 | Torrendal |  |
ACT I.
Scene, the interior of a Cottage in Courland, belonging to Lodowick the Wood-cutter. He is sitting in his Chair dosing. Marian his Wife enters, and walking up to him, shakes him by the Shoulder.Lodowick, Marian.
Mar.
Rouse yourself Lodowick, you have dropt
asleep, and your pipe is out.
Lod.
Aye, dame, 'tis dead, and turn'd to ashes.
Mar.
Shall I fill it afresh?
Lod.
No, let it be.
Mar.
Shall I fetch you something to wet your
lips? You are weary, poor fellow.
Lod.
Not a drop. What's the hour?
Mar.
Past nine, and a dark night.
Lod.
Is Torrendal come in?
Mar.
No, he is yet out, wandering about the
forest. I have set a candle in the upper window.
Lod.
You have done right. He must needs
want a guide, whose senses are so totally astray,
that when he is out of sight 'tis but a chance if
ever he's seen more.
Mar.
Alas, poor man, if we can't cure him of
these rambling fits, some night or other he'll be
trapp'd by robbers, and leave his wretched bones
in this wild forest.
Lod.
Robbers! who'll rob him? Every body
more he has been feeding upon little else but
sighs and groans for an abandon'd wife, not
worth a thought.
Mar.
Ah, Lodowick, he cannot shake her from
his thoughts. Some sorrows yield to time; his
never will: body and mind they have destroy'd
him wholly.
Lod.
Yes; sorrow is slow poison; he sinks under
it. It grieves my heart to see him pine away
day after day, and take no nourishment. If we
set meat before him, he'll not touch it: the wild
roots of the forest are his food, and better beverage
than the brook affords ne'er moistens his
parch'd lip. The time has been, when I remember
him as fine a man as ever stepp'd the earth,
—“the handsome Torrendal—the gallant Courlander,”
so he was call'd.
Mar.
He was, he was. I never shall forget
the day he enter'd Mittau with the troops that
serv'd in Poland—you was in his train—aye, that
you was—and rode a stately charger, though now
you are fain to hoof it to the copse on your bare
brogues, and labour for your living.
Lod.
Well, we must take what providence
decrees; murmuring won't mend it. Count Torrendal
was once a happy man; we liv'd with him,
and led a happy life; now he is miserable, and
lives with us.—So the world goes—and for myself,
I care not; so let it go! I have nothing to
complain of: I have my senses, and an honest
wife; he has thrown his wits away upon a wanton.
Mar.
Aye, shame upon her! she is a wicked
woman, that I will say—a base deceitful woman
—is she not? when I reflect how happily they
liv'd together, how good, how kind to her he ever
was, I am astonish'd how she could be brought
mistress to the Duke of Courland.
Lod.
Wife, 'tis a rule with me never to wonder
at what a woman does. The Countess Torrendal
has only shewn the world she had more vanity
than virtue, and why her husband should, from
that discovery, lose his reason, puzzles my wits
as much as it does his—but hark! he's at the
door.
[A knocking is heard.
Murinski calls from without.
Mur.
Within there—cottagers!
Mar.
That's not our master's voice. Do not
go out unarm'd; take your sword with you!
Lod.
Pooh! what are you afraid of? Who's at
the door?
Mur.
[from without]
A traveller, that has lost
his way and is benighted.
Lod.
Enter!
[Opens the door and admits Murinski.
Mur.
I thank you. 'Twas a kindly deed, when
moon and stars are wanting, to hang out that
charitable light; it augurs well of your philanthropy.
Lod.
It augurs only that the night is dark, and
we've a friend abroad in this wild place, whom
we are expecting. Did you meet any person
hereabouts?
Mur.
I met a man, who pointed out your cottage.
Mar.
Where have you left him? What have
you done with him?
Mur.
Suspect me not, good dame. I am a
gentleman, by name Murinski, in the especial
service of the duke.
Lod.
Were you the duke himself, you should
friend is safe. If, as you say, he pointed out the
cottage, why did he not come with you?
