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THE MAN-WOLF
AND OTHER TALES
By Emile Erckmann and Alexandre Chatrian
1876
CONTENTS.
The Man-Wolf:--
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
Myrtle:--
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
Uncle Christian's Inheritance
The Bear-Baiting
The Scapegoat
A Night In The Woods:--
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
PRELIMINARY NOTE BY THE TRANSLATOR.
It has often been remarked, with perfect justice, that the eminent French
writers, a translation of one of whose works is here attempted, are
singularly faithful in their adherence to historic truth. Remove the
thread of obvious fiction which is indispensable to make these admirable
productions romances or tales, and what we have left is perfectly
reliable history. It is this feature mainly which gives the indescribable
charm to their historical tales--a charm powerfully realised in the
original, though less appreciable in an imperfect translation.
The same claim to perfect truthfulness in all essential points may be
placed to the credit of the following "Roman Populaire," notwithstanding
the startling supernatural element on which the story is founded.
Erckmann-Chatrian have not thought it right or necessary to depart in
this case from their practice of abstaining from all prefaces or notes in
every edition of their works. Yet perhaps the translator may be forgiven,
and even condoned with thanks, if he ventures upon an explanation tending
to show that the tale of _Hugh the Wolf_ is not entirely founded upon
superstition and the supernatural.
"Let his heart be changed from man's, and let a beast's heart be given
unto him!" Such was the sentence pronounced and executed upon him of
Babylon whose pride called for abasement from the Lord. Dr. Mead (_Medica
Sacra_, p. 59) observes that there was known among the ancients a mental
disorder called lycanthropy, the victims of which fancied themselves
wolves, and went about howling and attacking and tearing sheep and young
children (_Aetius, Lib. Med_. vi., _Paul Ægineta_, iii. 16). So, again,
Virgil tells of the daughters of Prætus, who fancied themselves to be
cows, and running wildly about the pastures, "implêrunt falsis mugitibus
agros."--Ecl. vi. 48. This horrible disease appears happily to have been
a rare one, and recoveries from it have taken place, for it is not
destructive of the sufferer's life. It has even been thoroughly cured
after a lapse of many years.
Dr. Pusey (_Notes on Daniel_, p. 425), in a disquisition of great fulness
upon the disease of Nebuchadnezzar, refers to a communication which he
received from Dr. Browne, a Commissioner of the Board of Lunacy for
Scotland, in which he says, "My opinion is that in all mental powers or
conditions the idea of personal identity is but rarely enfeebled, and
that it is never extinguished. The ego and non-ego may be confused; the
ego, however, continues to preserve the personality. All the angels,
devils, dukes, lords, kings, "gods many" that I have had under my care
remained what they were before they became angels, dukes, etc., in a
sense, and even nominally. I have seen a man declaring himself the
Saviour or St. Paul sign himself _James Thomson_, and attend worship as
regularly as if the notion of divinity had never entered into his head."
Esquirol, a very trustworthy writer, has a description of an
extraordinary outbreak of lycanthropy in France (in the Jura, at Dole,
and other places in Eastern France) in the 16th century.
"This terrible affliction began to manifest itself in France in the
15th century, and the name of '_loups-garous_' has been given to the
sufferers. These unhappy beings fly from the society of mankind and live
in the woods, the cemeteries, or old ruins, prowling about the open
country only by night, howling as they go. They let their beard and nails
grow, and then seeing themselves armed with claws and covered with shaggy
hair, they become confirmed in the belief that they are wolves. Impelled
by ferocity or want, they throw themselves upon young children and tear,
kill, and devour them." (Esquiról, _Des Maladies Mentales_, Paris, 1838,
vol i., p. 521.) Those whom the French called _loups-garous_ were in
German termed _werewolves_.
It may be observed on this that when the nails of the fingers and toes
are cut they grow indefinitely; but if they are allowed to grow unchecked
they soon curve over the extremities, form talons or claws, and cease to
grow--answering to the Scriptural account of the effects of the mental
disorder of Nebuchadnezzar.
