Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf. George W. M. Reynolds

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      For Florence was gay that evening—the last day of each month being the one which the wealthy lords and high-born ladies set apart for the reception of their friends.

      The sun sank behind the western hills; and even the hothouse flowers closed up their buds—as if they were eyelids weighed down by slumber, and not to wake until the morning should arouse them again to welcome the return of their lover—that glorious sun!

      Darkness seemed to dilate upon the sky like an image in the midst of a mirage, expanding into superhuman dimensions—then rapidly losing its shapeliness, and covering the vault above densely and confusedly.

      But, by degrees, countless stars began to stud the colorless canopy of heaven, like gems of orient splendor; for the last—last flickering ray of the twilight in the west had expired in the increasing obscurity.

      But, hark! what is that wild and fearful cry?

      In the midst of a wood of evergreens on the banks of the Arno, a man—young, handsome, and splendidly attired—has thrown himself upon the ground, where he writhes like a stricken serpent, in horrible convulsions.

      He is the prey of a demoniac excitement: an appalling consternation is on him—madness is in his brain—his mind is on fire.

      Lightnings appear to gleam from his eyes, as if his soul were dismayed, and withering within his breast.

      “Oh! no—no!” he cries with a piercing shriek, as if wrestling madly, furiously, but vainly against some unseen fiend that holds him in his grasp.

      And the wood echoes to that terrible wail; and the startled bird flies fluttering from its bough.

      But, lo! what awful change is taking place in the form of that doomed being? His handsome countenance elongates into one of savage and brute-like shape; the rich garments which he wears become a rough, shaggy, and wiry skin; his body loses its human contours, his arms and limbs take another form; and, with a frantic howl of misery, to which the woods give horribly faithful reverberations, and, with a rush like a hurling wind, the wretch starts wildly away, no longer a man, but a monstrous wolf!

      On, on he goes: the wood is cleared—the open country is gained. Tree, hedge, and isolated cottage appear but dim points in the landscape—a moment seen, the next left behind; the very hills appear to leap after each other.

      A cemetery stands in the monster’s way, but he turns not aside—through the sacred inclosure—on, on he goes. There are situated many tombs, stretching up the slope of a gentle acclivity, from the dark soil of which the white monuments stand forth with white and ghastly gleaming, and on the summit of the hill is the church of St. Benedict the Blessed.

      From the summit of the ivy-grown tower the very rooks, in the midst of their cawing, are scared away by the furious rush and the wild howl with which the Wehr-Wolf thunders over the hallowed ground.

      At the same instant a train of monks appear round the angle of the church—for there is a funeral at that hour; and their torches flaring with the breeze that is now springing up, cast an awful and almost magical light on the dark gray walls of the edifice, the strange effect being enhanced by the prismatic reflection of the lurid blaze from the stained glass of the oriel window.

      The solemn spectacle seemed to madden the Wehr-Wolf. His speed increased—he dashed through the funeral train—appalling cries of terror and alarm burst from the lips of the holy fathers—and the solemn procession was thrown into confusion. The coffin-bearers dropped their burden, and the corpse rolled out upon the ground, its decomposing countenance seeming horrible by the glare of the torch-light.

      The monk who walked nearest the head of the coffin was thrown down by the violence with which the ferocious monster cleared its passage; and the venerable father—on whose brow sat the snow of eighty winters—fell with his head against a monument, and his brains were dashed out.

      On, on fled the Wehr-Wolf, over mead and hill, through valley and dale. The very wind seemed to make way: he clove the air—he appeared to skim the ground—to fly.

      Through the romantic glades and rural scenes of Etruria the monster sped—sounds, resembling shrieking howls, bursting ever and anon from his foaming mouth—his red eyes glaring in the dusk of the evening like ominous meteors—and his whole aspect so full of appalling ferocity, that never was seen so monstrous, so terrific a spectacle!

      A village is gained; he turns not aside, but dashes madly through the little street formed by the huts and cottages of the Tuscan vine-dressers.

      A little child is in his path—a sweet, blooming, ruddy, noble boy; with violet-colored eyes and flaxen hair—disporting merrily at a short distance from his parents, who are seated at the threshold of their dwelling.

      Suddenly a strange and ominous rush—an unknown trampling of rapid feet falls upon their ears; then, with a savage cry, a monster sweeps past.

      “My child! my child!” screams the affrighted mother; and simultaneously the shrill cry of an infant in the sudden agony of death carries desolation to the ear!

      ’Tis done—’twas but the work of a moment; the wolf has swept by, the quick rustling of his feet is no longer heard in the village. But those sounds are succeeded by awful wails and heart-rending lamentations: for the child—the blooming, violet-eyed, flaxen-haired boy—the darling of his poor but tender parents, is weltering in his blood!

      On, on speeds the destroyer, urged by an infernal influence which maddens the more intensely because its victim strives vainly to struggle against it: on, on, over the beaten road—over the fallow field—over the cottager’s garden—over the grounds of the rich one’s rural villa.

      And now, to add to the horrors of the scene, a pack of dogs have started in pursuit of the wolf—dashing—hurrying—pushing—pressing upon one another in all the anxious ardor of the chase.

      The silence and shade of the open country, in the mild starlight, seem eloquently to proclaim the peace and happiness of a rural life; but now that silence is broken by the mingled howling of the wolf, and the deep baying of the hounds—and this shade is crossed and darkened by the forms of the animals as they scour so fleetly—oh! with such whirlwind speed along.

      But that Wehr-Wolf bears a charmed life; for though the hounds overtake him—fall upon him—and attack him with all the courage of their nature, yet does he hurl them from him, toss them aside, spurn them away, and at length free himself from their pursuit altogether!

      And now the moon rises with unclouded splendor, like a maiden looking from her lattice screened with purple curtains; and still the monster hurries madly on with unrelaxing speed.

      For hours has he pursued his way thus madly; and, on a sudden, as he passes the outskirts of a sleeping town, the church-bell is struck by the watcher’s hand to proclaim midnight.

      Over the town, over the neighboring fields—through the far-off forest, clanged that iron tongue: and the Wehr-Wolf sped all the faster, as if he were running a race with that Time whose voice had just spoken.

      On, on went the Wehr-Wolf; but now his course began to deviate from the right line which he had hitherto pursued, and to assume a curved direction.

      From a field a poor man was turning an ox into the main road, that he might drive the animal to his master’s residence by daylight; the wolf swept by, and snapped furiously at the СКАЧАТЬ