The Castle of Otranto
heart was ever a stranger to me—but he is my father, and I must not
complain. Nay, if Heaven shuts my father’s heart against me, it overpays
my little merit in the tenderness of my mother—O that dear mother! yes,
Bianca, ’tis there I feel the rugged temper of Manfred. I can support
his harshness to me with patience; but it wounds my soul when I am
witness to his causeless severity towards her.”
“Oh! Madam,” said Bianca, “all men use their wives so, when they are
weary of them.”
“And yet you congratulated me but now,” said Matilda, “when you fancied
my father intended to dispose of me!”
“I would have you a great Lady,” replied Bianca, “come what will. I do
not wish to see you moped in a convent, as you would be if you had your
will, and if my Lady, your mother, who knows that a bad husband is better
than no husband at all, did not hinder you.—Bless me! what noise is that!
St. Nicholas forgive me! I was but in jest.”
“It is the wind,” said Matilda, “whistling through the battlements in the
tower above: you have heard it a thousand times.”
“Nay,” said Bianca, “there was no harm neither in what I said: it is no
sin to talk of matrimony—and so, Madam, as I was saying, if my Lord
Manfred should offer you a handsome young Prince for a bridegroom, you
would drop him a curtsey, and tell him you would rather take the veil?”
“Thank Heaven! I am in no such danger,” said Matilda: “you know how many
proposals for me he has rejected—”
“And you thank him, like a dutiful daughter, do you, Madam? But come,
Madam; suppose, to-morrow morning, he was to send for you to the great
council chamber, and there you should find at his elbow a lovely young
Prince, with large black eyes, a smooth white forehead, and manly curling
locks like jet; in short, Madam, a young hero resembling the picture of
the good Alfonso in the gallery, which you sit and gaze at for hours
together—”
“Do not speak lightly of that picture,” interrupted Matilda sighing; “I
know the adoration with which I look at that picture is uncommon—but I am
not in love with a coloured panel. The character of that virtuous
Prince, the veneration with which my mother has inspired me for his
memory, the orisons which, I know not why, she has enjoined me to pour
forth at his tomb, all have concurred to persuade me that somehow or
other my destiny is linked with something relating to him.”
“Lord, Madam! how should that be?” said Bianca; “I have always heard that
your family was in no way related to his: and I am sure I cannot conceive
why my Lady, the Princess, sends you in a cold morning or a damp evening
to pray at his tomb: he is no saint by the almanack. If you must pray,
why does she not bid you address yourself to our great St. Nicholas? I
am sure he is the saint I pray to for a husband.”
“Perhaps my mind would be less affected,” said Matilda, “if my mother
would explain her reasons to me: but it is the mystery she observes, that
inspires me with this—I know not what to call it. As she never acts from
caprice, I am sure there is some fatal secret at bottom—nay, I know there
is: in her agony of grief for my brother’s death she dropped some words
that intimated as much.”
“Oh! dear Madam,” cried Bianca, “what were they?”
“No,” said Matilda, “if a parent lets fall a word, and wishes it
recalled, it is not for a child to utter it.”
“What! was she sorry for what she had said?” asked Bianca; “I am sure,
Madam, you may trust me—”
“With my own little secrets when I have any, I may,” said Matilda; “but
never with my mother’s: a child ought to have no ears or eyes but as a
parent directs.”
“Well! to be sure, Madam, you were born to be a saint,” said Bianca, “and
there is no resisting one’s vocation: you will end in a convent at last.
But there is my Lady Isabella would not be so reserved to me: she will
let me talk to her of young men: and when a handsome cavalier has come to
the castle, she has owned to me that she wished your brother Conrad
resembled him.”
“Bianca,” said the Princess, “I do not allow you to mention my friend
disrespectfully. Isabella is of a cheerful disposition, but her soul is
pure as virtue itself. She knows your idle babbling humour, and perhaps
has now and then encouraged it, to divert melancholy, and enliven the
solitude in which my father keeps us—”
“Blessed Mary!” said Bianca, starting, “there it is again! Dear Madam,
do you hear nothing? this castle is certainly haunted!”
“Peace!” said Matilda, “and listen! I did think I heard a voice—but it
must be fancy: your terrors, I suppose, have infected me.”
“Indeed! indeed! Madam,” said Bianca, half-weeping with agony, “I am
sure I heard a voice.”
“Does anybody lie in the chamber beneath?” said the Princess.
“Nobody has dared to lie there,” answered Bianca, “since the great
astrologer, that was your brother’s tutor, drowned himself. For certain,
Madam, his ghost and the young Prince’s are now met in the chamber
below—for Heaven’s sake let us fly to your mother’s apartment!”
“I charge you not to stir,” said Matilda. “If they are spirits in pain,
we may ease their sufferings by questioning them. They can mean no hurt
to us, for we have not injured them—and if they should, shall we be more
safe in one chamber than in another? Reach me my beads; we will say a
prayer, and then speak to them.”
“Oh! dear Lady, I would not speak to a ghost for the world!” cried
Bianca. As she said those words they heard the casement of the little
chamber below Matilda’s open. They listened attentively, and in a few
minutes thought they heard a person sing, but could not distinguish the
words.
“This can be no evil spirit,” said the Princess, in a low voice; “it is
undoubtedly one of the family—open the window, and we shall know the
voice.”
“I dare not, indeed, Madam,” said Bianca.
“Thou art a very fool,” said Matilda, opening the window gently herself.
