University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Lodowick's Cottage.
Torrendal sitting—Marian in attendance.
Mar.
Good master, you have slept.

Tor.
I have, good mistress;
The humming of your wheel lull'd me to sleep.

Mar.
Marry, my wheel has wrought a blessed work,
Heav'n's mercy heal you!

Tor.
If I am not heal'd,
It was at least a merciful delusion,
That led me to believe it. I have dreamt,
And in my vision a wing'd cherub came,
Who on my throbbing temples laid his hand,
Moist with celestial dew; methought the touch
Thrill'd every nerve, and to my brain so swift
The magic virtue ran, that I was heal'd.

Mar.
Oh joyful hearing! as the truth is in me,
I have not seen your features so compos'd
This many and many a day.

Tor.
Be not deceiv'd;
This visitation is not for my cure,
But my correction: 'tis a quick'ning call,
Rousing my torpid faculties to action,
With reason lent me for a time to guide them.

Mar.
What do you mean?

Tor.
That I have now my senses
But as a loan, which providence imparts
To arm me for the task I have in hand.

Mar.
Ah, sir, sir, sir, do you relapse so soon?
Have you forgot your dream? Your looks are chang'd;
They terrify me now.

Tor.
Go, call your husband;
Tell him I'd speak with him. Kind, friendly creature,
I would not harm thee for the worth of worlds;
But when the tempest tears the forest up,
The shatter'd oak may fall, and in its wreck
Whelm the poor lamb, that fled to it for shelter.
Go, send your husband to me.
[Exit Marian.
Torrendal alone.
What! shall adultery pass unreveng'd?
Shall a man take my wife from me and live?
I can bear poverty, and cold, and hunger,
And be as patient as I ought to be;
But, when a shameless villain stains my honour,
Then to be tame, what is it but to abet
The crime we dare not punish?
I know there is a law for our redress,
But when the culprit is above the law,
A man's own spirit must be his avenger,
And his own sword becomes the sword of justice.

Lodowick enters.
Lod.
Now, my good master, what has pass'd with Marian
To ruffle and disturb you? Let me hear it—
Nay, if you chafe your forehead, I can guess
How it is with you—Pray you now, sit down,
And I'll sit by you.

Tor.
Lodowick!

[They sit.
Lod.
Say on. I'm all attention.

Tor.
'Tis not possible
That I and Courland both survive this night:
If I am lost, what will become of thee?

Lod.
Think not of me. I have made up my mind.

Tor.
Thou art a hero, Lodowick; I know it—
But Marian, your poor Marian—Ah, that touches;
That makes you shake your head—that sorrow sinks
Deep in your heart, and brings the waters up—
I would weep too, but that my brain on fire
Dries up the fountain that should feed my eyes,
And I can't shed one tear—Still I've a soul,
That feelingly conceives all I should say
At our last parting, but I cannot speak it—
Here, take this casket! It will keep off want.
Give it to Marian, and when night comes on,
Fly, for your lives.

Lod.
No.

Tor.
What means no?

Lod.
I never can, I never will desert you:
As for this casket,
I'll place it, where I hope, with heav'n's permission,
You may resort to find it.

Tor.
You are a strange being—

Lod.
I am an honest one.
Say only, do you mean the duke should die?

Tor.
Wretch, monster, murderer of my bosom's peace!

[Starts up.
Lod.
Think no more of him—He will hunt to day:
I know each haunt and covert of the forest—

Tor.
What do you mean? you have once lent your bosom
To the sword's point for me, but 'twas in battle,
'Twas when I thought myself the happy husband
Of a beloved wife, and I forgave you;
But, now, when I am weary of the world,
There's no redemption left for me but death.
To undermine the virgin's chastity,
The parent's peace, the wife's fidelity,
The husband's honour, these are modern arts,
Events too trivial to create surprise,
And crimes too common to extort a blush—
I am not made for such a world as this.

Lod.
Then seek a better, sir, and let me follow you,
For now I am convinc'd there is no hope
To turn your thoughts from vengeance to contempt.

