The Miserly Knight

Scenes from Shenstone's tragicomedy "The Covetous Knight." [Pushkin's subtitle; no such English play exists.]

Scene One. A Tower

Albert, a young knight, and his servant Ivan.

ALBERT. At any cost I must appear at the tournament. Show me my helmet, Ivan.

IVAN. Here it is. It's pierced right through, and dented; you can't wear it. You'll need another, sir.

ALBERT. Curse it! That was a blow of Count Delorge's lance — I paid him for it: I sent him flying twenty paces from his stirrups, and he'll not soon get up. But my helmet's ruined, and Emir, my horse, is lame. And my new suit of clothes? How can I go to the Duke's table in a mended doublet, when other knights sit in satin and velvet? I won't go.

IVAN. You'll go, sir; you've won glory.

ALBERT. Glory! And what was it that made me brave? Meanness. When I saw my helmet split, I flew at the Count from pure stinginess. Poverty makes heroes. Ivan, is Solomon here?

IVAN. He is.

ALBERT. Call him in. (Enter Solomon, a moneylender.) [The ethnic insults Albert heaps on the moneylender are left out.] Well, my friend: a hundred ducats.

SOLOMON. I have no money, sir; times are hard; I can't lend more without a pledge.

ALBERT. A pledge! What pledge have I? My father is rich; when he dies I'll pay you everything, with interest.

SOLOMON. When he dies, sir. But your father, God be thanked, is strong; he may live thirty years.

ALBERT. Thirty! I shall be fifty then; what will I want with money?

SOLOMON. Money, sir, is good at any age. The young man seeks in it a nimble servant, the old man a faithful friend.

ALBERT. My father sees in it no servant and no friend, but a master; he serves it himself, like a chained watchdog. He sits on his chests and starves, and drinks water, and sleeps on the floor; and I go in debt. When will he die?

SOLOMON (lowering his voice). Sir, there are ways... I know an old apothecary, a clever man, who makes a certain drop... three drops in a glass of water, no taste, no colour, and a man dies quietly...

ALBERT. What! You offer me — to poison my father? Out of my sight, you villain! I'll hang you on the gate! Ivan, throw him out! (Solomon flees.) He offers me poison! — Ivan, a glass of wine; I'm shaking. No, I'll go to the Duke. I'll ask him to force my father to keep me as a son, and not as a mouse born in a cellar.

Scene Two. A Cellar

The Baron alone, among his chests, with a lamp.

BARON. As a young rake waits for a meeting with some sly harlot, or with a foolish girl he has deceived, so I have waited all day for this moment, to come down to my secret cellar, to my faithful chests. A happy day! Today I can pour into the sixth chest, not yet full, another handful of gold I have gathered. It seems little enough; but so, little by little, treasures grow. I have read somewhere of a king who ordered his soldiers each to bring a handful of earth, and they made a heap, and the heap became a proud hill, and from its height the king could gaze on the valley, white with tents, and on the sea, with its running ships. So I, bringing my poor tribute, handful by handful, have raised my hill; and from its height I can look upon all that is in my power. What is not in my power? Like some demon I can rule the world from here; if I wish, palaces will rise; into my splendid gardens nymphs will run in a merry crowd; the Muses will bring me their tribute; free genius will be my slave; virtue and sleepless labour will wait humbly for my reward. I whistle — and bloody villainy will creep to me, obediently, timidly, lick my hand and look into my eyes, to read my will. Everything obeys me, and I — nothing; I am above all desire; I am calm; I know my power: this knowledge is enough for me.

(He looks at his gold.) It seems little; but how many human cares, deceits, tears, prayers and curses it represents! Here is an old doubloon: a widow brought it me today, but first she knelt half the day with three children under my window, wailing. It rained, it stopped, it rained again; she stood there. I could have driven her away; but something whispered that she had brought her husband's debt to me, and would not want to be in prison tomorrow. And this one? This was brought by Thibault — where would he get it, the idle rogue? Stole it, of course; or perhaps on the high road, at night, in a wood... Yes! If all the tears, the blood and sweat that have been shed for all that is stored here should rise from the depths of the earth, there would be another flood — I should choke in my faithful cellars.

I want to give myself a feast today: I shall light a candle before each chest, and open all of them, and stand among them, and gaze on the shining heaps. (He lights candles and opens the chests one by one.) I reign! What a magic gleam! Obedient to me, my power is strong; happiness is here, my honour and my glory. I reign... But who will rule here after me? My heir! A madman, a young spendthrift, companion of riotous rakes! As soon as I am dead, he will come here, under these silent vaults, with a crowd of greedy, flattering courtiers. He will steal the keys from my corpse, and open the chests with a laugh, and my treasures will flow into satin pockets with holes in them. He will smash the sacred vessels, give royal oil to drink to the dirt. He will squander... and by what right? Did I get all this for nothing, or in fun, like a gambler who rattles dice and rakes in heaps? Who knows how many bitter abstinences, curbed passions, heavy thoughts, cares by day, sleepless nights all this has cost me? Or will my son say that my heart is grown over with moss, that I have known no desires, that conscience never gnawed me — conscience, the clawed beast that scratches the heart, the uninvited guest, the tiresome talker, the rude creditor, the witch before whom the moon dims and the graves are troubled and send forth their dead? No: first suffer to gain riches, and then we'll see whether the wretch will scatter what he has won with blood. Oh, if only I could hide this cellar from the eyes of the unworthy! If only I could come from the grave as a guardian shade, sit on my chests, and keep my treasures from the living, as I keep them now!

Scene Three. In the Palace

Albert and the Duke.

ALBERT. Believe me, sir, I have long borne the shame of bitter poverty. If it were not for extremity, you would not have heard my complaint.

DUKE. I believe you. A noble knight like you would not accuse his father without cause. Don't worry; I will reason with your father alone, without a fuss. I am expecting him. We have not seen each other for a long time. He was my grandfather's friend. I remember, when I was still a boy, he would put me on his horse and cover me with his heavy helmet like a bell. (He looks out.) Who is that? Is it he?

ALBERT. It is, sir.

DUKE. Go into that room. I'll call you. (Albert goes out. The Baron enters.) Baron, I am glad to see you well and hale. Why do you come to court so seldom?

BARON. I am old now, my lord. What should I do at court? But if war came, I would drag myself out, and draw my old sword for you.

DUKE. You have a son?

BARON. I have.

DUKE. Why is he not at court? He is a fine young knight. Send him to me, and give him a fitting allowance.

BARON. Forgive me, Duke; my son is unworthy of your favour. He is wild, given to low vices. He — he wanted to kill me.

DUKE. To kill you! Baron, this is a terrible charge.

BARON. He wanted to rob me, and kill me.

(Albert bursts in.)

ALBERT. Baron, you lie!

DUKE. (to Albert) How dare you —

BARON. You are here! You dare to say such a word to your father! I lie! And before our sovereign! — Then here is my glove; let the sword decide between us. (He throws down his glove; Albert seizes it.)

ALBERT. Thank you. This is my father's first gift.

DUKE. What have I seen? A son accepting his father's challenge! In what times have I put on the ducal chain! Be silent, madman! And you, old man, are you not ashamed? Give me that glove. (He takes it.) Go, unhappy son; do not come before my eyes until I call you. (Albert goes out.)

BARON. Forgive me, sir... I cannot stand... my knees are failing... it's stifling... stifling... where are the keys? The keys, my keys!...

DUKE. He is dead. God! A terrible age, terrible hearts!