Of course for every case of real malady many were imputed or charged upon
poor creatures, who were driven to madness by groundless charges of
witchcraft and sorcery, and being _loups-garous_ in secret. Many innocent
people were in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries burnt at the stake
as wolves in human form.
A correspondent has kindly supplied the following information:--"When in
Oude in India, twenty-six years ago, we heard of several instances of
native babies being carried off out of the villages by she-wolves, and
placed with their whelps, and brought up wild there; there was one about
when we were there, partially reclaimed, but retaining much of the savage
nature imbibed with the wolf's milk, and having been accustomed to go on
all-fours--_i.e._, knees and elbows; but I conclude these were not
affected with 'Lycanthropy.'"
With a few touches of his magic pencil the Laureate has drawn a powerful
picture of such a state of things in ancient Britain, of which we can
scarcely deny the literal faithfulness. It is not a poetic conception; it
is historic truth:--
"And ever and anon the wolf would steal
The children and devour; but now and then,
Her own brood lost or dead, lent her fierce teat
To human sucklings; and the children, housed
In her foul den, there at their meat would growl,
And mock their foster-mother on four feet,
Till, straightened, they grew up to wolf-like men,
Worse than the wolves."
_Coming of Arthur_.
The following tale, in which the lycanthropy is far from being altogether
a mere effort of the imagination, appears to be founded upon the belief
in the continued existence of this rare species of madness down to our
own day--or near it--for the story seems to belong to the year 1832.
The English reader will not fail to notice the correspondence between the
title and the well-known designation of the illustrious head of the noble
house of Grosvenor. Whatever connection there may or may not be between
that German Hugh Lupus of a thousand years ago and the truly British Hugh
Lupus of our day, all the base qualities of his supposed progenitor have
disappeared in him who is adorned with all the qualities which make the
English nobility rank as the pride and the flower of our land.
F. A. M.
_The Vicaraqe,
Broughton-in-Furness_.
THE MAN-WOLF.
CHAPTER I.
About Christmas time in the year 18--, as I was lying fast asleep at the
Cygne at Fribourg, my old friend Gideon Sperver broke abruptly into my
room, crying--
"Fritz, I have good news for you; I am going to take you to Nideck, two
leagues from this place. You know Nideck, the finest baronial castle in
the country, a grand monument of the glory of our forefathers?"
Now I had not seen Sperver, who was my foster-father, for sixteen years;
he had grown a full beard in that time, a huge fox-skin cap covered his
head, and he was holding his lantern close under my nose. It was,
therefore, only natural that I should answer--
"In the first place let us do things in order. Tell me who you are."
"Who I am? What! don't you remember Gideon Sperver, the Schwartzwald
huntsman? You would not be so ungrateful, would you? Was it not I who
taught you to set a trap, to lay wait for the foxes along the skirts of
the woods, to start the dogs after the wild birds? Do you remember me
now? Look at my left ear, with a frost-bite."
"Now I know you; that left ear of yours has done it; Shake hands."
Sperver, passing the back of his hand across his eyes, went on--
"You know Nideck?"
"Of course I do--by reputation; what have you to do there?"
"I am the count's chief huntsman."
"And who has sent you?"
"The young Countess Odile."
"Very good. How soon are we to start?"
"This moment. The matter is urgent; the old count is very ill, and his
daughter has begged me not to lose a moment. The horses are quite ready."
"But, Gideon, my dear fellow, just look out at the weather; it has been
snowing three days without cessation."
"Oh, nonsense; we are not going out boar-hunting; put on your thick coat,
buckle on your spurs, and let us prepare to start. I will order something
to eat first." And he went out, first adding, "Be sure to put on your
cape."
I could never refuse old Gideon anything; from my childhood he could do
anything with me with a nod or a sign; so I equipped myself and came into
the coffee-room.
"I knew," he said, "that you would not let me go back without you. Eat
every bit of this slice of ham, and let us drink a stirrup cup, for the
horses are getting impatient. I have had your portmanteau put in."
