The Queen.
Look at him! A ray of light is of more value to him than all the foolish, gaudy songs of love. Is it not true? See, his very silence and bow betoken decided resistance.
The Painter.
Madam, forgive me if my words and bearing were an occasion and reason for misunderstanding. I speak now, because you call on me to speak. Every ray of light is a ray of love, and if its portrayer were to shut it out, I should like to know what would remain of this poor art which derives its sublimest power from the sources of desire. If our heart does not tremble in our hand, if into the flood of forms which stream from it, no flash of inner lightning shines, how shall we express in these colours life's image, the storm of the passions, the shy play of slight feeling, the desperate vacillation of exhausted hope, and all the rest of our inner life? In these seven blotched colours (points to the palette) where the whole wide universe is portrayed, where if our senses are starving for truth, is phantasy to look for food and deliverance? Yet if we have to speak with wisdom, elegantly and cleverly, then the mysterious volition is silent and the promised land recedes far away from us. Therefore, madam, leave me what belongs to us who are poor, the sacred right to create and to be silent.
The Queen.
You call yourself poor and yet you are rich. You might be equal to the rulers of this earth. Yet what avails the kingdom of your vision? The splendid gift of confidence is wanting to you.
The Painter.
How, your Majesty?
The Queen.
Like a Harpagon, you guard the treasures of your soul, lest any of your feelings should be stolen. No one risks it--Jean, give me my smelling-bottle.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
She inflames him.
The Marquis in Pink.
On the contrary, she cools him off.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Just to inflame him anew.
The Marquis in Pink.
I wonder if she truly loves him?
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
At any rate, she wishes to excite him.
The Queen.
There, Jean,merci.... Yet what was I about to say, has no one seen anything of our Marshal?
The Marquis in Pink(softly).
Is he still missing?
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Why does she wanthim, too?
The Queen.
I really believe the good Marshal is offended. It is three days since I spoke to him graciously at the state reception.... That seems long to me.
The Painter(turning toThe Queen).
Is the Marshal back? The Marshal here?
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
May it please your Majesty, a gentleman of the court met him to-day. He was standing in a pouring rain, and trying a new sword.
The Painter(to himself).
The Marshal.
The Marquis In Pink.
(Half aloud toThe Painter.) Admit, sir, that his coming is inconvenient to you?
The Queen.
Do you know him, master?
The Painter.
Your Majesty, I have never seen him.
The Queen.
Yet you would like to make his acquaintance?
The Painter.
That I don't know.
The Marquis in Pink.
(Softly toThe Marquis in Pale Blue.) How the coward betrays himself!
The Painter.
Too often I have heard his name spoken in wonder, here with disfavour, there with enthusiasm, yet always as if a miracle was happening to me, too often for me not to view with apprehension the nearness of this powerful man.
The Marquis in Pink.
What did I say? He is afraid.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
That is splendid!
The Marquis in Pink.
We must see to that and profit by it. (Aloud.) Yet I advise you, dear master, hold your own. He has a habit sometimes of running people through. Yet----
The Painter.
As one impales flies--of an afternoon--on the wall? My felicitations, Marquis! Happily for you, it is plain that he has never been bored.
The Marquis in Pink.
How do you intend that?
The Queen.
Gentlemen, I must beg you! At court, the master has good company. It amuses me when he meets your insolence with wit and spirit, and gives you a return thrust. Only try the experiment! I am waiting.... Please, Jean, my handkerchief!
The Marquis in Pink.
I have a right to be angry!
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Yes, indeed, you have been insulted!
The Marquis in Pink.
Ha! Fearful is a man in anger! What do you think--can the dauber defend himself?
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Attack him first from behind, then to his face.
The Queen.
I thank you, Jean.... Well, now, you dear men, you whisper, sulk, and mutter to each other. What is the use of my kindling your wit? I don't strike even a little spark from the stone. So you are dismissed.... Take a holiday. And do you, my children, go home. But in a little while, master, let us talk together, after our hearts' desire! The ladies of the suite--they will not disturb you.
The Marquis in Pink.
I believe it. One of them is asleep.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
The other can't hear.
The Queen.
Good-bye! I wish you to go home to do penance for your sins of love. (Goes to the door on the right.) One thing more. When you see the good Marshal, give him my greetings. (Exit, followed by the ladies. Only the sleepy lady remains, sitting.)
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
(Softly to the deaf lady.) Pst! Wake her! (She nods to him pleasantly and goes out.) Ah, yes, she is deaf!
The Marquis in Pink.
(Pointing at the lady asleep.) Pluck her by the sleeve.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Fräulein, allow me?
The Sleepy Maid Of Honour.
(Springs up with a little cry, makes a low curtsey toThe Marquis,which he returns in kind, then follows the other ladies.)
THE MARQUISES.THE PAINTER.
(The Painterpaints, without noticing the others, then takes a buttered roll from his pocket and eats.)
The Marquis in Pink.
Ha, now I am going to kill him!
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Don't you know it is forbidden? The punishment would be severe. They say, too, that he wields a keen blade, and before you know it you are dead as a mouse.
The Marquis in Pink.
I am surprised at that. Yet whether we love or hate him, one thing is as clear to me as day: he must not be allowed to quit this palace alive.
Another Marquis.
Pardon me, Marquis, why not?
The Marquis in Pink.
You don't see deeply into this, Marquis. It seems almost as if you were a simpleton. Has she not mocked us, and exclaimed at our cooing, rustling, sweet speaking, and whimpering? Yet she delights to have him paint her; and as a reward, she loves him.
