CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY
(New Series)
* * * * *
THE
CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
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BY
HORACE WALPOLE.
[Picture: Decorative graphic]
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED
_LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_
1901
INTRODUCTION
HORACE WALPOLE was the youngest son of Sir Robert Walpole, the great
statesman, who died Earl of Orford. He was born in 1717, the year in
which his father resigned office, remaining in opposition for almost
three years before his return to a long tenure of power. Horace Walpole
was educated at Eton, where he formed a school friendship with Thomas
Gray, who was but a few months older. In 1739 Gray was
travelling-companion with Walpole in France and Italy until they differed
and parted; but the friendship was afterwards renewed, and remained firm
to the end. Horace Walpole went from Eton to King’s College, Cambridge,
and entered Parliament in 1741, the year before his father’s final
resignation and acceptance of an earldom. His way of life was made easy
to him. As Usher of the Exchequer, Comptroller of the Pipe, and Clerk of
the Estreats in the Exchequer, he received nearly two thousand a year for
doing nothing, lived with his father, and amused himself.
Horace Walpole idled, and amused himself with the small life of the
fashionable world to which he was proud of belonging, though he had a
quick eye for its vanities. He had social wit, and liked to put it to
small uses. But he was not an empty idler, and there were seasons when
he could become a sharp judge of himself. “I am sensible,” he wrote to
his most intimate friend, “I am sensible of having more follies and
weaknesses and fewer real good qualities than most men. I sometimes
reflect on this, though, I own, too seldom. I always want to begin
acting like a man, and a sensible one, which I think I might be if I
would.” He had deep home affections, and, under many polite
affectations, plenty of good sense.
Horace Walpole’s father died in 1745. The eldest son, who succeeded to
the earldom, died in 1751, and left a son, George, who was for a time
insane, and lived until 1791. As George left no child, the title and
estates passed to Horace Walpole, then seventy-four years old, and the
only uncle who survived. Horace Walpole thus became Earl of Orford,
during the last six years of his life. As to the title, he said that he
felt himself being called names in his old age. He died unmarried, in
the year 1797, at the age of eighty.
He had turned his house at Strawberry Hill, by the Thames, near
Twickenham, into a Gothic villa—eighteenth-century Gothic—and amused
himself by spending freely upon its adornment with such things as were
then fashionable as objects of taste. But he delighted also in his
flowers and his trellises of roses, and the quiet Thames. When confined
by gout to his London house in Arlington Street, flowers from Strawberry
Hill and a bird were necessary consolations. He set up also at
Strawberry Hill a private printing press, at which he printed his friend
Gray’s poems, also in 1758 his own “Catalogue of the Royal and Noble
Authors of England,” and five volumes of “Anecdotes of Painting in
England,” between 1762 and 1771.
Horace Walpole produced _The Castle of Otranto_ in 1765, at the mature
age of forty-eight. It was suggested by a dream from which he said he
waked one morning, and of which “all I could recover was, that I had
thought myself in an ancient castle (a very natural dream for a head like
mine, filled with Gothic story), and that on the uppermost banister of a
great staircase I saw a gigantic hand in armour. In the evening I sat
down and began to write, without knowing in the least what I intended to
say or relate.” So began the tale which professed to be translated by
“William Marshal, gentleman, from the Italian of Onuphro Muralto, canon
of the Church of St. Nicholas, at Otranto.” It was written in two
months. Walpole’s friend Gray reported to him that at Cambridge the book
made “some of them cry a little, and all in general afraid to go to bed
o’ nights.” _The Castle of Otranto_ was, in its own way, an early sign
of the reaction towards romance in the latter part of the last century.
This gives it interest. But it has had many followers, and the hardy
modern reader, when he reads Gray’s note from Cambridge, needs to be
reminded of its date.
H. M.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.
The following work was found in the library of an ancient Catholic family
in the north of England. It was printed at Naples, in the black letter,
in the year 1529. How much sooner it was written does not appear. The
principal incidents are such as were believed in the darkest ages of
Christianity; but the language and conduct have nothing that savours of
barbarism. The style is the purest Italian.
If the story was written near the time when it is supposed to have
happened, it must have been between 1095, the era of the first Crusade,
and 1243, the date of the last, or not long afterwards. There is no
other circumstance in the work that can lead us to guess at the period in
which the scene is laid: the names of the actors are evidently
fictitious, and probably disguised on purpose: yet the Spanish names of
the domestics seem to indicate that this work was not composed until the
establishment of the Arragonian Kings in Naples had made Spanish
appellations familiar in that country. The beauty of the diction, and
the zeal of the author (moderated, however, by singular judgment) concur
to make me think that the date of the composition was little antecedent
to that of the impression. Letters were then in their most flourishing
state in Italy, and contributed to dispel the empire of superstition, at
that time so forcibly attacked by the reformers. It is not unlikely that
an artful priest might endeavour to turn their own arms on the
innovators, and might avail himself of his abilities as an author to
confirm the populace in their ancient errors and superstitions. If this
was his view, he has certainly acted with signal address. Such a work as
the following would enslave a hundred vulgar minds beyond half the books
of controversy that have been written from the days of Luther to the
present hour.
This solution of the author’s motives is, however, offered as a mere
conjecture. Whatever his views were, or whatever effects the execution
of them might have, his work can only be laid before the public at
present as a matter of entertainment. Even as such, some apology for it
is necessary. Miracles, visions, necromancy, dreams, and other
preternatural events, are exploded now even from romances. That was not
the case when our author wrote; much less when the story itself is
supposed to have happened. Belief in every kind of prodigy was so
established in those dark ages, that an author would not be faithful to
the manners of the times, who should omit all mention of them. He is not
bound to believe them himself, but he must represent his actors as
believing them.
If this air of the miraculous is excused, the reader will find nothing
else unworthy of his perusal. Allow the possibility of the facts, and
all the actors comport themselves as persons would do in their situation.