Tor.
No, no, contempt can film a shallow wound,
Deep ones will rankle where it cannot reach.
You know in what obscurity I found
This false unfaithful woman—a poor orphan,
One, who with beauty to inflame desire,
Had poverty to expose her to seduction;
I felt the passion, but disdain'd the crime.
When I had put necessity aside,
And she was free to choose, I made my suit;
We married, and she knows not to this hour
Whose hand it was that rescued her from want.

Lod.
That was indeed a gen'rous noble act.

Tor.
Three years she led a life without reproach;
So fond was I, my very soul was love:
At length the war in Poland call'd me from her;
The Duke of Courland, with dissembled friendship,
Profess'd to pity me, and at our parting
Begg'd I would trust my wife to his protection:
His age, his station, his imposing gravity,
Conspir'd to blind me—I bequeath'd her to him,
And mark what misery he has heap'd upon me!

Marian enters hastily.
Mar.
Sir, sir, the baron—the great Lord Vanhoven—

The Baron enters.
Tor.
Leave us!
[Exeunt Lodowick and Marian.
You're welcome, sir, to this poor cottage—
It is a wholesome practice, now and then,
To cast a look on humble poverty,
And see how very little will suffice
For simple nature, where contentment is.
What is your pleasure?

Van.
First, accept this purse—

Tor.
Excuse me, sir; money I never lov'd,
And since I have been taught to live without it,
It would but trouble me.

Van.
Give me your hand!
You are no common person, I perceive:
You should be one of us—

Tor.
I shall be soon, when you and I are pent
In the dark house together.

Van.
What d'ye mean?
I am not dying.

Tor.
No, nor yet far off:
As for myself, being a ghost already,
You cannot keep me long out of my grave.

Van.
I understand you now, and you have struck
Upon the very business brings me hither;
The lady favourite will see her husband—

Tor.
Well, let her see him!
Only let me be there, and she shall see him.

Van.
What do you mean? Are you of the illumin'd?

Tor.
Not I; not I—Only let me be there,
I may help on the process.

Van.
How can that be,
Seeing you know it not?

Tor.
Describe it to me!

Van.
Then mark me—When the chamber is prepar'd,
And all my magic apparatus fixt,
The parties enter—Silence is commanded,
And I withdraw to pray—

Tor.
Whom do you pray to,
And for what do you pray?

Van.
Be not curious.
When incantations have arous'd the spirits,
Their coming is announc'd by various sounds;
The air is troubled, and the chamber shakes:
With horrid yells the evil demons come;
The good and friendly with harmonious strains,
And voices sweet as the Æolian lyre—

Tor.
There is variety in that at least.

Van.
Hear me! for now the crisis is at hand;
This is the shock—Cold sweat bedews my brow,
My knees shake under me, and all my frame
Is paralyz'd with horror; bars and bolts
Cannot fence off the energetic spirits,
Full of the spell; the chamber doors burst open,
And the ghost enters—

Tor.
That will be a meeting
Of flesh and spirit curious to behold.
Where will this scene be acted?

Van.
In my cell,
Under the western turret.

Tor.
At what hour?

Van.
An hour past midnight.

Tor.
May not I be present?

Van.
Can you be secret?

Tor.
As the grave—nay more—
For you can open graves, but not one thought,
That's buried in this bosom.

Van.
You may come;
But come alone—Be faithful, and farewell!

[Exit.
Torrendal.

Oh thou, that in my vision I beheld,
Cherub divine, let fall one healing drop
Of that sweet balm, in which thy wings are dipt,
And touch these aching temples yet again
With thy lethæan hand; strengthen my heart
For this expected meeting; let not rage
Possess me wholly, keep alive one spark
Of pity and compassion, to remind me
That even madness should respect a woman.

