Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “And now I come to the grand, the terrible, the main incident in this narrative. It was late one night, in the month of January, 1510, Nisida being then fifteen and thou, Francisco, nine, that Margaretha came to me in my own apartment and informed me that she had seen the tall gallant traverse the garden hastily and obtain admission into the countess’ chamber by means of the secret staircase. The hour for vengeance had at length come. Margaretha was instantly dispatched to advise two bravoes whose services I had long secured for the occasion, that the moment had arrived when they were to do the work for which they had been so well paid in advance, and by the faithful performance of which they would still further enrich themselves. Within half an hour all the arrangements were completed. Margaretha had retired to her own chamber and the bravoes were concealed with me in the garden. Nor had we long to wait. The private door opened shortly, and two persons appeared on the threshold. The night was clear and beautiful, and from my hiding-place I could discern the fondness of the embrace that marked their parting. And they parted, too, never to meet again in this life!

  “Vitangela closed the door—and her lover was passing rapidly along amidst the trees in the garden, when a dagger suddenly drank his heart’s blood. That dagger was mine, and wielded by my hand! He fell without a groan—dead, stone-dead at my feet. Half of my vengeance was now accomplished; the other half was yet to be consummated. Without a moment’s unnecessary delay the corpse was conveyed to a cellar beneath the northern wing of the mansion: and the two bravoes then hastened, to Vitangela’s chamber, into which they obtained admission by forcing the door of the private staircase. In pursuance of the orders which they had received from me, they bound and gagged her, and conveyed her through the garden to the very cellar where, by the light of a gloomy lamp, she beheld her husband standing close by a corpse!

  “‘Bring her near!’ I exclaimed, unmoved by the looks of indescribable horror which she threw around.

  “When her eyes caught sight of the countenance of that lifeless being, they remained fixed with frenzied wildness in their sockets, and even if there had been no gag between her teeth, I do not believe that she could have uttered a syllable. And now commenced the second act in this appalling tragedy! While one of the bravoes held the countess in his iron grasp, in such a manner that she could not avert her head, the other, who had once been a surgeon, tore away the garments from the corpse, and commenced the task which I had before assigned to him. And as the merciless scalpel hacked and hewed away at the still almost palpitating flesh of the murdered man, in whose breast the dagger remained deeply buried,—a ferocious joy—a savage, hyena-like triumph filled my soul; and I experienced no remorse for the deed I had done! Far—very far from that—for as the work progressed, I exclaimed—

  “‘Behold, Vitangela, how the scalpel hews that form so loved by thee! Now hack away at the countenance—deface that beauty—pick out those mild blue eyes!’—and I laughed madly!

  “The countess fainted, and I ordered her to be carried back to her apartment, where Margaretha awaited her. Indeed I had naturally foreseen that insensibility would result from the appalling spectacle which I compelled my wife to witness: and Margaretha was prepared to breathe dreadful menaces in her ears the moment she should recover—menaces of death to herself and both her children if she should reveal, even to her father confessor, one tittle of the scene which that night had been enacted! The surgeon-bravo did his work bravely; and the man who had dishonored me was reduced to naught save a skeleton! The flesh and the garments were buried deep in the cellar; the skeleton was conveyed to my own chamber, and suspended to a beam in the closet where you, Francisco, and your bride, are destined to behold it—ALONG WITH ANOTHER!

  “My vengeance was thus far gratified—the bravos were dismissed, and I locked myself up in my chamber for several days, to brood upon all I had done, and occasionally to feast my eyes with the grim remains of him who had dared to love my wife. During those days of seclusion I would see no one save the servant who brought me my meals. From him I learnt that the countess was dangerously ill—that she was indeed dying, and that she besought me to visit her if only for a moment. But I refused—implacably refused. I was convinced that she craved my forgiveness; and that I could not give.

  “Dr. Duras, who attended upon her, came to the door of my chamber and implored me to grant him an interview:—then Nisida sought a similar boon; but I was deaf to each and all.

