The Wolf
Hermann Hesse (1907)
Never had there been so cruelly cold and long a winter in the French
mountains. For weeks the air had been clear, crisp and cold. By day the
great slanting snowfields lay dull-white and endless under the glaring
blue sky; by night the moon passed over them, a small, clear, angry
frosty moon, and on the snow its yellowish glare turned a dull blue that
seemed the very essence of coldness. The roads and trails were deserted,
especially the higher ones, and the people sat lazy and grumbling in
the village huts. At night the windows glowed smoky red in the blue
moonlight, and before long they were dark.
It was a hard time for the animals of the region. Many of the smaller
ones, and birds as well, froze to death, and their gaunt corpses fell
prey to the hawks and wolves. But they too suffered cruelly from cold
and hunger. There were only a few wolf families in the region, and their
distress led them to band more closely together. By day they went out
singly. Here and there one of them would dart through the snow, lean,
hungry, and alert, as soundless and furtive as a ghost, his narrow
shadow gliding beside him in the whiteness. He would turn his pointed
muzzle into the wind and sniff, and from time to time let out a dry,
tortured howl. But at night they would all go out together and the
villages would be surrounded by their plaintive howling. Cattle and
poultry were carefully shut up, and guns lay in readiness behind sturdy
shutters. Only seldom were the wolves able to pounce on a dog or other
small prey, and two of the pack had already been shot.
The cold went on and on. Often the wolves huddled together for warmth
and lay still and brooding, listening woefully to the dead countryside
around them, until one of them, tortured by hunger, suddenly jumped up
with a bloodcurdling roar. Then all the others turned their muzzles
toward him and trembled; and all together burst into a terrible,
menacing, dismal howl.
Finally a small part of the pack decided to move. Early in the morning
they left their holes, gathered together, and sniffed anxiously and
excitedly at the frosty air. Then they started off at a quick, even
trot. Those who were staying behind looked after them with wide glassy
eyes, trotted a few steps in their wake, stopped, stood still for a
moment in indecision, and went slowly back to their empty dens.
At noon the traveling party split in two. Three of the wolves turned
eastward toward the Swiss Jura, the others continued southward. The
three were fine strong animals, but dreadfully emaciated. Their indrawn
light-colored bellies were as narrow as straps, their ribs stood
out pitifully on their chests, their mouths were dry and their eyes
distended and desperate. They went deep into the Jura. The second day
they killed a sheep, the third a dog and a foal. On all sides the
infuriated country people began to hunt them. Fear of the unaccustomed
intruders spread through the towns and villages of the region. The mail
sleighs went out armed, no one went from one village to another without
a gun.
After such good pickings, the three wolves felt at once contented and
uncertain in the strange surroundings. Becoming more foolhardy than they
had ever been at home, they broke into a cow barn in broad daylight. The
warm little building was filled with the bellowing of cows, the crashing
of wooden bars, the thudding of hooves, and the hot, hungry breath of
the wolves. But this time people stepped in. A price had been set on the
wolves, and that redoubled the peasants' courage. They killed one with
a gunshot through the neck, the second with an ax. The third escaped
and ran until he fell half-dead in the snow. He was the youngest and
most beautiful of the wolves, a proud beast, strong and graceful. For a
long time he lay panting. Blood-red circles whirled before his eyes, and
at times a painful, wheezing moan escaped him. A hurled ax had struck
him in the back. But he recovered and managed to stand up. Only then
did he see how far he had run. Far and wide there were neither people
nor houses. Ahead of him lay an enormous snow-covered mountain, the
Chasseral. He decided to go around it. Tortured by thirst, he took a few
bites of the frozen hard snow crust.
On the other side of the mountain he spied a village. It was getting
on toward nightfall. He waited in a dense clump of fir trees. Then
he crept cautiously past the garden fences, following the smell of
warm barns. There was no one in the street. Hungrily but fearfully, he
peered between the houses. A shot rang out. He threw his head back and
was about to run when a second shot came. He was hit. On one side his
whitish belly was spotted with blood, which fell steadily in big drops.
In spite of his wound he broke into a bounding run and managed to reach
the wooded mountain. There he stopped for a moment to listen, and heard
voices and steps in the distance. Terror-stricken, he looked up at the
mountainside. It was steep, densely wooded, and hard to climb. But he
had no choice. Panting, he made his way up the steep wall, while below
him a confusion of curses, commands, and lantern lights skirted the
mountain. Trembling, the wounded wolf climbed through the woods in the
half-light, while slowly the brown blood trickled down his flank.
The cold had let up. The sky in the west was hazy, giving promise of snow.
At last the exhausted beast reached the top. He was at the edge of a
large, slightly inclined snowfield not far from Mont Crosin, high above
the village from which he had escaped. He felt no hunger, but a dull
persistent pain from his wound. A low sick bark came from his drooping
jaws, his heart beat heavily and painfully; the hand of death weighed
on it like a heavy load. A lone fir tree with spreading branches lured
him; there he sat down and stared forlornly into the snow-gray night.
Half an hour passed. Then a red, strangely muted light fell on the snow.
With a groan the wolf stood up and turned his beautiful head toward the
light. It was the moon, which, gigantic and blood-red, had risen in the
southeast and was slowly climbing higher in the misty sky. For many
weeks it had not been so big and red. Sadly, the dying wolf's eyes clung
to the hazy disk, and again a faint howl rattled painfully through the
night.
Then came lights and steps. Peasants in thick coats, hunters and boys
in fur caps and clumsy leggings came tramping through the snow. A
triumphant cry went up. They had sighted the dying wolf, two shots were
quickly fired. Both missed. Then they saw that he was already dying and
fell upon him with sticks and clubs. He felt nothing more.
Having broken his bones, they dragged him down to Saint-Immer. They
laughed, they boasted, they sang, they cursed; they were looking forward
to brandy and coffee. None of them saw the beauty of the snow-covered
forest, or the radiance of the high plateau, or the red moon which
hovered over the Chasseral, and whose faint light shimmered on their
rifle barrels, on the crystalline snow, and on the blurred eyes of the
dead wolf.