Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf

by George W. M. Reynolds

  At this moment there was a slight sensation amongst the familiars stationed near the door of the judgment-hall; and an individual who had just entered the court, and who wore the black robe and the cap or toque of a counselor, advanced toward the grand inquisitor.

  “My lord,” said the advocate, with a reverential bow, “the day after the arrest of these females, I submitted to the council of state a memorial, setting forth certain facts which induced the president of the council to issue his warrant to order the postponement of the second examination of the two prisoners now before your eminence, until this day.”

  “And the case has been postponed accordingly,” answered the grand inquisitor. “It will now proceed, unless reasonable cause be shown for further delay. The prisoners are obstinate. Instead of confessing their heinous crimes, and throwing themselves on the mercy of Heaven—for past the hope of human mercy they are—they assuredly break forth into impassioned language, savoring of complaint. Indeed, the younger attributes to the machinations of unknown enemies the position in which she is placed. Yet have we positive proof that she was leagued with those who perpetrated the sacrilege which ended in the destruction of the Carmelite Convent; and the elder prisoner gave refuge not only to the young girl, her niece, but also to a woman more guilty still—thus rendering herself infamous as one who encouraged and concealed the enemies of the church, instead of giving them up to the most holy inquisition. Wherefore,” continued the grand inquisitor, “it remaineth only for me to order the prisoners to be put to the torture, that they may confess their crimes and receive the condemnation which they merit.”

  At the terrible word “torture,” Dame Francatelli uttered a cry of agony—but it was even more on account of her beloved niece than herself; while Flora, endowed with greater firmness than her aunt, would have flown to console and embrace her, had not the familiars cruelly compelled the young maiden to retain her place.

  “My lord,” said Angelo Duras—for he was the advocate who appeared on behalf of the prisoners—“I formally and earnestly demand a delay of eight days ere this final examination be proceeded with.”

  “It is impossible,” returned the grand inquisitor, while his words went like ice-shafts to the hearts of the unhappy women. “In addition to the charges against them which I have already glanced at, it appeareth that one Alessandro Francatelli, who is nearly related to them both, hath abjured the Christian faith and become a Mussulman. This fact was reported many months ago to the council of state: and in the cottage lately habited by the prisoners was found a costly set of jewels, ornamented with sundry Moslem devices and symbols, all of which are hateful to the true Catholic. It is therefore natural to suppose that they themselves have secretly abjured their country’s religion, and have already received the reward of their apostasy.”

  “No—never, never!” exclaimed the aunt, clasping her hands together, and showing more anguish by this cruel suspicion than by any other portion of the treatment which she had received at the hands of the inquisition.

  On her side, Flora appeared to be astounded at the accusation made against her aunt and herself by the grand inquisitor.

  “My lord,” said Angelo Duras, “the very statement which has just been put forth by your eminence furnishes a new ground whereon I base my requisition for a delay of eight days, in order to prepare a fitting defense on behalf of the prisoners. The council of state is now sitting in deliberation on certain demands made by the newly arrived Ottoman envoy, and should your eminence refuse my requisition for a delay, it will be my duty forthwith to apply to that august body.”

  The grand inquisitor endeavored to reason with the advocate on the inconvenience of obstructing the business of the tribunal—but Angelo Duras, knowing that he had the law on his side, was firm; and the judge was finally compelled to accord the delay. Flora and her aunt were accordingly conveyed back each to her separate cell; while Angelo Duras retired, murmuring to himself, “I shall doubtless offend my brother by my conduct in this respect, after my solemn promise to him to abandon the cause of the Francatellis; but I prefer having obeyed that young man of godlike aspect and persuasive manner who visited me ere now to abjure me not to neglect my duty.”

  The next case that occupied the attention of the grand inquisitor on the present occasion was that of the Jew Isaachar ben Solomon. The old man was indeed a miserable spectacle. His garments hung loosely about his wasted and attenuated form—his countenance was wan and ghastly—but the fire of his eyes was not altogether quenched. He was heavily chained—and, as he walked between the two familiars who led him into the tribunal, he could scarcely drag himself along. For the persecuted old man had been confined for nearly seven months in the prison of the inquisition; and during that period he had suffered acutely with the damps of his dungeon—the wretched food doled out to him—and the anguish occasioned by conscious innocence unjustly accused of a dreadful crime.

