WERWOLVES IN GERMANY
No country in the world is richer in stories of everything appertaining
to the supernatural than Germany. The Rhine is the favourite river of
nymphs and sirens, to whose irresistible and fatal fascinations so many
men have fallen victims. Along its shores are countless haunted castles,
in its woods innumerable terrifying phantoms.
The werwolf, however, seems to have confined itself almost entirely to
the Harz Mountains, where it was formerly most common and more dreaded
than any other visitant from the Unknown. But of these werwolves many of
the best authenticated cases have been told so often, that it is
difficult for me to alight on any that is not already well known.
Perhaps the following, though as striking as any, may be new to at least
a few of my readers.
THE CASE OF HERR HELLEN AND THE WERWOLVES OF THE HARZ MOUNTAINS
Two gentlemen, named respectively Hellen and Schiller, were on a walking
tour in the Harz Mountains, in the early summer of the year 1840, when
Schiller, slipping down, sprained his ankle and was unable to go on.
They were some miles from any village, in the centre of an extensive
forest, and it was beginning to get dark.
"Leave me here," cried the injured man to his friend, "while you see if
you can discover any habitation. I have been told these woods are full
of charcoal-burners' and wood-cutters' huts, so that if you walk
straight ahead for a mile or two, you are very likely to come across
one. Do go, there's a good fellow, and if you are too tired to return
yourself, send some one to carry me."
Hellen did not like leaving his comrade in such a dreary spot, alone and
helpless, but as Schiller was persistent he at length yielded, and
stepping briskly out, advanced along the track that had brought them
hither. Once or twice he halted, fancying he heard voices, and several
times his heart pulsated wildly at what he took to be the cry of a
wolf--for neither Schiller nor he had no weapons excepting
sheath-knives. At last he came to an open spot hedged in on all sides
by gloomy pines, the shadows from which were beginning to fall thick and
fast athwart the vivid greensward. It was one of those places--they are
to be found in pretty nearly every country--studiously avoided by local
woodsmen as the haunt of all manner of evil influences. Hellen
recognized it as such the moment he saw it, but as it lay right across
his path, and time was pressing, he had no alternative but to keep
boldly on. He was half-way across the spot when he was startled by a
groan, and looking in the direction of the sound, he saw a man seated on
the ground endeavouring to bandage his hand. Wondering why he had not
observed him before, but thankful to meet some one at last, Hellen went
up to him and asked what was the matter.
"I've broken my wrist," the man replied. "I was gathering sticks for my
fire to-morrow when I heard the howl of a wolf, and in my anxiety to
escape a conflict with the brute I climbed this tree. As I descended one
of the branches gave way, and I fell down with all my weight on my right
arm. Will you see if you can bind it for me? I'm a bit awkward with my
left hand."
"I will do my best," Hellen said, and kneeling beside the man, he took
off the bandages and wrapped them round again. "There," he exclaimed,
"I think that is better--at least it is the best I can do."
The stranger was now most profuse in his thanks, and when Hellen
informed him of Schiller's condition, at once cried out, "You must both
come to my cottage; it is only a short distance from here. Let us hasten
thither now, and my daughter, who is very strong, shall go back with you
and help you carry your friend. We are not rich, but we can make you
both fairly comfortable, and all we have shall be at your disposal. But
I wonder if you know what you have incurred by coming to this spot at
this hour?"
"Why, no," Hellen said, laughing. "What?"
"The gratification of two wishes--the first two wishes you make! Of
course, you will say it is all humbug, but, believe me, very queer
things do happen in this forest. I have experienced them myself."
"Well!" Hellen replied, laughing more heartily than before, "if I wish
anything at all it is that my wife were here to see how beautifully I
have bandaged your wrist."
"Where is your wife?" the stranger inquired.
"At Frankfort, most likely taking a final peep at the children in bed
before retiring to rest herself!" Hellen said, still laughing.
"Then you have children!" the stranger ejaculated, evidently
interested.
"Yes, three--all girls--and such bonny girls, too. Marcella, Christina,
and Fredericka. I wish I had them here for you to see."
"I should much like to see them, certainly," the stranger said. "And now
you have told me so much of interest about yourself, let me tell you
something of my own history in exchange. My name is Wilfred Gaverstein.
I am an artist by profession, and have come to live here during the
summer months in order to paint nature--nature as it really is--in all
its varying moods. Nature is my only god--I adore it. I don't believe in
souls. I love the trees and flowers and shrubs, the rivulets, the
fountains, the birds and insects."
