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 this story I have to tell? 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 of their probability—I say nothing. I

assert, however, that much of our incredulity—as La Bruyère says

of all our unhappiness—“vient de ne pouvoir être seuls.” {*1}

But there are some points in the Hungarian superstition which

were fast verging to absurdity. They—the Hungarians—differed very

essentially from their Eastern authorities. For example, “_The

soul_,” said the former—I give the words of an acute and

intelligent Parisian—“_ne demeure qu’un seul fois dans un corps

sensible: au reste—un cheval, un chien, un homme même, n’est que

la ressemblance 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. 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, as

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 neighbors are seldom

friends; and the inhabitants of the Castle Berlifitzing might

look, from their lofty buttresses, into the very windows of the

palace Metzengerstein. Least of all had the more than feudal

magnificence, thus discovered, a tendency 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 prophecy seemed to imply—if it implied

anything—a final triumph on the part of the already more powerful

house; and was of course remembered with the more bitter

animosity by the weaker and less influential.

Wilhelm, Count Berlifitzing, although 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 infirmity, 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 him 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.

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

seldom held before by a nobleman of Hungary. His castles were

without number. The chief in point of splendor and extent was the

“Château Metzengerstein.” The boundary line of his dominions was

never clearly defined; but his principal park embraced a circuit

of 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 behavior 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 security against the 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 unanimous

opinion of the neighborhood added the crime of the incendiary to

the already hideous 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 shadowy and

majestic 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. There, the

dark, tall statures of the Princes Metzengerstein—their muscular

war-coursers plunging over the carcasses of fallen foes—startled

the steadiest nerves with their vigorous expression; and here,

again, 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

gradually increasing uproar in the stables of Berlifitzing—or

perhaps pondered upon some more novel, some more decided act of

audacity—his eyes became unwittingly rivetted to the figure of an

enormous, and unnaturally colored 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.

On Frederick’s lip arose a fiendish expression, as he became

aware of the direction which his glance had, without his

consciousness, assumed. Yet he did not remove it. On the

contrary, he could by no means account for the overwhelming

anxiety which appeared falling like a pall upon his senses. It

was with difficulty that he reconciled his dreamy and incoherent

feelings with the certainty of being awake. The longer he gazed

the more absorbing became the spell—the more impossible did it

appear that he could ever withdraw his glance from the

fascination of that tapestry. But the tumult without becoming

suddenly more violent, with a compulsory 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, however, was but momentary, his gaze returned

mechanically to the wall. To his extreme horror and astonishment,

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 gigantic and disgusting teeth.

Stupefied 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 outline against the

quivering tapestry, and he shuddered to perceive that shadow—as

he staggered awhile upon the threshold—assuming the exact

position, and precisely filling up the contour, of the relentless

and triumphant murderer of the Saracen Berlifitzing.

To lighten the depression of his spirits, the Baron hurried into

the open air. At the principal gate of the palace he encountered

three equerries. With much difficulty, and at the imminent peril

of their lives, they were restraining the convulsive plunges of a

gigantic and fiery-colored horse.

“Whose horse? 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 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

strange, since he bears evident marks of having made a narrow

escape from the flames.

“The letters W. V. B. are also branded very distinctly on his

forehead,” interrupted a second equerry, “I supposed them, of

course, to be the initials of Wilhelm Von Berlifitzing—but all at

the castle are positive in denying any knowledge of the horse.”

“Extremely singular!” said the young Baron, with a musing air,

and 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 are mistaken, my lord; the horse, as I think we mentioned,

is not from the stables of the Count. If such had been the

case, we know our duty better than to bring him into the presence

of a noble of your family.”

“True!” observed the Baron, dryly, and at that instant a page of

the bedchamber came from the palace with a heightened color, and

a precipitate step. He whispered into his master’s ear an account

of the 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, 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 in his own

possession.

