The Castle of Otranto
“What art thou going to utter?” said Isabella trembling. “Recollect
thyself, Matilda.”
“No, Isabella,” said the Princess, “I should not deserve this
incomparable parent, if the inmost recesses of my soul harboured a
thought without her permission—nay, I have offended her; I have suffered
a passion to enter my heart without her avowal—but here I disclaim it;
here I vow to heaven and her—”
“My child! my child;” said Hippolita, “what words are these! what new
calamities has fate in store for us! Thou, a passion? Thou, in this
hour of destruction—”
“Oh! I see all my guilt!” said Matilda. “I abhor myself, if I cost my
mother a pang. She is the dearest thing I have on earth—Oh! I will
never, never behold him more!”
“Isabella,” said Hippolita, “thou art conscious to this unhappy secret,
whatever it is. Speak!”
“What!” cried Matilda, “have I so forfeited my mother’s love, that she
will not permit me even to speak my own guilt? oh! wretched, wretched
Matilda!”
“Thou art too cruel,” said Isabella to Hippolita: “canst thou behold this
anguish of a virtuous mind, and not commiserate it?”
“Not pity my child!” said Hippolita, catching Matilda in her arms—“Oh! I
know she is good, she is all virtue, all tenderness, and duty. I do
forgive thee, my excellent, my only hope!”
The princesses then revealed to Hippolita their mutual inclination for
Theodore, and the purpose of Isabella to resign him to Matilda.
Hippolita blamed their imprudence, and showed them the improbability that
either father would consent to bestow his heiress on so poor a man,
though nobly born. Some comfort it gave her to find their passion of so
recent a date, and that Theodore had had but little cause to suspect it
in either. She strictly enjoined them to avoid all correspondence with
him. This Matilda fervently promised: but Isabella, who flattered
herself that she meant no more than to promote his union with her friend,
could not determine to avoid him; and made no reply.
“I will go to the convent,” said Hippolita, “and order new masses to be
said for a deliverance from these calamities.”
“Oh! my mother,” said Matilda, “you mean to quit us: you mean to take
sanctuary, and to give my father an opportunity of pursuing his fatal
intention. Alas! on my knees I supplicate you to forbear; will you leave
me a prey to Frederic? I will follow you to the convent.”
“Be at peace, my child,” said Hippolita: “I will return instantly. I
will never abandon thee, until I know it is the will of heaven, and for
thy benefit.”
“Do not deceive me,” said Matilda. “I will not marry Frederic until thou
commandest it. Alas! what will become of me?”
“Why that exclamation?” said Hippolita. “I have promised thee to
return—”
“Ah! my mother,” replied Matilda, “stay and save me from myself. A frown
from thee can do more than all my father’s severity. I have given away
my heart, and you alone can make me recall it.”
“No more,” said Hippolita; “thou must not relapse, Matilda.”
“I can quit Theodore,” said she, “but must I wed another? let me attend
thee to the altar, and shut myself from the world for ever.”
“Thy fate depends on thy father,” said Hippolita; “I have ill-bestowed my
tenderness, if it has taught thee to revere aught beyond him. Adieu! my
child: I go to pray for thee.”
Hippolita’s real purpose was to demand of Jerome, whether in conscience
she might not consent to the divorce. She had oft urged Manfred to
resign the principality, which the delicacy of her conscience rendered an
hourly burthen to her. These scruples concurred to make the separation
from her husband appear less dreadful to her than it would have seemed in
any other situation.
Jerome, at quitting the castle overnight, had questioned Theodore
severely why he had accused him to Manfred of being privy to his escape.
Theodore owned it had been with design to prevent Manfred’s suspicion
from alighting on Matilda; and added, the holiness of Jerome’s life and
character secured him from the tyrant’s wrath. Jerome was heartily
grieved to discover his son’s inclination for that princess; and leaving
him to his rest, promised in the morning to acquaint him with important
reasons for conquering his passion.
Theodore, like Isabella, was too recently acquainted with parental
authority to submit to its decisions against the impulse of his heart.
He had little curiosity to learn the Friar’s reasons, and less
disposition to obey them. The lovely Matilda had made stronger
impressions on him than filial affection. All night he pleased himself
with visions of love; and it was not till late after the morning-office,
that he recollected the Friar’s commands to attend him at Alfonso’s tomb.
“Young man,” said Jerome, when he saw him, “this tardiness does not
please me. Have a father’s commands already so little weight?”
Theodore made awkward excuses, and attributed his delay to having
overslept himself.
“And on whom were thy dreams employed?” said the Friar sternly. His son
blushed. “Come, come,” resumed the Friar, “inconsiderate youth, this
must not be; eradicate this guilty passion from thy breast—”
“Guilty passion!” cried Theodore: “Can guilt dwell with innocent beauty
and virtuous modesty?”
“It is sinful,” replied the Friar, “to cherish those whom heaven has
doomed to destruction. A tyrant’s race must be swept from the earth to
the third and fourth generation.”
“Will heaven visit the innocent for the crimes of the guilty?” said
Theodore. “The fair Matilda has virtues enough—”
“To undo thee:” interrupted Jerome. “Hast thou so soon forgotten that
twice the savage Manfred has pronounced thy sentence?”
“Nor have I forgotten, sir,” said Theodore, “that the charity of his
daughter delivered me from his power. I can forget injuries, but never
benefits.”