There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary
descriptions. Everything tends directly to the catastrophe. Never is
the reader’s attention relaxed. The rules of the drama are almost
observed throughout the conduct of the piece. The characters are well
drawn, and still better maintained. Terror, the author’s principal
engine, prevents the story from ever languishing; and it is so often
contrasted by pity, that the mind is kept up in a constant vicissitude of
interesting passions.
Some persons may perhaps think the characters of the domestics too little
serious for the general cast of the story; but besides their opposition
to the principal personages, the art of the author is very observable in
his conduct of the subalterns. They discover many passages essential to
the story, which could not be well brought to light but by their
_naïveté_ and simplicity. In particular, the womanish terror and foibles
of Bianca, in the last chapter, conduce essentially towards advancing the
catastrophe.
It is natural for a translator to be prejudiced in favour of his adopted
work. More impartial readers may not be so much struck with the beauties
of this piece as I was. Yet I am not blind to my author’s defects. I
could wish he had grounded his plan on a more useful moral than this:
that “the sins of fathers are visited on their children to the third and
fourth generation.” I doubt whether, in his time, any more than at
present, ambition curbed its appetite of dominion from the dread of so
remote a punishment. And yet this moral is weakened by that less direct
insinuation, that even such anathema may be diverted by devotion to St.
Nicholas. Here the interest of the Monk plainly gets the better of the
judgment of the author. However, with all its faults, I have no doubt
but the English reader will be pleased with a sight of this performance.
The piety that reigns throughout, the lessons of virtue that are
inculcated, and the rigid purity of the sentiments, exempt this work from
the censure to which romances are but too liable. Should it meet with
the success I hope for, I may be encouraged to reprint the original
Italian, though it will tend to depreciate my own labour. Our language
falls far short of the charms of the Italian, both for variety and
harmony. The latter is peculiarly excellent for simple narrative. It is
difficult in English to relate without falling too low or rising too
high; a fault obviously occasioned by the little care taken to speak pure
language in common conversation. Every Italian or Frenchman of any rank
piques himself on speaking his own tongue correctly and with choice. I
cannot flatter myself with having done justice to my author in this
respect: his style is as elegant as his conduct of the passions is
masterly. It is a pity that he did not apply his talents to what they
were evidently proper for—the theatre.
I will detain the reader no longer, but to make one short remark. Though
the machinery is invention, and the names of the actors imaginary, I
cannot but believe that the groundwork of the story is founded on truth.
The scene is undoubtedly laid in some real castle. The author seems
frequently, without design, to describe particular parts. “The chamber,”
says he, “on the right hand;” “the door on the left hand;” “the distance
from the chapel to Conrad’s apartment:” these and other passages are
strong presumptions that the author had some certain building in his eye.
Curious persons, who have leisure to employ in such researches, may
possibly discover in the Italian writers the foundation on which our
author has built. If a catastrophe, at all resembling that which he
describes, is believed to have given rise to this work, it will
contribute to interest the reader, and will make the “Castle of Otranto”
a still more moving story.
SONNET TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY MARY COKE.
The gentle maid, whose hapless tale
These melancholy pages speak;
Say, gracious lady, shall she fail
To draw the tear adown thy cheek?
No; never was thy pitying breast
Insensible to human woes;
Tender, tho’ firm, it melts distrest
For weaknesses it never knows.
Oh! guard the marvels I relate
Of fell ambition scourg’d by fate,
From reason’s peevish blame.
Blest with thy smile, my dauntless sail
I dare expand to Fancy’s gale,
For sure thy smiles are Fame.
H. W.
CHAPTER I.
Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: the latter, a
most beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the
son, was three years younger, a homely youth, sickly, and of no promising
disposition; yet he was the darling of his father, who never showed any
symptoms of affection to Matilda. Manfred had contracted a marriage for
his son with the Marquis of Vicenza’s daughter, Isabella; and she had
already been delivered by her guardians into the hands of Manfred, that
he might celebrate the wedding as soon as Conrad’s infirm state of health
would permit.
Manfred’s impatience for this ceremonial was remarked by his family and
neighbours. The former, indeed, apprehending the severity of their
Prince’s disposition, did not dare to utter their surmises on this
precipitation. Hippolita, his wife, an amiable lady, did sometimes
venture to represent the danger of marrying their only son so early,
considering his great youth, and greater infirmities; but she never
received any other answer than reflections on her own sterility, who had
given him but one heir. His tenants and subjects were less cautious in
their discourses. They attributed this hasty wedding to the Prince’s
dread of seeing accomplished an ancient prophecy, which was said to have
pronounced that the castle and lordship of Otranto “should pass from the
present family, whenever the real owner should be grown too large to
inhabit it.” It was difficult to make any sense of this prophecy; and
still less easy to conceive what it had to do with the marriage in
question. Yet these mysteries, or contradictions, did not make the
populace adhere the less to their opinion.
Young Conrad’s birthday was fixed for his espousals. The company was
assembled in the chapel of the Castle, and everything ready for beginning
the divine office, when Conrad himself was missing. Manfred, impatient
of the least delay, and who had not observed his son retire, despatched
one of his attendants to summon the young Prince. The servant, who had
not stayed long enough to have crossed the court to Conrad’s apartment,
came running back breathless, in a frantic manner, his eyes staring, and
foaming at the mouth. He said nothing, but pointed to the court.
The company were struck with terror and amazement. The Princess
Hippolita, without knowing what was the matter, but anxious for her son,
swooned away. Manfred, less apprehensive than enraged at the
procrastination of the nuptials, and at the folly of his domestic, asked
imperiously what was the matter? The fellow made no answer, but
continued pointing towards the courtyard; and at last, after repeated
questions put to him, cried out, “Oh! the helmet! the helmet!”
In the meantime, some of the company had run into the court, from whence
was heard a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise. Manfred,
who began to be alarmed at not seeing his son, went himself to get
information of what occasioned this strange confusion. Matilda remained
endeavouring to assist her mother, and Isabella stayed for the same
purpose, and to avoid showing any impatience for the bridegroom, for
whom, in truth, she had conceived little affection.
The first thing that struck Manfred’s eyes was a group of his servants
endeavouring to raise something that appeared to him a mountain of sable
plumes. He gazed without believing his sight.
