Chapter 8

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

We spent a few agonizing hours until eleven o’clock, the time set for the trial to begin. My father and the rest of the family had to attend as witnesses, so I went with them to the courthouse. Throughout this miserable farce of justice, I felt like I was being tortured. The outcome would determine whether my reckless curiosity and actions would lead to the deaths of two people: one was a cheerful baby, innocent and full of life, and the other was Justine, a girl of great character whose life was now at risk, tarnished by the most horrific crime imaginable. Justine had so much potential for happiness, and now all of that was about to be erased, buried in a disgraceful grave, and I was the reason for it all. A thousand times, I would have rather confessed to the crime attributed to Justine, but I hadn’t been there when it happened, and such a confession would have been seen as the ramblings of a madman, doing nothing to save her from the consequences of my actions.

Justine appeared calm as she entered the courtroom. Dressed in mourning, her always-engaging face was made even more beautiful by the gravity of her situation. Despite being stared at and condemned by the crowd, she radiated confidence in her innocence and didn’t tremble. The kindness her beauty might have inspired was overshadowed by the horrific crime she was accused of. Though she seemed composed, it was clear that her calmness was forced; her earlier confusion had been used against her as evidence of guilt, so she steeled herself to appear brave. When she stepped into the courtroom, her eyes scanned the room and quickly found us. A tear glistened in her eye when she spotted us, but she quickly regained her composure, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to affirm her innocence.

The trial began, and after the prosecutor laid out the charges, several witnesses were called to testify. Strange facts piled up against her, which could have shaken anyone who didn’t know the truth as I did. Justine had been out all night on the evening of the murder, and a market woman had seen her near the spot where the body of the murdered child was later discovered. When the woman asked her what she was doing there, Justine had responded with a strange, confused answer. She returned home around eight o’clock, and when asked where she had spent the night, she said she had been looking for the child and urgently wanted to know if anyone had heard anything about him. When shown the body, she fell into a fit of hysteria and remained in bed for several days. Then, a picture was presented, one that the servant had found in her pocket. When Elizabeth, her voice trembling, confirmed that it was the same picture she had placed around the child’s neck just an hour before he went missing, a murmur of horror and outrage swept through the courtroom.

Justine was called to defend herself. As the trial progressed, her expression changed. Surprise, horror, and despair were evident on her face. She struggled to hold back her tears, but when it was time for her to speak, she gathered her strength and addressed the court in a clear, though shaky, voice.

“God knows,” she said, “that I am completely innocent. But I don’t expect my claims alone to clear me. I rely on a straightforward explanation of the facts presented against me, and I hope that my character, which I have always upheld, will lead my judges to interpret any doubts or suspicions favorably.”

She went on to explain that, with Elizabeth’s permission, she had spent the evening of the murder at her aunt’s house in Chêne, a village about a league from Geneva. On her way back around nine o’clock, she encountered a man who asked if she had seen the lost child. Alarmed by this news, she spent several hours searching for him until the gates of Geneva closed, forcing her to stay overnight in a barn belonging to a nearby cottage, not wanting to disturb the residents, who knew her well. Most of the night was spent there, watching and waiting; at dawn, she believed she had dozed off for a few minutes before being startled awake by some footsteps. When she left the barn, it was to continue her search for my brother. If she had unknowingly wandered near the place where his body lay, it was entirely unintentional. It was no surprise that she had been bewildered when questioned by the market woman, having spent a sleepless night with the fate of poor William still uncertain. As for the picture, she had no explanation.

“I know,” the distraught victim continued, “how heavily this situation weighs against me, but I can’t explain it. When I express my complete ignorance, I’m left only to guess how it might have ended up in my pocket. But even that leads me nowhere. I don’t believe I have any enemies, and surely no one would be cruel enough to destroy me for no reason. Did the murderer put it there? I can’t think of any chance they had to do so. And if they did, why would they steal the jewel only to get rid of it so quickly?

“I place my fate in the hands of my judges, yet I see no hope. I ask for a few witnesses to speak on my character, and if their words don’t outweigh the accusations against me, I must accept my fate, even though I would stake my life on my innocence.”

Several witnesses were called, people who had known her for years, and they spoke highly of her. However, fear and the stigma of the crime they believed she committed made them hesitant to step forward. Elizabeth watched in despair as this last hope—her good character and impeccable conduct—seemed to slip away. Then, despite her agitation, she requested permission to address the court.

