Letter II

Writing from Archangel in late March, Robert Walton describes slow, wintry days but reports decisive progress: he has hired a vessel and begun assembling a courageous, reliable crew. Amid this success, Walton confesses a painful want—he has no intimate friend to share triumph or soften disappointment, a lack he feels keenly given his ardent, self-taught nature.

Walton outlines his officers. His lieutenant, an Englishman, is fearless and driven chiefly by professional advancement, retaining noble qualities despite uncultivated prejudices. The ship’s master is renowned for gentle discipline, integrity, and courage; Walton, disliking brutality at sea, values this kindness.

Walton recounts the master’s romantic history: the master relinquished his claim to a Russian woman he loved, gifted his savings and farm to her poorer lover, and even entreated her father to permit their union. When refused, the master left the country, returning only after her happy marriage—proof, to Walton, of extraordinary generosity, though marred by the master’s silence and lack of education.

Reaffirming resolve, Walton delays only for weather, promising prudence with others’ safety. He admits a tremor of mingled fear and pleasure as he prepares to penetrate “the land of mist and snow,” crediting a love of the marvellous—shaped by modern poetry—for drawing him beyond common paths.

Turning to family hopes, Walton wonders if he will return by Africa’s or America’s southern capes, asks Margaret to write whenever possible to sustain his spirits, and closes tenderly, accepting the risks while clinging to the promise of discovery.