[Exit.
An Apartment in the Baron's Castle.
Countess Torrendal
alone.
The evil that we feel, is but a feather,
If weigh'd against the evil that we dread.
Though 'tis beyond the compass of my reason
To comprehend the power, by which this sorcerer
Performs the feats, that are reported of him,
Does that impeach his power? No, it does not:
How many thousand wonders in creation
Mock the philosophy of reasoning man!
Put this into the number, and it adds
No more than one drop to the boundless ocean.

Duke of Courland enters.
Duke.
Now, by my life, Alicia, it repents me
That we came hither; three times since the morning
Have I surpris'd you thus alone, withdrawn
From our society and wrapt in thought.
Where are those smiles, that dimpled on your cheeks?
Those eyes, whence ambush'd Cupids took their aim,
And launch'd their arrows at beholders hearts?
Let us begone at once.

Count.
Not for the world.

Duke.
Why? what good purpose can our stay effect?
Why did we quit the pleasures of the court,
To visit this old wizzard in his cell?

Count.
The pleasures of the court! No, call them rather
The agonies, the torments—which to escape,
Hither I come; and, rather than remain
In painful ignorance of what I am,
Urge on the revelation of my fate,
With all its horrors—Is not this a cause?

Duke.
You thought it such, and therefore I embrac'd it;
But first consider if you have need to fly
To spells and charms, and next be well assur'd,
Ere you proceed to drag the shrouded corpse
Out of his grave, that you have nerves to meet him.
I should have thought, convinc'd that he is dead,
You might be well content to let him sleep.

Count.
If he is dead, we cannot harm his spirit,
If he is living, I shall sleep no more.

Duke.
Why should you doubt against the evidence
Of living witnesses, who, from all quarters,
Confirm the death of Torrendal? Oh, why
Ransack the graves, where dull oblivion sleeps,
And fly to old Vanhoven and his magic,
Only to puzzle that, which needs no proof?

Count.
Where are those witnesses, of whom you speak?
I never saw them, never question'd them.
You tell me he is dead; but conscience says
I should have paus'd upon that information.

Duke.
Did you not pause? Yes, tantalizing fair one,
How many sighs it cost me to persuade
And soften that hard heart, yourself can witness.

Count.
Alas, how cheaply can seduction furnish
Those feign'd unfeeling sighs, which only serve
To flatter and betray! Such were your sighs—
But what are those heart-rending agonies
Your victim suffers, what those sighs she vents
For ruin'd honour and lost peace of mind!
Those, those are deep indeed.

Duke.
No more of this.
Your conduct, my Alicia, needs no plea;
And, if it did, your husband's gross neglect,
The solemn promise of my hand in marriage,
And your unshaken patience till his death,
Must silence all reproach.

Count.
Here then we quit
This painful and unprofitable subject—
And look! Murinski comes to call you forth
To your field sports—

Murinski enters.
Duke.
I shall not hunt to-day.
My spirits are opprest, I know not why,
And at my heart I feel a sad foreboding,
As if some dreadful thing were coming on.

Count.
If it will come, it will—What says Murinski?

Mur.
I'm no diviner, madam.

Count.
No, nor yet
A lover of the chase, else, I should think,
You'd recommend diversion of the spleen
By cheering exercise, as nature's remedy.

Mur.
I am a soldier, and my course of life
Has never given me leisure to seek out
Other pursuits, than were impos'd upon me
By duty and my calling.

Count.
I believe you,
And say it to your face,
You're a bad courtier.

Duke.
Then take him well to task, and teach him better—
I leave him in your hands—and so farewell!

[Exit Duke.
Murinski, Countess.
Count.
Murinski, there is something at your heart,
That lies too deep for my discovery.
When I was simply a plain soldier's wife,
We were the best of friends, what is the reason,
When I have now some power, and much good will
To serve your fortune, you stand off at distance,
And seem to slight my favour?

Mur.
You have said it:
I am a sorry courtier.—

Count.
Come, come, that general answer will not serve;
You must be more explicit.

Mur.
I shan't please you.

Count.
You do not, when you practise these evasions.
Tell me at once the cause of your reserve!