“The injuries thou hast received from Manfred’s race,” said the Friar,
“are beyond what thou canst conceive. Reply not, but view this holy
image! Beneath this marble monument rest the ashes of the good Alfonso;
a prince adorned with every virtue: the father of his people! the delight
of mankind! Kneel, headstrong boy, and list, while a father unfolds a
tale of horror that will expel every sentiment from thy soul, but
sensations of sacred vengeance—Alfonso! much injured prince! let thy
unsatisfied shade sit awful on the troubled air, while these trembling
lips—Ha! who comes there?—”
“The most wretched of women!” said Hippolita, entering the choir. “Good
Father, art thou at leisure?—but why this kneeling youth? what means the
horror imprinted on each countenance? why at this venerable tomb—alas!
hast thou seen aught?”
“We were pouring forth our orisons to heaven,” replied the Friar, with
some confusion, “to put an end to the woes of this deplorable province.
Join with us, Lady! thy spotless soul may obtain an exemption from the
judgments which the portents of these days but too speakingly denounce
against thy house.”
“I pray fervently to heaven to divert them,” said the pious Princess.
“Thou knowest it has been the occupation of my life to wrest a blessing
for my Lord and my harmless children.—One alas! is taken from me! would
heaven but hear me for my poor Matilda! Father! intercede for her!”
“Every heart will bless her,” cried Theodore with rapture.
“Be dumb, rash youth!” said Jerome. “And thou, fond Princess, contend
not with the Powers above! the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away:
bless His holy name, and submit to his decrees.”
“I do most devoutly,” said Hippolita; “but will He not spare my only
comfort? must Matilda perish too?—ah! Father, I came—but dismiss thy
son. No ear but thine must hear what I have to utter.”
“May heaven grant thy every wish, most excellent Princess!” said Theodore
retiring. Jerome frowned.
Hippolita then acquainted the Friar with the proposal she had suggested
to Manfred, his approbation of it, and the tender of Matilda that he was
gone to make to Frederic. Jerome could not conceal his dislike of the
notion, which he covered under pretence of the improbability that
Frederic, the nearest of blood to Alfonso, and who was come to claim his
succession, would yield to an alliance with the usurper of his right.
But nothing could equal the perplexity of the Friar, when Hippolita
confessed her readiness not to oppose the separation, and demanded his
opinion on the legality of her acquiescence. The Friar caught eagerly at
her request of his advice, and without explaining his aversion to the
proposed marriage of Manfred and Isabella, he painted to Hippolita in the
most alarming colours the sinfulness of her consent, denounced judgments
against her if she complied, and enjoined her in the severest terms to
treat any such proposition with every mark of indignation and refusal.
Manfred, in the meantime, had broken his purpose to Frederic, and
proposed the double marriage. That weak Prince, who had been struck with
the charms of Matilda, listened but too eagerly to the offer. He forgot
his enmity to Manfred, whom he saw but little hope of dispossessing by
force; and flattering himself that no issue might succeed from the union
of his daughter with the tyrant, he looked upon his own succession to the
principality as facilitated by wedding Matilda. He made faint opposition
to the proposal; affecting, for form only, not to acquiesce unless
Hippolita should consent to the divorce. Manfred took that upon himself.
Transported with his success, and impatient to see himself in a situation
to expect sons, he hastened to his wife’s apartment, determined to extort
her compliance. He learned with indignation that she was absent at the
convent. His guilt suggested to him that she had probably been informed
by Isabella of his purpose. He doubted whether her retirement to the
convent did not import an intention of remaining there, until she could
raise obstacles to their divorce; and the suspicions he had already
entertained of Jerome, made him apprehend that the Friar would not only
traverse his views, but might have inspired Hippolita with the resolution
of taking sanctuary. Impatient to unravel this clue, and to defeat its
success, Manfred hastened to the convent, and arrived there as the Friar
was earnestly exhorting the Princess never to yield to the divorce.
“Madam,” said Manfred, “what business drew you hither? why did you not
await my return from the Marquis?”
“I came to implore a blessing on your councils,” replied Hippolita.
“My councils do not need a Friar’s intervention,” said Manfred; “and of
all men living is that hoary traitor the only one whom you delight to
confer with?”
“Profane Prince!” said Jerome; “is it at the altar that thou choosest to
insult the servants of the altar?—but, Manfred, thy impious schemes are
known. Heaven and this virtuous lady know them—nay, frown not, Prince.
The Church despises thy menaces. Her thunders will be heard above thy
wrath. Dare to proceed in thy cursed purpose of a divorce, until her
sentence be known, and here I lance her anathema at thy head.”
“Audacious rebel!” said Manfred, endeavouring to conceal the awe with
which the Friar’s words inspired him. “Dost thou presume to threaten thy
lawful Prince?”
“Thou art no lawful Prince,” said Jerome; “thou art no Prince—go, discuss
thy claim with Frederic; and when that is done—”
“It is done,” replied Manfred; “Frederic accepts Matilda’s hand, and is
content to waive his claim, unless I have no male issue”—as he spoke
those words three drops of blood fell from the nose of Alfonso’s statue.
Manfred turned pale, and the Princess sank on her knees.
“Behold!” said the Friar; “mark this miraculous indication that the blood
of Alfonso will never mix with that of Manfred!”
“My gracious Lord,” said Hippolita, “let us submit ourselves to heaven.