Mur.
He did, till some few paces from your
door he struck into the wood and disappear'd. I
call'd to him, but to confess the truth, his gesture
was so wild, his voice so stern, and his tall
figure, through the misty gloom, so strikingly
terrific, I was not over-anxious to detain him,
he being arm'd withal, and I defenceless.
Lod.
You have seen enough to guess at his
misfortune: he is derang'd in mind.
Mur.
I did suspect it. Nothing could I wring
from him by the way, but broken murmurs in a
hollow voice, and sighs between that seem'd to
rend his breast. His step was slow and solemn,
ill adapted to my impatience, and I own my
heart shook with alarm, when, stopping on the
sudden, he seiz'd my wrist, and in a tone, that
seem'd more like the scream of pain than human
speech, demanded—“Was I married?”—To which,
when I gave answer I was not—“'Tis well for
you,” he cried, “that you are not, else had I
beat your brains out with this club, in very
charity to save your wits.”
Lod.
Aye, that's the pinch; there is the point
that wrings him—But hark! he is coming.
[Torrendal strikes the door with his club-stick.
Pray you, stand aside; wait, till we see what
humour he is in. Marian will speak to him—
[Marian opens the door, Torrendal enters.
Mar.
Oh welcome, welcome! we have been
looking for you this long long hour. Where, in
the name of wonder, have you been rambling at
this time of night?
Tor.
Where the wolf rambles—up and down the forest.
For fear my shadow, falling on the bosom
Of mother Earth, should turn her milk to gall.
The tears I shed are cankerous as the drops
Of rain distilling from that pois'nous tree,
Beneath whose shade no vegetation lives.
Here, Lody, put my staff into its place—
I met a traveller—Hah! there he is—
How fare you, sir? you journey in the dark.
It is surprising, with how little light
Some men will find their way through this blind world.
Mur.
What do I see? Can Torrendal be living?
That voice, that air, that form—and yet how chang'd!
Tor.
Heaven keep your wits! what is that disturbs you?
Do you see aught in me to move your wonder?
Mur.
Much to engage my pity.
Tor.
Why, what ails me?
My wounds are out of sight. If I'd as many
As there are stars, so they were in my flesh,
I would not wince; but stab me in my spirit,
Who can heal me? What say'st thou, Lodowick?
Thou art a wood-cutter, the foe of nature,
It is thy trade to murder vegetation;
Didst ever know the tree that fail'd to die,
When thy sharp axe had cut it to the heart?
Lod.
Come, sir, we'll call to mind the good
old maxim—“Repeat no grievances”—
Tor.
Right! you are right; we'll hold to that good maxim,
And make our griefs our sport: I'll be as merry
As misery can make me. Tales of woe,
That wring the whimpering tear from reason's eye,
Madness shall laugh at. I'm in cue for mirth.
Then happy be the hour! let us to supper!
Our fare is homely, but our welcome's hearty:
Marian has oaten cakes and roots on the fire;
Shall we go set them out?
Tor.
By all means, Lody; set out what you have.
Nature gives largely; we can spare a part.
And harkye, my good wench, this man is weary;
Spread him my bearskin for his bed to-night.
I can read soldier in his face, and that's a billet
For bed and board in every house he enters—
Go; leave me with him!
Mar.
I will, I will. Heaven comfort your kind heart.
[Exeunt Marian and Lodowick.
Torrendal, Murinski.
Tor.
Ah, will that pray'r be heard? Now, sir, I know you.
When I was Torrendal, and had a heart,
I shar'd it with Murinski—
Mur.
Oh, my friend,
If I have held that trust in happier days,
'Tis now, when Torrendal has need of comfort,
I would fain share his heart and its afflictions.
Tor.
No, no, forget me; I am gone to ruin;
I am as one that's dead and out of memory,
And when I throw these wither'd arms about you,
I press you to a cold and lifeless corpse,
That chills you with its touch.
[Embraces him.
Mur.
It warms, it cheers me,
It gives a spring to all those tender cords,
That early friendship twin'd about my heart.
