 | Torrendal |  |
ACT II.
Scene, an Apartment in the Castle of Vizinga: the Style that of ancient Architecture.Baron Vanhoven and Baroness.
Van.
Here, madam, read this letter from the
duke; read it, and see what honours he intends
us.
Bar.
Excuse me: I am not gratified by his
flattery; if you are, read it yourself.
Van.
Well, so I will; but why do you pronounce
it to be flattery? Does not philosophy
merit respect?
Bar.
Ah, my good baron, your philosophy is
something so mysterious and so dark, that my
common sense can't comprehend it—but read
your letter, if you please—I'll hear it.
Van.
Do so! attend! 'Tis written all through
with his highness's own hand—
To the Baron Vanhoven.
[Secret and confidential.]
“Learned Sir!
“I am on my way to visit you, drawn by the
report of your miraculous performances, to the
castle of Vizinga, as suitors were of old to the
Oracle of Delphi. I bring with me a fair client
to your shrine, the relict of the deceased Count
Torrendal. She has scruples of much moment
to refer to you, the which if you can resolve to
her satisfaction and repose, you will establish
the fame of your philosophy in its fullest lustre,
which some want faith to believe you are, but
which I am willing to hope you will approve
yourself to be.
Yours, in all worthy service, Courland.”
Well, baroness, what have you to say to this?
Bar.
Nothing, for I can discover nothing in
that letter, but danger to you, and disappointment
to the writer of it.
Van.
What danger do you apprehend to me?
Explain yourself!
Bar.
I don't wish to explain myself; perhaps
I cannot, at least to your satisfaction I am sure I
cannot. There is so much credulity in mankind
now towards things incredible, and so little faith
in things worthy to be credited, that it is very
possible they may expect of you something that
you cannot perform, and ought not if you could.
Van.
What do you suppose it is they may expect
of me?
Bar.
'Tis hard to say what an imperious libertine,
and an ambitious woman, may expect: one
thing you are warn'd of—the lady has doubts;
and well she may: conduct, like her's, will naturally
entail some scruples on the conscience;
these you are to have the honour of appeasing: I
know not what resources you may have in your
philosophy; but, for my part, I can't conceive
what honour it will gain by finding salvos for
adultery.
Van.
What do you know of my philosophy?
Bar.
But little, yet too much: this, however,
I know, (and you who are a husband won't dispute
it)—wives should be honest.
Van.
Yes, and those wives, whom nature stints
Torrendal can plead temptations, that few,
if any, who arraign her conduct, would have
withstood.
Bar.
Temptations! What should tempt her to
abuse so excellent a husband? All the world
pities him, and condemns her.
Van.
What does she care about the world's
opinion, and how is he the better for its pity?
The gentleman is dead.
Bar.
I understand that is not quite so certain;
this may be amongst the lady's scruples, that
she may think your art can ascertain.
Van.
Well, madam, if she does, I am prepar'd.
Bar.
Ah, baron, baron, 'tis a fatal omen for
the world's peace, when men take up such arrogant
opinions; and think themselves illuminated
beings, when they have shut their eyes against
that light, which heaven, in mercy, had reveal'd
to save them. But I have done; thank heaven,
my humble task is simply to prepare you food
and lodging for your expected guests—the sooner
that task is discharg'd, the better—so farewell.
[Exit.
Van.
Well! Socrates was married, so am I.
She has guess'd right, however, at the motives
of Courland's visit; I shall be requir'd to raise
the ghost of Torrendal—
Adam appears.
Van.
Adam, come in! I have something to
impart to you. Shut the door!—Adam, I have
reason to suspect this visit of the Duke of Courland's,
will call upon us to exert our art; if so,
I would wish to set our mystery off in its best
form.
Well, sir, we have got a famous apparatus.
Van.
For common purposes we are provided,
but not for all—Suppose I should be put to raise
a certain ghost—
Adam.
We have shadows for the purpose.
Van.
But shadows should be like their substances.
The death of Torrendal is yet in doubt
—What if the duke command me to exhibit his
apparition? I don't know his person; who will
describe him to me?
Adam.
Lodowick, your vassal; the wood-cutter,
that lives here in your forest: he was servant
to the count for years.
Van.
Find out that Lodowick immediately, and
send him to me.