  “Jew,” said the grand inquisitor, “when last thou wast examined by me, thou didst obstinately refuse to confess thy grievous sins. This is the day for the final investigation of thy case: and thou may’st produce witnesses in thy favor, if thou canst.”

  “My lord,” replied Isaachar ben Solomon, in a weak and tremulous voice, “unless Heaven should work a miracle in my favor, I have no hope in this life. I do not fear death, my lord; for, persecuted, reviled, despised, accused as I am, I can yet lay my hand on my heart and say I have never injured a fellow-creature. But, my lord,” he continued, his voice growing stronger with excitement, “it is sufficient that I am a Jew to insure my condemnation; and yet strange indeed is that Christian faith, or rather should I say, most inconsistent is the conduct of those who profess it, in so far as this ruthless persecution of my race is concerned. For where, my lord, is your charity, where is your tolerance, where is your mercy? If I be indeed involved in mental darkness, ’tis for you to enlighten me with argument, not coerce me with chains. Never have I insulted a Christian on account of his creed: wherefore should I be insulted in mine? Granting that the Jew is in error, he surely deserves pity, not persecution. For how came I by the creed which I profess? Even as your lordship obtained yours, which is that of Christian. Our parents reared us each in the belief which they respectively professed; and there is no more merit due to your eminence for being a Christian, than there is blame to be attached to me for being a Jew. Had all the religions of the earth been submitted to our consideration when we were children, and had it been said to each of us, ‘Select a faith for yourself,’ then there might be some merit in choosing the one most popular and the most assuredly conducive to personal safety. But such was not the case, my lord; and I am a Jew for the same reason that you are a Christian—and I cling to the creed of my forefathers even as you adhere tenaciously to that faith which your ancestors have handed down to you. Reproach me not, then, because I am a Jew. And now I will pass to another subject, my lord,” continued Isaachar, becoming more and more animated as he proceeded.

  “I am accused of a fearful crime, of murder. The evidence rests upon the fact that stains of blood were observed upon the floor of a room in my house. The answer is simple. Two men—one of noble birth, the other a robber, fought in the room; and the blood of one of them flowed from a slight wound. This is the truth—and yet I know that I am not believed. Merciful heavens! of what would you accuse me? Of murder!—and it was hinted, when last I stood before your eminence, that the Jews have been known to slay Christian children as an offering to Heaven. My lord, the Jews worship the same God as the Christians—for the Christians adopt that book in which the Jews put faith. Then I appeal to your eminence whether the God whom the Christians worship would delight in such sacrifices?—and as you must answer ‘Nay,’ the reply acquits the Jews also of the hideous calumny sought to be affixed upon us. The Jews, my lord, are a merciful and humane race. The records of your tribunals will prove that the Jews are not addicted to the shedding of blood. They are too patient—enduring—and resigned, to be given to ven
geance. Behold how they cling to each other—how they assist each other in distress;—and charity is not narrowed to small circles, my lord, it is a sentiment which must become expansive, because it nourisheth itself and is cherished by those good feelings which are its only reward. Think you, my lord, that if I saw a fellow-creature starving in the street, I should wait to ask him whether he were a Christian, a Jew, or a Mussulman? Oh! no—no; the world’s bread was given for men of all nations and all creeds!”

  Isaachar would have continued his address to the grand inquisitor; but sheer exhaustion compelled him to desist—and he would have sunk upon the cold marble, had not the familiars supported him.

  “By his own words is he convicted of disbelief in the most holy Catholic faith,” said the grand inquisitor. “But I find, by a memorial which was addressed to me many mouths ago—indeed, very shortly after the arrest of this miserable unbeliever—and signed by Manuel Marquis of Orsini, that the said marquis hath important evidence to give on behalf of the Jew. Now, though Manuel d’Orsini be himself a prisoner of the holy office, yet as he hath not yet been judged, he is a competent witness.”