  “Yes—for there was still a being on whom I yet longed to wreak my vengeance;—and that being was yourself, Francisco? I looked upon you as the living evidence of my dishonor—the memorial of your mother’s boundless guilt. But I recoiled in horror from the idea of staining my hands with the blood of a little child—yet I feared if I came near you—if I saw your clinging affectionately to Vitangela—if I heard you innocently and unconsciously mock me by calling me ‘father!’—I felt I should be unable to restrain the fury of my wrath!

  “I know not how long I should have remained in the seclusion of my own chamber—perhaps weeks and months, but one morning shortly after daybreak, I was informed by the only servant whom I would admit near me, that the countess had breathed her last during the night, and that Nisida was so deeply affected by her mother’s death, that she, poor girl, was dangerously ill. Then I became frantic on account of my daughter; and I quitted my apartment, not only to see that proper aid was administered to her, but to complete the scheme of vengeance which I had originally formed. Thus, in the first place, Dr. Duras was enjoined to take up his abode altogether in the Riverola Palace, so long as Nisida should require his services; and, on the other hand, a splendid funeral was ordered for the Countess Riverola. But Vitangela’s remains went not in the velvet-covered coffin to the family vault;—no—her flesh was buried in the same soil where rotted the flesh of her paramour—and her skeleton was suspended from the same beam to which his bones had been already hung. For I thought within myself: ‘This is the first time that the wife of a Count of Riverola has ever brought dishonor and disgrace upon her husband; and I will take care that it shall be the last. To Nisida will I leave all my estates—all my wealth, save a miserable pittance as an inheritance for the bastard Francisco. She shall inherit the title, and the man on whom she may confer her hand shall be the next Count of Riverola. The wedding-day will be marked by a revelation of the mystery of this cabinet; and the awful spectacle will teach him, whoever he may be, to watch his wife narrowly—and will teach her what it is to prove unfaithful to a fond husband! To both, the lesson will be as useful as the manner of conveying it will be frightful, and they will hand down the tradition to future scions of the Riverola family. Francisco, too, shall learn the secrets of the cabinet; he shall be taught why he is disinherited—why I have hated him: and thus even from the other world shall the spirits of the vile paramour and the adulterous wife behold the consequences of their crime perpetuated in this.’

  “Such were my thoughts—such were my intentions. But an appalling calamity forced me to change my views. Nisida, after a long and painful illness, became deaf and dumb; and Dr. Duras gave me no hope of the restoration of her lost faculties.

  “Terrible visitation! Then was it that I reasoned with myself—that I deliberated long and earnestly upon the course which I should pursue. It was improbable that, afflicted as Nisida was, she would ever marry; and I felt grieved, deeply grieved, to think that you, Francisco, being disinherited, and Nisida remaining single, the proud title of Riverola would become extinct; I therefore resolved on the less painful alternative of disinheriting you altogether; and I accordingly made a will by which I left you the estates, with the contingent title Count of Riverola, under certain conditions which might yet alienate both property and rank from you, and endow therewith your sister Nisida. For should she recover the faculties of speech and hearing by the time she shall have attained the age of thirty-six, she will yet be marriageable and may have issue; but should that era in her life pass, and she still be deaf and dumb, all hope o
f her recovery will be dead!

  “Thus if she still be so deeply afflicted at that age, you, Francisco, will inherit the vast estates and the lordly title which, through the circumstances of your birth, it grieves me to believe will ever devolve upon you.

  “Such were my motives for making that will which you are destined to hear read, doubtless before the time comes for you to peruse this manuscript. And having made that will, and experiencing the sad certainty that my unfortunate daughter will never become qualified to inherit my title and fortune, but that the name of Riverola must be perpetuated through your marriage, I have determined that to you and to your bride alone shall the dread secrets of the cabinet be revealed.”

  Thus terminated the manuscript.

