The Castle of Otranto
sceptre, which passed from the race of Alfonso to thine, cannot be
preserved by a match which the church will never allow. If it is the
will of the Most High that Manfred’s name must perish, resign yourself,
my Lord, to its decrees; and thus deserve a crown that can never pass
away. Come, my Lord; I like this sorrow—let us return to the Princess:
she is not apprised of your cruel intentions; nor did I mean more than to
alarm you. You saw with what gentle patience, with what efforts of love,
she heard, she rejected hearing, the extent of your guilt. I know she
longs to fold you in her arms, and assure you of her unalterable
affection.”
“Father,” said the Prince, “you mistake my compunction: true, I honour
Hippolita’s virtues; I think her a Saint; and wish it were for my soul’s
health to tie faster the knot that has united us—but alas! Father, you
know not the bitterest of my pangs! it is some time that I have had
scruples on the legality of our union: Hippolita is related to me in the
fourth degree—it is true, we had a dispensation: but I have been informed
that she had also been contracted to another. This it is that sits heavy
at my heart: to this state of unlawful wedlock I impute the visitation
that has fallen on me in the death of Conrad!—ease my conscience of this
burden: dissolve our marriage, and accomplish the work of godliness—which
your divine exhortations have commenced in my soul.”
How cutting was the anguish which the good man felt, when he perceived
this turn in the wily Prince! He trembled for Hippolita, whose ruin he
saw was determined; and he feared if Manfred had no hope of recovering
Isabella, that his impatience for a son would direct him to some other
object, who might not be equally proof against the temptation of
Manfred’s rank. For some time the holy man remained absorbed in thought.
At length, conceiving some hopes from delay, he thought the wisest
conduct would be to prevent the Prince from despairing of recovering
Isabella. Her the Friar knew he could dispose, from her affection to
Hippolita, and from the aversion she had expressed to him for Manfred’s
addresses, to second his views, till the censures of the church could be
fulminated against a divorce. With this intention, as if struck with the
Prince’s scruples, he at length said:
“My Lord, I have been pondering on what your Highness has said; and if in
truth it is delicacy of conscience that is the real motive of your
repugnance to your virtuous Lady, far be it from me to endeavour to
harden your heart. The church is an indulgent mother: unfold your griefs
to her: she alone can administer comfort to your soul, either by
satisfying your conscience, or upon examination of your scruples, by
setting you at liberty, and indulging you in the lawful means of
continuing your lineage. In the latter case, if the Lady Isabella can be
brought to consent—”
Manfred, who concluded that he had either over-reached the good man, or
that his first warmth had been but a tribute paid to appearance, was
overjoyed at this sudden turn, and repeated the most magnificent
promises, if he should succeed by the Friar’s mediation. The
well-meaning priest suffered him to deceive himself, fully determined to
traverse his views, instead of seconding them.
“Since we now understand one another,” resumed the Prince, “I expect,
Father, that you satisfy me in one point. Who is the youth that I found
in the vault? He must have been privy to Isabella’s flight: tell me
truly, is he her lover? or is he an agent for another’s passion? I have
often suspected Isabella’s indifference to my son: a thousand
circumstances crowd on my mind that confirm that suspicion. She herself
was so conscious of it, that while I discoursed her in the gallery, she
outran my suspicions, and endeavoured to justify herself from coolness to
Conrad.”
The Friar, who knew nothing of the youth, but what he had learnt
occasionally from the Princess, ignorant what was become of him, and not
sufficiently reflecting on the impetuosity of Manfred’s temper, conceived
that it might not be amiss to sow the seeds of jealousy in his mind: they
might be turned to some use hereafter, either by prejudicing the Prince
against Isabella, if he persisted in that union or by diverting his
attention to a wrong scent, and employing his thoughts on a visionary
intrigue, prevent his engaging in any new pursuit. With this unhappy
policy, he answered in a manner to confirm Manfred in the belief of some
connection between Isabella and the youth. The Prince, whose passions
wanted little fuel to throw them into a blaze, fell into a rage at the
idea of what the Friar suggested.
“I will fathom to the bottom of this intrigue,” cried he; and quitting
Jerome abruptly, with a command to remain there till his return, he
hastened to the great hall of the castle, and ordered the peasant to be
brought before him.
“Thou hardened young impostor!” said the Prince, as soon as he saw the
youth; “what becomes of thy boasted veracity now? it was Providence, was
it, and the light of the moon, that discovered the lock of the trap-door
to thee? Tell me, audacious boy, who thou art, and how long thou hast
been acquainted with the Princess—and take care to answer with less
equivocation than thou didst last night, or tortures shall wring the
truth from thee.”
The young man, perceiving that his share in the flight of the Princess
was discovered, and concluding that anything he should say could no
longer be of any service or detriment to her, replied—
“I am no impostor, my Lord, nor have I deserved opprobrious language. I
answered to every question your Highness put to me last night with the
same veracity that I shall speak now: and that will not be from fear of
your tortures, but because my soul abhors a falsehood. Please to repeat
your questions, my Lord; I am ready to give you all the satisfaction in
my power.”