The noise the Princess made was, however, heard by the person beneath,
who stopped; and they concluded had heard the casement open.
“Is anybody below?” said the Princess; “if there is, speak.”
“Yes,” said an unknown voice.
“Who is it?” said Matilda.
“A stranger,” replied the voice.
“What stranger?” said she; “and how didst thou come there at this unusual
hour, when all the gates of the castle are locked?”
“I am not here willingly,” answered the voice. “But pardon me, Lady, if
I have disturbed your rest; I knew not that I was overheard. Sleep had
forsaken me; I left a restless couch, and came to waste the irksome hours
with gazing on the fair approach of morning, impatient to be dismissed
from this castle.”
“Thy words and accents,” said Matilda, “are of melancholy cast; if thou
art unhappy, I pity thee. If poverty afflicts thee, let me know it; I
will mention thee to the Princess, whose beneficent soul ever melts for
the distressed, and she will relieve thee.”
“I am indeed unhappy,” said the stranger; “and I know not what wealth is.
But I do not complain of the lot which Heaven has cast for me; I am young
and healthy, and am not ashamed of owing my support to myself—yet think
me not proud, or that I disdain your generous offers. I will remember
you in my orisons, and will pray for blessings on your gracious self and
your noble mistress—if I sigh, Lady, it is for others, not for myself.”
“Now I have it, Madam,” said Bianca, whispering the Princess; “this is
certainly the young peasant; and, by my conscience, he is in love—Well!
this is a charming adventure!—do, Madam, let us sift him. He does not
know you, but takes you for one of my Lady Hippolita’s women.”
“Art thou not ashamed, Bianca!” said the Princess. “What right have we
to pry into the secrets of this young man’s heart? He seems virtuous and
frank, and tells us he is unhappy. Are those circumstances that
authorise us to make a property of him? How are we entitled to his
confidence?”
“Lord, Madam! how little you know of love!” replied Bianca; “why, lovers
have no pleasure equal to talking of their mistress.”
“And would you have _me_ become a peasant’s confidante?” said the
Princess.
“Well, then, let me talk to him,” said Bianca; “though I have the honour
of being your Highness’s maid of honour, I was not always so great.
Besides, if love levels ranks, it raises them too; I have a respect for
any young man in love.”
“Peace, simpleton!” said the Princess. “Though he said he was unhappy,
it does not follow that he must be in love. Think of all that has
happened to-day, and tell me if there are no misfortunes but what love
causes.—Stranger,” resumed the Princess, “if thy misfortunes have not
been occasioned by thy own fault, and are within the compass of the
Princess Hippolita’s power to redress, I will take upon me to answer that
she will be thy protectress. When thou art dismissed from this castle,
repair to holy father Jerome, at the convent adjoining to the church of
St. Nicholas, and make thy story known to him, as far as thou thinkest
meet. He will not fail to inform the Princess, who is the mother of all
that want her assistance. Farewell; it is not seemly for me to hold
farther converse with a man at this unwonted hour.”
“May the saints guard thee, gracious Lady!” replied the peasant; “but oh!
if a poor and worthless stranger might presume to beg a minute’s audience
farther; am I so happy? the casement is not shut; might I venture to
ask—”
“Speak quickly,” said Matilda; “the morning dawns apace: should the
labourers come into the fields and perceive us—What wouldst thou ask?”
“I know not how, I know not if I dare,” said the young stranger,
faltering; “yet the humanity with which you have spoken to me
emboldens—Lady! dare I trust you?”
“Heavens!” said Matilda, “what dost thou mean? With what wouldst thou
trust me? Speak boldly, if thy secret is fit to be entrusted to a
virtuous breast.”
“I would ask,” said the peasant, recollecting himself, “whether what I
have heard from the domestics is true, that the Princess is missing from
the castle?”
“What imports it to thee to know?” replied Matilda. “Thy first words
bespoke a prudent and becoming gravity. Dost thou come hither to pry
into the secrets of Manfred? Adieu. I have been mistaken in thee.”
Saying these words she shut the casement hastily, without giving the
young man time to reply.
“I had acted more wisely,” said the Princess to Bianca, with some
sharpness, “if I had let thee converse with this peasant; his
inquisitiveness seems of a piece with thy own.”
“It is not fit for me to argue with your Highness,” replied Bianca; “but
perhaps the questions I should have put to him would have been more to
the purpose than those you have been pleased to ask him.”
“Oh! no doubt,” said Matilda; “you are a very discreet personage! May I
know what _you_ would have asked him?”
“A bystander often sees more of the game than those that play,” answered
Bianca. “Does your Highness think, Madam, that this question about my
Lady Isabella was the result of mere curiosity? No, no, Madam, there is
more in it than you great folks are aware of. Lopez told me that all the
servants believe this young fellow contrived my Lady Isabella’s escape;
now, pray, Madam, observe you and I both know that my Lady Isabella never
much fancied the Prince your brother. Well! he is killed just in a
critical minute—I accuse nobody. A helmet falls from the moon—so, my
Lord, your father says; but Lopez and all the servants say that this
young spark is a magician, and stole it from Alfonso’s tomb—”
“Have done with this rhapsody of impertinence,” said Matilda.
“Nay, Madam, as you please,” cried Bianca; “yet it is very particular
though, that my Lady Isabella should be missing the very same day, and
that this young sorcerer should be found at the mouth of the trap-door.