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. |