Adam.
So please you, sir, he is gone out to
shoot game for the castle—but his friend is here;
the guest he harbours in his house is walking
now hard by—
Van.
Well, if he is, what knows he of the
matter?
Adam.
'Tis hard to say, most venerable sir,
what he does not know.
Van.
Indeed! I'm told he is unsound of mind.
Adam.
He may be so at times, or he may seem
so to those who cannot rightly comprehend him.
Van.
That's true, that's true. Genius appears
like madness to the vulgar. You have rais'd my
curiosity to see him—Adam admit him instantly.
Vanhoven alone.
How many a man, in this misjudging world,
By loftiness of thought, or depth of study
In sciences abstruse, appears insane,
Wild, and eccentric to the level eye
This man, perchance, may be—Hah! he appears—
Torrendal enters.
My servant tells me you attend to see me—
Tor.
I covet that high honour—Who does not,
That has respect for science?
Van.
I'm told you dwell
With Lodowick, my vassal—
Tor.
Sapient baron,
Under your sage protection I am harbour'd,
By your poor vassal in his humble cottage.
I have known better days—but they are past.
Van.
Your phrase bespeaks you of no vulgar breeding,
And what I had in mind to ask of him,
You can perhaps resolve—It has been told me,
This Lodowick, with whom you sojourn, liv'd
And serv'd in Poland with Count Torrendal—
Know you if this be so?
Tor.
Sir, so it is.
Van.
I never saw the person of the count:
He could describe him to me.
Tor.
I should think so.
Van.
But can you say (for that imports me most),
If Lodowick was with him when he died?
Tor.
Died!—
Van.
What alarms you? Torrendal is dead—
Know you not that?
Tor.
Yes—Torrendal is dead—
His nobler part is perish'd—He is dead.
Van.
You knew him, I should guess—
Tor.
I knew him once—
No one could know him now—He's greatly chang'd—
All men are chang'd by death.
Tor.
And some by sorrow.
Death cannot quench the soul as misery can;
The worm preys only upon carcases:
Misery can make the living man a corpse,
And render frightful the fairest work of heav'n.
Van.
Do you now speak of Torrendal as living?
Tor.
No, no, I told you Torrendal is dead.
Who ever lov'd as he did, and outliv'd
The loss of what he lov'd? Is there in man
That heart, which injuries deep as he has suffer'd,
And fell ingratitude cannot destroy?
Van.
You're speaking of his wife—
Tor.
Aye, of his wife—
Van.
Of her, who now is Courland's reigning mistress—
Tor.
Of her—of her—of her.
Van.
You are much mov'd.
Tor.
Not much—not much. Dark deeds will come to light.
For sure I am, lord baron, there is kept
A register of every secret crime;
That whatsoever we have lost on earth,
By man's injustice, shall be found in heav'n;
The injured husband's soul shall rest in peace.
But for this woman—
Van.
You seem to know the tale
So variously related; some acquit,
And not a few condemn her. She is coming
Here to Vizinga: 'tis a princely visit,
Unsought and unexpected, for I give
My thoughts to study.
Tor.
Yes, and wonderous things
Are bruited of your studies: it is said
That you unlock the graves, and, by your spells,
Call up the spirits of departed men,
Though buried fathoms deep at the sea-bottom.
Are there no spirits, who resist your spells?
Van.
The spirits of the dead, as of the living,
Are various in their kinds; some will oppose
And mutiny against the potent spell,
That in the end constrains them to appear.
Tor.
Of what degree are these?
Van.
I'll tell thou that—When injuries have been done
To the deceas'd, and I call up their spirits
In presence of the persons who have wrong'd them,
So strong must be the charm, that shall enforce
The angry and reluctant ghost to rise,
And, when he comes, 'tis with threat'ning face,
And yell so hideous, as must needs appall
The stoutest heart with terror and amaze—
For instance—in the dreadful case of murder,
The scene is more than nature can abide.
Tor.
I can believe it: let me then suppose
An injur'd husband rising from the grave
Upon the call of his adulterous wife—
Van.
The adulterous wife might die upon the spot.
Tor.
She might—but would she? No, they do not die
Of such slight cause; their consciences are sear'd,
And 'tis not sounds or shadows can affright them.