"My portmanteau! what is that for?"
"Yes, it will be all right; you will have to stay a few days at Nideck,
that is indispensable, and I will tell you why presently."
So we went down into the courtyard.
At that moment two horsemen arrived, evidently tired out with riding,
their horses in a perfect lather of foam. Sperver, who had always been
a great admirer of a fine horse, expressed his surprise and admiration
at these splendid animals.
"What beauties! They are of the Wallachian breed, I can see, as finely
formed as deer, and as swift. Nicholas, throw a cloth over them quickly,
or they will take cold."
The travellers, muffled in Siberian furs, passed close by us just as we
were going to mount. I could only discern the long brown moustache of
one, and his singularly bright and sparkling eyes.
They entered the hotel.
The groom was holding our horses by the bridle. He wished us _bon
voyage_, removed his hand, and we were off.
Sperver rode a pure Mecklemburg. I was mounted on a stout cob bred in the
Ardennes, full of fire; we flew over the snowy ground. In ten minutes we
had left Fribourg behind us.
The sky was beginning to clear up. As far as the eye could reach we could
distinguish neither road, path, nor track. Our only company were the
ravens of the Black Forest spreading their hollow wings wide over the
banks of snow, trying one place after another unsuccessfully for food,
and croaking, "Misery! misery!"
Gideon, with his weather-beaten countenance, his fur cloak and cap,
galloped on ahead, whistling airs from the _Freyschütz_; sometimes as he
turned I could see the sparkling drops of moisture hanging from his long
moustache.
"Well, Fritz, my boy, this is a fine winter's morning."
"So it is, but it is rather severe; don't you think so?"
"I am fond of a clear hard frost," he replied; "it promotes circulation.
If our old minister Tobias had but the courage to start out in weather
like this he would soon put an end to his rheumatic pains."
I smiled, I am afraid, involuntarily.
After an hour of this rapid pace Sperver slackened his speed and let me
come abreast of him.
"Fritz, I shall have to tell you the object of this journey at some time,
I suppose?"
"I was beginning to think I ought to know what I am going about."
"A good many doctors have already been consulted."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, some came from Berlin in great wigs who only asked to see the
patient's tongue. Others from Switzerland examined him another way. The
doctors from Paris stared at their patient through magnifying glasses to
learn something from his physiognomy. But all their learning was wasted,
and they got large fees in reward of their ignorance."
"Is that the way you speak of us medical gentlemen?"
"I am not alluding to you at all. I have too much respect for you, and if
I should happen to break my leg I don't know that there is another that I
should prefer to yourself to treat me as a patient, but you have not
discovered an optical instrument yet to tell what is going on inside of
us."
"How do you know that?"
At this reply the worthy fellow looked at me doubtfully as if he thought
me a quack like the rest, yet he replied--
"Well, Fritz, if you have indeed such a glass it will be wanted now, for
the count's complaint is internal; it is a terrible kind of illness,
something like madness. You know that madness shows itself in either nine
hours, nine days, or nine weeks?"
"So it is said; but not having noticed this myself, I cannot say that it
is so."
"Still you know there are agues which return at periods of either three,
six, or nine years. There are singular works in this machinery of ours.
Whenever this human clockwork is wound up in some particular way, fever,
or indigestion, or toothache returns at the very hour and day."
"Why, Gideon, I am quite aware of that; those periodical complaints are
the greatest trouble we have."
"I am sorry to hear it, for the count's complaint is periodical; it
comes back every year, on the same day, at the same hour; his mouth
runs over with foam, his eyes stand out white and staring, like great
billiard-balls; he shakes from head to foot, and he gnashes with his
teeth."
"Perhaps this man has had serious troubles to go through?"
"No, he has not. If his daughter would but consent to be married he
would be the happiest man alive. He is rich and powerful and full of
honours. He possesses everything that the rest of the world is coveting.
Unfortunately his daughter persists in refusing every offer of marriage.
