Hawthorne Classics, $20.99, ISBN 978-1087-94912-3
Horror, 2021 (Reissue)
If Varney the Vampire is the OG vampire novel, then Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf is the granddaddy of werewolf tales. But seriously, what is with these alliterative names? Should we brace for George the Ghost next?
Like its vampiric cousin, Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf began its life as a Penny Dreadful, a serialized story where authors were paid by the word. And boy, does that show. This novel isn’t just a hefty read; it’s practically a weaponized paperweight.
To its credit, some modern editions have included lovely illustrations to offset the slog of the prose. But about that text… oh, where to begin?
The plot revolves around Fernand Wagner, who strikes a Faustian bargain to regain his youth and beauty, only to find himself cursed to transform into a werewolf. As you might expect, chaos and melodrama ensue. When Fernand isn’t grappling with his saintly side or snarling under the full moon, the narrative is twisting through enough subplots to make Game of Thrones look minimalist.
In fact, Wagner’s Jekyll-and-Hyde duality would later inspire Robert Louis Stevenson to better success. For now, buckle up for a ride so bloated and convoluted you’ll feel like you’re trapped in a never-ending soap opera, but with wolves.
Penny Dreadfuls valued quantity over quality, and George WM Reynolds embraced this ethos with gusto. The prose is so overwrought, so florid, it makes a Bollywood production of the aforementioned Game of Thrones seem restrained. Everyone soliloquizes—yes, even on their deathbeds—and every emotion is turned up to 11. Yet somehow, despite all this theatrical flair, the story drags.
The central couple, Fernand and Nisida, are genuinely interesting when they’re actually on the page. But the story constantly meanders to other characters: a count, a bandit, a Grand Inquisitor, Satan himself, and even a Jewish jeweler who faces bigotry. It’s as though Mr Reynolds threw every character archetype into the mix, hoping something would stick. Instead, most of them are as memorable as wet cardboard.
What’s interesting here is that while Mr Reynolds beats you over the head with moralizing sermons about good and evil, he also sneaks in surprising moments of progressive commentary. He critiques the xenophobia of his time, particularly against Jews and Muslims, and shines a light on the societal constraints imposed on women through Nisida, one of the more complex characters in the story. It’s a nice touch in an otherwise clunky narrative, like finding a diamond in a swamp.
That said, the novel isn’t without its bizarre charm. A secret dungeon in a nunnery? Check. An island paradise populated by giant man-eating pythons? Double check. It feels like Mr Reynolds was channeling the unfiltered imagination of a kid writing their first fantasy epic. It’s goofy, but you can’t hate the enthusiasm.
In the end, Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf is an ambitious but uneven mess. Somewhere in its labyrinthine chapters lies the potential for a great Gothic story, but it’s buried under implausible twists, forgettable filler characters, and prose that could have been cut by two-thirds. There’s lurid melodrama, and then there’s this.
While it’s fascinating as a historical curiosity, let’s just say there’s a reason this “classic” is rarely remembered—and why Wagner himself probably wishes he’d stayed in the shadows.
