B00ARI2G5C EBOK (14 page)

He was pot-paunched—This one’s a stick—

4760

THE EMPEROR
. And so, right trusty friends, we say

Welcome to you from near and far.

We meet under a favourable star;

The heavens presage good luck today.

But tell me: in these glad times, when

We all cast off our cares again,

Put on our carnival masks, and try

Merely to take our pleasure, why

Must problems of the State torment us?

Yet, since you judge them to be so momentous,

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I gave consent; now give me your reply.

THE CHANCELLOR
. About your head, Sire, like a halo, lies

One supreme virtue: none can exercise

It fully but the Emperor. It is known

As Justice!—All men love, desire, demand

To have it, all men sorely miss it—and the hand

Dispensing it to all is yours alone.

But what can wisdom still avail, alas,

Or the heart’s goodness or the willing arm,

When raging through the realm wild fevers pass,

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And evils breed from evil’s brood of harm?

Look down from this high place, look far and wide

Over the empire: it must seem

A nightmare of deformity, a dream

Of monsters, law to lawless power unfurled,

And rooting error spread about the world.

One man steals flocks, the next a wife,

A third the altar’s treasury:

And yet can boast himself scot-free

From pains of law to limb or life.

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While plaintiffs throng the hall, and from

His sumptuous seat the judge looks down,

Rebellion like a gathering storm

Mutters and laps. Must justice drown

In these fierce waves? A miscreant

Protected by accomplices can vaunt

His crimes, while he whom only guiltlessness

Defends is pronounced guilty none the less.

And thus society falls to pieces,

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Order and decency decay;

How shall men not be led astray

As the true guiding instinct stunts and ceases?

So in the end good men and true

Succumb to bribes and flattery,

And judges can impose no penalty

For crime, but become criminals too.

I have painted a black picture, but I would

Draw blacker veils across it if I could.

[
A pause
.]

Your Majesty, decisions must be taken.

The imperial throne itself is shaken

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When all inflict, when all endure such harm.

THE ARMY COMMANDER
. Sire, these are wild chaotic days.

Deaf to all orders, each man trusts his arm,

Every man for himself is slain or slays.

The burgher, snug behind his walls,

The knight, high on his rocky perch,

Vow they’ll survive even though the Empire falls;

Their powers leave us in the lurch.

Our mercenary soldiers grow

Impatient, they demand their pay;

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But for the money we still owe

Them all, they’d all have run away.

And we can’t stop them doing as they please;

That would stir up real trouble. So

The land they should protect, by these

Brigands it’s plundered and laid low.

We let them rage and eat their fill:

Now half the world’s already lost.

Some neighbouring kings are allied to us still,

But none of them thinks he should share the cost.

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THE TREASURER
. Who’d boast of allies of that sort!

Where are their subsidies, their pledged support?

They’re leaking pipes that have run dry.

Moreover, Sire, in your domains

What has become of property?

The new rich, living on their gains,

They set up house; they are ubiquitous,

And they seek independence. We look on,

And what else can we do, having foregone

So many rights? What still belongs to us

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By right? And parties, though they may

Call themselves this or that, no one today

Can trust them either. They commend

And they find fault, but in the end

Their love or hate’s turned cold. The Ghibelline
*

Lies low, the Guelph
*
has quit the scene.

They’re in hiding, they’re tired of helping neighbours;

It’s for himself these days that each man labours.

The gates of gold are locked and barred.

They’re digging for it, scraping, scratching hard;

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And our coffers are empty as before.

THE STEWARD
. I too have to report calamities.

We’re daily trying to economize,

And yet we’re daily spending more;

Daily my problems are increased.

The cooks lack neither fowl nor beast:

Wild boar and stags and hares and deer,

Turkeys and chickens, geese and ducks—

Payments in kind, a steady flux

Of rents—all these we get, no problem here;

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But we are short of wine, I fear.

Our cellars, cask on cask, were once replete

With finest vintages; but this supply,

My lords, since we so endlessly compete

In our potations, is drained almost dry.

Even the town councils’ stocks are tapped, they swill

From bowls and tankards with a will,

And feasts end up under the table.

As for the wages I’m supposed to pay—

The Jew will squeeze as hard as he is able;

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I get advances from him, years ahead.

We buy tomorrow what we eat today,

We slaughter pigs while they’re still thin,

We pawn the very beds we’re sleeping in;

In fact we are living, Sire, on mortgaged bread.

THE EMPEROR
[
after reflecting a little, to
MEPHISTOPHELES]
.

Well, fool, do you too have some gloom to shed?

MEPHISTOPHELES
. By no means, Majesty! Such light shines round us

From yourself and those near you! How could doubt confound us

Where such a lord wields such authority,

Such power to strike down any enemy?

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Where good will is made strong by wisdom, where

A host of hands is busy everywhere,

How could misfortune now or ill intent

Bring gloom to such a starry firmament!

MURMURS FROM THE CROWD
.

This sly rogue knows—what he’s about—

He’ll be well in—till he’s found out—

He’s up to something—I guess what—

What do you guess?—Some scheme he’s got—

MEPHISTOPHELES
. Do we not all lack something, of one sort

Or another? Here it’s money that’s run short.

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It does not grow on trees, that’s true, I fear;

But from the depths wisdom can bring it here.

There is gold in the earth, coined and uncoined,
*

Hoards hidden under walls, rocks precious-veined:

This treasure’s for the wise man to collect,

By Nature’s power and human intellect.