She consecrates her life to God, and it harasses him to think that the
ancient house of Nideck will become extinct."
"How did his illness come on?" I asked.
"Suddenly, ten years ago," was the reply.
All at once the honest fellow seemed to be recollecting himself. He took
from his pocket a short pipe, filled it, and having lighted it--
"One evening," said he, "I was sitting alone with the count in the
armoury of the castle. It was about Christmas time. We had been hunting
wild boars the whole day in the valleys of the Rhéthal, and had returned
at night bringing home with us two of our boar-hounds ripped open from
head to tail. It was just as cold as it is to-night, with snow and frost.
The count was pacing up and down the room with his chin upon his breast
and his hands crossed behind him, like a man in profound thought. From
time to time he stopped to watch the gathering snow on the high windows,
and I was warming myself in the chimney corner, bewailing my dead hounds,
and bestowing maledictions on all the wild boars that infest the
Schwartzwald. Everybody at Nideck had been asleep a couple of hours,
and not a sound could be heard but the tread and the clank of the
count's heavy spurred boots upon the flags. I remember well that a crow,
no doubt driven by a gust of wind, came flapping its wings against the
window-panes, uttering a discordant shriek, and how the sheets of snow
fell from the windows, and the windows suddenly changed from white to
black--"
"But what has all this to do with your master's illness?" I interrupted.
"Let me go on--you will soon see. At that cry the count suddenly gathered
himself together with a shuddering movement, his eyes became fixed with a
glassy stare, his cheeks were bloodless, and he bent his head forward
just like a hunter catching the sound of his approaching game. I went on
warming myself, and I thought, 'Won't he soon go to bed now?' for, to
tell you the truth, I was overcome with fatigue. All these details,
Fritz, are still present in my memory. Scarcely had the bird of ill omen
croaked its unearthly cry when the old clock struck eleven. At that
moment the count turns on his heel--he listens, his lips tremble, I can
see him staggering like a drunken man. He stretches out his hands, his
jaws are tightly clenched, his eyes staring and white. I cried, 'My lord,
what is the matter?' but he began to laugh discordantly like a madman,
stumbled, and fell upon the stone floor, face downwards. I called for
help; servants came round. Sébalt took the count by the shoulders; we
removed him to a bed near the window; but just as I was loosening the
count's neckerchief--for I was afraid it was apoplexy--the countess came
and flung herself upon the body of her father, uttering such heartrending
cries that the very remembrance of them makes me shudder."
Here Gideon took his pipe from his lips, knocked the ashes out upon the
pommel of his saddle, and pursued his tale in a saddened voice.
"From that day, Fritz, none but evil days have come upon Nideck, and
better times seem to be far off. Every year at the same day and hour the
count has shuddering fits. The malady lasts from a week to a fortnight,
during which he howls and yells so frightfully that it makes a man's
blood run cold to hear him. Then he slowly recovers his usual health. He
is still pale and weak, and moves trembling from one chair to another,
starting at the least noise or movement, and fearful of his own shadow.
The young countess, the sweetest creature in the world, never leaves his
side; but he cannot endure her while the fit is upon him. He roars at
her, 'Go, leave me this moment! I have enough to endure without seeing
you hanging about me!' It is a horrible sight. I am always close at his
heels in the chase, I who sound the horn when he has killed the forest
beasts; I am at the head of all his retainers, and I would give my life
for his sake; yet when he is at his worst I can hardly keep off my hands
from his throat, I am so horrified at the way in which he treats his
beautiful daughter."
Sperver looked dangerously wroth for a moment, clapped both his spurs to
his mount, and we rode on at a hard gallop.
I had fallen into a reverie. The cure of a complaint of this description
appeared to me more than doubtful, even impossible. It was evidently a
mental disorder. To fight against it with any hope of success it would
be needful to trace it back to its origin, and this would, no doubt, be
too remote for successful investigation.