“What are ye doing?” cried Manfred, wrathfully; “where is my son?”
A volley of voices replied, “Oh! my Lord! the Prince! the Prince! the
helmet! the helmet!”
Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew not what, he
advanced hastily,—but what a sight for a father’s eyes!—he beheld his
child dashed to pieces, and almost buried under an enormous helmet, an
hundred times more large than any casque ever made for human being, and
shaded with a proportionable quantity of black feathers.
The horror of the spectacle, the ignorance of all around how this
misfortune had happened, and above all, the tremendous phenomenon before
him, took away the Prince’s speech. Yet his silence lasted longer than
even grief could occasion. He fixed his eyes on what he wished in vain
to believe a vision; and seemed less attentive to his loss, than buried
in meditation on the stupendous object that had occasioned it. He
touched, he examined the fatal casque; nor could even the bleeding
mangled remains of the young Prince divert the eyes of Manfred from the
portent before him.
All who had known his partial fondness for young Conrad, were as much
surprised at their Prince’s insensibility, as thunderstruck themselves at
the miracle of the helmet. They conveyed the disfigured corpse into the
hall, without receiving the least direction from Manfred. As little was
he attentive to the ladies who remained in the chapel. On the contrary,
without mentioning the unhappy princesses, his wife and daughter, the
first sounds that dropped from Manfred’s lips were, “Take care of the
Lady Isabella.”
The domestics, without observing the singularity of this direction, were
guided by their affection to their mistress, to consider it as peculiarly
addressed to her situation, and flew to her assistance. They conveyed
her to her chamber more dead than alive, and indifferent to all the
strange circumstances she heard, except the death of her son.
Matilda, who doted on her mother, smothered her own grief and amazement,
and thought of nothing but assisting and comforting her afflicted parent.
Isabella, who had been treated by Hippolita like a daughter, and who
returned that tenderness with equal duty and affection, was scarce less
assiduous about the Princess; at the same time endeavouring to partake
and lessen the weight of sorrow which she saw Matilda strove to suppress,
for whom she had conceived the warmest sympathy of friendship. Yet her
own situation could not help finding its place in her thoughts. She felt
no concern for the death of young Conrad, except commiseration; and she
was not sorry to be delivered from a marriage which had promised her
little felicity, either from her destined bridegroom, or from the severe
temper of Manfred, who, though he had distinguished her by great
indulgence, had imprinted her mind with terror, from his causeless rigour
to such amiable princesses as Hippolita and Matilda.
While the ladies were conveying the wretched mother to her bed, Manfred
remained in the court, gazing on the ominous casque, and regardless of
the crowd which the strangeness of the event had now assembled around
him. The few words he articulated, tended solely to inquiries, whether
any man knew from whence it could have come? Nobody could give him the
least information. However, as it seemed to be the sole object of his
curiosity, it soon became so to the rest of the spectators, whose
conjectures were as absurd and improbable, as the catastrophe itself was
unprecedented. In the midst of their senseless guesses, a young peasant,
whom rumour had drawn thither from a neighbouring village, observed that
the miraculous helmet was exactly like that on the figure in black marble
of Alfonso the Good, one of their former princes, in the church of St.
Nicholas.
“Villain! What sayest thou?” cried Manfred, starting from his trance in
a tempest of rage, and seizing the young man by the collar; “how darest
thou utter such treason? Thy life shall pay for it.”
The spectators, who as little comprehended the cause of the Prince’s fury
as all the rest they had seen, were at a loss to unravel this new
circumstance. The young peasant himself was still more astonished, not
conceiving how he had offended the Prince. Yet recollecting himself,
with a mixture of grace and humility, he disengaged himself from
Manfred’s grip, and then with an obeisance, which discovered more
jealousy of innocence than dismay, he asked, with respect, of what he was
guilty? Manfred, more enraged at the vigour, however decently exerted,
with which the young man had shaken off his hold, than appeased by his
submission, ordered his attendants to seize him, and, if he had not been
withheld by his friends whom he had invited to the nuptials, would have
poignarded the peasant in their arms.
During this altercation, some of the vulgar spectators had run to the
great church, which stood near the castle, and came back open-mouthed,
declaring that the helmet was missing from Alfonso’s statue. Manfred, at
this news, grew perfectly frantic; and, as if he sought a subject on
which to vent the tempest within him, he rushed again on the young
peasant, crying—
“Villain! Monster! Sorcerer! ’tis thou hast done this! ’tis thou hast
slain my son!”
The mob, who wanted some object within the scope of their capacities, on
whom they might discharge their bewildered reasoning, caught the words
from the mouth of their lord, and re-echoed—
“Ay, ay; ’tis he, ’tis he: he has stolen the helmet from good Alfonso’s
tomb, and dashed out the brains of our young Prince with it,” never
reflecting how enormous the disproportion was between the marble helmet
that had been in the church, and that of steel before their eyes; nor how
impossible it was for a youth seemingly not twenty, to wield a piece of
armour of so prodigious a weight.
The folly of these ejaculations brought Manfred to himself: yet whether
provoked at the peasant having observed the resemblance between the two
helmets, and thereby led to the farther discovery of the absence of that
in the church, or wishing to bury any such rumour under so impertinent a
supposition, he gravely pronounced that the young man was certainly a
necromancer, and that till the Church could take cognisance of the
affair, he would have the Magician, whom they had thus detected, kept
prisoner under the helmet itself, which he ordered his attendants to
raise, and place the young man under it; declaring he should be kept
there without food, with which his own infernal art might furnish him.
It was in vain for the youth to represent against this preposterous
sentence: in vain did Manfred’s friends endeavour to divert him from this
savage and ill-grounded resolution. The generality were charmed with
their lord’s decision, which, to their apprehensions, carried great
appearance of justice, as the Magician was to be punished by the very
instrument with which he had offended: nor were they struck with the
least compunction at the probability of the youth being starved, for they
firmly believed that, by his diabolic skill, he could easily supply
himself with nutriment.