"Everything but the wolves!" Hellen remarked jocularly. Hardly, however,
had he spoken these words before he had reason to alter his tone. "Great
heavens! do you hear that?" he cried. "There is no mistake about it this
time. It is a wolf, or may I never live to hear one again."
"You are right, friend," Wilfred said. "It is a wolf, and not very far
away, either. Come, we must be quick," and thrusting his arm through
that of Hellen, he hurried him along. After some minutes' fast walking
they came in sight of a neatly thatched whitewashed cottage, at the
entrance to which two women and several children were collected. "That's
my home," Wilfred said.
"And that's my wife!" Hellen cried, rubbing his eyes to make sure he was
not dreaming. "God in heaven, what's the meaning of it all? My wife and
children--all three of them! Am I mad?"
"It is merely the answer to your wishes," Wilfred rejoined calmly. "See,
they recognize you and are waving."
As one in a sleep Hellen now staggered forward, and was soon in the
midst of his family, who, rushing up to him, implored him to explain
what had happened, and how on earth they came to be there.
"I am just as much at sea as you are," Hellen said, feeling them each in
turn to make sure it was really they. "It's an insoluble mystery to me."
"And to us, too," they all cried. "A few minutes ago we were in our beds
in Frankfort, and then suddenly we found ourselves here--here in this
dreadful looking forest. Oh, take us away, take us home, do!"
Hellen was in despair. It was all like a hideous nightmare to him. What
was he to do?
"You must be my guests for to-night, at all events," Wilfred said; "and
in the morning we will discuss what is to be done. Fortunately we have
enough room to accommodate you all. There is food in abundance. Let me
introduce you to my daughter Marguerite," and the next moment Hellen
found himself shaking hands with a girl of about twenty years of age.
She was clad in what appeared to be a travelling dress, deeply bordered
with white fur, and wore a most becoming cap of white ermine. Her feet
were shod in long, pointed, and very elegant buckskin shoes, adorned
with bright silver buckles. Her hair, which was yellow and glossy, was
parted down the middle, and waved in a most becoming fashion low over
the forehead and ears; and her features--at least so Hellen
thought--were very beautiful. Her mouth, though a trifle large, had very
daintily cut lips, and was furnished with unusually white and even
teeth. But there was a peculiar furtive expression in her eyes, which
were of a very pretty shape and colour, that aroused Hellen's curiosity,
and made him scrutinize her carefully. Her hands were noticeably long
and slender, with tapering fingers and long, almond-shaped, rosy nails,
that glittered each time they caught the rays of the fast fading
sunlight. Hellen's first impression of her was that she was marvellously
beautiful, but that there was a something about her that he did not
understand--a something he had never seen in anyone before, a something
that in an ugly woman might have put him on his guard, but in this face
of such surpassing beauty a something he seemed only too ready to
ignore. Hellen was a good, and up to the present, certainly, a faithful
husband, but he was only a man after all, and the more he looked at the
girl the more he admired her.
At a word from Wilfred, Marguerite smilingly led the way indoors, and
showed the guests two bedrooms, small but exquisitely clean. There was a
double bed in one, and two single ones in the other. The bed-linen was
of the very finest material, and white as snow.
"I think," Wilfred remarked, "two of the girls can squeeze in one
bed--they are neither of them very big--though it does my heart good to
see them so bonny."
"And mine, too," Marguerite joined in, patting the three children on the
cheeks in turn, and drawing them to her and caressing them.
Mrs. Hellen, still dazed, and apparently hardly realizing what was
happening, stammered out her thanks, and the party then descended to the
kitchen to partake of a substantial supper that was speedily prepared
for them.
"Had you not better go and look for your friend now?" Wilfred observed,
just as Hellen was about to seat himself beside his wife and children.
"Marguerite will go with you, and on your return the three of you can
have your meal in here after the children have gone to bed."
Hellen readily assented, and kissing his wife and little ones, who
tearfully implored him not to be gone long, set out, accompanied by
Marguerite.
At each step they took, Marguerite's beauty became more irresistible.
The soft rays of the moon falling directly on her features enhanced
their loveliness, and Hellen could not keep his eyes off her. The
ominous cry of a night bird startled her; she edged timidly up to him;
and he had to exert all his self-control, so eager was he to clasp her
to him. In a strained, unnatural manner he kept up a flow of small-talk,
eliciting the information that she was an art student, and that she had
studied in Paris and Antwerp, had exhibited in Munich and Turin, and was
contemplating visiting London the following spring. They talked on in
this strain until Hellen, remembering their mission, exclaimed:--
"We must be very close to where I left Schiller. I will call to him."
