Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf

by George W. M. Reynolds

  The hour at which Fernand Wagner was accustomed to return after his periodical excursions beyond the mountains, had long passed; for it will be remembered that he had fallen asleep and slumbered some time, after his restoration to human shape and his encounter with the demon. Nisida was already a prey to the wildest alarms, which were not altogether untainted with selfishness; for the enemy of mankind had led her to believe that Wagner had within his reach certain means of enabling her to quit the island, and she trembled lest death might have intervened to snatch him away, and thus annihilate the hopes which had been so insidiously infused into her soul. She was also distressed at his prolonged absence on grounds more creditable to her heart, for she shuddered at the idea that her handsome Fernand might at that very moment be writhing in the coils of a horrible snake. Then, arousing herself, Nisida resolved to attempt the passage of the mountains, and seek for her lover and rescue him if possible, and if not, to die with him. But as she drew near the craggy mountains she suddenly beheld the object of her anxiety approaching her, and in a few minutes they were locked in each other’s arms.

  “My Fernand,” said Nisida at length, “I feared that some danger had befallen you, and I was hastening to join you on the other side of these heights, either to aid you in escaping from the peril, or to share its consequences with you.”

  “Beloved Nisida!” exclaimed Wagner, “how welcome to me is this proof of thy regard, this earnest of thy love.”

  “I can never cease to love you, dear Fernand,” answered Nisida, turning her fine large eyes upon his handsome face. “Oh, that I should seek to quit thee! The thought smites me to the inmost recesses of my heart. And yet it is to some extent thy fault, for wherefore wilt thou not accompany me?”

  “In the first place, beloved one,” replied Wagner, “thou talkest as if a ship were already in sight, or a boat lay ready to launch from this shore; secondly, I have before assured thee that I dared not return to Florence, and that as I cannot therefore be thy companion thither, it would be better for me to remain on the island, to which, perhaps,” he added in a mournful tone, “you might, after all, never come back!”

  “Oh! Fernand, think not so ill of your Nisida!” she cried, throwing one of her snowy full arms round his neck, and looking earnestly, but yet tenderly on his countenance. “Never, never shall I know happiness again until I have revisited Florence. Each day that passes without giving me a hope to see this aim fulfilled, increases my misery, adds to my uneasiness, augments my anxiety—so that in a short time my suspense will become intolerable. It is nearly so already, Fernand—but pity me; yes—and help me, if you can!”

  “Dearest Nisida, willingly would I sacrifice my own inclinations to forward thine,” exclaimed Wagner in a tone of deep sincerity; “but how is it possible that I can aid thee? I have not wings to affix to thy fair shoulder, I have not a voice powerful enough to raise echoes on a shore whence assistance might be sent. Nay, look not so sternly on me, beloved Nisida, I did not intend to vex thee with idle jestings; but thou knowest that I cannot aid thee.”

  “Fernand, you love me not!” exclaimed Nisida, suddenly withdrawing her arm from its fond position about his neck, and retreating a few paces. “No; you do not love me as you were wont, or as I love you! You doubtless have some means of gratifying my ardent longings. A secret voice whispers within me that if you chose to exert all your powers, you might render me happy—at least so happy as I could be when separated from you! I have assured you that naught save the most important interests would render me thus anxious to return to my native city; and if you find me thus importunate, you should pity me, not refuse to aid me.”

  “Holy Virgin! this is maddening!” cried Wagner. “Nisida—be reasonable; how can I assist thee? how can I enable thee to cross that sea which appears to us boundless? And thou accusest me of not loving thee, Nisida! Oh! this is too cruel!”

  “No, it is thou who art cruel!” exclaimed Nisida, in an impassioned tone. “I know that you are not a being of an ordinary stamp, that your intellect is as wonderful as your person is godlike,—and that you possess a mine of knowledge in the extent of which no mortal can equal thee. Is it strange—is it marvelous, then, that I should implore thee to exert thy powers—the vast powers of thy glorious intelligence, to forward my design? Nay, seek not to interrupt me, Fernand, denial is vain! A secret voice continues to whisper within me that thou art able to do all I ask; I know not the means to be used—I seek not to know them; but that thou hast such means within thy reach, is a conviction firmly impressed upon my mind. Here, then, Fernand, at thy feet, on my knees, do I implore thee, beseech thee, not to refuse the boon which I, thy loving wife, crave at the hands of thee, my husband, as if I were a humble suppliant suing at the footstool of a throned king!”

