The Macabre Megapack. Lafcadio HearnЧитать онлайн книгу.
behind the bridegroom, he noticed a man of gigantic size and a gloomy appearance, whose eyes were fixed immovably on the ground.
Horror-struck by the scene before him, the priest stood mute for some time, till a thrilling look from the bridegroom reminded him of the ceremony he had come hither to perform. But the uncertainty whether the couple he was about to marry understood his language, afforded him a fresh source of uneasiness. He ventured, however, to ask the bridegroom for his name and that of his bride! “Neander and Feodora,” was the answer returned in a rough voice.
The priest now began to read the ritual in faltering accents, frequently stopping to repeat the words, without however either the bride or bridegroom appearing to observe his confusion, which confirmed him in the conjecture that his language was almost unknown to either of them. On putting the question, “Neander, wilt thou have this woman for thy wedded wife?” he doubted he would receive any answer; but to his astonishment, the bridegroom answered in the affirmative with a loud and almost screaming voice, which rung throughout the church, while deep sighs were heard from every quarter of the building, and a silent quivering like the reflection of distant lightning, threw a transitory motion over the deathly pale features of the bride. When the priest turned to her with the interrogatory: “Feodora, wilt thou have this man for thy wedded husband?” the lifeless form before him seemed to awake, a deep convulsive throb of terror trembled on her cheeks—her pale lips quivered—a passing gleam of fire shone in her eye—her breast heaved—a violent gush of tears flooded the brilliance of her eyes, and the “yes” was pronounced like the scream of anguish uttered by a dying person, and seemed to find a deep echo in the sounds of grief which burst from the surrounding multitude. The bride then sank into the arms of the horrid old hag, and after some minutes had passed in awful silence, the pale corpse-like female kneeled again, as if in a deep trance, and the ceremony was finished. The bridegroom now rose and led away the trembling bride, followed by the tall man and old woman; and two strangers then appeared again, and having bound the priest’s eyes, drew him with violence through the crowd, and pushed him out at the door, which they bolted from within.
For some minutes the old man stood endeavoring to recollect himself, and uncertain whether the horrid scene, with all the ghastly attendant circumstances, might not have been a dream; but when he had torn the bandage from his eyes, and saw the illuminated church before him, and heard the murmuring of the crowd, he was forced to believe its reality. To learn the issue, he hid himself in the corner of the building, and while listening there he heard the murmuring within grow louder and louder—then it seemed as if a fierce altercation arose, in which he thought he could recognize the rough voice of the bridegroom commanding silence—a long pause followed—a shot fell—the shriek of a female voice was heard, which was succeeded by another pause—then followed a sound of pickaxes, which lasted about a quarter of an hour, after which the candles were extinguished, the door was flung open, and a multitude of persons rushed out of the church, and ran toward the sea.
The old priest now arose from his hiding place, and hastened back to the village, where he awoke his neighbors and friends, and related to them his incredible and marvelous adventure; but everything which had hitherto fallen out among those simple people, had been so calm and tranquil, so much measured by the laws of daily routine, that they were seized with a very different alarm; they believed that some unfortunate accident had deranged the intellects of their beloved pastor, and it was not without difficulty that he prevailed on some of them to follow him to the church, provided with picks and spades.
Meanwhile the morning had dawned, the sun arose, and as the priest and his companions ascended the hill toward the church, they saw a man-of-war standing off from the shore under full sail toward the north. So surprising a sight in this remote district, made his companions already hesitate to reject his story as improbable and still more were they inclined to listen to him when they saw that the side door of the church had been violently burst open. They entered, full of expectation, and the priest showed them the grave which he had seen opened in the night time; it was evident that the stone had been lifted up and replaced again. They therefore put their implements in motion, and soon came to a new and richly adorned coffin, in which lay the murdered bride—a bullet had pierced her right breast to the heart—the magnificent diadem which she had worn at the altar, no longer adorned her brows, but the distracted expression of deep grief had vanished from her countenance, and a heavenly calm seemed spread over her features. The old man threw himself down on his knees near the coffin, and wept and prayed aloud for the soul of the dead, while mute astonishment and horror seized his companions.
The clergyman found himself obliged to make this event instantly known, with all its circumstances, to his superior, the Bishop of Zealand; meanwhile, until he got further instructions from Copenhagen, he bound all his friends to secrecy by an oath. Shortly afterward a person of high rank suddenly arrived from the capital; he inquired into all the circumstances, visited the grave, commended the silence which had been hitherto observed, and stated that the whole event must remain forever a secret, threatening, at the same time, with a severe punishment any person who should dare to speak of it.
At the death of the priest, a writing was found in the parochial register narrating this event; some believed that it might have some secret connexion with the violent political changes which occurred in Russia, after the death of Catherine and Peter I; but to resolve the deep riddle of this mysterious affair will ever be a difficult, if not impossible task.
THE BURIAL BY FIRE, by Louisa Medina Hamblin
(1838)
“Will you not walk this gloomy evening? Come, the air is as soft as balm, and the sunset on the sea will be beautiful. The afternoon worship is over, and all the villagers are out in their Sunday clothes adoring their creator in his works. Come, my own Mary, and enjoy the beauty of the evening.”
It was on a summer’s Sabbath, in the beautiful neighborhood of Hastings, that William Lindsay spoke thus to Mary Stuart, a fair young girl who was his promised wife, when success in his toilsome profession might give sanction to the union. He was an artist of much talent but little celebrity, and she was the orphan child of a British officer. Her mother and herself lived in quiet contentment on the small pension allowed to the widow of a captain of Infantry. Their ways were simple—their wants were few—from their little, they had still a little to spare to such as needed, and they felt themselves
“Passing rich on forty pounds a year.”
If the want of wealth ever caused a sigh in the gentle bosom of Mary, it was when she beheld her William debarred from the foreign treasures of art which he panted to behold, or when she heard her prudent mother prophesy a long lapse of years ere they might venture to unite their earthly fate together. Mary had received a tolerable education, and her mind was naturally poetic, her thoughts were fraught with natural beauty and often untutored language would flow in rich and melodious eloquence; she was never of a buoyant temper: a placid calmness, a softened serenity which was not sadness, was her usual mood, and the very style of her features harmonized with this shadowed feeling. Her cheek was very fair, but when a chance excitement called the eloquent blood into it, the color was rather the blush of hectic than the crimson of health; her hair was a pale brown but perfectly straight, and without any of those sunlight hues which sometimes wander through chestnut tresses—in a word, Mary was more a lovely twilight than a brilliant day. Captain Stuart had died of decline, not as they fondly believed a constitutional malady, but brought on by over-exertion and exposure; still, when William would notice the translucent fairness of his Mary’s cheek, and mark the languid softness of her eye, a terrible fear would come across his heart, to be as instantly banished by the certainty of her perfect health.
She arose in answer to his invitation to walk and, with a gentle smile, passed her arm through his and strolled up the hill which bounded their dwelling. William had truly said that the evening was beautiful—not a breath of air was stirring, but the atmosphere was soft and redolent of perfume. The rays of the declining sun, slanting from the west, tessellated the heavens with chequers of gold and lengthened the shadows upon the earth—not a ripple stirred the mighty ocean, the vast expanse of blue water lying unruffled as a lake, without a sound save when the receding tide carried with it the pebbles from the beach with a lulled and dreamy sound. The lowing of the cattle in the distant pastures and