All these reflections perplexed me greatly. The old huntsman's story, far
from strengthening my hopes, only depressed me--not a very favourable
condition to insure success. At about three we came in sight of the
ancient castle of Nideck on the verge of the horizon. In spite of the
great distance we could distinguish the projecting turrets, apparently
suspended from the angles of the edifice. It was but a dim outline barely
distinguishable from the blue sky, but soon the red points of the Vosges
became visible.
At that moment Sperver drew in his bridle and said--
"Fritz, we shall have to get there before night--onward!"
But it was in vain that he spurred and lashed. The horse stood rooted
to the ground, his ears thrown back, his nostrils dilated, his sides
panting, his legs firmly planted in an attitude of resistance.
"What is the matter with the beast?" cried Gideon in astonishment. "Do
you see anything, Fritz? Surely--"
He broke off abruptly, pointing with his whip at a dark form in the snow
fifty yards off, on the slope of the hill.
"The Black Plague!" he exclaimed with a voice of distress which almost
robbed me of my self-possession.
Following the indication of his outstretched whip I discerned with
astonishment an aged woman crouching on the snowy ground, with her arms
clasped about her knees, and so tattered that her red elbows came through
her tattered sleeves. A few ragged locks of grey hung about her long,
scraggy, red, and vulture-like neck.
Strange to say, a bundle of some kind lay upon her knees, and her haggard
eyes were directed upon distant objects in the white landscape.
Spencer drew off to the left, giving the hideous object as wide a berth
as he could, and I had some difficulty in following him.
"Now," I cried, "what is all this for? Are you joking?"
"Joking?--assuredly not! I never joke about such serious matters. I am
not given to superstition, but I confess that I am alarmed at this
meeting!"
Then turning his head, and noticing that the old woman had not moved, and
that her eyes were fixed upon the same one spot, he appeared to gather a
little courage.
"Fritz," he said solemnly, "you are a man of learning--you know many
things of which I know nothing at all. Well, I can tell you this, that a
man is in the wrong who laughs at a thing because he can't understand it.
I have good reasons for calling this woman the Black Plague. She is known
by that name in the whole Black Forest, but here at Nideck she has earned
that title by supreme right."
And the good man pursued his way without further observation.
"Now, Sperver, just explain what you mean," I asked, "for I don't
understand you."
"That woman is the ruin of us all. She is a witch. She is the cause of it
all. It is she who is killing the count by inches."
"How is that possible?" I exclaimed. "How could she exercise such a
baneful influence?"
"I cannot tell how it is. All I know is, that on the very day that the
attack comes on, at the very moment, if you will ascend the beacon tower,
you will see the Black Plague squatting down like a dark speck on the
snow just between the Tiefenbach and the castle of Nideck. She sits there
alone, crouching close to the snow. Every day she comes a little nearer,
and every day the attacks grow worse. You would think he hears her
approach. Sometimes on the first day, when the fits of trembling have
come over him, he has said to me, 'Gideon, I feel her coming.' I hold him
by the arms and restrain the shuddering somewhat, but he still repeats,
stammering and struggling with his agony, and his eyes staring and fixed,
'She is coming--nearer--oh--oh--she comes!' Then I go up Hugh Lupus's
tower; I survey the country. You know I have a keen eye for distant
objects. At last, amidst the grey mists afar off, between sky and earth,
I can just make out a dark speck. The next morning that black spot has
grown larger. The Count of Nideck goes to bed with chattering teeth. The
next day again we can make out the figure of the old hag; the fierce
attacks begin; the count cries out. The day after, the witch is at the
foot of the mountain, and the consequence is that the count's jaws are
set like a vice; his mouth foams; his eyes turn in his head. Vile
creature! Twenty times I have had her within gunshot, and the count has
bid me shed no blood. 'No, Sperver, no; let us have no bloodshed.' Poor
man, he is sparing the life of the wretch who is draining his life from
him, for she is killing him, Fritz; he is reduced to skin and bone."