He did so--not once, but many times; and the reverberation of his voice
rang out loud and clear in the silence of the vast, moon-kissed forest.
But there was no response, nothing but the rustling of branches and the
shivering of leaves.
"What's that?" Marguerite suddenly cried, clutching hold of Hellen's
arm. "There! right in front of us, lying on the ground. There!" and she
indicated the object with her gleaming finger-tip.
"It looks remarkably like Schiller," Hellen said. "Can he be asleep?"
Quickening their pace, they speedily arrived at the spot. It was
Schiller, or rather what had once been Schiller, for there was now very
little left of him but the face and hands and feet; the rest had only
too obviously been eaten. The spectacle was so shocking that for some
minutes Hellen was too overcome to speak.
"It must have been wolves!" he said at length. "I fancied I heard them
several times. Would to God I had never left him! What a death!"
"Horrible!" Marguerite whispered, and she turned her head away to avoid
so harrowing a sight.
"Well," Hellen observed in a voice broken with emotion, "it's no use
staying here. We can't be of any service to him now. I will gather the
remains together in the morning, and with the assistance of your father
see that they are decently interred. Come! let us be going." And
offering Marguerite his arm, they began to retrace their steps.
For some time Hellen was too occupied with thoughts of his friend's
cruel death to think of anything else, but the close proximity of
Marguerite gradually made itself felt, and by the time they had reached
the open clearing--the spot where he had encountered Wilfred--his
passion completely overpowered him. Throwing discretion to the winds,
and oblivious of wife, children, home, honour, everything save
Marguerite--the lustre of her eyes and the dainty curving of her
lips--he slipped his arm round her waist, and pressing her close to him,
smothered her in kisses.
"How dare you, sir!" she panted, slowly shaking herself free. "Aren't
you ashamed of such behaviour? What would your wife say, if she knew?"
"I couldn't help it," Hellen pleaded. "I'm not myself to-night. Your
beauty has bewitched me, and I would risk anything to have you in my
arms." He spoke so earnestly and looked at her so appealingly that she
smiled.
"I know I am beautiful," she said, and the intonation of her voice
thrilled him to the very marrow of his bones. "Dozens of men have told
me so. Consequently, since there seems to have been some excuse for
you, I forgive you, only----," but before she could say another word,
Hellen had again seized her, and this time he did not loosen his hold
till from sheer exhaustion he could kiss her no more.
"It's no use!" he panted. "I can't help it. I love you as I never loved
a woman before, and if you were to ask me to do so I would go to Hell
with you this very minute."
"It is dangerous to express such sentiments here," Marguerite said.
"Don't you know this spot is full of supernatural influences, and that
the first two things you wish for will be granted?"
"I have already wished," Hellen said. "I wished when I was here with
your father."
"Then wish again," Marguerite replied; "I assure you your wishes will be
fulfilled." And again she looked at him in a way that sent all the blood
in his body surging wildly to his head, and roused his passion in hot
and furious rebellion against his reason.
"I wish, then," he cried, seizing hold of her hands and pressing them to
his lips--"I wish every obstacle removed that prevents my having you
always with me--that is wish number one."
"And wish number two?" the girl interrogated, her warm, scented breath
fanning his cheeks and nostrils. "Won't you wish that you may be mine
for ever? Always mine, mine to eternity!"
"I will!" Hellen cried. "May I be yours always--yours to do what you
like with--in this life and the next."
"And now you shall have your reward," Marguerite exclaimed, clapping her
hands gleefully. "I will kiss you of my own free will," and throwing her
arms round his neck, she drew his head down to hers, and kissed him,
kissed him not once but many times.
* * * * *
An hour later they left the spot and slowly made their way to the
cottage. As they neared it, loud screams for help rent the air, and
Hellen, to his horror, heard his wife and children--he could recognize
their individual voices--shrieking to him to save them.
In an instant he was himself again. All his old affection for home and
family was restored, and with a loud answering shout he started to rush
to their assistance. But Marguerite willed otherwise. With a dexterous
movement of her feet she got in his way and tripped him, and before he
had time to realize what was happening, she had flung herself on the top
of him and pinioned him down.
"No!" she said playfully, "you shall not go! You are mine, mine always,
remember, and if I choose to keep you here with me, here you must
remain."
He strove to push her off, but he strove in vain; for the slender,
rounded limbs he had admired so much possessed sinews of steel, and he
was speedily reduced to a state of utter impotence.