“You know my questions,” replied the Prince, “and only want time to
prepare an evasion. Speak directly; who art thou? and how long hast thou
been known to the Princess?”
“I am a labourer at the next village,” said the peasant; “my name is
Theodore. The Princess found me in the vault last night: before that
hour I never was in her presence.”
“I may believe as much or as little as I please of this,” said Manfred;
“but I will hear thy own story before I examine into the truth of it.
Tell me, what reason did the Princess give thee for making her escape?
thy life depends on thy answer.”
“She told me,” replied Theodore, “that she was on the brink of
destruction, and that if she could not escape from the castle, she was in
danger in a few moments of being made miserable for ever.”
“And on this slight foundation, on a silly girl’s report,” said Manfred,
“thou didst hazard my displeasure?”
“I fear no man’s displeasure,” said Theodore, “when a woman in distress
puts herself under my protection.”
During this examination, Matilda was going to the apartment of Hippolita.
At the upper end of the hall, where Manfred sat, was a boarded gallery
with latticed windows, through which Matilda and Bianca were to pass.
Hearing her father’s voice, and seeing the servants assembled round him,
she stopped to learn the occasion. The prisoner soon drew her attention:
the steady and composed manner in which he answered, and the gallantry of
his last reply, which were the first words she heard distinctly,
interested her in his favour. His person was noble, handsome, and
commanding, even in that situation: but his countenance soon engrossed
her whole care.
“Heavens! Bianca,” said the Princess softly, “do I dream? or is not that
youth the exact resemblance of Alfonso’s picture in the gallery?”
She could say no more, for her father’s voice grew louder at every word.
“This bravado,” said he, “surpasses all thy former insolence. Thou shalt
experience the wrath with which thou darest to trifle. Seize him,”
continued Manfred, “and bind him—the first news the Princess hears of her
champion shall be, that he has lost his head for her sake.”
“The injustice of which thou art guilty towards me,” said Theodore,
“convinces me that I have done a good deed in delivering the Princess
from thy tyranny. May she be happy, whatever becomes of me!”
“This is a lover!” cried Manfred in a rage: “a peasant within sight of
death is not animated by such sentiments. Tell me, tell me, rash boy,
who thou art, or the rack shall force thy secret from thee.”
“Thou hast threatened me with death already,” said the youth, “for the
truth I have told thee: if that is all the encouragement I am to expect
for sincerity, I am not tempted to indulge thy vain curiosity farther.”
“Then thou wilt not speak?” said Manfred.
“I will not,” replied he.
“Bear him away into the courtyard,” said Manfred; “I will see his head
this instant severed from his body.”
Matilda fainted at hearing those words. Bianca shrieked, and cried—“Help! help! the Princess is dead!”
Manfred started at this ejaculation, and demanded what was the matter!
The young peasant, who heard it too, was struck with horror, and asked
eagerly the same question; but Manfred ordered him to be hurried into
the court, and kept there for execution, till he had informed himself
of the cause of Bianca’s shrieks. When he learned the meaning, he
treated it as a womanish panic, and ordering Matilda to be carried to
her apartment, he rushed into the court, and calling for one of his
guards, bade Theodore kneel down, and prepare to receive the fatal blow.
The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a resignation that
touched every heart but Manfred’s. He wished earnestly to know the
meaning of the words he had heard relating to the Princess; but fearing
to exasperate the tyrant more against her, he desisted. The only boon he
deigned to ask was, that he might be permitted to have a confessor, and
make his peace with heaven. Manfred, who hoped by the confessor’s means
to come at the youth’s history, readily granted his request; and being
convinced that Father Jerome was now in his interest, he ordered him to
be called and shrive the prisoner. The holy man, who had little foreseen
the catastrophe that his imprudence occasioned, fell on his knees to the
Prince, and adjured him in the most solemn manner not to shed innocent
blood. He accused himself in the bitterest terms for his indiscretion,
endeavoured to disculpate the youth, and left no method untried to soften
the tyrant’s rage. Manfred, more incensed than appeased by Jerome’s
intercession, whose retraction now made him suspect he had been imposed
upon by both, commanded the Friar to do his duty, telling him he would
not allow the prisoner many minutes for confession.
“Nor do I ask many, my Lord,” said the unhappy young man. “My sins,
thank heaven, have not been numerous; nor exceed what might be expected
at my years. Dry your tears, good Father, and let us despatch. This is
a bad world; nor have I had cause to leave it with regret.”
“Oh wretched youth!” said Jerome; “how canst thou bear the sight of me
with patience? I am thy murderer! it is I have brought this dismal hour
upon thee!”
“I forgive thee from my soul,” said the youth, “as I hope heaven will
pardon me. Hear my confession, Father; and give me thy blessing.”
“How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought?” said Jerome. “Thou
canst not be saved without pardoning thy foes—and canst thou forgive that
impious man there?”
“I can,” said Theodore; “I do.”
“And does not this touch thee, cruel Prince?” said the Friar.
“I sent for thee to confess him,” said Manfred, sternly; “not to plead
for him. Thou didst first incense me against him—his blood be upon thy
head!”
“It will! it will!” said the good man, in an agony of sorrow. “Thou and