by Poe · Cluster: Supernatural · Uncanny · Double
Abstract
Gothic horror tale of feuding Hungarian houses and metempsychosis: a demonic horse embodying a dead rival drives the dissolute young Baron to a fiery, fated doom.
Testo / Text
Parti / Parts
Readability (prose)44.6 Flesch ease13.4 FK grade17 Fog17% complex25.6 words/sent
Connections
Topoi: Eternal Return, Double Archetypes: Satanic Figure, Double Doppelganger, Avenger Motifs: Horse, Fire, Death, Supernatural, Eyes and Sight Themes & Concepts: Fate and Free Will, Terror and Horror, Uncanny, Pride, Power and Corruption Forms & Genres: Gothic Novel, Short Story Settings: Castle
Testo integrale / Full text
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_.