Manfred thus saw his commands even cheerfully obeyed; and appointing a
guard with strict orders to prevent any food being conveyed to the
prisoner, he dismissed his friends and attendants, and retired to his own
chamber, after locking the gates of the castle, in which he suffered none
but his domestics to remain.
In the meantime, the care and zeal of the young Ladies had brought the
Princess Hippolita to herself, who amidst the transports of her own
sorrow frequently demanded news of her lord, would have dismissed her
attendants to watch over him, and at last enjoined Matilda to leave her,
and visit and comfort her father. Matilda, who wanted no affectionate
duty to Manfred, though she trembled at his austerity, obeyed the orders
of Hippolita, whom she tenderly recommended to Isabella; and inquiring of
the domestics for her father, was informed that he was retired to his
chamber, and had commanded that nobody should have admittance to him.
Concluding that he was immersed in sorrow for the death of her brother,
and fearing to renew his tears by the sight of his sole remaining child,
she hesitated whether she should break in upon his affliction; yet
solicitude for him, backed by the commands of her mother, encouraged her
to venture disobeying the orders he had given; a fault she had never been
guilty of before.
The gentle timidity of her nature made her pause for some minutes at his
door. She heard him traverse his chamber backwards, and forwards with
disordered steps; a mood which increased her apprehensions. She was,
however, just going to beg admittance, when Manfred suddenly opened the
door; and as it was now twilight, concurring with the disorder of his
mind, he did not distinguish the person, but asked angrily, who it was?
Matilda replied, trembling—
“My dearest father, it is I, your daughter.”
Manfred, stepping back hastily, cried, “Begone! I do not want a
daughter;” and flinging back abruptly, clapped the door against the
terrified Matilda.
She was too well acquainted with her father’s impetuosity to venture a
second intrusion. When she had a little recovered the shock of so bitter
a reception, she wiped away her tears to prevent the additional stab that
the knowledge of it would give to Hippolita, who questioned her in the
most anxious terms on the health of Manfred, and how he bore his loss.
Matilda assured her he was well, and supported his misfortune with manly
fortitude.
“But will he not let me see him?” said Hippolita mournfully; “will he not
permit me to blend my tears with his, and shed a mother’s sorrows in the
bosom of her Lord? Or do you deceive me, Matilda? I know how Manfred
doted on his son: is not the stroke too heavy for him? has he not sunk
under it? You do not answer me—alas! I dread the worst!—Raise me, my
maidens; I will, I will see my Lord. Bear me to him instantly: he is
dearer to me even than my children.”
Matilda made signs to Isabella to prevent Hippolita’s rising; and both
those lovely young women were using their gentle violence to stop and
calm the Princess, when a servant, on the part of Manfred, arrived and
told Isabella that his Lord demanded to speak with her.
“With me!” cried Isabella.
“Go,” said Hippolita, relieved by a message from her Lord: “Manfred
cannot support the sight of his own family. He thinks you less
disordered than we are, and dreads the shock of my grief. Console him,
dear Isabella, and tell him I will smother my own anguish rather than add
to his.”
As it was now evening the servant who conducted Isabella bore a torch
before her. When they came to Manfred, who was walking impatiently about
the gallery, he started, and said hastily—
“Take away that light, and begone.”
Then shutting the door impetuously, he flung himself upon a bench against
the wall, and bade Isabella sit by him. She obeyed trembling.
“I sent for you, Lady,” said he—and then stopped under great appearance
of confusion.
“My Lord!”
“Yes, I sent for you on a matter of great moment,” resumed he. “Dry your
tears, young Lady—you have lost your bridegroom. Yes, cruel fate! and I
have lost the hopes of my race! But Conrad was not worthy of your
beauty.”
“How, my Lord!” said Isabella; “sure you do not suspect me of not feeling
the concern I ought: my duty and affection would have always—”
“Think no more of him,” interrupted Manfred; “he was a sickly, puny
child, and Heaven has perhaps taken him away, that I might not trust the
honours of my house on so frail a foundation. The line of Manfred calls
for numerous supports. My foolish fondness for that boy blinded the eyes
of my prudence—but it is better as it is. I hope, in a few years, to
have reason to rejoice at the death of Conrad.”
Words cannot paint the astonishment of Isabella. At first she
apprehended that grief had disordered Manfred’s understanding. Her next
thought suggested that this strange discourse was designed to ensnare
her: she feared that Manfred had perceived her indifference for his son:
and in consequence of that idea she replied—
“Good my Lord, do not doubt my tenderness: my heart would have
accompanied my hand. Conrad would have engrossed all my care; and
wherever fate shall dispose of me, I shall always cherish his memory, and
regard your Highness and the virtuous Hippolita as my parents.”
“Curse on Hippolita!” cried Manfred. “Forget her from this moment, as I
do. In short, Lady, you have missed a husband undeserving of your
charms: they shall now be better disposed of. Instead of a sickly boy,
you shall have a husband in the prime of his age, who will know how to
value your beauties, and who may expect a numerous offspring.”
“Alas, my Lord!” said Isabella, “my mind is too sadly engrossed by the
recent catastrophe in your family to think of another marriage. If ever
my father returns, and it shall be his pleasure, I shall obey, as I did
when I consented to give my hand to your son: but until his return,
permit me to remain under your hospitable roof, and employ the melancholy
hours in assuaging yours, Hippolita’s, and the fair Matilda’s
affliction.”
“I desired you once before,” said Manfred angrily, “not to name that
woman: from this hour she must be a stranger to you, as she must be to
me. In short, Isabella, since I cannot give you my son, I offer you
myself.”
“Heavens!” cried Isabella, waking from her delusion, “what do I hear?
You! my Lord! You! My father-in-law! the father of Conrad! the husband
of the virtuous and tender Hippolita!”
“I tell you,” said Manfred imperiously, “Hippolita is no longer my wife;
I divorce her from this hour. Too long has she cursed me by her
unfruitfulness. My fate depends on having sons, and this night I trust
will give a new date to my hopes.”
At those words he seized the cold hand of Isabella, who was half dead
with fright and horror. She shrieked, and started from him, Manfred rose
to pursue her, when the moon, which was now up, and gleamed in at the
opposite casement, presented to his sight the plumes of the fatal helmet,
which rose to the height of the windows, waving backwards and forwards in
a tempestuous manner, and accompanied with a hollow and rustling sound.