  Orders were then given to introduce the marquis; and Isaachar ben Solomon murmured to himself, “Is it possible that the young man can have felt sympathy for me? Ah, then I was not mistaken in him; in spite of his dissipation and his wildness he possesses a generous heart.”

  In a few minutes the Marquis of Orsini was led into the judgment-hall. He was chained;—but he carried his head erect—and, though his countenance was pale and careworn, his spirit was not crushed. He bowed respectfully, but not cringingly, to the grand inquisitor, and bestowed a friendly nod of recognition upon the Jew.

  “This memorial, dated in the month of March last, was signed by you?” said the grand inquisitor interrogatively, as he displayed a paper to the marquis.

  “That memorial was signed by me,” answered Orsini, in a firm tone, “and I rejoice that your eminence has at length granted me an opportunity of explaining the matter hinted at therein. Your eminence sits there, it is presumed, to administer justice; then let justice be done toward this innocent man—albeit that he is a Jew—for solemnly do I declare that the blood which stained the floor in Isaachar’s house flowed from my right arm. And it may not be amiss to observe,” continued the marquis, “that the worthy Jew there did not only bind the wound for me with as much care as if I myself had been an Israelite, or he a Christian—but he moreover offered me the aid of his purse; and therefore am I under obligations to him which I can never wholly discharge. In good sooth, my lord,” added Manuel, in whom neither a lengthened imprisonment nor the awful solemnity of the present scene could entirely subdue the flippancy which was habitual to his speech,—“in good sooth, my lord, he is a splendid specimen of a Jew—and I pray your eminence to discharge him forthwith.”

  “This levity ill becometh you, Manuel d’Orsini,” said the grand inquisitor; “for you yourself are in terrible danger.”

  Then, upon a signal given, the familiars conveyed the marquis back to his dungeon: but ere he left the judgment-hall, he had the satisfaction of beholding the Jew’s eyes fixed upon him with an expression of boundless gratitude and deep sympathy. Tears, too, were trickling down the cheeks of the Israelite: for the old man thought within himself, “What matters it if the rack dislocate my limbs? But it is shocking—oh! it is shocking to reflect that thy fellow-creatures, noble youth, shall dare to deface and injure that godlike form of thine!”

  “Jew,” suddenly exclaimed the grand inquisitor, “I put no faith in the testimony of the witness who has just appeared in thy favor. Confess thy sins—avow openly that thou hast murdered Christian children to obtain their blood for use in thy sacrifices—and seek forgiveness from Heaven by embracing the faith of Jesus!”

  The unhappy Israelite was so appalled by the open, positive, and undisguised manner in which an atrocious charge was revived against him, that he lost all power of utterance, and stood stupefied and aghast.

  “Away with him to the torture-chamber!” cried the grand inquisitor, in a stern and remorseless tone.

  “Monster!” exclaimed the Jew, suddenly recovering his speech, as that dreadful mandate warned him that he would now require all his energy—all his presence of mind:—“monster!” he repeated, in a voice indicative of loathing and contempt;—“and thou art a Christian!”

  The familiars hurried Isaachar away to the torture-chamber, which, as we before stated, opened upon the tribunal. And terrible, indeed, was the appearance of that earthly hell—that terrestrial hades, invented by fiends in human shape—that den of horrors constituting, indeed, a fitting foretaste of trans-stygian torment! The grand inquisitor followed the victim and the familiars into this awful place: and, on a signal being given by that high functionary, Isaachar was stripped of all his upper clothing, and stretched on the accursed rack. Then commenced the torture—the agonizing torture by means of that infernal instrument, a torture which dislocated the limbs, appeared to tear the members asunder, and produced sensations as if all the nerves of the body were suddenly being drawn out through the brain.

  “Dost thou confess? and wilt thou embrace the Christian faith?” demanded the grand inquisitor from time to time.