  Powerful in meaning and strong in expression as the English language may be rendered by one who has the least experience in the proper combination of words, yet it becomes totally inadequate to the task of conveying an idea of those feelings—those harrowing emotions—those horrifying sentiments, which were excited in the breasts of Francisco di Riverola and the beautiful Flora by the revolution of the manuscript. At first the document begat a deep and mournful interest, as it related the interviews of the late count with Vitangela in the streets of Naples; then amazement was engendered by the announcement of that lovely and unhappy being’s ignominious parentage—but a calmness was diffused through the minds of Flora and Francisco, as if they had found a resting place amidst the exciting incidents of the narrative when they reached that part which mentioned the marriage.

  Their feelings were, however, destined to be speedily and most painfully wrung once more; and Francisco could scarcely restrain his indignation—yes, his indignation even against the memory of his deceased father—when he perused those injurious suspicions which were recorded in reference to the honor of his mother. Though unable to explain the mystery in which all that part of the narrative was involved, yet he felt firmly convinced that his mother was innocent; and he frequently interrupted himself in the perusal of the manuscript to give utterance to passionate ejaculations expressive of that opinion. But it was when the hideous tragedy rapidly developed itself, and the history of the presence of two skeletons in the closet was detailed, it was then that language became powerless to describe the mingled wrath and disgust which Francisco felt, or to delineate the emotions of boundless horror and wild amazement that were excited in the bosom of Flora. In spasmodic shuddering did the young countess cling to her husband when she had learned how fearfully accurate was the manner in which the few lines of the manuscript which she had read many months previously in Nisida’s boudoir, fitted in the text, and how appalling was the tale which the entire made. She was cruelly shocked, and her heart bled for that fine young man whom she was so proud to call her husband, but whom his late father had loathed to recognize as a son. And Nisida—what were her feelings as she lay stretched upon a couch, listening to the contents of the manuscript which she had read before? At first one hope—one idea was dominant in her soul, the hope that Flora would be crushed even to death by revelations which were indeed almost sufficient to overwhelm a gentle disposition and freeze the vital current in the tender and compassionate heart.

  But as Francisco read on, and when he came to those passages which described the sufferings and the cruel fate of her mother, then Nisida became a prey to the most torturing feelings—dreadful emotions were expressed by her convulsed countenance and wildly-glaring eyes—and she muttered deep and bitter anathemas against the memory of her own father. For well does the reader know that she had loved her mother to distraction; and thus the horrifying detail of the injuries heaped upon the head and on the name of that revered parent aroused all her fiercest passions of rage and hate as completely as if that history had been new to her, and as if she were now becoming acquainted with it for the first time. Indeed, so powerful, so terrible, was the effect produced by the revival of all those dread reminiscences and heart-rending emotions on the part of Nisida that, forgetting her malignant spite and her infernal hope with regard to Flora, she threw her whole soul into the subject of the manuscript: and the torrent of feelings to which she thus gave way was crushing and overwhelming to a woman of such fierce passions, and who had received so awful a shock as that which had stretched her on the couch where she now lay. For the fate of him whom she had loved with such ardor, and the revulsion that her affection experienced on account of the ghastly spectacle which Wagner presented to her view in his dying moments—the disgust and loathing which had been inspired in her mind by the thought that she had ever fondled that being in her arms and absolutely doted on the superhuman beauty that had changed to such revolting ugliness, it was all this that had struck her down—paralyzed her—inflicted a mortal, though not an instantaneous blow upon that woman so lately full of energy, so strong in moral courage, and so full of vigorous health. Thus impressed with the conviction that her end was approaching, the moment the perusal of the manuscript was concluded the Lady Nisida said, in a faint and dying tone of voice:

  “Francisco, draw near—as near as possible—and listen to what I have now to communicate, for it is in my power to clear up all doubt, all mystery relative to the honor of our sainted mother, and convince thee that no stigma, no disgrace attaches itself to thy birth!”

  “Alas! my beloved sister,” exclaimed the young count, “you speak in a faint voice, you are very ill! In the name of the Holy Virgin! I conjure you to allow me to send for Dr. Duras!”

