My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest
compassion. He endeavours to fill me with hope
and talks as if life were a possession which he valued.
He reminds me how often the same accidents have happened
to other navigators who have attempted this sea, and
in spite of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries.
Even the sailors feel the power of his eloquence;
when he speaks, they no longer despair; he rouses
their energies, and while they hear his voice they
believe these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills
which will vanish before the resolutions of man.
These feelings are transitory; each day of expectation
delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a
mutiny caused by this despair.
A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest
that, although it is highly probable that these papers
may never reach you, yet I cannot forbear recording
it.
We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still
in imminent danger of being crushed in their conflict.
The cold is excessive, and many of my unfortunate
comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene
of desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined
in health; a feverish fire still glimmers in his eyes,
but he is exhausted, and when suddenly roused to any
exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent lifelessness.
I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained
of a mutiny. This morning, as I sat watching
the wan countenance of my friend—his eyes
half closed and his limbs hanging listlessly—I
was roused by half a dozen of the sailors, who 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.
This speech troubled me. I had not despaired,
nor had I yet conceived the idea of returning if set
free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in possibility,
refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered,
when Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and
indeed appeared hardly to have force enough to attend,
now roused himself; his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks
flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards
the men, he said, “What do you mean? What
do you demand of your captain? Are you, then,
so easily turned from your design? Did you not
call this a glorious expedition?