My good friend Gideon was in too great a rage with the unhappy woman to
make it possible to bring him back to calm reason. Besides, who can draw
the limits around the region of possibility? Every day we see the range
of reality extending more widely. Unseen and unknown influences,
marvellous correspondences, invisible bonds, some kind of mysterious
magnetism, are, on the one hand, proclaimed as undoubted facts, and
denied on the other with irony and scepticism, and yet who can say that
after a while there will not be some astonishing revelations breaking in
in the midst of us all when we least expect it? In the midst of so much
ignorance it seems easy to lay a claim to wisdom and shrewdness.
I therefore only begged Sperver to moderate his anger, and by no means to
fire upon the Black Plague, warning him that such a proceeding would
bring serious misfortune upon him.
"Pooh!" he cried; "at the very worst they could but hang me."
But that, I remarked, was a good deal for an honest man to suffer.
"Not at all," he cried; "it is but one kind of death out of many. You are
suffocated, that is all. I would just as soon die of that as of a hammer
falling on my head, as in apoplexy, or not to be able to sleep, or smoke,
or swallow, or digest my food."
"You, Gideon, with your grey beard, you have learnt a peculiar mode of
reasoning."
"Grey beard or not, that is my way of seeing things. I always keep a ball
in my double-barrelled gun at the witch's service; from time to time I
put in a fresh charge, and if I get the chance--"
He only added an expressive gesture.
"Quite wrong, Sperver, quite wrong. I agree with the Count of Nideck, and
I say no bloodshed. Oceans cannot wipe away blood shed in anger. Think of
that, and discharge that barrel against the first boar you meet."
These words seemed to make some impression upon the old huntsman; he hung
down his head and looked thoughtful.
We were then climbing the wooded steeps which separate the poor village
of Tiefenbach from the Castle of Nideck.
Night had closed in. As it always happens with us after a bright clear
winter's day, snow was again beginning to fall, heavy flakes dropped and
melted upon our horses' manes, who were beginning now to pluck up their
spirits at the near prospect of the comfortable stable.
Now and then Sperver looked over his shoulder with evident uneasiness;
and I myself was not altogether free from a feeling of apprehension in
thinking of the strange account which the huntsman had given me of his
master's complaint.
Besides all this, there is a certain harmony between external nature and
the spirit of a man, and I know of nothing more depressing than a gloomy
forest loaded in every branch with thick snow and hoar frost, and moaning
in the north wind. The gaunt and weird-looking trunks of the tall pines
and the gnarled and massive oaks look mournfully upon you, and fill you
with melancholy thoughts.
As we ascended the rocky eminence the oaks became fewer, and scattered
birches, straight and white as marble pillars, divided the dark green of
the forest pines, when in a moment, as we issued from a thicket, the
ancient stronghold stood before us in a heavy mass, its dark surface
studded with brilliant points of light.
Sperver had pulled up before a deep gateway between two towers, barred in
by an iron grating.
"Here we are," he cried, throwing the reins on the horses' necks.
He laid hold of the deer's-foot bell-handle, and the clear sound of a
bell broke the stillness.
After waiting a few minutes the light of a lantern flickered in the deep
archway, showing us in its semicircular frame of ruddy light the figure
of a humpbacked dwarf, yellow-bearded, broad-shouldered, and wrapped in
furs from head to foot.
You might have thought him, in the deep shadow, some gnome or evil spirit
of earth realised out of the dreams of the Niebelungen Lieder.
He came towards us at a very leisurely pace, and laid his great flat
features close against the massive grating, straining his eyes, and
trying to make us out in the darkness in which we were standing.
"Is that you, Sperver?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
"Open at once, Knapwurst," was the quick reply. "Don't you know how cold
it is?"
"Oh! I know you now," cried the little man; "there's no mistaking you.
You always speak as if you were going to gobble people up."
The door opened, and the dwarf, examining me with his lantern, with an
odd expression in his face, received me with "Willkommen, herr doctor,"
but which seemed to say besides, "Here is another who will have to go
away again as others have done." Then he quietly closed the door, whilst
we alighted, and came to take our horses by the bridle.