Isabella, who gathered courage from her situation, and who dreaded
nothing so much as Manfred’s pursuit of his declaration, cried—
“Look, my Lord! see, Heaven itself declares against your impious
intentions!”
“Heaven nor Hell shall impede my designs,” said Manfred, advancing again
to seize the Princess.
At that instant the portrait of his grandfather, which hung over the
bench where they had been sitting, uttered a deep sigh, and heaved its
breast.
Isabella, whose back was turned to the picture, saw not the motion, nor
knew whence the sound came, but started, and said—
“Hark, my Lord! What sound was that?” and at the same time made towards
the door.
Manfred, distracted between the flight of Isabella, who had now reached
the stairs, and yet unable to keep his eyes from the picture, which began
to move, had, however, advanced some steps after her, still looking
backwards on the portrait, when he saw it quit its panel, and descend on
the floor with a grave and melancholy air.
“Do I dream?” cried Manfred, returning; “or are the devils themselves in
league against me? Speak, infernal spectre! Or, if thou art my
grandsire, why dost thou too conspire against thy wretched descendant,
who too dearly pays for—” Ere he could finish the sentence, the vision
sighed again, and made a sign to Manfred to follow him.
“Lead on!” cried Manfred; “I will follow thee to the gulf of perdition.”
The spectre marched sedately, but dejected, to the end of the gallery,
and turned into a chamber on the right hand. Manfred accompanied him at
a little distance, full of anxiety and horror, but resolved. As he would
have entered the chamber, the door was clapped to with violence by an
invisible hand. The Prince, collecting courage from this delay, would
have forcibly burst open the door with his foot, but found that it
resisted his utmost efforts.
“Since Hell will not satisfy my curiosity,” said Manfred, “I will use the
human means in my power for preserving my race; Isabella shall not escape
me.”
The lady, whose resolution had given way to terror the moment she had
quitted Manfred, continued her flight to the bottom of the principal
staircase. There she stopped, not knowing whither to direct her steps,
nor how to escape from the impetuosity of the Prince. The gates of the
castle, she knew, were locked, and guards placed in the court. Should
she, as her heart prompted her, go and prepare Hippolita for the cruel
destiny that awaited her, she did not doubt but Manfred would seek her
there, and that his violence would incite him to double the injury he
meditated, without leaving room for them to avoid the impetuosity of his
passions. Delay might give him time to reflect on the horrid measures he
had conceived, or produce some circumstance in her favour, if she
could—for that night, at least—avoid his odious purpose. Yet where
conceal herself? How avoid the pursuit he would infallibly make
throughout the castle?
As these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she recollected a
subterraneous passage which led from the vaults of the castle to the
church of St. Nicholas. Could she reach the altar before she was
overtaken, she knew even Manfred’s violence would not dare to profane the
sacredness of the place; and she determined, if no other means of
deliverance offered, to shut herself up for ever among the holy virgins
whose convent was contiguous to the cathedral. In this resolution, she
seized a lamp that burned at the foot of the staircase, and hurried
towards the secret passage.
The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intricate
cloisters; and it was not easy for one under so much anxiety to find the
door that opened into the cavern. An awful silence reigned throughout
those subterraneous regions, except now and then some blasts of wind that
shook the doors she had passed, and which, grating on the rusty hinges,
were re-echoed through that long labyrinth of darkness. Every murmur
struck her with new terror; yet more she dreaded to hear the wrathful
voice of Manfred urging his domestics to pursue her.
She trod as softly as impatience would give her leave, yet frequently
stopped and listened to hear if she was followed. In one of those
moments she thought she heard a sigh. She shuddered, and recoiled a few
paces. In a moment she thought she heard the step of some person. Her
blood curdled; she concluded it was Manfred. Every suggestion that
horror could inspire rushed into her mind. She condemned her rash
flight, which had thus exposed her to his rage in a place where her cries
were not likely to draw anybody to her assistance. Yet the sound seemed
not to come from behind. If Manfred knew where she was, he must have
followed her. She was still in one of the cloisters, and the steps she
had heard were too distinct to proceed from the way she had come.
Cheered with this reflection, and hoping to find a friend in whoever was
not the Prince, she was going to advance, when a door that stood ajar, at
some distance to the left, was opened gently: but ere her lamp, which she
held up, could discover who opened it, the person retreated precipitately
on seeing the light.
Isabella, whom every incident was sufficient to dismay, hesitated whether
she should proceed. Her dread of Manfred soon outweighed every other
terror. The very circumstance of the person avoiding her gave her a sort
of courage. It could only be, she thought, some domestic belonging to
the castle. Her gentleness had never raised her an enemy, and conscious
innocence made her hope that, unless sent by the Prince’s order to seek
her, his servants would rather assist than prevent her flight.
Fortifying herself with these reflections, and believing by what she
could observe that she was near the mouth of the subterraneous cavern,
she approached the door that had been opened; but a sudden gust of wind
that met her at the door extinguished her lamp, and left her in total
darkness.
Words cannot paint the horror of the Princess’s situation. Alone in so
dismal a place, her mind imprinted with all the terrible events of the
day, hopeless of escaping, expecting every moment the arrival of Manfred,
and far from tranquil on knowing she was within reach of somebody, she
knew not whom, who for some cause seemed concealed thereabouts; all these
thoughts crowded on her distracted mind, and she was ready to sink under
her apprehensions. She addressed herself to every saint in heaven, and
inwardly implored their assistance. For a considerable time she remained
in an agony of despair.
At last, as softly as was possible, she felt for the door, and having
found it, entered trembling into the vault from whence she had heard the
sigh and steps. It gave her a kind of momentary joy to perceive an
imperfect ray of clouded moonshine gleam from the roof of the vault,
which seemed to be fallen in, and from whence hung a fragment of earth or
building, she could not distinguish which, that appeared to have been
crushed inwards. She advanced eagerly towards this chasm, when she
discerned a human form standing close against the wall.
