Frankenstein

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 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.

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