Metzengerstein
“Pestis eram vivus, moriens tua mors ero.”
MARTIN LUTHER.
Horror and fatality have been stalking abroad in all ages. Why then
give a date to the story I have to tell? I will not. Besides I have
other reasons for concealment. Let it suffice to say that, at the period
of which I speak, there existed, in the interior of Hungary, a settled
although hidden belief in the doctrines of the Metempsychosis. Of the
doctrines themselves — that is, of their falsity, or probability — I say
nothing. I assert, however, that much of our incredulity (as La Bruyere
observes of all our unhappiness,) vient de ne pouvoir etre seuls.
But there are some points in the Hungarian superstition (the Roman
term was religio,) which were fast verging to absurdity. They, the
Hungarians, differed essentially from the Eastern authorities. For
example — “The soul,” said the former, (I give the words of an acute,
and intelligent Parisian,) “ne demeure, quun seul fois, dans un corps sensible — au reste — ce quon croit d’etre un cheval — un chien — un homme — n’est que le resemblance peu tangible de ces animaux.”
The families of Berlifitzing, and Metzengerstein had been at variance
for centuries. Never, before, were two houses so illustrious mutually
embittered by hostility so deadly. Indeed, at the era of this history,
it was remarked by an old crone of haggard, and sinister appearance,
that fire and water might sooner mingle, than a Berlifitzing clasp the
hand of a Metzengerstein. The origin of this enmity seems to be found in
the words of an ancient prophecy. “A lofty name shall have a fearful
fall, when, like the rider over his horse, the mortality of
Metzengerstein shall triumph over the immortality of Berlifitzing.”
To be sure, the words themselves had little or no meaning — but more
trivial causes have given rise (and that no long while ago,) to
consequences equally eventful. Besides, the estates, which were
contiguous, had long exercised a rival influence, in the affairs of a
busy government. Moreover, near neighbours are seldom friends, and the
inmates of the Castle Berlifitzing might look, from their lofty
buttresses, into the very windows of the Chateau Metzengerstein; and
least of all was the more than feudal magnificence thus discovered,
calculated to allay the irritable feelings of the less ancient, and less
wealthy Berlifitzings. What wonder then, that the words, however silly,
of that prediction, should have succeeded in setting, and keeping at
variance, two families, already predisposed to quarrel, by every
instigation of hereditary jealousy? The words of the prophecy implied,
if they implied any thing, a final triumph on the part of the already
more powerful house, and were, of course, remembered, with the more
bitter animosity, on the side of the weaker, and less influential.
Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although honourably, and loftily
descended, was, at the epoch of this narrative, an infirm, and doting
old man, remarkable for nothing but an inordinate, and inveterate
personal antipathy to the family of his rival, and so passionate a love
of horses, and of hunting, that neither bodily decrepitude, great age,
nor mental incapacity, prevented his daily participation in the dangers
of the chase.
Frederick, Baron Metzengerstein, was, on the other hand, not yet of
age. His father, the Minister G——, died young. His mother, the Lady
Mary, followed quickly after. Frederick was, at that time, in his
fifteenth year. In a city, fifteen years are no long period — a child
may be still a child in his third lustrum. But in a wilderness — in so
magnificent a wilderness as that old principality, fifteen years have a
far deeper meaning.
The beautiful Lady Mary! — how could she die? — and of consumption!
But it is a path I have prayed to follow. I would wish all I love to
perish of that gentle disease. How glorious! to depart in the hey-day of
the young blood — the heart all passion — the imagination all fire —
amid the remembrances of happier days — in the fall of the year, and so
be buried up forever in the gorgeous, autumnal leaves. Thus died the
Lady Mary. The young Baron Frederick stood, without a living relative,
by the coffin of his dead mother. He laid his hand upon her placid
forehead. No shudder came over his delicate frame — no sigh from his
gentle bosom — no curl upon his kingly lip. Heartless, self-willed, and
impetuous from his childhood, he had derived at the age of which I
speak, through a career of unfeeling, wanton, and reckless dissipation,
and a barrier had long since arisen in the channel of all holy thoughts,
and gentle recollections.
From some peculiar circumstances attending the administration of his
father, the young Baron, at the decease of the former, entered
immediately upon his vast possessions. Such estates were, never before,
held by a nobleman of Hungary. His castles were without number — of
these, the chief, in point of splendour and extent, was the Chateau
Metzengerstein. The boundary line of his dominions was never clearly
defined, but his principal park embraced a circuit of one hundred and
fifty miles.
