Presently after, the dwarf, the eunuch, and the hermaphrodite of the house sing a sort of pagan and fantastic interlude; they chant in strange verses the metamorphoses of the hermaphrodite, who was first the soul of Pythagoras. We are at Venice, in the palace of the magnifico Volpone. These deformed creatures, the splendor of gold, this strange and poetical buffoonery, carry the thought immediately to the sensual city, queen of vices and of arts.
The rich Volpone lives like an ancient Greek or Roman. Childless and without relatives, playing the invalid, he makes all his flatterers hope to be his heir, receives their gifts,
"Letting the cherry knock against their lips,
And draw it by their mouths, and back again."[545]
Glad to have their gold, but still more glad to deceive them, artistic in wickedness as in avarice, and just as pleased to look at a contortion of suffering as at the sparkle of a ruby.
The advocate Voltore arrives, bearing a "huge piece of plate." Volpone throws himself on his bed, wraps himself in furs, heaps up his pillows, and coughs as if at the point of death:
"Volpone. I thank you, signior Voltore,
Where is the plate? mine eyes are bad.... Your love
Hath taste in this, and shall not be unanswer'd....
I cannot now last long.... I fell me going—
Uh, uh, uh, uh!"[546]
He closes his eyes, as though exhausted:
"Voltore. Am I inscrib'd his heir for certain?
Mosca (Volpone's Parasite). Are you!
I do beseech you, sir, you will vouchsafe
To write me in your family. All my hopes
Depend upon your worship: I am lost,
Except the rising sun do shine on me.
Volt. It shall both shine and warm thee, Mosca.
M. Sir,
I am man, that hath not done your love
All the worst offices: here I wear your keys,
See all your coffers and your caskets lock'd,
Keep the poor inventory of your jewels,
Your plate and monies; am your steward, sir,
Husband your goods here.
Volt. But am I sole heir?
M. Without a partner, sir; confirm'd this morning
The wax is warm yet, and the ink scarce dry
Upon the parchment.
Volt. Happy, happy me!
By what good chance, sweet Mosca?
M. Your desert, sir;
I know no second cause."[547]
And he details the abundance of the wealth in which Voltore is about to revel, the gold which is to pour upon him, the opulence which is to flow in his house as a river:
"When will you have your inventory brought, sir?
Or see a copy of the will?"