  “Nisida, Nisida!” cried Fernand, painfully excited by this sudden movement on her part, and endeavoring to rise: “what means so strange a proceeding? Rise, dearest, rise; it is not to me that you must thus humble yourself!”

  “No; I will not quit this suppliant attitude until you shall have granted my request—my prayer,” said Nisida. “Refuse me not, my Fernand. Oh! I implore you not to refuse me! Whatever means be within your reach, exert them on my behalf. A brother’s interest, the remembrance of a solemn vow breathed only to my lamented and much-wronged mother—and the safeguard of a mystery, the discovery of which by curious and prying eyes would heap infamy and disgrace upon the family that bears the name of Riverola—all these reasons render me thus anxious to return to Italy. And if you keep me here, Fernand, I shall pine away—I shall perish before your eyes, and you will repent of your harshness when it is too late. Or else,” she added, speaking with wild rapidity, “I shall be reduced to despair, and in a moment of excitement shall seek death in those silent waters, or climb yon craggy mountains to fling myself headlong from their summit.”

  “Nisida, your menaces are maddening as your supplications to me are vain and useless!” said Wagner, himself now laboring under a fearful excitement. “Rise, I implore you, rise, and let us endeavor to converse more calmly—more rationally.”

  “Yes—I will rise,” said Nisida, now affecting a sullen haughtiness, and preparing to wield another of the weapons which the demon had placed in her hand: “I rise, Fernand, because I feel that I was wrong thus to abase myself—I, who bear the proud name of Riverola;”—and she tossed her head indignantly. “Well—it seems that you are resolved to keep me chained to your side on this island. Be it so: but henceforth let there be no mistrust—no mystery—no secrets between us. If Italy must be forgotten forever, then this isle shall become our world, and our thoughts shall travel not beyond its confines. All shall be mutual confidence—a reciprocal outpouring of our minutest thoughts. On that condition only will existence here be tolerable to us both. And now as a proof that thou wilt assent to this proposal—than which nothing can be more rational—let our new life of mutual confidence date from this moment. Tell me then, my Fernand,” she proceeded, assuming a winning manner, and throwing as much pathos as possible into her sweetly musical voice—that voice which gave new and indescribable, charms to the soft Italian language—“tell me then, my Fernand, wherefore thou quittest me at certain intervals—why thou invariably seekest on those occasions the opposite side of the island—and whether thou wilt in future suffer me to be the companion of those journeys?”

  “Thou be my companion—thou, Nisida!” exclaimed Wagner, his whole frame convulsed with mental agony. “Merciful Heaven! what fiend has prompted thee thus to speak! Nisida,” he said, suddenly exercising a strong mastery over his emotions, as he seized her hand and pressed it with spasmodic violence—“Nisida, as thou valuest our happiness seek not to penetrate into my secret—proffer not that mad request again!”

  And dropping her hand he paced the shore with the agitation of reviving excitement.

  “Fernand,” said Nisida, approaching him, and once more speaking in a resolute and even severe tone—“listen to me. When we met u
pon the island, an accident of a terrible nature led me to forget my vow of self-imposed dumbness; and when the excitement occasioned by that accident had somewhat passed you were in doubt whether you had really heard my voice or had been deluded by fevered imagination. It would have been easy for me to simulate dumbness again; and you would have believed that the bewilderment of the dread scene had misled you. But I chose not to maintain a secret from thee—and I confess that my long supposed loss of two glorious faculties was a mere deed of duplicity on my part. At that time you said that you also had explanations to give; and yet months and months have passed by, and confidence has not begotten confidence. Let this mistrust on your part cease. Reveal to me the cause of these frequent excursions across the mountains; or else the next time that you set out on one of these mysterious journeys, I shall assuredly become your companion.”

  “Now, Nisida,” exclaimed Wagner, his heart rent with indescribable tortures—“it is you who are cruel—you are unjust!”

  “No, Fernand—it is you!” cried Nisida, in a thrilling, penetrating tone, as if of anguish.