She shrieked, believing it the ghost of her betrothed Conrad. The
figure, advancing, said, in a submissive voice—
“Be not alarmed, Lady; I will not injure you.”
Isabella, a little encouraged by the words and tone of voice of the
stranger, and recollecting that this must be the person who had opened
the door, recovered her spirits enough to reply—
“Sir, whoever you are, take pity on a wretched Princess, standing on the
brink of destruction. Assist me to escape from this fatal castle, or in
a few moments I may be made miserable for ever.”
“Alas!” said the stranger, “what can I do to assist you? I will die in
your defence; but I am unacquainted with the castle, and want—”
“Oh!” said Isabella, hastily interrupting him; “help me but to find a
trap-door that must be hereabout, and it is the greatest service you can
do me, for I have not a minute to lose.”
Saying these words, she felt about on the pavement, and directed the
stranger to search likewise, for a smooth piece of brass enclosed in
one of the stones.
“That,” said she, “is the lock, which opens with a spring, of which I
know the secret. If we can find that, I may escape—if not, alas!
courteous stranger, I fear I shall have involved you in my misfortunes:
Manfred will suspect you for the accomplice of my flight, and you will
fall a victim to his resentment.”
“I value not my life,” said the stranger, “and it will be some comfort to
lose it in trying to deliver you from his tyranny.”
“Generous youth,” said Isabella, “how shall I ever requite—”
As she uttered those words, a ray of moonshine, streaming through a
cranny of the ruin above, shone directly on the lock they sought.
“Oh! transport!” said Isabella; “here is the trap-door!” and, taking out
the key, she touched the spring, which, starting aside, discovered an
iron ring. “Lift up the door,” said the Princess.
The stranger obeyed, and beneath appeared some stone steps descending
into a vault totally dark.
“We must go down here,” said Isabella. “Follow me; dark and dismal as it
is, we cannot miss our way; it leads directly to the church of St.
Nicholas. But, perhaps,” added the Princess modestly, “you have no
reason to leave the castle, nor have I farther occasion for your service;
in a few minutes I shall be safe from Manfred’s rage—only let me know to
whom I am so much obliged.”
“I will never quit you,” said the stranger eagerly, “until I have placed
you in safety—nor think me, Princess, more generous than I am; though you
are my principal care—”
The stranger was interrupted by a sudden noise of voices that seemed
approaching, and they soon distinguished these words—
“Talk not to me of necromancers; I tell you she must be in the castle; I
will find her in spite of enchantment.”
“Oh, heavens!” cried Isabella; “it is the voice of Manfred! Make haste,
or we are ruined! and shut the trap-door after you.”
Saying this, she descended the steps precipitately; and as the stranger
hastened to follow her, he let the door slip out of his hands: it fell,
and the spring closed over it. He tried in vain to open it, not having
observed Isabella’s method of touching the spring; nor had he many
moments to make an essay. The noise of the falling door had been heard
by Manfred, who, directed by the sound, hastened thither, attended by his
servants with torches.
“It must be Isabella,” cried Manfred, before he entered the vault. “She
is escaping by the subterraneous passage, but she cannot have got far.”
What was the astonishment of the Prince when, instead of Isabella, the
light of the torches discovered to him the young peasant whom he thought
confined under the fatal helmet!
“Traitor!” said Manfred; “how camest thou here? I thought thee in
durance above in the court.”
“I am no traitor,” replied the young man boldly, “nor am I answerable for
your thoughts.”
“Presumptuous villain!” cried Manfred; “dost thou provoke my wrath? Tell
me, how hast thou escaped from above? Thou hast corrupted thy guards,
and their lives shall answer it.”
“My poverty,” said the peasant calmly, “will disculpate them: though the
ministers of a tyrant’s wrath, to thee they are faithful, and but too
willing to execute the orders which you unjustly imposed upon them.”
“Art thou so hardy as to dare my vengeance?” said the Prince; “but
tortures shall force the truth from thee. Tell me; I will know thy
accomplices.”
“There was my accomplice!” said the youth, smiling, and pointing to the
roof.
Manfred ordered the torches to be held up, and perceived that one of the
cheeks of the enchanted casque had forced its way through the pavement of
the court, as his servants had let it fall over the peasant, and had
broken through into the vault, leaving a gap, through which the peasant
had pressed himself some minutes before he was found by Isabella.
“Was that the way by which thou didst descend?” said Manfred.
“It was,” said the youth.
“But what noise was that,” said Manfred, “which I heard as I entered the
cloister?”
“A door clapped,” said the peasant; “I heard it as well as you.”
“What door?” said Manfred hastily.
“I am not acquainted with your castle,” said the peasant; “this is the
first time I ever entered it, and this vault the only part of it within
which I ever was.”
“But I tell thee,” said Manfred (wishing to find out if the youth had
discovered the trap-door), “it was this way I heard the noise. My
servants heard it too.”
“My Lord,” interrupted one of them officiously, “to be sure it was the
trap-door, and he was going to make his escape.”
“Peace, blockhead!” said the Prince angrily; “if he was going to escape,
how should he come on this side? I will know from his own mouth what
noise it was I heard. Tell me truly; thy life depends on thy veracity.”
“My veracity is dearer to me than my life,” said the peasant; “nor would
I purchase the one by forfeiting the other.”
“Indeed, young philosopher!” said Manfred contemptuously; “tell me, then,
what was the noise I heard?”
“Ask me what I can answer,” said he, “and put me to death instantly if I
tell you a lie.”
Manfred, growing impatient at the steady valour and indifference of the
youth, cried—
“Well, then, thou man of truth, answer! Was it the fall of the trap-door
that I heard?”
“It was,” said the youth.
“It was!” said the Prince; “and how didst thou come to know there was a
trap-door here?”
“I saw the plate of brass by a gleam of moonshine,” replied he.
“But what told thee it was a lock?” said Manfred. “How didst thou
discover the secret of opening it?”
“Providence, that delivered me from the helmet, was able to direct me to
the spring of a lock,” said he.
