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.

The following work was found in the library of an old Catholic family in the north of England. It was printed in Naples in 1529, using black-letter type. It is not clear how much earlier it was written. The main events are the kind people believed could happen in the darkest ages of Christianity. But neither the language nor the behavior of the characters suggests 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.

If the story was written near the time it supposedly took place, it must have been written between 1095 and 1243. Those dates mark the first and last Crusades. Otherwise, it must have been written not long afterward. Nothing else in the work suggests when the story is set. The characters’ names are clearly invented and probably disguised on purpose. Yet the servants’ Spanish names suggest that the work was not written until Spanish names had become familiar in Naples. This happened after the Aragonian Kings established their rule there. The beauty of the writing and the author’s zeal, tempered by unusual judgment, suggest that the work was written shortly before it was printed. Literature was then flourishing in Italy. It helped to weaken the power of superstition, which the reformers were attacking so fiercely at the time. A cunning priest might well have tried to turn the reformers’ own weapons against them. He might have used his skill as a writer to keep ordinary people faithful to their old errors and superstitions. If that was his aim, he has certainly pursued it with remarkable skill. A work like the following one would enslave a hundred ordinary minds more effectively than half the books of religious controversy written from Luther’s day to the present.

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.

This explanation of the author’s motives is, however, only a guess. Whatever his intentions were, or whatever effects carrying them out might have, his work can only be presented to the public now as entertainment. Even as entertainment, it needs some apology. Miracles, visions, necromancy, dreams, and other supernatural events have now been rejected even in romances. That was not the case when our author wrote. It was even less the case when the story itself is supposed to have taken place. In those dark ages, belief in every kind of wonder was so firmly established that an author would not accurately portray the customs of the time if he omitted all mention of them. He does not have to believe in them himself, but he must show his characters believing in 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.

If the reader accepts this air of the miraculous, they will find nothing else unworthy of their attention. If the events are possible, all the characters behave as people would in their situation. There is no inflated language, no similes, flowery language, digressions, or unnecessary descriptions. Everything leads directly to the catastrophe. The reader’s attention never slackens. The story follows the rules of drama almost throughout. The characters are well drawn and even more consistently portrayed. Terror, the author’s main device, keeps the story from ever losing momentum. Terror is also contrasted so often with pity that the reader’s mind moves constantly between engaging emotions.

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 naïveté and simplicity. In particular, the womanish terror and foibles of Bianca, in the last chapter, conduce essentially towards advancing the catastrophe.

Some readers may perhaps think the servants are too unserious for the general tone of the story. But besides contrasting with the main characters, the servants show the author's skill in handling minor characters. They reveal many details essential to the story. These details could hardly have come to light without their naivety and simplicity. In particular, Bianca's womanly terror and weaknesses in the last chapter are essential to bringing about the climax.

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.

It is natural for a translator to be biased in favor of a work he has taken up. More impartial readers may not be as struck by this work’s beauties as I was. Yet I am not blind to my author’s flaws. I wish he had based his plot on a more useful moral than this: “the sins of fathers are visited on their children to the third and fourth generation.” I doubt that, in his time any more than today, the fear of such distant punishment curbed ambition’s appetite for power. And yet even this moral is weakened by the less direct suggestion that devotion to St. Nicholas can avert such a curse. Here, the Monk’s interests clearly get the better of the author’s judgment. Still, despite all its faults, I have no doubt that English readers will be pleased to see this work. Its piety, its lessons in virtue, and the strict purity of its sentiments put it beyond the criticism that romances too often deserve. If the work meets with the success I hope for, I may be encouraged to reprint the original Italian. This would, however, diminish the value of my own effort. Our language falls far short of Italian in both variety and harmony. Italian is especially well suited to simple narrative. In English, it is difficult to tell a story without becoming either too plain or too elevated. This fault is clearly caused by the little care people take to speak correct English in everyday conversation. Every Italian or Frenchman of any rank prides himself on speaking his own language correctly and with care in his choice of words. I cannot flatter myself that I have done justice to my author in this respect. His style is elegant, and his handling of the passions is masterly. It is a pity that he did not apply his talents to the theatre, for which they were evidently suited.

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.

I will delay the reader no longer, except to make one brief remark. Though the supernatural devices are invented and the characters’ names are imaginary, I cannot help believing that the story is based on truth. The story is undoubtedly set in a real castle. The author often seems to describe particular parts of it without meaning to. He writes of “the room on the right,” “the door on the left,” and “the distance from the chapel to Conrad’s apartment.” These and other passages strongly suggest that the author had a particular building in mind. Curious people with time for such research may perhaps find the basis of the story in Italian writings. If a catastrophe at all like the one he describes is believed to have inspired this work, it will make the reader more interested and the “Castle of Otranto” a still more moving story.