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 gated 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 any one
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 Chene, 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 daemon, 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 forego 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 her's 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 heartrending 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. |