Upon the succession of a proprietor so young, with a character so
well known, to a fortune so unparalleled, little speculation was afloat
in regard to his probable course of conduct. And, indeed, for the space
of three days, the behaviour of the heir, out-heroded Herod, and fairly
surpassed the expectations of his most enthusiastic admirers. Shameful
debaucheries — flagrant treacheries — unheard-of atrocities, gave his
trembling vassals quickly to understand, that no servile submission on
their part — no punctilios of conscience on his own were, thenceforward,
to prove any protection against the bloodthirsty and remorseless fangs
of a petty Caligula. On the night of the fourth day, the stables of the
Castle Berlifitzing were discovered to be on fire — and the
neighbourhood unanimously added the crime of the incendiary, to the
already frightful list of the Baron’s misdemeanors and enormities. But,
during the tumult occasioned by this occurrence, the young nobleman
himself, sat, apparently buried in meditation, in a vast, and desolate
upper apartment of the family palace of Metzengerstein. The rich,
although faded tapestry hangings which swung gloomily upon the walls,
represented the majestic, and shadowy forms of a thousand illustrious
ancestors. Here, rich-ermined priests, and pontifical dignitaries,
familiarly seated with the autocrat, and the sovereign, put a veto on
the wishes of a temporal king, or restrained, with the fiat of papal
supremacy, the rebellious sceptre of the Arch-Enemy. Here the dark, tall
statures of the Princes Metzengerstein — their muscular war-coursers
plunging over the carcass of a fallen foe — startled the firmest nerves
with their vigorous expression — and here, the voluptuous, and swan-like
figures of the dames of days gone by, floated away, in the mazes of an
unreal dance, to the strains of imaginary melody.
But as the Baron listened, or affected to listen, to the rapidly
increasing uproar in the stables of the Castle Berlifitzing, or perhaps
pondered, like Nero, upon some more decided audacity, his eyes were
unwittingly rivetted to the figure of an enormous and unnaturally
coloured horse, represented, in the tapestry, as belonging to a Saracen
ancestor of the family of his rival. The horse, itself, in the
foreground of the design, stood motionless, and statue-like; while,
farther back, its discomfited rider perished by the dagger of a
Metzengerstein. There was a fiendish expression on the lip of the young
Frederick, as he became aware of the direction which his glance had,
thus, without his consciousness, assumed. But he did not remove it. On
the contrary, the longer he gazed, the more impossible did it appear
that he might ever withdraw his vision from the fascination of that
tapestry. It was with difficulty that he could reconcile his dreamy and
incoherent feelings, with the certainty of being awake. He could, by no
means, account for the singular, intense, and overwhelming anxiety which
appeared falling, like a shroud, upon his senses. But the tumult
without, becoming, suddenly, more violent, with a kind of compulsory,
and desperate exertion, he diverted his attention to the glare of ruddy
light thrown full by the flaming stables upon the windows of the
apartment. The action was but momentary; his gaze returned mechanically
to the wall. To his extreme horror and surprise, the head of the
gigantic steed had, in the meantime, altered its position. The neck of
the animal, before arched, as if in compassion, over the prostrate body
of its lord, was now extended at full length, in the direction of the
Baron. The eyes, before invisible, now wore an energetic, and human
expression; while they gleamed with a fiery, and unusual red, and the
distended lips of the apparently enraged horse left in full view his
sepulchral and disgusting teeth.
Stupified with terror, the young nobleman tottered to the door. As he
threw it open, a flash of red light, streaming far into the chamber,
flung his shadow, with a clear, decided outline, against the quivering
tapestry: and he shuddered to perceive that shadow, as he staggered, for
a moment, upon the threshold, assuming the exact position, and
precisely filling up the contour of the relentless, and triumphant
murderer of the Saracen Berlifitzing.
With the view of lightening the oppression of his spirits, the Baron
hurried into the open air. At the principal gate of the Chateau he
encountered three equerries. With much difficulty, and, at the imminent
peril of their lives, they were restraining the unnatural, and
convulsive plunges of a gigantic, and fiery-coloured horse.
“Whose horse is that? Where did you get him?” demanded the youth, in a
querulous, and husky tone of voice, as he became instantly aware that
the mysterious steed, in the tapestried chamber, was the very
counterpart of the furious animal before his eyes.
