The Castle of Otranto
The Castle
of Otranto is considered the first "gothic" novel, a genre that loves
melodrama, mystery, hidden places, ancestral curses, and fainting heroines. Its
roots are the "romance," which was a tale of heroism (not love as it
is now known), and the Romantic movement in literature, which focused on
emotion and the sublimity of nature. When The Castle of Otranto was first
published, it was said to be a translation of a lost medieval transcript, and
received positive attention. But when it was next published, the truth was
revealed--that the story was quite modern and written by a priviledged author.
Critics then panned it, but it survives today as the seminal Gothic literary
novel.
Source: Walpole, H. (1765). The
Castle of Otranto. London, England: Thomas Lownds.
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 naivete 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?
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.
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.
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.
I dare expand to Fancy’s gale,
For sure thy smiles are Fame.
H. W.
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