The Castle of Otranto
I accuse nobody; but if my young Lord came honestly by his death—”
“Dare not on thy duty,” said Matilda, “to breathe a suspicion on the
purity of my dear Isabella’s fame.”
“Purity, or not purity,” said Bianca, “gone she is—a stranger is found
that nobody knows; you question him yourself; he tells you he is in love,
or unhappy, it is the same thing—nay, he owned he was unhappy about
others; and is anybody unhappy about another, unless they are in love
with them? and at the very next word, he asks innocently, pour soul! if
my Lady Isabella is missing.”
“To be sure,” said Matilda, “thy observations are not totally without
foundation—Isabella’s flight amazes me. The curiosity of the stranger is
very particular; yet Isabella never concealed a thought from me.”
“So she told you,” said Bianca, “to fish out your secrets; but who knows,
Madam, but this stranger may be some Prince in disguise? Do, Madam, let
me open the window, and ask him a few questions.”
“No,” replied Matilda, “I will ask him myself, if he knows aught of
Isabella; he is not worthy I should converse farther with him.” She was
going to open the casement, when they heard the bell ring at the
postern-gate of the castle, which is on the right hand of the tower,
where Matilda lay. This prevented the Princess from renewing the
conversation with the stranger.
After continuing silent for some time, “I am persuaded,” said she to
Bianca, “that whatever be the cause of Isabella’s flight it had no
unworthy motive. If this stranger was accessory to it, she must be
satisfied with his fidelity and worth. I observed, did not you, Bianca?
that his words were tinctured with an uncommon infusion of piety. It was
no ruffian’s speech; his phrases were becoming a man of gentle birth.”
“I told you, Madam,” said Bianca, “that I was sure he was some Prince in
disguise.”
“Yet,” said Matilda, “if he was privy to her escape, how will you account
for his not accompanying her in her flight? why expose himself
unnecessarily and rashly to my father’s resentment?”
“As for that, Madam,” replied she, “if he could get from under the
helmet, he will find ways of eluding your father’s anger. I do not doubt
but he has some talisman or other about him.”
“You resolve everything into magic,” said Matilda; “but a man who has any
intercourse with infernal spirits, does not dare to make use of those
tremendous and holy words which he uttered. Didst thou not observe with
what fervour he vowed to remember _me_ to heaven in his prayers? Yes;
Isabella was undoubtedly convinced of his piety.”
“Commend me to the piety of a young fellow and a damsel that consult to
elope!” said Bianca. “No, no, Madam, my Lady Isabella is of another
guess mould than you take her for. She used indeed to sigh and lift up
her eyes in your company, because she knows you are a saint; but when
your back was turned—”
“You wrong her,” said Matilda; “Isabella is no hypocrite; she has a due
sense of devotion, but never affected a call she has not. On the
contrary, she always combated my inclination for the cloister; and though
I own the mystery she has made to me of her flight confounds me; though
it seems inconsistent with the friendship between us; I cannot forget the
disinterested warmth with which she always opposed my taking the veil.
She wished to see me married, though my dower would have been a loss to
her and my brother’s children. For her sake I will believe well of this
young peasant.”
“Then you do think there is some liking between them,” said Bianca.
While she was speaking, a servant came hastily into the chamber and told
the Princess that the Lady Isabella was found.
“Where?” said Matilda.
“She has taken sanctuary in St. Nicholas’s church,” replied the servant;
“Father Jerome has brought the news himself; he is below with his
Highness.”
“Where is my mother?” said Matilda.
“She is in her own chamber, Madam, and has asked for you.”
Manfred had risen at the first dawn of light, and gone to Hippolita’s
apartment, to inquire if she knew aught of Isabella. While he was
questioning her, word was brought that Jerome demanded to speak with him.
Manfred, little suspecting the cause of the Friar’s arrival, and knowing
he was employed by Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to be
admitted, intending to leave them together, while he pursued his search
after Isabella.
“Is your business with me or the Princess?” said Manfred.
“With both,” replied the holy man. “The Lady Isabella—”
“What of her?” interrupted Manfred, eagerly.
“Is at St. Nicholas’s altar,” replied Jerome.
“That is no business of Hippolita,” said Manfred with confusion; “let us
retire to my chamber, Father, and inform me how she came thither.”
“No, my Lord,” replied the good man, with an air of firmness and
authority, that daunted even the resolute Manfred, who could not help
revering the saint-like virtues of Jerome; “my commission is to both, and
with your Highness’s good-liking, in the presence of both I shall deliver
it; but first, my Lord, I must interrogate the Princess, whether she is
acquainted with the cause of the Lady Isabella’s retirement from your
castle.”
“No, on my soul,” said Hippolita; “does Isabella charge me with being
privy to it?”
“Father,” interrupted Manfred, “I pay due reverence to your holy
profession; but I am sovereign here, and will allow no meddling priest to
interfere in the affairs of my domestic. If you have aught to say attend
me to my chamber; I do not use to let my wife be acquainted with the
secret affairs of my state; they are not within a woman’s province.”
“My Lord,” said the holy man, “I am no intruder into the secrets of
families. My office is to promote peace, to heal divisions, to preach
repentance, and teach mankind to curb their headstrong passions. I
forgive your Highness’s uncharitable apostrophe; I know my duty, and am
the minister of a mightier prince than Manfred. Hearken to him who
speaks through my organs.”