  “Merciful Heaven! what misery is in store for us both!” said Wagner, pressing his hand to his burning brow. “Oh! that some ship would appear to bear thee away—or that my destiny were other than it is!”

  And he flung himself upon the sand in a fit of blank despair. Nisida now trembled at the violence of those emotions which she had raised in the breast of him whom she loved; and for a minute she reproached herself for having so implicitly obeyed the counsel of the evil spirit.

  Her own feelings were worked up to that pitch of excitement with which women—even in the strongest-minded, must have its vent in tears; and she burst into an agony of weeping.

  The sound of those sobs was more than the generous-hearted and affectionate Fernand could bear; and starting from the sand whereon he had flung himself, he exclaimed, “Nisida, my beloved Nisida, dry those tears, subdue this frenzied grief! Let us say no more upon these exciting topics this evening; but I will meditate, I will reflect upon the morrow, and then I will communicate to thee the result of my deliberations.”

  “Oh! there is then hope for me yet!” cried Nisida, joyfully; “and thou hast the means to grant my wishes, but thou fearest to use them. We will say no more this evening on subjects calculated to give so little pleasure; but to-morrow, my Fernand, to-morrow.”

  And Nisida stopped her own utterance by pressing her lips to those of Wagner, winding her beauteous arms most lovingly round his neck at the same time, and pressing him to her bosom.

  But that night and the ensuing morn were destined to wring the heart-cords of the unhappy Fernand: for the influence of the demon, though unknown and unrecognized, was dominant with Nisida.

  CHAPTER LVI.

  It was night—and Fernand was pacing the sand with even greater agitation than he had manifested during the cruel scene of the evening. He was alone on the seashore; and Nisida slept in the hut. Terrible thoughts warred in the breast of Wagner. Nisida’s language had astonished and alarmed him: he was convinced that Satan himself had inspired her with those ideas, the utterance of which had nearly goaded him to madness. She had insisted on the belief that he was acquainted with the means of enabling her to return to Italy; and yet Nisida was not a mere girl—a silly, whimsical being, who would assert the wildest physical impossibilities just as caprice might prompt her. No—she really entertained that belief—but without having any ostensible grounds to establish it.

  “Such an impression could only have been made upon her mind by the fiend who seeks to entangle me in his meshes!” murmured Wagner to himself, as he paced the strand. “The demon has failed to tempt me as yet—thrice has he failed;—and now he musters all his force to assail me,—to assail me, too, in the most vulnerable points! But, O Heaven, give me strength to resist the dread influence thus brought to bear upon me! What course can I adopt? what plan pursue? If to-morrow must witness a renewal of that scene which occurred this evening, I shall succumb—I shall yield; in a moment of despair I shall exclaim, ‘Yes, Nisida—I will sacrifice everything to acquire the power to transport thee back to Italy;’—and I shall hurry to yon mountains, and seeking their wildest defile, shall evoke the enemy of mankind, and say, ‘Come, Satan, I give thee my soul in exchange for the illimitable power thou offerest.’ And thus will be the terrible result—the fearful catastrophe.”

  Big drops of agony stood upon Fernand’s brow as he uttered these words. He saw that he was hovering on the verge of a fearful abyss—and he trembled lest he should fall, so intense was his love for Nisida. At one moment he thought of the soothing vision, full of hope and promise, which had occupied his slumber in the morning; at another he pondered on the tears, the prayers, and the threats of Nisida. The conflicting thoughts were, indeed, sufficient to urge him on to a state of utter despair:—his eternal salvation and the happiness of her whom he loved so tenderly were placed in such antagonistic position that they raised a fierce—a painful—an agonizing warfare in his breast. Now he would fall upon his knees and pray—and pray fervently for strength to continue in the right path: then he would again give way to all the maddening influences of his bitter reflections; and, while in this mood, had Satan suddenly stood before him, he would have succumbed—yes, he would have succumbed. But the fiend had no longer any power to offer direct temptation to the wretched Wagner. Oh! if he could die that moment, how gladly would he release himself from an existence fraught with so much misery; but death was not yet within the reach of him who bore the doom of a Wehr-Wolf! The morning dawned, and Fernand Wagner was still pacing the sand—dreading to meet Nisida again, and not daring to seek to avoid her. Were he to fly to the mountains or to the forests, she would search after him; and thus he would only be leading her into perils amidst yawning precipices, or where she might become the prey of the terrible anaconda. To remain were anguish—to fly were madness!