Tor.
Do you still hold your station with the duke?
Mur.
I do.
Tor.
Then wherefore ask to know my sorrows?
They are before you—every hour in sight—
And my false wife must give them to your view.
You best can witness how I lov'd Alicia,
You then can best conjecture what I suffer.
Mur.
I hope you mean never to see her more.
Tor.
I see her every where, by night, by day,
Sleeping or waking, still her vision haunts me;
I saw her in the forest where you met me;
She was then with me, walking by my side:
There is no place secure; darkness can't hide her,
Nor solitude, nor silence can exclude her.
Mur.
Do these good cottagers, with whom you harbour,
Know you for Torrendal?
Tor.
They, and none else.
I know there is a rumour of my death;
I humour that report. You must be secret—
Mur.
As your own thoughts.
Tor.
What brings you to these parts?
Mur.
I'm sorry you inquire, for I must tell you.
The Duke of Courland meditates a visit
To the old baron of Vizinga castle.
Tor.
We shall be neighbours—Comes my misery with him?
Yes, yes, she comes; I see her in his train:
He travels in his proper state of splendour,
With his full equipage of crimes about him.
Now let Vanhoven conjure all his demons;
And preternat'ral wonders aid the skill
Of this far-fam'd magician.
Mur.
I have heard
Most wond'rous fables told of this impostor.
Tor.
It is an age of wonders, and Vanhoven
The wonder of the age. If you've a friend
In t'other world, whom you would wish to see,
Vanhoven is your man to call him up,
Though he were bedded in the Baltic wave,
No matter which—There is a curious fellow,
Adam by name, an imp of the old wizzard,
Who shall act Cæsar's ghost so like to Cæsar,
That Brutus, were he living, should not know him
From the true ghost, that met him at Philippi.
Mur.
How far from hence does this Vanhoven dwell?
Tor.
Scarce three bow-shots from hence his castle lies,
A mould'ring monument of ancient days,
Buried in swamps, through which no trodden path,
No smoking chimney lures the traveller;
His hall ne'er echoes with the festive song,
But from the hollow tower the night-bird screams,
And croaking ravens chorus to the yell
Of the starv'd watch-dog howling to the moon:
There, in his moated fortress deep entrench'd,
In feudal state the musing baron sits,
Whilst his torn banners, hanging by the wall,
Recall, in retrospection, times foregone—
Pondering his spells, he sits; at dead of night
The neighb'ring peasant hears, or thinks he hears,
Deep sighs and dismal groans of troubled ghosts
Torn from their peaceful graves—Such is Vanhoven,
Fit host, I ween, for his unholy guests.
[Adam walks in cloked, and carrying a lantern, which he deliberately extinguishes, and puts by.
Mur.
Soft, who comes here? what solemn thing is this,
That stalks in as by right, and gives no warning?
Tor.
This is the fellow that I told you of,
Death's major-domo, he that keeps the key
Of all the cells, charnels, and catacombs
Where ghosts are quarter'd—How now, master Adam!
Adam.
My business is with Lodowick the woodman;
And for the lantern, I must needs want light,
When neither moon nor stars are in the skies.
Tor.
Can phosphorus want light? Let the stars go to bed;
Let the good housewife Night put out her candles,
You, and the self-illuminated owl,
May travel without lanterns—Hoa! within there—
[Calls for Lodowick.
Mur.
I understand, grave sir, that you belong
To the great sage, whose fame the world resounds with,
Baron Vanhoven—
Adam.
I'm his servant, sir.
Mur.
The wisdom that you carry in your looks,
Shews you a servant worthy such a master.
Adam.
Sir, I'm not wise, not positively wise.
Tor.
No, but he follows wisdom at the heels,
As a cur does a beggar;
With the next turn he'll catch her by the skirts—
This mummery disgusts me—Let us leave him—
Here, Lodowick, where are you?—You are wanted—
[Exeunt Torrendal and Murinski.
[As Torrendal and Murinski are going out, they meet Lodowick, who comes from the inner room.