Manfred trembled with rage and shame. Hippolita’s countenance declared
her astonishment and impatience to know where this would end. Her
silence more strongly spoke her observance of Manfred.
“The Lady Isabella,” resumed Jerome, “commends herself to both your
Highnesses; she thanks both for the kindness with which she has been
treated in your castle: she deplores the loss of your son, and her own
misfortune in not becoming the daughter of such wise and noble Princes,
whom she shall always respect as Parents; she prays for uninterrupted
union and felicity between you” [Manfred’s colour changed]: “but as it is
no longer possible for her to be allied to you, she entreats your consent
to remain in sanctuary, till she can learn news of her father, or, by the
certainty of his death, be at liberty, with the approbation of her
guardians, to dispose of herself in suitable marriage.”
“I shall give no such consent,” said the Prince, “but insist on her
return to the castle without delay: I am answerable for her person to her
guardians, and will not brook her being in any hands but my own.”
“Your Highness will recollect whether that can any longer be proper,”
replied the Friar.
“I want no monitor,” said Manfred, colouring; “Isabella’s conduct leaves
room for strange suspicions—and that young villain, who was at least the
accomplice of her flight, if not the cause of it—”
“The cause!” interrupted Jerome; “was a _young_ man the cause?”
“This is not to be borne!” cried Manfred. “Am I to be bearded in my own
palace by an insolent Monk? Thou art privy, I guess, to their amours.”
“I would pray to heaven to clear up your uncharitable surmises,” said
Jerome, “if your Highness were not satisfied in your conscience how
unjustly you accuse me. I do pray to heaven to pardon that
uncharitableness: and I implore your Highness to leave the Princess at
peace in that holy place, where she is not liable to be disturbed by such
vain and worldly fantasies as discourses of love from any man.”
“Cant not to me,” said Manfred, “but return and bring the Princess to her
duty.”
“It is my duty to prevent her return hither,” said Jerome. “She is where
orphans and virgins are safest from the snares and wiles of this world;
and nothing but a parent’s authority shall take her thence.”
“I am her parent,” cried Manfred, “and demand her.”
“She wished to have you for her parent,” said the Friar; “but Heaven that
forbad that connection has for ever dissolved all ties betwixt you: and I
announce to your Highness—”
“Stop! audacious man,” said Manfred, “and dread my displeasure.”
“Holy Father,” said Hippolita, “it is your office to be no respecter of
persons: you must speak as your duty prescribes: but it is my duty to
hear nothing that it pleases not my Lord I should hear. Attend the
Prince to his chamber. I will retire to my oratory, and pray to the
blessed Virgin to inspire you with her holy counsels, and to restore the
heart of my gracious Lord to its wonted peace and gentleness.”
“Excellent woman!” said the Friar. “My Lord, I attend your pleasure.”
Manfred, accompanied by the Friar, passed to his own apartment, where
shutting the door, “I perceive, Father,” said he, “that Isabella has
acquainted you with my purpose. Now hear my resolve, and obey. Reasons
of state, most urgent reasons, my own and the safety of my people, demand
that I should have a son. It is in vain to expect an heir from
Hippolita. I have made choice of Isabella. You must bring her back; and
you must do more. I know the influence you have with Hippolita: her
conscience is in your hands. She is, I allow, a faultless woman: her
soul is set on heaven, and scorns the little grandeur of this world: you
can withdraw her from it entirely. Persuade her to consent to the
dissolution of our marriage, and to retire into a monastery—she shall
endow one if she will; and she shall have the means of being as liberal
to your order as she or you can wish. Thus you will divert the
calamities that are hanging over our heads, and have the merit of saving
the principality of Otranto from destruction. You are a prudent man, and
though the warmth of my temper betrayed me into some unbecoming
expressions, I honour your virtue, and wish to be indebted to you for the
repose of my life and the preservation of my family.”
“The will of heaven be done!” said the Friar. “I am but its worthless
instrument. It makes use of my tongue to tell thee, Prince, of thy
unwarrantable designs. The injuries of the virtuous Hippolita have
mounted to the throne of pity. By me thou art reprimanded for thy
adulterous intention of repudiating her: by me thou art warned not to
pursue the incestuous design on thy contracted daughter. Heaven that
delivered her from thy fury, when the judgments so recently fallen on thy
house ought to have inspired thee with other thoughts, will continue to
watch over her. Even I, a poor and despised Friar, am able to protect
her from thy violence—I, sinner as I am, and uncharitably reviled by your
Highness as an accomplice of I know not what amours, scorn the
allurements with which it has pleased thee to tempt mine honesty. I love
my order; I honour devout souls; I respect the piety of thy Princess—but
I will not betray the confidence she reposes in me, nor serve even the
cause of religion by foul and sinful compliances—but forsooth! the
welfare of the state depends on your Highness having a son! Heaven mocks
the short-sighted views of man. But yester-morn, whose house was so
great, so flourishing as Manfred’s?—where is young Conrad now?—My Lord, I
respect your tears—but I mean not to check them—let them flow, Prince!
They will weigh more with heaven toward the welfare of thy subjects, than
a marriage, which, founded on lust or policy, could never prosper. The