[Henry] smiled, and said, “You have formed a very favourable idea of
the abbey.”
“To be sure [,Catherine said,] I have. Is not it a fine old place, just like what
one reads about?”
“And are you prepared to encounter all the horrors that a building
such as ‘what one reads about’ may produce? Have you a stout heart?
Nerves fit for sliding panels and tapestry?”
“Oh! yes–I do not think I should be easily frightened, because
there would be so many people in the house–and besides, it has
never been uninhabited and left deserted for years, and then the
family come back to it unawares, without giving any notice, as
generally happens.”
“No, certainly. We shall not have to explore our way into a hall
dimly lighted by the expiring embers of a wood fire–nor be obliged
to spread our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors,
or furniture. But you must be aware that when a young lady is (by
whatever means) introduced into a dwelling of this kind, she is
always lodged apart from the rest of the family. While they snugly
repair to their own end of the house, she is formally conducted by
Dorothy, the ancient housekeeper, up a different staircase, and
along many gloomy passages, into an apartment never used since
some cousin or kin died in it about twenty years before. Can you
stand such a ceremony as this? Will not your mind misgive you when
you find yourself in this gloomy chamber–too lofty and extensive
for you, with only the feeble rays of a single lamp to take in its
size–its walls hung with tapestry exhibiting figures as large as
life, and the bed, of dark green stuff or purple velvet, presenting
even a funereal appearance? Will not your heart sink within you?”
“Oh! But this will not happen to me, I am sure.”
“How fearfully will you examine the furniture of your apartment!
And what will you discern? Not tables, toilettes, wardrobes, or
drawers, but on one side perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on
the other a ponderous chest which no efforts can open, and over
the fireplace the portrait of some handsome warrior, whose features
will so incomprehensibly strike you, that you will not be able to
withdraw your eyes from it. Dorothy, meanwhile, no less struck by
your appearance, gazes on you in great agitation, and drops a few
unintelligible hints. To raise your spirits, moreover, she gives
you reason to suppose that the part of the abbey you inhabit is
undoubtedly haunted, and informs you that you will not have a single
domestic within call. With this parting cordial she curtsies off–you
listen to the sound of her receding footsteps as long as
the last echo can reach you–and when, with fainting spirits, you
attempt to fasten your door, you discover, with increased alarm,
that it has no lock.”
“Oh! Mr. Tilney, how frightful! This is just like a book! But
it cannot really happen to me. I am sure your housekeeper is not
really Dorothy. Well, what then?”
“Nothing further to alarm perhaps may occur the first night. After
surmounting your unconquerable horror of the bed, you will retire
to rest, and get a few hours’ unquiet slumber. But on the second,
or at farthest the third night after your arrival, you will probably
have a violent storm. Peals of thunder so loud as to seem to shake
the edifice to its foundation will roll round the neighbouring
mountains–and during the frightful gusts of wind which accompany it, you
will probably think you discern (for your lamp is not extinguished)
one part of the hanging more violently agitated than the rest. Unable
of course to repress your curiosity in so favourable a moment for
indulging it, you will instantly arise, and throwing your dressing-gown
around you, proceed to examine this mystery. After a very short
search, you will discover a division in the tapestry so artfully
constructed as to defy the minutest inspection, and on opening it,
a door will immediately appear–which door, being only secured
by massy bars and a padlock, you will, after a few efforts, succeed
in opening–and, with your lamp in your hand, will pass through
it into a small vaulted room.”
“No, indeed; I should be too much frightened to do any such thing.”
“What! Not when Dorothy has given you to understand that there is
a secret subterraneous communication between your apartment and the
chapel of St. Anthony, scarcely two miles off? Could you shrink
from so simple an adventure? No, no, you will proceed into this
small vaulted room, and through this into several others, without
perceiving anything very remarkable in either. In one perhaps
there may be a dagger, in another a few drops of blood, and in a
third the remains of some instrument of torture; but there being
nothing in all this out of the common way, and your lamp being
nearly exhausted, you will return towards your own apartment. In
repassing through the small vaulted room, however, your eyes will
be attracted towards a large, old-fashioned cabinet of ebony and
gold, which, though narrowly examining the furniture before, you
had passed unnoticed. Impelled by an irresistible presentiment, you
will eagerly advance to it, unlock its folding doors, and search
into every drawer–but for some time without discovering anything
of importance–perhaps nothing but a considerable hoard of
diamonds. At last, however, by touching a secret spring, an inner
compartment will open–a roll of paper appears–you seize it–it
contains many sheets of manuscript–you hasten with the
precious treasure into your own chamber, but scarcely have you
been able to decipher ‘Oh! Thou–whomsoever thou mayst be, into
whose hands these memoirs of the wretched Matilda may fall’–when
your lamp suddenly expires in the socket, and leaves you in total
darkness.”
Oh! No, no–do not say so. Well, go on.”
But Henry was too much amused by the interest
he had raised to be able to carry it farther;
he could no longer command solemnity
either of subject or voice, and was obliged to
entreat her to use her own fancy in the perusal of
Matilda’s woes. Catherine, recollecting herself, grew
ashamed of her eagerness, and began earnestly to
assure him that her attention had been fixed without
the smallest apprehension of really meeting with
what he related. “Miss Tilney, she was sure, would
never put her into such a chamber as he had described!
She was not at all afraid.”
Return to the Jane Austen Page
Passage taken from Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey, Volume II, Chapter 5, pages 130-132.
Austen, Jane. Northanger Abbey. New York: Modern Library, 2002.
Contributor:
Stephanie Polukis