“He is your own property, Sire,” replied one of the equerries — “at
least, he is claimed by no other owner. We caught him, just now, flying
all smoking, and foaming with rage, from the burning stables of the
Castle Berlifitzing. Supposing him to have belonged to the old Count’s
stud of foreign horses, we led him back as an estray. But the grooms
there disclaim any title to the creature, which is singular, since he
bears evident marks of a narrow escape from the flames” ——
“The letters W. V. B. are, moreover, branded very distinctly upon his
forehead,” interrupted a second equerry. “We, at first, supposed them
to be the initials of Wilhelm Von Berlifitzing.”
“Extremely singular!” said the young Baron, with a musing air,
apparently unconscious of the meaning of his words. “He is, as you say, a
remarkable horse — a prodigious horse! Although, as you very justly
observe, of a suspicious and untractable character. Let him be mine,
however,” he added, after a pause, “perhaps a rider, like Frederick of
Metzengerstein, may tame even the devil, from the stables of
Berlifitzing.”
“You appear to be mistaken, my lord, the horse (as I think we mentioned) is not from
the stables of the Count. If such were the case, we know our duty
better than to bring him in the presence of a noble of your name.”
“True!” observed the Baron, dryly, and, at that instant, a page of
the bed-chamber came from the Chateau with a heightened colour, and a
precipitate step. He whispered into his master’s ear, an account of the
miraculous, and sudden disappearance of a small portion of the tapestry
in an apartment which he designated — entering, at the same time, into
particulars of a minute, and circumstantial character, but, from the low
tone of voice in which these latter were communicated, nothing escaped
to gratify the excited curiosity of the equerries.
The young Frederick, however, during the conference, seemed agitated
by a variety of emotions. He soon, however, recovered his composure, and
an expression of determined malignancy settled upon his countenance, as
he gave peremptory orders that a certain chamber should be immediately
locked up, and the key placed, forthwith, in his own possession.
“Have you heard of the unhappy death of the hunter Berlifitzing?”
said one of his vassals to the Baron, as, after the affair of the page,
the huge and mysterious steed, which that nobleman had adopted as his
own, plunged, and curvetted with redoubled, and supernatural fury down
the long avenue which extended from the Chateau to the stables of
Metzengerstein.
“No!” said the Baron, turning abruptly toward the speaker, “dead! say you?”
“It is true, my lord, and is no unwelcome intelligence, I imagine, to a noble of your family?”
A rapid smile, of a peculiar and unintelligible meaning, shot over the beautiful countenance of the listener — “How died he?”
“In his great exertions to rescue a favourite portion of his hunting-stud, he has, himself, perished miserably in the flames.”
“I-n-d-e-e-d!” ejaculated the Baron, as if slowly, and deliberately impressed with the truth of some exciting idea.
“Indeed,” repeated the vassal.
“Shocking!” said the youth, calmly, and returned into the Chateau.
From this date, a marked alteration took place in the outward
demeanour of the dissolute young Baron, Frederick Von Metzengerstein.
Indeed, his behaviour disappointed every expectation, and proved little
in accordance with the views of many a manœuvering mamma, while his
habits and manner, still less than formerly, offered any thing congenial
with those of the neighbouring aristocracy. He was seldom to be seen at
all; never beyond the limits of his own domain. There are few, in this
social world, who are utterly companionless, yet so seemed he; unless,
indeed, that unnatural, impetuous, and fiery-coloured horse which he
thenceforward continually bestrode, had any mysterious right to the
title of his friend. Numerous invitations on the part of the
neighbourhood for a long time, however, continually flocked in. “Will
the Baron attend our excursions? Will the Baron honour our festivals
with his presence?” — “Baron Frederick does not hunt — Baron Frederick
will not attend,” were the haughty, and laconic answers. These repeated
insults were not to be endured by an imperious nobility. Such
invitations became less cordial — less frequent. In time they ceased
altogether. The widow of the unfortunate Count Berlifitzing, was even
heard to express a hope “that the Baron might be at home, when he did
not choose to be at home, since he disdained the company of his equals —
and ride when he did not wish to ride, since he preferred the society
of a horse.” This, to be sure, was a very silly explosion of hereditary
pique, and merely proved how singularly unmeaning our sayings are apt to
become, when we desire to be unusually energetic.
The charitable, nevertheless, attributed the alteration in the
conduct of the young nobleman, to the natural sorrow of a son for the
untimely loss of his parents; forgetting, however, his atrocious, and
reckless behaviour, during the short period immediately succeeding that
bereavement. Some there were, indeed, who suggested a too haughty idea
of self-consequence and dignity. Others again, among whom may be
mentioned the family physician, did not hesitate in speaking of morbid
melancholy, and hereditary ill health; while dark hints of a more
equivocal nature, were current among the multitude.