Mur.
Then I must fairly own myself unworthy
Of your protection, for 'tis my misfortune
To love the memory, and lament the fate
Of an unhappy friend, whom you forget.

Count.
Do I forget? No, from the grave I call him:
Hither I come—here, to the gates of death,
To him, whose powerful spell can bid them open,
And let the incarcerated spirit forth,
Behold I come—If it is your misfortune
To bear him in remembrance, it is mine
Not to forget the agonies I suffer'd,
When fatal proof that I was quite forsaken
Rent my distracted heart, and with despair,
Mingling revenge, compell'd me to accept
Those guilty honours, which, whilst he surviv'd,
Faithless although he was, I still withstood.

Mur.
To proofs, if proofs you have, I must submit;
But to reports and tales, by which too many
Contrive to damn the fame of absent men,
I yield no credit—From his boyish days
I knew your husband; honour rul'd his heart,
And the whole tenor of his life was truth.

Count.
Go on, go on! for every word you utter
Sinks deep into my heart. I never knew him
But as the noblest, gentlest, best of men:
But from the day he left me, to the hour
Which clos'd his life, no word of kind remembrance,
By letter or by message, ever reach'd me;
So chang'd were his affections, he renounc'd me,
Set me aside, revok'd his nuptial oath,
And died the husband of another wife,

Mur.
Stop there! If those who tell you of his marriage,
Tell of his death, I hold them false in both.
You should have listen'd to those tales with caution:
When you can give me proof of his decease,
I have a certain record to produce,
Which might, perhaps, awaken some sensations
More to his honour than to your repose.

Count.
What record? Let me know it, I conjure you.

Mur.
The night before he went to join the army,
He put a sealed paper in my hand,
Of which the substance was a free bequest
Of his whole property, without conditions,
To you and your disposal—Of this trust
I am the keeper—Wealthy he was not,
For ere he married you, he had bestow'd
Half of his property upon an orphan.

Count.
What do I hear? I tremble whilst I ask
Who was that orphan?

Mur.
Need you to be told
That orphan was yourself?

Count.
Oh, heaven and earth!

Mur.
He never told you this?—

Count.
Oh, never, never.

Mur.
Of this truth, I stand
The living witness, for my hand convey'd
The secret bounty, and my heart alone
Was privy to the motive that inspir'd it:
His generous mind disdain'd to court your praise,
Or bribe your gratitude, whilst he aspir'd
To merit your free choice.

Count.
Oh why, just Heaven,
Did he conceal this from me, why did you?
What guilt, what misery had I then escaped!

Mur.
If I could have suppos'd he had conceal'd it,
I had not nam'd it now.

Count.
Lost, lost for ever!
If any guardian spirit had but whisper'd
This secret in my ear, I had been sav'd;
If you, if Torrendal had but reveal'd it,
I should not be the guilty thing I am:
That gratitude, which now hath been my ruin,
Would then have been my rescue—Wretched Alicia!
Deluded, credulous woman, I'm betray'd,
Lur'd into vice by what had been my virtue:
That artful duke permitted me to thank him,
To call him benefactor, friend, preserver,
And in the grateful weakness of my heart
Precipitate myself into his snares—
Deceiv'd in this, I may be so in all;
If more you know of my long-absent husband,
Living or dead, declare it!

Mur.
I have done.
What I have told incautiously escap'd me;
When more you ask, I must decline to answer.

[Exit.
Countess Torrendal.

Rise then, O Torrendal, rise from the grave,
And let this awful night decide my doom!
If with terrific mien and angry brow
Threat'ning you come, the same mysterious power,
That gives to incorporeal air a form,
May also give a voice, and what the living
Cannot, or will not tell, the dead may utter;
Then with suspended breath, in mute attention,
Lost to the sense of every other object,
I'll stand and gaze, and listen to the tale,
Till, when the sad recital you shall close,
And vanish from my sight, my conscious heart
Shall vent one dying groan, and burst asunder.