“Providence should have gone a little farther, and have placed thee out
of the reach of my resentment,” said Manfred. “When Providence had
taught thee to open the lock, it abandoned thee for a fool, who did not
know how to make use of its favours. Why didst thou not pursue the path
pointed out for thy escape? Why didst thou shut the trap-door before
thou hadst descended the steps?”
“I might ask you, my Lord,” said the peasant, “how I, totally
unacquainted with your castle, was to know that those steps led to any
outlet? but I scorn to evade your questions. Wherever those steps lead
to, perhaps I should have explored the way—I could not be in a worse
situation than I was. But the truth is, I let the trap-door fall: your
immediate arrival followed. I had given the alarm—what imported it to me
whether I was seized a minute sooner or a minute later?”
“Thou art a resolute villain for thy years,” said Manfred; “yet on
reflection I suspect thou dost but trifle with me. Thou hast not yet
told me how thou didst open the lock.”
“That I will show you, my Lord,” said the peasant; and, taking up a
fragment of stone that had fallen from above, he laid himself on the
trap-door, and began to beat on the piece of brass that covered it,
meaning to gain time for the escape of the Princess. This presence of
mind, joined to the frankness of the youth, staggered Manfred. He even
felt a disposition towards pardoning one who had been guilty of no crime.
Manfred was not one of those savage tyrants who wanton in cruelty
unprovoked. The circumstances of his fortune had given an asperity to
his temper, which was naturally humane; and his virtues were always ready
to operate, when his passions did not obscure his reason.
While the Prince was in this suspense, a confused noise of voices echoed
through the distant vaults. As the sound approached, he distinguished
the clamours of some of his domestics, whom he had dispersed through the
castle in search of Isabella, calling out—
“Where is my Lord? where is the Prince?”
“Here I am,” said Manfred, as they came nearer; “have you found the
Princess?”
The first that arrived, replied, “Oh, my Lord! I am glad we have found
you.”
“Found me!” said Manfred; “have you found the Princess?”
“We thought we had, my Lord,” said the fellow, looking terrified, “but—”
“But, what?” cried the Prince; “has she escaped?”
“Jaquez and I, my Lord—”
“Yes, I and Diego,” interrupted the second, who came up in still greater
consternation.
“Speak one of you at a time,” said Manfred; “I ask you, where is the
Princess?”
“We do not know,” said they both together; “but we are frightened out of
our wits.”
“So I think, blockheads,” said Manfred; “what is it has scared you thus?”
“Oh! my Lord,” said Jaquez, “Diego has seen such a sight! your Highness
would not believe our eyes.”
“What new absurdity is this?” cried Manfred; “give me a direct answer,
or, by Heaven—”
“Why, my Lord, if it please your Highness to hear me,” said the poor
fellow, “Diego and I—”
“Yes, I and Jaquez—” cried his comrade.
“Did not I forbid you to speak both at a time?” said the Prince: “you,
Jaquez, answer; for the other fool seems more distracted than thou art;
what is the matter?”
“My gracious Lord,” said Jaquez, “if it please your Highness to hear me;
Diego and I, according to your Highness’s orders, went to search for the
young Lady; but being comprehensive that we might meet the ghost of my
young Lord, your Highness’s son, God rest his soul, as he has not
received Christian burial—”
“Sot!” cried Manfred in a rage; “is it only a ghost, then, that thou hast
seen?”
“Oh! worse! worse! my Lord,” cried Diego: “I had rather have seen ten
whole ghosts.”
“Grant me patience!” said Manfred; “these blockheads distract me. Out of
my sight, Diego! and thou, Jaquez, tell me in one word, art thou sober?
art thou raving? thou wast wont to have some sense: has the other sot
frightened himself and thee too? Speak; what is it he fancies he has
seen?”
“Why, my Lord,” replied Jaquez, trembling, “I was going to tell your
Highness, that since the calamitous misfortune of my young Lord, God rest
his precious soul! not one of us your Highness’s faithful servants—indeed
we are, my Lord, though poor men—I say, not one of us has dared to set a
foot about the castle, but two together: so Diego and I, thinking that my
young Lady might be in the great gallery, went up there to look for her,
and tell her your Highness wanted something to impart to her.”
“O blundering fools!” cried Manfred; “and in the meantime, she has made
her escape, because you were afraid of goblins!—Why, thou knave! she left
me in the gallery; I came from thence myself.”
“For all that, she may be there still for aught I know,” said Jaquez;
“but the devil shall have me before I seek her there again—poor Diego! I
do not believe he will ever recover it.”
“Recover what?” said Manfred; “am I never to learn what it is has
terrified these rascals?—but I lose my time; follow me, slave; I will see
if she is in the gallery.”
“For Heaven’s sake, my dear, good Lord,” cried Jaquez, “do not go to the
gallery. Satan himself I believe is in the chamber next to the gallery.”
Manfred, who hitherto had treated the terror of his servants as an idle
panic, was struck at this new circumstance. He recollected the
apparition of the portrait, and the sudden closing of the door at the end
of the gallery. His voice faltered, and he asked with disorder—
“What is in the great chamber?”
“My Lord,” said Jaquez, “when Diego and I came into the gallery, he went
first, for he said he had more courage than I. So when we came into the
gallery we found nobody. We looked under every bench and stool; and
still we found nobody.”
“Were all the pictures in their places?” said Manfred.
“Yes, my Lord,” answered Jaquez; “but we did not think of looking behind
them.”
“Well, well!” said Manfred; “proceed.”
“When we came to the door of the great chamber,” continued Jaquez, “we
found it shut.”
“And could not you open it?” said Manfred.
“Oh! yes, my Lord; would to Heaven we had not!” replied he—“nay, it was
not I neither; it was Diego: he was grown foolhardy, and would go on,
though I advised him not—if ever I open a door that is shut again—”
“Trifle not,” said Manfred, shuddering, “but tell me what you saw in the
great chamber on opening the door.”
“I, my Lord!” said Jaquez; “I was behind Diego; but I heard the noise.”
“Jaquez,” said Manfred, in a solemn tone of voice; “tell me, I adjure
thee by the souls of my ancestors, what was it thou sawest? what was it
thou heardest?”
