Ch. 12: Chapter 8

Chapter 8

We passed a few sad hours until eleven o’clock, when the trial was to

commence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend

as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of

this wretched mockery of justice I suffered living torture. It was to

be decided whether the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would

cause the death of two of my fellow beings: one a smiling babe full of

innocence and joy, the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every

aggravation of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror.

Justine also was a girl of merit and possessed qualities which promised

to render her life happy; now all was to be obliterated in an

ignominious grave, and I the cause! A thousand times rather would I

have confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine, but I

was absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have

been considered as the ravings of a madman and would not have

exculpated her who suffered through me.

The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning, and

her countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her

feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in

innocence and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated by

thousands, for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have

excited was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the

imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed. She

was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as

her confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she

worked up her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered the

court she threw her eyes round it and quickly discovered where we were

seated. A tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us, but she quickly

recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest

her utter guiltlessness.

The trial began, and after the advocate against her had stated the

charge, several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined

against her, which might have staggered anyone who had not such proof

of her innocence as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on

which the murder had been committed and towards morning had been

perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where the body of the

murdered child had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she

did there, but she looked very strangely and only returned a confused

and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight

o’clock, and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she

replied that she had been looking for the child and demanded earnestly

if anything had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, she

fell into violent hysterics and kept her bed for several days. The

picture was then produced which the servant had found in her pocket;

and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same

which, an hour before the child had been missed, she had placed round

his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation filled the court.

Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded, her

countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly

expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears, but when she was

desired to plead, she collected her powers and spoke in an audible

although variable voice.

“God knows,” she said, “how entirely I am innocent. But I

do not pretend that my protestations should acquit me; I rest my innocence

on a plain and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced

against me, and I hope the character I have always borne will incline my

judges to a favourable interpretation where any circumstance appears

doubtful or suspicious.”

She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed

the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the

house of an aunt at Chêne, a village situated at about a league from

Geneva. On her return, at about nine o’clock, she met a man who asked

her if she had seen anything of the child who was lost. She was

alarmed by this account and passed several hours in looking for him,

when the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced to remain

several hours of the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being

unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom she was well known. Most

of the night she spent here watching; towards morning she believed that

she slept for a few minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she awoke.

It was dawn, and she quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavour

to find my brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay,

it was without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered when

questioned by the market-woman was not surprising, since she had passed

a sleepless night and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain.

Concerning the picture she could give no account.

“I know,” continued the unhappy victim, “how heavily and

fatally this one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of

explaining it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left

to conjecture concerning the probabilities by which it might have been

placed in my pocket. But here also I am checked. I believe that I have no

enemy on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to destroy me

wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I know of no opportunity

afforded him for so doing; or, if I had, why should he have stolen the

jewel, to part with it again so soon?

“I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for

hope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my

character, and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed

guilt, I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my

innocence.”

Several witnesses were called who had known her for many years, and

they spoke well of her; but fear and hatred of the crime of which they

supposed her guilty rendered them timorous and unwilling to come

forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource, her excellent

dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused,

when, although violently agitated, she desired permission to address

the court.

“I am,” said she, “the cousin of the unhappy child who

was murdered, or rather his sister, for I was educated by and have lived

with his parents ever since and even long before his birth. It may

therefore be judged indecent in me to come forward on this occasion, but

when I see a fellow creature about to perish through the cowardice of her

pretended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I

know of her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have lived

in the same house with her, at one time for five and at another for nearly

two years. During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable and

benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my aunt, in

her last illness, with the greatest affection and care and afterwards

attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner that excited

the admiration of all who knew her, after which she again lived in my

uncle’s house, where she was beloved by all the family. She was

warmly attached to the child who is now dead and acted towards him like a

most affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to say that,

notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I believe and rely

on her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for such an action; as to

the bauble on which the chief proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it,

I should have willingly given it to her, so much do I esteem and value

her.”

A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth’s simple and powerful

appeal, but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in

favour of poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned with

renewed violence, charging her with the blackest ingratitude. She

herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My own

agitation and anguish was extreme during the whole trial. I believed

in her innocence; I knew it. Could the dæmon who had (I did not for a

minute doubt) murdered my brother also in his hellish sport have

betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy? I could not sustain the

horror of my situation, and when I perceived that the popular voice and

the countenances of the judges had already condemned my unhappy victim,

I rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures of the accused did

not equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of

remorse tore my bosom and would not forgo their hold.

I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning I went to

the court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask the fatal

question, but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause of my

visit. The ballots had been thrown; they were all black, and Justine

was condemned.

I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before

experienced sensations of horror, and I have endeavoured to bestow upon

them adequate expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the

heart-sickening despair that I then endured. The person to whom I

addressed myself added that Justine had already confessed her guilt.