They only tremble at the living husband,
The dead is out of thought. If your frail guest
Would see the shadow of her injur'd lord,
You need not tax your art to raise his ghost,
Any stale mummery will pass on her,
Who only wants to sanction her offence,
And hold a show of conscience to the world.
Van.
Who you may be, I know not; your discourse
That, little dazzled by exterior seeming,
Looks deep into the heart—I now must leave you.
To-morrow I would fain renew our talk,
So each to other shall be better known.
Tor.
I'm yours, at any hour.
Van.
I'm with the sun;
His orient beams ne'er find these eyelids clos'd
In dull ignoble sleep. With the first dawn
I will expect you at the castle gate;
There shall be found, who will conduct you to me.
Till then, farewell!—
Tor.
I humbly take my leave.
[Exit.
Van.
Why do they say this man is craz'd? 'Tis false;
His reason is disturb'd, but not destroy'd:
As glass, when broken into fragments, seems
More sparkling than when perfect and entire,
So do his wits break out in brighter gleams,
Wand'ring and wild, than when by judgment fixt.
[Exit.
Scene changes to another Apartment in the Castle of Vizinga.
Baroness Vanhoven and a Monk.
Bar.
Father, I want your counsel how to act
in a divided duty. The Duke of Courland is expected
here, and brings his favourite mistress,
Countess Torrendal. My honour and my conscience
both revolt against the company of that
bad woman. My husband mocks these scruples,
and requires me to entertain her—Must I obey
him?
Monk.
No, you must not: I warn you to
impious compact with the evil spirits, at his soul's
peril, it cannot be for any worthy purpose that
Courland brings his guilty mistress hither; therefore,
daughter, separate yourself in time from
their society, for, I predict, their witchcrafts and
adulteries will draw some just and dreadful judgment
down ere they depart.
Bar.
I fearfully expect it. Thanks, good
father! give me your prayers, and take me to
your peace. Let us withdraw: we fall on evil
times.
[Exeunt.
Adam enters.
Adam.
The baron in his conjuring room, the
baroness with her confessor, the Duke of Courland
at the door, and nobody to receive him but
I, Adam, and only I—Well, here he comes—a
prince is but a man.
Duke of Courland, Countess Torrendal, Attendants.
Duke.
At length we have conquer'd all our difficulties,
and with much toil and labour, through
ways so wild and rugged, as would have baffled
travellers less zealous, reach'd the mansion of the
omniscient sage—but where's our host to give us
welcome? Does the baron know of our arrival?
Adam.
Most gracious prince, I have sent to
give him notice. The baron occupies a distant
quarter, and had withdrawn to study.
Duke.
We can excuse him, sir; he is a philosopher
and not a courtier—but look! he comes—
Baron Vanhoven, we are come thus far to lay a
trouble on you; but as the feast we look for
don't consist in table dainties, we have so contriv'd
to take you by surprise, that we may levy
simply a soldier's ration on your castle, and no
more.
Van.
Your highness does me infinite grace,
and I pray you to accept the homage of a poor
hermit, who has nought to offer but cordial welcome
to his homely cell.
Duke.
In point of solitude, it may resemble
what you are pleased to style it; but, when found,
it is a stately castle.
Van.
'Tis like its owner, old and out of fashion.
Count.
It is the seat of science, and so far it
may be said to be out of fashion.
Duke.
I once had wrote you letters, learned
sir, inviting you to court; but, when I weigh'd
the value of your time, I thought the sacrifice a
public loss, and therefore came with this my fair
companion, that I might have to say I had seen
Vanhoven, the wonder of the age.
Van.
Your highness flatters your poor host too
highly. Time, and a patient thought, will teach
us something; and sages, who by study have discover'd
the wond'rous powers and properties of
nature, will do those things that make the vulgar
stare, and set them down for sorcerers and
magicians.
Duke.
This modest answer raises my high opinion
of your great merits: I must now remind
you, that all men, who possess superior talents,
must pay a tax to curiosity, and you, of all men
living in these times, stand at the highest rate
that I have vested all such my right and title in
this lady, whom I shall leave with you to state
her claims, and that your conference may not be
disturb'd, be pleas'd to shew me where I may
withdraw.
Van.