“Have you heard of the unhappy death of the old hunter

Berlifitzing?” said one of his vassals to the Baron, as, after

the departure of the page, the huge steed which that nobleman had

adopted as his own, plunged and curvetted, with redoubled fury,

down the long avenue which extended from the château to the

stables of Metzengerstein.

“No!” said the Baron, turning abruptly toward the speaker, “dead!

say you?”

“It is indeed true, my lord; and, to a noble of your name, will

be, I imagine, no unwelcome intelligence.”

A rapid smile shot over the countenance of the listener. “How

died he?”

“In his rash exertions to rescue a favorite 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 turned quietly into the

château.

From this date a marked alteration took place in the outward

demeanor of the dissolute young Baron Frederick Von

Metzengerstein. Indeed, his behavior disappointed every

expectation, and proved little in accordance with the views of

many a manoeuvering mamma; while his habits and manner, still

less than formerly, offered any thing congenial with those of the

neighboring aristocracy. He was never to be seen beyond the

limits of his own domain, and, in this wide and social world, was

utterly companionless—unless, indeed, that unnatural, impetuous,

and fiery-colored horse, which he henceforward continually

bestrode, had any mysterious right to the title of his friend.

Numerous invitations on the part of the neighborhood for a long

time, however, periodically came in. “Will the Baron honor our

festivals with his presence?” “Will the Baron join us in a

hunting of the boar?”—“Metzengerstein does not hunt;”

“Metzengerstein 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 wish 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 behavior 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 them 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 animal’s ferocious and demon-like

propensities—at length became, in the eyes of all reasonable men,

a hideous and unnatural fervor. In the glare of noon—at the dead

hour of night—in sickness or in health—in calm or in tempest—the

young Metzengerstein seemed rivetted to the saddle of that

colossal horse, whose intractable audacities so well accorded

with his own spirit.

There were circumstances, moreover, which coupled with late

events, gave an unearthly and portentous character to the mania

of the rider, and to the capabilities of the steed. The space

passed over in a single leap had been accurately measured, and

was found to exceed, by an astounding difference, the wildest

expectations of the most imaginative. The Baron, besides, had no

particular name for the animal, although all the rest in his

collection were distinguished by characteristic appellations. His

stable, too, was appointed at a distance from the rest; and with

regard to grooming and other necessary offices, none but the

owner in person had 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 steed 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. Instances of

peculiar intelligence in the demeanor of a noble and

high-spirited horse are not to be supposed capable of exciting

unreasonable attention—especially among men who, daily trained to

the labors of the chase, might appear well acquainted with the

sagacity of a horse—but there were certain circumstances which

intruded themselves per force upon the most skeptical and

phlegmatic; and it is said there were times when the animal

caused the gaping crowd who stood around to recoil in horror from

the deep and impressive meaning of his terrible stamp—times when

the young Metzengerstein turned pale and shrunk away from the

rapid and searching expression of his earnest and human-looking

eye.

Among all the retinue of the Baron, however, none were found to

doubt the ardor 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 everybody’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 long-continued and habitual ride, an expression of

triumphant malignity distorted every muscle in his countenance.

One tempestuous night, Metzengerstein, awaking from a heavy

slumber, descended like a maniac from his chamber, and, mounting

in hot 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 neighborhood stood idly

around in silent and pathetic wonder. But a new and fearful

object soon rivetted the attention of the multitude, and proved

how much more intense is the excitement wrought in the feelings

of a crowd by the contemplation of human agony, than that brought

about by 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 Château Metzengerstein, a steed, bearing an

unbonneted and disordered rider, was seen leaping with an

impetuosity which outstripped the very Demon of the Tempest.

The career of the horseman was indisputably, on his own part,

uncontrollable. The agony of his countenance, the convulsive

struggle 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 gate-way and the moat, the steed bounded far up the tottering

staircases of the palace, and, with its rider, disappeared amid

the whirlwind of chaotic fire.

The fury of the tempest immediately died away, and a dead calm

sullenly 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 smoke

settled heavily over the battlements in the distinct colossal

figure of—a horse.