“I am,” she began, “the cousin of the child who was murdered—or rather, his sister, since I was raised by his parents and lived with them long before he was born. It may seem inappropriate for me to speak now, but when I see an innocent person about to suffer because of the cowardice of those who should support her, I must be allowed to share what I know about her character. I have lived with the accused for extended periods, and during that time, she has always seemed to me the most kind-hearted and caring person. She cared for Madame Frankenstein, my aunt, during her last illness with the utmost affection, and later looked after her own mother through a long sickness, earning the admiration of everyone around her. After that, she returned to my uncle’s house, where she was loved by the entire family. She was deeply attached to the child who is now gone, treating him with the love of a devoted mother. I can say without hesitation that despite all the evidence against her, I believe in her complete innocence. She had no motive for such an act; as for the trinket that is the main evidence, if she had truly wanted it, I would have gladly given it to her, for I hold her in the highest regard.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd after Elizabeth’s heartfelt plea, but it was more about her bravery than in support of Justine, who faced renewed public outrage, accused of the worst kind of betrayal. Justine wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she remained silent. My own turmoil and anguish were overwhelming throughout the trial. I believed in her innocence; I knew it. Could the monster who had, without a doubt, murdered my brother also have framed the innocent for death and disgrace? I couldn’t bear the horror of my situation. When I saw that the crowd and the judges had already condemned my poor friend, I rushed out of the courtroom in agony. Justine’s suffering didn’t compare to mine; she was buoyed by her innocence, while the claws of guilt tore at my heart and wouldn’t let go.

I spent a night steeped in misery. The next morning, I returned to the court, my lips dry and my throat parched. I didn’t dare ask the fatal question, but I was recognized, and the officer guessed the reason for my visit. The ballots had been cast; they were all black, and Justine was condemned.

I can’t describe what I felt in that moment. I had experienced horror before, and I tried to articulate it, but words failed to capture the heart-wrenching despair I felt then. The person I spoke to added that Justine had already confessed to her guilt. “That evidence,” he said, “was hardly needed in such a clear case, but I’m glad of it. None of our judges like to condemn someone based solely on circumstantial evidence, no matter how convincing.”

This was surprising and unexpected news; what could it mean? Had I misread the situation? Was I truly as mad as everyone would think if I revealed my suspicions? I hurried home, where Elizabeth anxiously awaited the outcome.

“My cousin,” I replied, “it’s as you might have expected; all judges would rather see ten innocent people suffer than let one guilty person go free. But she has confessed.”

This was a devastating blow for Elizabeth, who had firmly believed in Justine’s innocence. “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “How can I ever trust in human goodness again? Justine, whom I loved and considered a sister, how could she wear those innocent smiles only to betray me? Her gentle eyes seemed incapable of any cruelty or deceit, and yet she has been accused of murder.”

Not long after, we learned that the poor victim had expressed a wish to see my cousin. My father didn’t want her to go but said it was up to her to decide. “Yes,” Elizabeth replied, “I will go, even if she is guilty; and you, Victor, must come with me. I can’t do this alone.” The thought of this visit was tormenting for me, but I couldn’t refuse her.

We entered the dim prison cell and found Justine sitting on a pile of straw at the far end. Her hands were shackled, and her head rested on her knees. When she saw us, she stood up, and once we were alone, she fell to Elizabeth’s feet, sobbing uncontrollably. My cousin joined her in tears.

“Oh, Justine!” Elizabeth cried. “Why did you take away my last comfort? I believed in your innocence, and although I was already so miserable, I wasn’t as devastated as I am now.”

“Do you also think I’m wicked? Are you joining my enemies in condemning me as a murderer?” Justine’s voice was choked with sobs.

“Get up, my poor girl,” Elizabeth said gently. “Why do you kneel if you’re innocent? I’m not your enemy; I believed in your innocence despite all the evidence, until I heard you had declared your guilt. You say that’s false, and I want you to know, dear Justine, that nothing can shake my faith in you except for your own confession.”

“I did confess, but it was a lie. I confessed to gain absolution, but now that falsehood weighs heavier on my heart than all my other sins. May God forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my confessor has pressured me; he threatened me until I almost believed I was the monster he claimed I was. He warned me of excommunication and hellfire if I didn’t relent. Dear lady, I had no one to support me; everyone looked at me as a wretch doomed to disgrace and destruction. What could I do? In a moment of weakness, I agreed to a lie, and now I am truly miserable.”

She paused, tears streaming down her face, then continued, “I was horrified at the thought that you, my sweet lady, would believe that Justine, whom your beloved aunt honored and whom you loved, could commit a crime that only the devil could commit. Dear William! My precious child! I will soon see you again in heaven, where we will all be happy, and that thought comforts me as I face disgrace and death.”

“Oh, Justine! Forgive me for doubting you, even for a moment. Why did you confess? But don’t despair, dear girl. Don’t be afraid. I will shout your innocence from the rooftops. I will soften the hearts of your enemies with my tears and prayers. You will not die! You, my childhood friend, my companion, my sister, will not perish on the scaffold! No! I could never survive such a terrible loss.”

Justine shook her head sadly. “I’m not afraid to die,” she said. “That pain has passed. God gives me strength and courage to endure the worst. I am leaving this sad and bitter world, and if you remember me as someone unjustly condemned, I can accept my fate. Learn from me, dear lady, to submit patiently to the will of heaven!”

During this conversation, I had retreated to a corner of the prison room, trying to hide the terrible anguish that consumed me. Despair! Who could speak of that? The poor victim, who was to cross the dreadful line between life and death the next day, didn’t feel the deep, bitter agony that I did. I ground my teeth together, letting out a groan that came from the depths of my soul. Justine noticed. When she saw me, she approached and said, “Dear sir, thank you for visiting me; I hope you don’t believe I’m guilty?”

I couldn’t respond. “No, Justine,” Elizabeth said. “He believes in your innocence even more than I do. When he heard you had confessed, he didn’t believe it.”

“I truly thank him. In these last moments, I feel the deepest gratitude towards those who show me kindness. The affection of others is so sweet to someone like me! It eases more than half my suffering, and I feel I could die in peace now that my innocence is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin.”

The poor soul tried to comfort both herself and those around her. In her struggle, she found the resignation she sought. But I, the true culprit, felt a relentless torment gnawing at my insides, leaving me without hope or solace. Elizabeth, too, was in tears and deeply unhappy, but her sorrow was the sorrow of innocence—a fleeting shadow passing over a bright moon, momentarily obscuring its light but never tarnishing it. My anguish and despair had burrowed deep into my heart; I carried a hell within me that nothing could extinguish.

We spent several hours with Justine, and it took all of Elizabeth’s strength to finally pull herself away. “I wish,” she cried, “that I could die with you. I can’t bear to live in this world of misery.”

Justine tried to put on a brave face, though she struggled to hold back her own tears. She embraced Elizabeth and spoke with a voice choked with emotion, “Farewell, dear lady, beloved Elizabeth, my only friend. May heaven bless and protect you; may this be the last misfortune you ever face! Live, be happy, and bring happiness to others.”

And the next day, Justine was gone. Elizabeth’s heart-wrenching pleas failed to sway the judges, who remained steadfast in their belief that the innocent girl was guilty. My passionate, indignant protests fell on deaf ears. When I received their cold responses and heard their harsh, unfeeling reasoning, my planned confession died on my lips. I could declare myself a madman, but I could not overturn the sentence passed on my wretched victim. She was executed as a murderer.

In the midst of my own torment, I turned to witness the profound, silent grief of Elizabeth. This was my doing! My father’s sorrow, the devastation of our once-happy home—it was all the result of my cursed actions! You weep, dear ones, but these won’t be your last tears. You will mourn again, and the echoes of your lamentations will rise once more! Frankenstein, your son, your relative, your cherished friend; the one who would give every drop of blood for you, who knows no joy unless it reflects in your faces, who wishes to fill the air with blessings and dedicate his life to serving you—he urges you to weep, to shed countless tears; he would be happy beyond his wildest dreams if such relentless fate could be appeased, if destruction could pause before the peace of the grave finally brings an end to your suffering!

Thus spoke my tormented soul, as I, consumed by guilt, horror, and despair, watched those I loved pour their futile sorrow over the graves of William and Justine, the first innocent victims of my unholy ambitions.