  “Oh, wretch, miserable wretch that I am!” exclaimed Wagner, as he beheld the twilight—so short in the tropics—growing more powerful, and knew that Nisida would soon come forth from the hut. In a few minutes the orb of day appeared above the Orient wave—and almost at the same time the lady made her appearance on the shore.

  “Fernand, thou hast not sought repose throughout the night just past!” she said, advancing toward him, and endeavoring to read upon his countenance the thoughts which filled his brain.

  “Nisida,” he replied, in a rapid and excited tone, “I have gone through so much during the last few hours that ’tis a marvel reason has maintained its seat. If thou lovest me, let us forget all those topics which have so strongly excited us both: and let us unite our prayers that Heaven will send thee means to quit this isle and return to thy native land.”

  “Fernand,” said Nisida, in a tone of deep disappointment and reproach, “I was not prepared for this. Your words imply that you possess the power to aid my departure hence, but that you have resolved not to use it. Is that your decision?”

  “I scorn to deceive thee, Nisida, by a direct falsehood in so serious a matter as this,” exclaimed Wagner. “Knowest thou, my beloved, at what price must be purchased the power which alone can enable me to effect thy return to Italy? canst thou divine the immeasurable sacrifice which I must make to gratify thy wishes?”

  “Fernand,” answered Nisida, in a reproachful and yet resolute tone, “there is no price that I would not pay to obtain the means of pleasing thee!—there is no sacrifice that I should shrink from were your happiness at stake!”

  “Nisida,” ejaculated Wagner, in a tone of fearful excitement, “you drive me to despair! Have mercy upon me, Nisida, have mercy upon me! My God! if you taunt me—if you reproach me—thus I will do all that you command; but force me not to believe, Nisida—my well beloved Nisida—that, in espousing thee in the sight of Heaven, I took to my bosom a fiend instead of a woman, a relentless demon in the most charming female shape that evil spirit ever wore. Oh! if you knew all, you would pity me as it is. So w
retched on earth you would not compel me to renounce every hope of salvation; for, know, Nisida,” he added, his countenance wearing an expression of indescribable horror, “know that in demanding of me this last sacrifice, you ordain that I should sell my immortal soul to Satan!”

  For a moment Nisida appeared shocked and appalled at the words which met her ears; but she rather recoiled from the manner of fearful excitement in which they were uttered, than from the intelligence which they conveyed.

  “He who truly loves,” she said coldly, as she recovered her equanimity, “would make even that sacrifice! and now listen—Fernand,” she continued, her eyes flashing fire, and her naked bosom heaving convulsively as she spoke, while her splendid form was drawn up to its full height, and her whole aspect sublimely terrible and wondrously beautiful, even in that fit of agitated passion—“listen, Fernand!” she cried, in her musical, flute-like voice, which, however, assumed the imperious accent and tone of command: “thou art a coward, and unworthy such an earnest—such a profound, such a devoted love as mine, if thou refusest to consummate a sacrifice which will make us both powerful and great as long as we live! Consider, my Fernand—the spirit with whom thou wouldst league thyself can endow us with an existence running over centuries to come, can invest us with eternal youth, can place countless treasures at our disposal, can elevate us to the proudest thrones of Christendom! Oh! wilt thou spurn advantages like those? wilt thou refuse to avail thyself of gifts that must render us so supremely happy? No, no: and we can return together to my native city, we can enter Florence in triumph, thou no longer fearing the terror of the law, I no longer compelled to simulate the doom of the deaf and dumb! Our enemies shall lick the dust at our feet, and we shall triumph wherever success may be desirable. Oh! I understand that beseeching, appealing look, Fernand: thou thinkest that I shall love thee less if this immense sacrifice be consummated, that I shall look upon thee with loathing. No, not so: and to convince thee that mine is a soul endowed with an iron will, that mine is an energy which can grapple even with remorse, I will reveal to thee a secret which thou hast perhaps never even suspected. Fernand!” she exclaimed, now becoming absolutely terrible with the excitement that animated her; “Fernand!” she repeated, “’twas I who murdered the girl Agnes, in the garden of thy mansion at Florence!”