  “No, Francisco,” said Nisida, her voice recovering somewhat of its power as she continued to address him: “I implore you to let me have my own way, to follow my own inclinations! Do not thwart me, Francisco; already I feel as if molten lead were pouring through my brain, and a tremendous weight lies upon my heart! Forbear, then, from irritating me, my well-beloved Francisco——”

  “Oh! Nisida,” cried the young count, throwing his arms around his sister’s neck and embracing her fondly; “if you love me now, if you ever loved me, grant me one boon! By the memory of our sainted mother I implore you, by your affection for her I adjure you, Nisida——”

  “Speak, speak, Francisco,” interrupted his sister, hastily: “I can almost divine the nature of the boon you crave—and—my God!” she added, tears starting from her eyes, as a painful thought flashed across her brain,—“perhaps I have been too harsh—too severe! At all events, it is not now—on my death-bed—that I can nurse resentment——”

  “Your death-bed!” echoed Francisco, in a tone or acute anguish, while the sobs which convulsed the bosom of the young countess were heard alike by him and his sister.

  “Yes, dearest brother, I am dying,” said Nisida, in a voice of profound and mournful conviction; “and therefore let me not delay those duties and those explanations which can alone unburden my heart of the weight that lies upon it! And first, Francisco, be thy boon granted—for I know that thou wouldst speak to me of her who is now thy bride. Come to my arms, then. Flora, embrace me as a sister, and forgive me if thou canst, for I have been a fierce and unrelenting enemy to thee!”

  “Oh, let the past be forgotten, my friend, my sister!” exclaimed the weeping Flora, as she threw herself into Nisida’s outstretched arms.

  And the young wife and the young woman embraced each other tenderly—for deep regrets and pungent remorse at last attuned the mind of Nisida to sweet and holy sympathy.

  “And now,” said Nisida, “sit down by my side, and listen to the explanations which I have promised. Give me your hand. Flora, dear Flora, let me retain it in mine; for at the last hour, and when I am about to leave this fair and beauteous earth, I feel an ardent longing to love those who walk upon its face, and to be loved by them in return. But, alas, alas!” she added, somewhat bitterly, “reflections and yearnings of this nature come too late! O Flora! the picture of life is spread before you—while from me it is rapidly receding, and dissolving into the past. Like our own fair city of palaces and flowers, when seen from a distance beneath the glo
rious lights of the morning, may that glorious picture continue to appear to thee; and may’st thou never draw near enough to recognize the false splendors in which gorgeous hues may deck the things of this world; may’st thou never be brought so close to the sad realities of existence as to be forced to contemplate the breaking hearts that dwell in palaces, or to view in disgust the slime upon flowers.”

  “Nisida,” said Francisco, bending over his sister, and speaking in a voice indicative of deep emotion, “the kind words you utter to my beloved Flora shall ever—ever remain engraven upon my heart.”

  “And on mine also,” murmured the young countess, pressing Nisida’s hand with grateful ardor, while her eyes, radiant with very softness, threw a glance of passionate tenderness upon her generous-hearted and handsome husband.

  “Listen to me,” resumed Nisida, after a short pause, during which she gave way to all the luxury of those sweet and holy reflections which the present scene engendered: and these were the happiest moments of the lady’s stormy life. “Listen to me,” she repeated; “and let me enter upon and make an end of my explanations as speedily as possible. And first, Francisco, relative to our sainted—our innocent—our deeply-wronged and much-injured mother. You have already learned that she was the daughter of the public executioner of Naples; and you have heard that ere she became our father’s wife she swore a solemn oath—she pledged herself in the most solemn manner that she would never even allude to her family—that she would not communicate to them the name of her husband nor the place of his abode, under any circumstances—in a word, that she would consider her father and brother as dead to her! And yet she had a tender heart; and after she became the Countess of Riverola she very often thought of the parent who had reared her tenderly and loved her affectionately; she thought also of her brother Eugenio, who had ever been so devoted to his sister. But she kept her promise faithfully for five years; until that fatal day of April, 1500, which our father has so emphatically mentioned in his narrative. It was in the garden belonging to the ducal palace that she suddenly encountered her brother Eugenio——”