  “I have nothing to confess—I will not renounce the creed of my forefathers!” answered Isaachar in a tone of bitter agony, as he writhed upon the rack, while every fresh shock and jerk of the infernal engine seemed as if it would tear the very life out of him. But the old man remained firm in the declaration of his innocence of the dreadful crime imputed to him: stanch also to his creed did he remain; and having endured the full extent of that special mode of torture, he was borne back to his dungeon, cruelly injured, with dislocated limbs, blood streaming from his mouth and nostrils, and these terrible words of the grand inquisitor ringing in his ears—“Obstinate and impenitent one, Satan claims thee as his own; therefore art thou condemned to death by fire at the approaching auto de-fe!”

  Half an hour afterward another human being lay stretched upon that accursed rack, and agonizing—oh! most agonizing were the female shrieks and rending screams which emanated from the lips of the tortured victim, but which reached not beyond the solid masonry of those walls and the massive iron-plated door. The white and polished arms were stretched out in a position fearfully painful beyond the victim’s head, and the wrists were fastened to a steel bar by means of a thin cord, which cut through flesh, muscle and nerve to the very bone! The ankles were attached in a similar manner to a bar at the lower end of the rack, and thus from the female’s hands and feet thick clots of gore fell on the stone pavement. But even the blood flowed not so fast from her lacerated limbs as streamed the big drops of agony from her distorted countenance—that countenance erst so beautiful, and so well beloved by thee, Manuel d’Orsini! For, oh! upon that rack lay stretched the fair and half-naked form of Giulia of Arestino, its symmetry convulsing in matchless tortures, the bosom palpitating awfully with the pangs of that earthly hell, and the exquisitely-modeled limbs enduring all the hideous pains of dislocation, as if the fibers that held them in their sockets were drawn out to a tension at which they must inevitably snap in halves!

  But who gazes on that awful spectacle? whose ears drink in those agonizing screams, as if they made a delicious melody? With folded arms, compressed lips, and remorseless, though ashy pale countenance, the old Lord of Arestino stands near the rack; and if his eyes can for a moment quit that feast which they devour so greedily, it is but to glance with demoniac triumph toward Manuel d’Orsini, whom an atrocious refinement of cruelty, suggested by the vengeful count himself, has made a spectator of that appalling scene! And terrible are the emotions which rend the heart of the young marquis! But he is powerless—he cannot stretch forth a hand to save his mistress from the hellish torments which she is enduring, nor can he even whisper a syllable to inspire her with courage to support them. For he is bound tightly—the familiars, too, have him in their iron grasp, and he is gag
ged! Nevertheless he can see, and he can hear; he can behold the rending tortures of the rack—and he is compelled to listen to the piercing screams which the victim sends forth. If he close his eyes upon the horrible spectacle, imagination instantly makes it more horrible even still; and, moreover, in the true spirit of a chivalrous heart, he seeks by the tenderness of his glances to impart at least a gleam of solace to the soul of her who has undergone so much, and is suffering now so much more, through her fatal love of him! The grand inquisitor, who is an intimate friend of the Count of Arestino, ministers well and faithfully to the infernal vengeance of that old Italian noble: for the remorseless judge urges on the torturers to apply the powers of the rack to the fullest extent; and while the creaking sound of wheels mingles with the cracking noise of dislocating limbs, the Count of Arestino exclaims, “I was once humane and benevolent, Giulia, but thy conduct has made me a fiend!”

  “A fiend!” shrieked the tormented woman: “Oh! yes—yes—thou art a fiend—a very fiend—I have wronged thee—but this vengeance is horrible—mercy—mercy!—oh! for one drop of water—mercy—mercy!”

  The rack gave the last shock of which its utmost power was capable—a scream more dreadful, more agonizing, more piercing than any of its predecessors, rent this time the very walls of the torture-chamber: and with this last outburst of mortal agony, the spirit of the guilty Giulia fled forever! Yet was not the vengeance of the Count of Arestino satisfied; and the grand inquisitor was prepared to gratify the hellish sentiment to the fullest extent. The still warm and palpitating corpse of the countess was hastily removed from the rack: and the familiars stripped—nay, tore off the clothing of Manuel d’Orsini. The countenance of the young nobleman was now terribly somber, as if the darkest thoughts were occupying his inmost soul, and his eyes were bent fixedly on the dreadful engine, to the tortures of which it appeared to be his turn to submit.