The shrieks from the cottage were gradually lapsing into groans and
gurgles, all horribly suggestive of what was taking place, but it was
not until every sound had ceased that Marguerite permitted Hellen to
rise.
"You may go now," she said with a mischievous smile, kissing him gaily
on the forehead and giving his cheeks a gentle slap. "Go--and see what a
lucky man you are, and how speedily your first wish has been gratified."
Sick with apprehension, Hellen flew to the cottage. His worst
forebodings were realized. Stretched on the floor of their respective
rooms, with big, gaping wounds in their chests and throats, lay his wife
and children; whilst cross-legged, on a chest in the kitchen, his dark
saturnine face suffused with glee, squatted Wilfred.
"Fiend!" shouted Hellen. "I understand it all now. I have been dealing
with the Spirits of the Harz Mountains. But be you the Devil himself
you shan't escape me," and snatching an axe from the wall, he aimed a
terrific blow at Wilfred's head.
The weapon passed right through the form of Wilfred, and Hellen, losing
his balance, fell heavily to the ground. At this moment Marguerite
entered.
"Fool!" she cried; "fool, to think any weapon can harm either Wilfred or
me. We are phantasms--phantasms beyond the power of either Heaven or
Hell. Come here!"
Impelled by a force he could not resist, Hellen obeyed--and as he gazed
into her eyes all his blind infatuation for her came back.
"We must part now," she said; "but only for a while--for remember, you
belong to me. Here is a token"--and she thrust into his hand a wisp of
her long, golden hair. "Sleep on it and dream of me. Do not look so sad.
I shall come for you without fail, and by this sign you shall know when
I am coming. When this mark begins to heal," she said, as, with the nail
on the forefinger of the right hand, she scratched his forehead, "get
ready!"
There was then a loud crash--the room and everything in it swam before
Hellen's eyes, the floor rose and fell, and sinking backwards he
remembered no more.
* * * * *
When he recovered he was lying in the centre of the haunted plot. There
was nothing to be seen around him except the trees--dark lofty pines
that, swaying to and fro in the chill night breeze, shook their sombre
heads at him. A great sigh of relief broke from him--his experiences of
course had only been a dream. He was trying to collect his thoughts,
when he discovered that he was holding something tightly clasped in one
of his hands. Unable to think what it could be, he rose, and held it in
the full light of the moon. He then saw that it was a tuft of white
fur--the fur of some animal. Much puzzled, he put it in his pocket, and
suddenly recollecting his friend, set out for the place where he had
left him. "I shall soon know," he said to himself, "whether I have been
asleep all this time--God grant it may be so!" His heart beat fearfully
as he pressed forward, and he shouted out "Schiller" several times. But
there was no reply, and presently he came upon the remains, just as he
had seen them when accompanied by Marguerite. Convinced now that all
that had taken place was grim reality, he went back along the route
Schiller and he had taken the preceding day, and in due time reached the
village. To the landlord of the inn where they had stayed he related
what had happened. "I am truly sorry for you," the landlord said; "your
experience has indeed been a terrible one. Every one here knows the
forest is haunted in that particular spot, and we all give it as wide a
berth as possible. But you have been most unfortunate, for Wilfred and
Marguerite, who are werwolves, only visit these parts periodically. I
last heard of them being seen when I was about ten years of age, and
they then ate a pedlar called Schwann and his wife."
As soon as Schiller's remains had been brought to the village and
interred in the cemetery, Hellen, armed to the teeth and accompanied by
several of the biggest and strongest hounds he could hire--for he could
get none of the villagers to go with him--spent a whole day searching
for Wilfred's cottage. But although he was convinced he had found the
exact spot where it had stood, there were now no traces of it to be
seen.
At length he returned to the village, and on the following morning set
out for Frankfort. On his arrival home he was immediately apprised of
the fact that a terrible tragedy had occurred in his house. His wife and
children had been found dead in their beds, with their throats cut and
dreadful wounds in their chests, and the police had not been able to
find the slightest clue to the murderers. With a terrible sinking at the
heart Hellen asked for particulars, and learned, as he knew only too
well he would learn, that the date of the tragedy was identical with
that of his adventure in the forest.
He tried hard to persuade himself that the coincidence was a mere
coincidence; but--he knew better. Besides, there was the scratch!--the
scratch on his forehead.
Moreover, the scratch remained. It remained fresh and raw till a few
days prior to his death, when it began to heal. And on the day he died
it had completely healed.