This door, sir, opens to a gallery—There's
space at least, but little to amuse. Is it your
pleasure to enter?—Your highness commands
here: my duty is to obey.
Duke.
I leave my pledge with you. We shall
soon meet again.
[Exit with Attendants.
Vanhoven, Countess Torrendal.
Van.
Now, lady, speak your pleasure! We are private.
Count.
It may be so; but there is nothing here,
That marks the school of the philosopher;
No mystic books, no symbols of your art:
This is a room of state; it is not here
That you perform those wonders, that excite
The world's amazement, and my anxious hopes.
Where is your place of study? Shew me that.
Van.
Instruction is not limited to place:
Plato could teach in groves, and Socrates
Could moralize even in the public streets.
Count.
But Socrates had private intimations
From his familiar demon—So have you—
Those awful visions, those mysterious meetings,
There, there it is I am curious to be present.
Van.
That curiosity you might repent of.
Count.
I come to know my fate; disclose that to me,
And in whatever terrors you may clothe
The revelation, I am arm'd to meet them.
Then tell me what it is that you would know:
Let me have clear perception of your wishes.
Count.
'Tis said, that by your spells you can call up
The spirits of the dead from out their graves,
And shew them in their proper form and feature
To such as you admit into your circle—
I solemnly adjure you to declare
If this, which I have heard, be true or false.
Van.
Excuse me, lady; these are mysteries
I may not speak of: you must wave that question;
You may proceed to others; well assur'd
That what I shall attempt, I can perform.
Count.
Resolve me then if Torrendal be dead—
Van.
What proof do you require?
Count.
Ocular proof.
Van.
You're a bold woman. Would you see his ghost?
Count.
Stop! give me time: fix not your eyes upon me;
You stagger my resolve.
Van.
What are these doubts? You know that he is dead;
Why then disturb his spirit? Let him rest.
Count.
If I had peace, his spirit should have rest,
But I am rack'd with terror and suspense.
The man that brought me tidings of his death,
Might be impos'd upon, might be suborn'd,
He did not see him dead; no one is found
To vouch that fact by evidence of sight.
Van.
But what is the report? Where did he die?
Count.
In Lithuania.
Van.
By what kind of death;
Natural, or violent?
Count.
'Tis said he sicken'd,
In which he left me, by the duke's command,
To serve in Poland, not a word e'er reach'd me
By letter, or by message, to relieve
My anxious heart: twelve tedious months roll'd on,
And all was silent, cruel, cold neglect;
Can you then wonder if I fly to you,
Whose spell the tenants of the grave obey,
To call that awful apparition forth,
And end at once my life or my suspense?
Van.
That spectre will be terrible to sight,
The weakness of your sex may sink before it.
Count.
If you have look'd on spectres, and outliv'd it,
Ev'n so may I; therefore prepare your spell,
For I'm resolv'd. The peril of the act
Be on my head!
Van.
Then let me warn the duke,
And I no longer will oppose your wish.
Count.
So let it be! Where shall we meet, and when?
Van.
When darkness thickens, and the evening star
Trims his pale lamp, will be the hour to meet:
The place, my cell, beneath the western tower;
There you must come in silence and alone,
If come you will in spite of my protest;
And when the ghost of him, that was your husband,
Torn from the bowels of a distant grave,
In shadowy terror stalks around the circle,
Where you stand trembling—
Count.
Break off your description!
Leave me to meditation—
Van.
Heaven direct
That meditation, and divert your thoughts
From this ill-omen'd enterprise!—Farewell!
[Exit.
Why do I pause? There is no cure for conscience,
Nothing to save my honour, and build up
My fortune into greatness, but this ghost:
Let me be once assur'd that he is dead,
And I am Courland's consort, not his mistress:
Ambition thus in me becomes a virtue;
And what have I to fear from him when dead,
Whom living I ne'er wrong'd, but truly lov'd,
Till absent he forgot me? then, indeed,
When I had lost his heart, I lost myself,
And Courland triumph'd—Now, if some should ask
What kind of spirits are they, good or evil,
Which minister their aid to this magician,
Is that for me to answer? No, for him.
If, by his power, with these, to me unknown,
He can compel my husband's ghost to rise,
How terrible soever, let him come,
'Tis but his shade, and I will look upon him.
| Torrendal | |