Indeed, the Baron’s perverse attachment to his lately acquired
charger, an attachment which seemed to attain new strength from every
fresh example of the brute’s ferocious, and demon-like propensities; at
length became, in the eyes of all reasonable men, a hideous, and
unnatural fervour. In the glare of noon, at the dead hour of night, in
sickness or in health, in calm or in tempest, in moonlight or in shadow,
the young Metzengerstein seemed rivetted to the saddle of that colossal
horse, whose untractable audacities so well accorded with the spirit of
his own. There were circumstances, moreover, which coupled with late
events, gave an unearthly, and portentous character to the mania of the
rider, and the capabilities of the steed. The space passed over in a
single leap, had been accurately measured, and was found to exceed, by
an incalculable distance, the wildest expectations of the most
imaginative; while the red lightning, itself, was declared to have been
outridden in many a long-continued, and impetuous career. The Baron,
besides had no particular name for the animal, although all the rest of
his extensive collection, were distinguished by characteristic
appellations. Its stable was appointed at a distance from the others,
and with regard to grooming, and other necessary offices, none but the
owner, in person, had ever ventured to officiate, or even to enter the
enclosure of that particular stall. It was also to be observed, that
although the three grooms who had caught the horse, as he fled from the
conflagration at Berlifitzing, had succeeded in arresting his course, by
means of a chain-bridle and noose, yet no one of the three could, with
any certainty affirm, that he had, during that dangerous struggle, or at
any period thereafter, actually placed his hand upon the body of the
beast.
Among all the retinue of the Baron, however, none were found to doubt
the ardour of that extraordinary affection which existed, on the part
of the young nobleman, for the fiery qualities of his horse; at least,
none but an insignificant, and misshapen little page, whose deformities
were in every body’s way, and whose opinions were of the least possible
importance. He, if his ideas are worth mentioning at all, had the
effrontery to assert, that his master never vaulted into the saddle
without an unaccountable, and almost imperceptible shudder, and that
upon his return from every habitual ride, during which his panting and
bleeding brute was never known to pause in his impetuosity, although he,
himself, evinced no appearance of exhaustion, yet an expression of
triumphant malignity distorted every muscle in his countenance.
These ominous circumstances portended in the opinion of all people,
some awful, and impending calamity. Accordingly one tempestuous night,
the Baron descended, like a maniac, from his bed-chamber, and, mounting
in great haste, bounded away into the mazes of the forest.
An occurrence so common attracted no particular attention, but his
return was looked for with intense anxiety on the part of his domestics,
when, after some hours absence, the stupendous, and magnificent
battlements of the Chateau Metzengerstein were discovered crackling, and
rocking to their very foundation, under the influence of a dense, and
livid mass of ungovernable fire. As the flames, when first seen, had
already made so terrible a progress, that all efforts to save any
portion of the building were evidently futile, the astonished
neighbourhood stood idly around in silent, and apathetic wonder. But a
new, and fearful object soon rivetted the attention of the multitude,
and proved the vast superiority of excitement which the sight of human
agony excercises in the feelings of a crowd, above the most appalling
spectacles of inanimate matter.
Up the long avenue of aged oaks, which led from the forest to the
main entrance of the Chateau Metzengerstein, a steed bearing an
unbonneted and disordered rider, was seen leaping with an impetuosity
which outstripped the very demon of the tempest, and called forth from
every beholder an ejaculation of “Azrael!”
The career of the horseman was, indisputably, on his own part,
uncontrollable. The agony of his countenance, the convulsive struggling
of his frame gave evidence of superhuman exertion; but no sound, save a
solitary shriek, escaped from his lacerated lips, which were bitten
through and through, in the intensity of terror. One instant, and the
clattering of hoofs resounded sharply, and shrilly, above the roaring of
the flames and the shrieking of the winds — another, and clearing, at a
single plunge, the gateway, and the moat, the animal bounded, with its
rider, far up the tottering staircase of the palace, and was lost in the
whirlwind of hissing, and chaotic fire.
The fury of the storm immediately died away, and a dead calm suddenly
succeeded. A white flame still enveloped the building, like a shroud,
and streaming far away into the quiet atmosphere, shot forth a glare of
preternatural light, while a cloud of wreathing smoke settled heavily
over the battlements, and slowly, but distincly assumed the appearance
of a motionless and colossal horse.
Frederick, Baron Metzengersetin, was the last of a long line of
princes. His family name is no longer to be found among the Hungarian
aristocracy.
Edgar Allan Poe
Published in 1832
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