“It was Diego saw it, my Lord, it was not I,” replied Jaquez; “I only
heard the noise. Diego had no sooner opened the door, than he cried out,
and ran back. I ran back too, and said, ‘Is it the ghost?’ ‘The ghost!
no, no,’ said Diego, and his hair stood on end—‘it is a giant, I believe;
he is all clad in armour, for I saw his foot and part of his leg, and
they are as large as the helmet below in the court.’ As he said these
words, my Lord, we heard a violent motion and the rattling of armour, as
if the giant was rising, for Diego has told me since that he believes the
giant was lying down, for the foot and leg were stretched at length on
the floor. Before we could get to the end of the gallery, we heard the
door of the great chamber clap behind us, but we did not dare turn back
to see if the giant was following us—yet, now I think on it, we must have
heard him if he had pursued us—but for Heaven’s sake, good my Lord, send
for the chaplain, and have the castle exorcised, for, for certain, it is
enchanted.”
“Ay, pray do, my Lord,” cried all the servants at once, “or we must leave
your Highness’s service.”
“Peace, dotards!” said Manfred, “and follow me; I will know what all this
means.”
“We! my Lord!” cried they with one voice; “we would not go up to the
gallery for your Highness’s revenue.” The young peasant, who had stood
silent, now spoke.
“Will your Highness,” said he, “permit me to try this adventure? My life
is of consequence to nobody; I fear no bad angel, and have offended no
good one.”
“Your behaviour is above your seeming,” said Manfred, viewing him with
surprise and admiration—“hereafter I will reward your bravery—but now,”
continued he with a sigh, “I am so circumstanced, that I dare trust no
eyes but my own. However, I give you leave to accompany me.”
Manfred, when he first followed Isabella from the gallery, had gone
directly to the apartment of his wife, concluding the Princess had
retired thither. Hippolita, who knew his step, rose with anxious
fondness to meet her Lord, whom she had not seen since the death of their
son. She would have flown in a transport mixed of joy and grief to his
bosom, but he pushed her rudely off, and said—
“Where is Isabella?”
“Isabella! my Lord!” said the astonished Hippolita.
“Yes, Isabella,” cried Manfred imperiously; “I want Isabella.”
“My Lord,” replied Matilda, who perceived how much his behaviour had
shocked her mother, “she has not been with us since your Highness
summoned her to your apartment.”
“Tell me where she is,” said the Prince; “I do not want to know where she
has been.”
“My good Lord,” says Hippolita, “your daughter tells you the truth:
Isabella left us by your command, and has not returned since;—but, my
good Lord, compose yourself: retire to your rest: this dismal day has
disordered you. Isabella shall wait your orders in the morning.”
“What, then, you know where she is!” cried Manfred. “Tell me directly,
for I will not lose an instant—and you, woman,” speaking to his wife,
“order your chaplain to attend me forthwith.”
“Isabella,” said Hippolita calmly, “is retired, I suppose, to her
chamber: she is not accustomed to watch at this late hour. Gracious my
Lord,” continued she, “let me know what has disturbed you. Has Isabella
offended you?”
“Trouble me not with questions,” said Manfred, “but tell me where she
is.”
“Matilda shall call her,” said the Princess. “Sit down, my Lord, and
resume your wonted fortitude.”
“What, art thou jealous of Isabella?” replied he, “that you wish to be
present at our interview!”
“Good heavens! my Lord,” said Hippolita, “what is it your Highness
means?”
“Thou wilt know ere many minutes are passed,” said the cruel Prince.
“Send your chaplain to me, and wait my pleasure here.”
At these words he flung out of the room in search of Isabella, leaving
the amazed ladies thunderstruck with his words and frantic deportment,
and lost in vain conjectures on what he was meditating.
Manfred was now returning from the vault, attended by the peasant and a
few of his servants whom he had obliged to accompany him. He ascended
the staircase without stopping till he arrived at the gallery, at the
door of which he met Hippolita and her chaplain. When Diego had been
dismissed by Manfred, he had gone directly to the Princess’s apartment
with the alarm of what he had seen. That excellent Lady, who no more
than Manfred doubted of the reality of the vision, yet affected to treat
it as a delirium of the servant. Willing, however, to save her Lord from
any additional shock, and prepared by a series of griefs not to tremble
at any accession to it, she determined to make herself the first
sacrifice, if fate had marked the present hour for their destruction.
Dismissing the reluctant Matilda to her rest, who in vain sued for leave
to accompany her mother, and attended only by her chaplain, Hippolita had
visited the gallery and great chamber; and now with more serenity of soul
than she had felt for many hours, she met her Lord, and assured him that
the vision of the gigantic leg and foot was all a fable; and no doubt an
impression made by fear, and the dark and dismal hour of the night, on
the minds of his servants. She and the chaplain had examined the
chamber, and found everything in the usual order.
Manfred, though persuaded, like his wife, that the vision had been no
work of fancy, recovered a little from the tempest of mind into which so
many strange events had thrown him. Ashamed, too, of his inhuman
treatment of a Princess who returned every injury with new marks of
tenderness and duty, he felt returning love forcing itself into his eyes;
but not less ashamed of feeling remorse towards one against whom he was
inwardly meditating a yet more bitter outrage, he curbed the yearnings of
his heart, and did not dare to lean even towards pity. The next
transition of his soul was to exquisite villainy.
Presuming on the unshaken submission of Hippolita, he flattered himself
that she would not only acquiesce with patience to a divorce, but would
obey, if it was his pleasure, in endeavouring to persuade Isabella to
give him her hand—but ere he could indulge his horrid hope, he reflected
that Isabella was not to be found. Coming to himself, he gave orders
that every avenue to the castle should be strictly guarded, and charged
his domestics on pain of their lives to suffer nobody to pass out. The
young peasant, to whom he spoke favourably, he ordered to remain in a
small chamber on the stairs, in which there was a pallet-bed, and the key
of which he took away himself, telling the youth he would talk with him
in the morning. Then dismissing his attendants, and bestowing a sullen
kind of half-nod on Hippolita, he retired to his own chamber.