Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf. George W. M. Reynolds
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Название: Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf
Автор: George W. M. Reynolds
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4057664639516
isbn:
On went the terrific wolf, with wilder and more frequent howlings, which were answered in a thousand tones from the rocks and caverns overlooking the valley through whose bosom he was now careering with whirlwind speed along.
It was now two o’clock in the morning, and he had already described an immense circuit from the point where he had begun to deviate from a direct course.
At a turning of the road, as he emerged from the valley, the monster encountered a party of village girls repairing with the produce of their dairies, and of their poultry-yards, to some still far distant town, which they had hoped to reach shortly after daybreak.
Fair, gay, and smiling was the foremost maiden, as the bright moon and the silver starlight shone upon her countenance; but that sweet face, clad in the richest hues of health, was suddenly convulsed with horror, as the terrible Wehr-Wolf thundered by with appalling howls.
For a few moments the foremost village maiden stood rooted to the spot in speechless horror: then, uttering a wild cry, she fell backward, rolled down a steep bank, and was ingulfed in the rapid stream that chafed and fretted along the side of the path.
Her companions shrieked in agony of mind—the wail was echoed by a despairing cry from the drowning girl—a cry that swept frantically over the rippling waters; and, in another moment, she sank to rise no more!
The breeze had by this time increased to a sharp wind, icy and cold, as it usually is, even in southern climes, when the dawn is approaching; and the gale now whistled through the branches of the evergreen wood in the neighborhood of Florence—that vicinity to which the Wehr-Wolf was at length returning!
Still was his pace of arrow-like velocity—for some terrible power appeared to urge him on; and though his limbs failed not, though he staggered not in his lightning speed, yet did the foam at his mouth, the thick flakes of perspiration on his body, and the steam that enveloped him as in a dense vapor, denote how distressed the unhappy being in reality was.
At last—at last a faint tinge was visible above the eastern horizon; gradually the light increased and put to flight the stars.
But now the Oriental sky was to some extent obscured with clouds; and the Wehr-Wolf gnashed his teeth with rage, and uttered a savage howl, as if impatient of the delay of dawn.
His speed began to relax; the infernal influence which had governed him for so many hours already grew less stern, less powerful, and as the twilight shone forth more plainly in proportion did the Wehr-Wolf’s velocity diminish.
Suddenly a piercing chill darted through his frame, and he fell in strong convulsions upon the ground, in the midst of the same wood where his transformation had taken place on the preceding evening.
The sun rose angrily, imparting a lurid, reddened hue to the dark clouds that hung upon the Oriental heaven, as if the mantling curtains of a night’s pavilion strove to repel the wooing kisses of the morn; and the cold chill breeze made the branches swing to and fro with ominous flapping, like the wings of the fabulous Simoorg.
But in the midst of the appalling spasmodic convulsions, with direful writhings on the soil, and with cries of bitter anguish, the Wehr-Wolf gradually threw off his monster-shape; and at the very moment when the first sunbeam penetrated the wood and glinted on his face he rose a handsome, young, and perfect man once more!
CHAPTER XIII.
NISIDA’S EMOTIONS—THE DISGUISE—THE PLOT.
We must now return to Nisida, whom we left gazing from the window of the Riverola mansion, at the moment when Wagner rushed away from the vicinity of his lady-love on the approach of sunset.
The singularity of his conduct—the look of ineffable horror and anguish which he cast upon her, ere he parted from her presence—and the abruptness of his departure, filled her mind with the most torturing misgivings, and with a thousand wild fears.
Had his senses suddenly left him? was he the prey to fits of mental aberration which would produce so extraordinary an effect upon him? had he taken a sudden loathing and disgust to herself? or had he discovered anything in respect to her which had converted his love into hatred?
She knew not—and conjecture was vain! To a woman of her excitable temperament, the occurrence was particularly painful. She had never known the passion of love until she had seen Wagner; and the moment she did see him, she loved him. The sentiment on her part originated altogether in the natural sensuality of her disposition; there was nothing pure—nothing holy—nothing refined in her affection for him; it was his wonderful personal beauty that had made so immediate and profound an impression upon her heart.
There was consequently something furious and raging in that passion which she experienced for Fernand Wagner—a passion capable of every extreme—the largest sacrifices, or infuriate jealousies—the most implicit confidence, or the maddest suspicion! It was a passion which would induce her to ascend the scaffold to save him; or to plunge the vengeful dagger into his heart did she fancy that he deceived her!
To one, then, whose soul was animated by such a love, the conduct of Fernand was well adapted to wear even an exaggerated appearance of singularity; and as each different conjecture swept through her imagination, her emotions were excited to an extent which caused her countenance to vary its expressions a hundred times in a minute.
The fury of the desolating torrent, the rage of the terrific volcano, the sky cradled in the blackest clouds, the ocean heaving tempestuously in its mighty bed, the chafing of a tremendous flood against an embankment which seems ready every moment to give way, and allow the collected waters to burst forth upon the broad plains and into the peaceful valleys—all these occurrences in the physical world were imagined by the emotions that now agitated within the breast of the Italian lady.
Her mind was like the sea put in motion by the wind; and her eyes flashed fire, her lips quivered, her bosom heaved convulsively, her neck arched proudly, as if she were struggling against ideas that forced themselves upon her and painfully wounded her boundless patrician pride.
For the thought that rose uppermost amidst all the conjectures which rushed to her imagination, was that Fernand had conceived an invincible dislike toward her.
Wherefore did he fly thus—as if eager to place the greatest possible distance between herself and him?
Then did she recall to mind every interchange of thought that had passed between them through the language of the fingers; and she could fix upon nothing which, emanating from herself, had given him offense.
Had he then really lost his senses?
Madly did he seem to be rushing toward the Arno, on whose dark tide the departing rays of the setting sun glinted with oscillating and dying power.
She still continued to gaze from the window long after he had disappeared; obscurity was gathering rapidly around; but, even had it been noonday, she would have seen nothing. Her ideas grew bewildered: mortification, grief, anger, suspicion, burning desire, all mingled together and at length produced a species of stunning effect upon her, so that the past appeared to be a dream, and the future was wrapt in the darkest gloom and uncertainty.
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