<p>442. A SCENE FROM «THE COVETOUS KNIGHT»
<a l:href="#c_471"><sup>{*}</sup></a></p>SCENE 2. A CELLAR. THE BARON, ALONE.The BaronJust as a mad young fellow frets awaitinghis rendez-vous with some evasive harlot,or with the goose seduced by him, thus Ihave dreamt all day of coming down at lastin vaulted dimness to my secret chests.The day was good: this evening I can addto coffer six (which still is not quite sated)some recently collected gold: a fistful,a trifle, you might say, but thus my treasurea trifle is increased. There is some storyabout a Prince who bade his warriors bringa handful each of earth, which formed a hillockwhich swelled into a mountain, and the Princefrom this proud height could merrily surveythe dale white-dotted with his tented army,the many sails that sped upon the sea.So bit by bit I have been bringing heremy customary tithe into this vault,and heaped my hill, and from its eminenceI now survey my vassaldom at leisure.And who is not my vassal? Like some daemonfrom here in private I can rule the world;let me just wish — and there will rise a palace;amid the marvels of my terraced lawnsa swarm of Nymphs will airily assemble;the sacred Nine will come with mask or lute;unshackled Genius labor as my bondsman,and noble merit, and the sleepless drudgewait with humility till I reward them.I'll whistle, and behold: low-bending, cringing,in creeps Assassination, blood-bespattered,and while it licks my hands it will be watchingmy eyes to read in them the master's order.All is to me subjected, I to naught.I am above desiring; I am tranquil:I know my domination, and this knowledgeI deem sufficient.(Looks into his money-bag) It may seem a little,but what incalculable human cares,deceptions, tears, entreaties, imprecations,have weighty representatives here seated!Where was that old doubloon?.. Here 'tis. This eveninga widow paid it me — though only aftershe'd stood, with her three children, many hoursunder my window, on her knees and wailing.It rained, and ceased to rain, and rained again:the shamming creature never budged. I might havesent her away, but a faint something told methat she had brought the sum her husband owedand would not care to be in jail next day.And this one? this was brought me by Thibault:whom did he get it from, the fox, the loafer?Stole it, I wager; or perhaps… somewhere,at nightfall, on the highway, in a coppice —Ah, yes! if all the tears, and blood and sweat,that have been shed for what is in my keeping,out of deep earth might suddenly gust forthwe'd have a second flood, — and with a splutterI'd perish in my trusty vaults. And now —(He is about to unlock number six)Strange — every time I want to open oneof my good chests, I feel all hot and shaky:not fear (oh, no! whom should I fear? I havemy gallant sword: one metal guards the otherand answers for it), but a heart-invadingmysteriously enveloping oppression…Physicians claim that there exist queer peoplewho find in homicide a kind of pleasure;when I insert and turn the key, my feelingsare similar, I fancy, to what theymust feel when butchering their victims: pleasureand terror mingled(Unlocks) This is lovely, lovely…(Pours in his gold)Go home, you've had your fill of worldly friskingand served your time with human needs and passions.Here you will sleep the sleep of peace and power,as gods do sleep in Heaven's dreamy depth.To-night I wish to have a feast in secret: —a candle bright in front of every chest,and all of them wide-open, and myselfwith eyes aglow amid their brimming glory.(Lights candles and proceeds to unlock the chests)Now I am king! What an enchanting shine!A mighty realm has now become my manor;here is my bliss, my blazon, and my banner!Now I am king! — But who will next enjoythis bounty when I die? My heir will get it!A wastrel, a disreputable boy,by ribald fellow-revellers abetted!With my last sigh, him, him! this vault will hearcome stamping down into its gentle silence,with crowds of fawning friends, rapacious courtiers;and having plucked the keys from my dead fisthe will unlock chest after chest with glee,and all the treasures of my life will streamthrough all the holes of tattered satin pockets.Thus will a sot destroy these holy vessels,thus mud will drink an oil for kingly brows,thus he will spend — And by what right, I ask you?Did I perchance acquire all this for nothing?Or with the ease of a light-hearted gamblerthat rattles dice and grabs his growing winnings?Who knows how many bitter limitations,what bursting passions curbed, what inner gloom,what crowded days and hollow nights — my wealthhas cost me? Or perhaps my son will saythat with a hoary moss my heart is smothered,that I have had no longings, and what's more,that conscience never bit me? Grizzly conscience!the sharp-clawed beast that scrapes in bosoms; conscience,the sudden guest, the bore that does the talking,the brutish money-lender; worst of witches,that makes the moon grow dark, and then the grave-stonesmove restlessly, and send their dead to haunt us!Nay, suffer first and wince thy way to riches,then we shall see how readily my rascalwill toss to winds what his heart-blood has bought.Oh, that I might conceal this vaulted chamberfrom sinful eyes! oh, that I might abandonmy grave and, as a watchful ghost, come hitherto sit upon my chests, and from the quickprotect my treasures as I do at present!<25 мая 1941>
