorse extinguished every hope.  I had been the author of unalterable evils, and I lived in daily fear lest the monster whom I had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure feeling that all was not over and that he would still commit some signal crime, which by its enormity should almost efface the recollection of the past.  There was always scope for fear so long as anything I loved remained behind.  My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be conceived.  When I thought of him I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I had so thoughtlessly bestowed.  When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to the highest peak of the Andes, could I when there have precipitated him to their base.  I wished to see him again, that I might wreak the utmost extent of abhorrence on his head and avenge the deaths of William and Justine.  Our house was the house of mourning.  My father's health was deeply shaken by the horror of the recent events.  Elizabeth was sad and desponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears she then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so blasted and destroyed.  She was no longer that happy creature who in earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake and talked with ecstasy of our future prospects.  The first of those sorrows which are sent to wean us from the earth had visited her, and its dimming influence quenched her dearest smiles.  "When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death of Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before appeared to me.  Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and injustice that I read in books or heard from others as tales of ancient days or imaginary evils; at least they were remote and more familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood. Yet I am certainly unjust.  Everybody believed that poor girl to be guilty; and if she could have committed the crime for which she suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared to love as if it had been her own!  I could not consent to the death of any human being, but certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit to remain in the society of men.  But she was innocent.  I know, I feel she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas!  Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness?  I feel as if I were walking on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are crowding and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss.  William and Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a wretch."  I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony.  I, not in deed, but in effect, was the true murderer.  Elizabeth read my anguish in my countenance, and kindly taking my hand, said, "My dearest friend, you must calm yourself.  These events have affected me, God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance that makes me tremble.  Dear Victor, banish these dark passions.  Remember the friends around you, who centre all their hopes in you.  Have we lost the power of rendering you happy? Ah!  While we love, while we are true to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native country, we may reap every tranquil blessing--what can disturb our peace?"  And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every other gift of fortune suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart?  Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror, lest at that very moment the destroyer had been near to rob me of her.  Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of heaven, could redeem my soul from woe; the very accents of love were ineffectual.  I was encompassed by a cloud which no beneficial influence could penetrate.  The wounded deer dragging its fainting limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me.  Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me, but sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by bodily exercise and by change of place, some relief from my intolerable sensations.  It was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left my home, and bending my steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought in the magnificence, the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and my ephemeral, because human, sorrows. My wanderings were directed towards the valley of Chamounix. I had visited it frequently during my boyhood.  Six years had passed since then:  _I_ was a wreck, but nought had changed in those savage and enduring scenes.  I performed the first part of my journey on horseback.  I afterwards hired a mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable to receive injury on these rugged roads.  The weather was fine; it was about the middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of Justine, that miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe. The weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in the ravine of Arve.  The immense mountains and precipices that overhung me on every side, the sound of the river raging among the rocks, and the dashing of the waterfalls around spoke of a power mighty as Omnipotence--and I ceased to fear or to bend before any being less almighty than that which had created and ruled the elements, here displayed in their most terrific guise.  Still, as I ascended higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains, the impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from among the trees formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the habitations of another race of beings.  I passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river forms, opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that overhangs it.  Soon after, I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as that of Servox, through which I had just passed. The high and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries, but I saw no more ruined castles and fertile fields.  Immense glaciers approached the road; I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche and marked the smoke of its passage.  Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and its tremendous dome overlooked the valley.  A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this journey.  Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and recognized, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the lighthearted gaiety of boyhood.  The very winds whispered in soothing accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more. Then again the kindly influence ceased to act--I found myself fettered again to grief and indulging in all the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal, striving so to forget the world, my fears, and more than all, myself--or, in a more desperate fashion, I alighted and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and despair.  At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix.  Exhaustion succeeded to the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured.  For a short space of time I remained at the window watching the pallid lightnings that played above Mont Blanc and listening to the rushing of the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath.  The same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations; when I placed my head upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed the giver of oblivion.  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 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; 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 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 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 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 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 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 utterexclamations 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 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 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 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 you 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 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 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 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 a 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 humankind 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 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.  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 mode 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 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.