THE CHANCELLOR
. Nature and Intellect! Who dares profess

Such dangerous heresy to Christian ears?

Atheists have been burnt for less.

Nature is sin, the intellect’s ideas

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Are Satan’s, and between them Doubt is bred,

The mongrel offspring of their monstrous bed.

Away with them!—The Emperor’s lands are old,

And here two native kindreds are alone

The worthy guardians of his throne:

The men of God, and all our bold

And valiant knights. Against the storms of fate

They are proof, and their reward is Church and State.

There are confused plebeian minds in whom

The spirit of revolt finds room:

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Such men are heretics and sorcerers,

The empire’s ruined and the fault is theirs.

And you, fool, with your insolent arts,

Would smuggle them in here! They are close kin

To fools, and quite depraved by sin.

We cannot trust such black corrupted hearts.

MEPHISTOPHELES
. I recognize a learned scholar’s speech!

What your hands cannot touch, lies far beyond your reach;

What your minds cannot grasp or calculate,

Does not exist for you; nothing has weight

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If you have not first weighed it; and unless

A coin was struck by you, you think it valueless.

THE EMPEROR
. None of this solves our problems; I can see

No point, sir, in your Lenten homily.

I’m sick of all this endless hem and hum.

We need more money: all right, get us some!

MEPHISTOPHELES
. I will get what you need, I will get more;

The way is easy, though the task is sore.

The gold’s already there for us to find,

But that’s the art: how shall it be divined?

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Consider: in those days of terror, when

A human flood covered the land, how then

So many, here and there, in mortal fear,

Secretly hid the treasures they held dear.

Such is the custom, now as long ago;

Since the Romans were great it has been so.

All this lies buried in the Emperor’s ground—

And is the Emperor’s property when found.

THE TREASURER
. Well, for a fool, that’s not a bad suggestion;

The Emperor has these ancient rights, no question.

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THE CHANCELLOR
. Satan lays golden snares to catch you all!

The whole thing’s impious and unnatural.

THE STEWARD
. If I could give the court a decent dinner,

I’d not mind all that much being a sinner.

THE ARMY COMMANDER
. He’s a sound fool; he knows

what’s good for us.

As for his methods, soldiers mustn’t fuss.

MEPHISTOPHELES
. Perhaps you do not trust me? I refer

You to this expert: ask the Astrologer!
*

The heaven’s houses he can scan, he can peruse

Its hours; come, tell us the celestial news!

4950

MURMURS FROM THE CROWD
.

A pair of rogues—So near the throne—

Dreamer and fool—They speak as one—

The Wise Man—(here’s a tale we’ve heard!)

Talks, and the Fool—prompts every word—

THE ASTROLOGER
[
with
MEPHISTOPHELES
prompting]
.

The Sun itself, it is pure gold, they say;

Mercury runs for favour and for pay

As messenger; Venus who charms all men

Gleams in the dawn and in the dusk again;

The chaste Moon shines inconstantly, and Mars

Smites you or threatens you with his fierce wars.

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Jupiter is the fairest light of all;

Saturn is great, but seems far off and small.

As metal we do not esteem him much,

For he is base, though heavy to the touch.

But when the Sun and Moon have joined together,

Silver to gold—then all the world’s fine weather!

When we have them, we can buy all the rest:

Palaces, gardens, red cheeks, a plump breast—

All this our learned scholar will provide,

For he succeeds where no one else has tried.

4970

THE EMPEROR
. I hear his whole speech twice, but I confess

It sounds like nonsense none the less.

MURMURS FROM THE CROWD
. What’s all this bluff?—

It’s stale old stuff—

I’ve heard such bosh—Alchemical tosh—

And horoscopes—They raise false hopes—

He’d be the same—A swindler’s game—

MEPHISTOPHELES
. They stand around and gape, poor brutes;

They doubt my high discovery.

They blether about mandrake roots

Or the black dog, denouncing sorcery,

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Showing their wits off; what will that avail

When their sure-footed footsteps fail,

And when their soles begin to itch

With magic that can make them rich!

From her profundities do you not sense

Great Nature’s timeless power, a living trace

Of her mysterious influence,

Her deep caress, the touch of her embrace?

When all your limbs are twitching so,

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And you can smell the eerie air—

Set to and dig, and hack and hoe:

The golden fiddler’s buried there!

MURMURS FROM THE CROWD
.

My foot’s asleep—It’s passed right out—

My arm’s like lead—I must have gout—

I’ve got an itch in my great toe—

My whole back hurts—If we’re to go

By these strange signs, this place must be

A wondrous buried treasury!

THE EMPEROR
. Be quick then; you shan’t wriggle out

Of it this time, so try your fine words out:

5000

Show us these noble places you know well!

I’ll lay my sword and sceptre down,

If you’re not lying, and my own

Imperial hands themselves this work shall crown;

If you are lying, then I’ll pack you off to hell!

MEPHISTOPHELES
. (I dare say I could find my own way there).

But I must emphasize, this treasure’s everywhere:

It’s ownerless, waiting to be discovered.

The peasant ploughs his furrow, lifts the soil,

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And as it turns, a pot of gold’s uncovered;

He scrapes saltpetre from his limestone walls

And in his startled hand, all shrunk with toil,

Finds to his joy a golden purse that falls

From some forgotten hollow. And the initiate,

What vaults he must blow open underground,

What clefts, what passages are to be found,

Close to the underworld! He’ll penetrate