Lodowick, Adam.
Lod.
Ah, master Adam, what is your good pleasure?
Adam.
Hear me, thou vassal of the great Vanhoven!
The Duke of Courland and his peerless mistress
the forest by the peep of day.
Lod.
Why must I drive the forest?
Adam.
To kill him venison for his princely guest.
Lod.
I'll kill him a wild boar; methinks, friend
Adam, the flesh of swine will better suit his
highness, and breed a chyle more generous and
congenial than flesh of timorous deer—What
have those peaceful creatures done, that I should
kill them?
Adam.
What have they done, that you should
let them live?
Lod.
They are my friends; they visit me at
my work, and when the echo of my hatchet lures
their harmless curiosity, they come and stand,
and gaze with such a listening look, that I can
fancy myself another Orpheus, and my rude tool
a lyre.
Adam.
Fancy yourself what you are, the vassal
of the Lord Vanhoven, and let those friends of
yours, that are so fond of music, dance into his
kitchen, or, take my word, friend Orpheus, he'll
make you dance out of this house to the tune of
an ejectment.
Lod.
I hope he'll not do it; my father, and my
father's father have held it for a pretty many
years.
Adam.
If you had held it from the days of
Noah, you will be ousted, so I tell you, friend,
unless you stir betimes, and bring us something
to set the spits a-turning. Lay down your hatchet,
and take up your gun; that's music we
have some ear for. What, what! princes must
fare like princes; courtiers palates must be tickled
with savoury sauces, and favourite ladies
must have favourite bits—partridge or quail, or
the all-powerful countess.
Lod.
To her! to Courland's mistress! Let her
fast, and physic her hot blood with such poor
fare as may beget repentance, and atone to an
unhappy husband, in whose heart her gross adulteries
have planted daggers.
Adam.
What's that you talk of? Are you mad
or drunk, or both at once, to give your tongue
such license? Adulteress! she cannot be, for
Torrendal is dead.
Lod.
Oh, is he so? It had escap'd my memory.
Adam.
If you escape the gallows, I shall wonder.
Why, you are worse than your mad guest
himself. I'll stay no longer in your company;
I have given you your orders; so remember; I
have done with you.
Lod.
Stop! you have drawn me unawares to
say more than I ought in prudence to have said.
If you are dispos'd to take advantage of it, I am
at your mercy; you may cite me before the
baron, and he may cite me before the duke, and
there will be an end; your spite can go no further:
the worst that can befall me, will be to
suffer for my affection to a noble master, for
such was the Count Torrendal to me.
Adam.
Well, well! that's some excuse: you
lov'd your master, and resent his wrongs. I shan't
betray you; but take better heed how you make
other people's cause your own. And now I've
often thought to ask you, Lodowick, who is
this strange mysterious man, who has liv'd with
you for months, and no one knows by his true
name?
Lod.
Who is he?
Adam.
Aye, who is he, and how do you contrive
to keep an idler at your cost, who strolls
hand to any useful labour?
Lod.
He was not bred to labour, and, had he
been, he is too ill to work.
Adam.
Then why do you maintain him?
Lod.
Because when I was poor, and he had
plenty, I was maintain'd by him. As for who he
is, and what he is, you will excuse me: he is an
innocent man, and an injur'd man.
Adam.
A crazy one, I believe.
Lod.
The greater his misfortune; he thinks
much, and is at times derang'd; but he is now
calmer, and more compos'd than I have known
him for months foregone.
Adam.
Well, I'll not trouble you with more
questions—Give me your hand!—You have said
enough. Good night! remember me to Marian.
Lod.
Thank you, friend Adam! I'll be with
you early, and bring you something, if my gun
don't fail me.
Adam.
Do so; it will be welcome, for we are
unprovided: between you and me, honest Lodowick,
in our castle the larder is the emptiest
room in the house, and the kitchen is the coolest;
the very rats are upon short allowance.
Therefore bring something with you by all means
—Come, you shall light my lantern at your candle,
and then once more—Good night.
[Exeunt.
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