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 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 demon 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.
THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 
Mystery