“That evidence,” he observed, “was hardly required in so glaring a

case, but I am glad of it, and, indeed, none of our judges like to

condemn a criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so

decisive.”

This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean? Had

my eyes deceived me? And was I really as mad as the whole world would

believe me to be if I disclosed the object of my suspicions? I

hastened to return home, and Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.

“My cousin,” replied I, “it is decided as you may have expected; all

judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer than that one guilty

should escape. But she has confessed.”

This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness upon

Justine’s innocence. “Alas!” said she. “How shall I

ever again believe in human goodness? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as

my sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray?

Her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or guile, and yet she has

committed a murder.”

Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire to see my

cousin. My father wished her not to go but said that he left it to her own

judgment and feelings to decide. “Yes,” said Elizabeth,

“I will go, although she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany

me; I cannot go alone.” The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet

I could not refuse.

We entered the gloomy prison chamber and beheld Justine sitting on some

straw at the farther end; her hands were manacled, and her head rested on

her knees. She rose on seeing us enter, and when we were left alone with

her, she threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My

cousin wept also.

“Oh, Justine!” said she. “Why did you rob me of my last consolation?

I relied on your innocence, and although I was then very wretched, I

was not so miserable as I am now.”

“And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also

join with my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?” Her

voice was suffocated with sobs.

“Rise, my poor girl,” said Elizabeth; “why do you kneel,

if you are innocent? I am not one of your enemies, I believed you

guiltless, notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard that you had

yourself declared your guilt. That report, you say, is false; and be

assured, dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a

moment, but your own confession.”

“I did confess, but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might

obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than

all my other sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was

condemned, my confessor has besieged me; he threatened and menaced,

until I almost began to think that I was the monster that he said I

was. He threatened excommunication and hell fire in my last moments if

I continued obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to support me; all looked

on me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition. What could I do?

In an evil hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly

miserable.”

She paused, weeping, and then continued, “I thought with horror, my

sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed

aunt had so highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable

of a crime which none but the devil himself could have perpetrated.

Dear William! Dearest blessed child! I soon shall see you again in

heaven, where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me, going as I

am to suffer ignominy and death.”

“Oh, Justine! Forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you.

Why did you confess? But do not mourn, dear girl. Do not fear. I

will proclaim, I will prove your innocence. I will melt the stony

hearts of your enemies by my tears and prayers. You shall not die!

You, my playfellow, my companion, my sister, perish on the scaffold!

No! No! I never could survive so horrible a misfortune.”

Justine shook her head mournfully. “I do not fear to die,” she said;

“that pang is past. God raises my weakness and gives me courage to

endure the worst. I leave a sad and bitter world; and if you remember

me and think of me as of one unjustly condemned, I am resigned to the

fate awaiting me. Learn from me, dear lady, to submit in patience to

the will of heaven!”

During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison room,

where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair!

Who dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass

the awful boundary between life and death, felt not, as I did, such

deep and bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth and ground them together,

uttering a groan that came from my inmost soul. Justine started. When

she saw who it was, she approached me and said, “Dear sir, you are very

kind to visit me; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty?”

I could not answer. “No, Justine,” said Elizabeth; “he is more

convinced of your innocence than I was, for even when he heard that you

had confessed, he did not credit it.”

“I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest

gratitude towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is

the affection of others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than

half my misfortune, and I feel as if I could die in peace now that my

innocence is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin.”

Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed

gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the

never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or

consolation. Elizabeth also wept and was unhappy, but hers also was

the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair

moon, for a while hides but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and

despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within

me which nothing could extinguish. We stayed several hours with

Justine, and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear

herself away. “I wish,” cried she, “that I were to die with you; I

cannot live in this world of misery.”

Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty

repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth and said in a voice

of half-suppressed emotion, “Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth,

my beloved and only friend; may heaven, in its bounty, bless and

preserve you; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever

suffer! Live, and be happy, and make others so.”

And on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth’s heart-rending eloquence

failed to move the judges from their settled conviction in the

criminality of the saintly sufferer. My passionate and indignant

appeals were lost upon them. And when I received their cold answers

and heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these men, my purposed

avowal died away on my lips. Thus I might proclaim myself a madman,

but not revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched victim. She

perished on the scaffold as a murderess!

From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and

voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing! And my

father’s woe, and the desolation of that late so smiling home all was

the work of my thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones, but these

are not your last tears! Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and

the sound of your lamentations shall again and again be heard!

Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he

who would spend each vital drop of blood for your sakes, who has no

thought nor sense of joy except as it is mirrored also in your dear

countenances, who would fill the air with blessings and spend his life

in serving you—he bids you weep, to shed countless tears; happy beyond

his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the destruction

pause before the peace of the grave have succeeded to your sad torments!

Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair,

I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and

Justine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts.