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1During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison room, where I could conceal the horrid anguish that
2possessed me. Despair! Who dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass the awful boundary between
3life and death, felt not, as I did, such deep and bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth and ground them together, uttering a
4groan that came from my inmost soul. Justine started. When she saw who it was, she approached me and said, "Dear sir,
5you are very kind to visit me; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty?" I could not answer. "No, Justine," said
6Elizabeth; "he is more convinced of your innocence than I was, for even when he heard that you had confessed, he did not
7credit it." "I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest gratitude towards those who think of me with
8kindness. How sweet is the affection of others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than half my misfortune, and I
9feel as if I could die in peace now that my innocence is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin." Thus the poor
10sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer,
11felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth also wept and was
12unhappy, but hers also was the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair moon, for a while
13hides but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell
14within me which nothing could extinguish. We stayed several hours with Justine, and it was with great difficulty that
15Elizabeth could tear herself away. "I wish," cried she, "that I were to die with you; I cannot live in this world of
16misery." Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty repressed her bitter tears. She embraced
17Elizabeth and said in a voice of half-suppressed emotion, "Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my beloved and only
18friend; may heaven, in its bounty, bless and preserve you; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever suffer!
19Live, and be happy, and make others so." And on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth's heart-rending eloquence failed to
20move the judges from their settled conviction in the criminality of the saintly sufferer. My passionate and indignant
21appeals were lost upon them. And when I received their cold answers and heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these
22men, my purposed avowal died away on my lips. Thus I might proclaim myself a madman, but not revoke the sentence passed
23upon my wretched victim. She perished on the scaffold as a murderess! From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to
24contemplate the deep and voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing! And my father's woe, and the
25desolation of that late so smiling home all was the work of my thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones, but these
26are not your last tears! Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and the sound of your lamentations shall again and
27again be heard! Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he who would spend each vital drop
28of blood for your sakes, who has no thought nor sense of joy except as it is mirrored also in your dear countenances,
29who would fill the air with blessings and spend his life in serving you--he bids you weep, to shed countless tears;
30happy beyond his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the destruction pause before the peace of the grave
31have succeeded to your sad torments! Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair, I beheld
32those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and Justine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts.
33Chapter 9 Nothing is more painful to the human mind than, after the feelings have been worked up by a quick succession
34of events, the dead calmness of inaction and certainty which follows and deprives the soul both of hope and fear.
35Justine died, she rested, and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse
36pressed on my heart which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had
37committed deeds of mischief beyond description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself) was yet behind. Yet my
38heart overflowed with kindness and the love of virtue. I had begun life with benevolent intentions and thirsted for the
39moment when I should put them in practice and make myself useful to my fellow beings. Now all was blasted; instead of
40that serenity of conscience which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and from thence to
41gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense
42tortures such as no language can describe. This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never entirely
43recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture
44to me; solitude was my only consolation--deep, dark, deathlike solitude. My father observed with pain the alteration
45perceptible in my disposition and habits and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the feelings of his serene conscience
46and guiltless life to inspire me with fortitude and awaken in me the courage to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over
47me. "Do you think, Victor," said he, "that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more than I loved your
48brother"--tears came into his eyes as he spoke--"but is it not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain from
49augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed to yourself, for excessive
50sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for
51society." This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I should have been the first to hide my grief
52and console my friends if remorse had not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm, with my other sensations. Now I
53could only answer my father with a look of despair and endeavour to hide myself from his view. About this time we
54retired to our house at Belrive. This change was particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at
55ten o'clock and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that hour had rendered our residence within the walls
56of Geneva very irksome to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired for the night, I took the
57boat and passed many hours upon the water. Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes, after
58rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to pursue its own course and gave way to my own miserable
59reflections. I was often tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing that wandered restless
60in a scene so beautiful and heavenly--if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard
61only when I approached the shore--often, I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters might
62close over me and my calamities for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic and suffering Elizabeth,
63whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was bound up in mine. I thought also of my father and surviving brother;
64should I by my base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the malice of the fiend whom I had let loose among
65them?
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