The Second Marquis.
Ha, terrible!
The Third Marquis.
Who told you that?
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Have pity on us, friend, and give us proofs!
The Marquis in Pink.
Well, his Majesty (all bow) is, alas, well on in years! (All assent sorrowfully.) Whom else does she love? There must at any rate be some one!
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
For God's sake, be prudent and speak softly!
The Marquis in Pink.
What is he doing there?
The Second Marquis.
He is eating.
The Marquis in Pink.
Fie, how vulgar!
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
What will happen to the Marshal?
The Marquis in Pink.
That seems to me doubtful. Sometimes she is pleasant with him, sometimes ill-humoured. I have tried to get rid of him, but he still stays by me. He causes me the pangs of jealousy. She must love one of us. We are here for that purpose. Yet inasmuch as this wandering fellow has stolen her heart, he must die--and that on the spot.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Patience, Marquis, patience! Of all the means of shaking off this insolent fellow, there is one which is really exquisite. Without breaking the laws, if we set the Marshal on him, instead of being disturbers of the peace, we shall escape scot-free. He dies, of course, and it would be a wonder--yet what am I saying?--He is already as good as a dead sparrow.
(All chuckle.)
The Marquis in Pink.
Dead sparrow is excellent!
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
This murder--listen--is bound to put the other one into disfavour. The King's Majesty (all bow) will shorten his leave of absence, and we, we shall be freed of him.
(All chuckle.)
The Painter.
What are they about? Alas, if they are glad, perhaps that means the ruin of some man of honour. Perhaps they are meditating some ribaldry. But in truth, what matters to me this vermin?
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Now let us send out a message hastily to the Marshal, that we are gathered in the antechamber, and while this poor dead mouse--no, pardon me sparrow!--stammers his love to her, he, driven by us to extremes, will burst in unannounced--and this fellow is detected.
The Marquis in Pink.
Very good! But if things turn out differently, what then?
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Never mind! Take advantage of the right moment. No more is needed. For she cannot refrain, she must see people kneel to her.
The Marquis in Pink.
Famous! Brilliant! A splendid plan! (ToThe Painter,with a low bow which all imitate.) Honoured sir, permit us to greet you!
The Painter(very politely).
My greeting implies the esteem of which you are aware.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
We lay our esteem at your feet! (After further bows, whichThe Paintergood-humouredly returns,The Marquisesdepart at the centre.)
(The Paintersmiling, continues to paint.)
THE PAINTER.THE VALET DE CHAMBRE.ThenTHE DEAF MAID OF HONOUR.THE SLEEPY MAID OF HONOUR.THE QUEEN.
(The Valetentering from the left, greetsThe Painterwith condescending nods, and walks over to the throne.)
The Painter.
Eh!--what?... Ah, indeed! (Laughs aloud.) Strange world, where the lackey carries his head the highest!
(Valetafter arranging the cushions, places himself before the easel, and ogles the portrait.)
The Painter.
What is it?
The Valet.
(Pleasantly, as a connoisseur.) Ah these little furrows in the cheeks! (Benevolently.) It can't be expected, sir, of you that your brush should do justice to every fine point. Yet--aside from that--the likeness is good.
The Painter(laughing heartily).
Indeed?
The Valet.
(Opening the door on the left, announces.) Her Majesty!
The Painter.
I scent trouble in this, and a voice says to me flee! I have already committed many a folly, but I never loved a queen! Take heed to yourself!
(The Two Maids of Honourhave entered during this soliloquy, and have taken their positions to the right and left of the door.)
The Queen.
(Nods cordially toThe Painter,and takes her seat on the throne, as before.) My dear Jean, I must dispense with you now. Don't stay too late.
(Exit Jean.)
THE QUEEN.THE PAINTER.THE DEAF MAID OF HONOUR(who seats herself behind the screen).THE SLEEPY MAID OF HONOUR(who falls asleep directly on a chair near the door on the left).
The Queen.
Well, master, tell me: what is Genius doing?
The Painter.
Oh, your Majesty, he is pursuing Beauty.
The Queen.
Yet since Beauty lingers no more on earth, your genius will soon grow weary.
The Painter.
How so? Does your Majesty think it roams in the sky? It lingers just at the goal and cries: Oh behold! and what thou beholdest, that give to eternity!
The Queen.
I did not know, my dear master, that you were so ready with your compliments. Very well! As a man of many travels and of great reputation, you tread continually on the scorn of men; and since we are here chatting in confidence, take heart and tell me without reserve, tell me quite frankly: am I really beautiful?
The Painter.
If I were to speak as a man, every word would be presumptuous. Yet you ask the painter only. And he says that his hand is withered with anxiety lest on this canvas there will be found only a pale blotted vapour seen by a blind man.
The Queen.
There spoke the painter. But what says the man?
The Painter.
He has no opinion, your Majesty!
The Queen.
What a pity! One hears now and then this thing and that thing, yet that seems to me insipid above all things. And one must be strict and always be suppressing--suppressing. You don't need that. So I tell you discreetly, I can't resist the suspicion that my beauty is leaving me. Yes, indeed. And besides that, I am growing old. Yes, indeed. I am almost thirty, and the matron has to go to the rear. I indeed do what I can. They take great pains with me. And my late brother used to send me a beauty powder from the holy sepulchre which was good for my complexion. Then it is my habit to wash myself with the extract of lilies, and off and on to nibble at arsenic bonbons. That is very good--the eyes flash, and the blood comes to the cheeks.... (Alarmed.) It seems to me I am confiding in you.
The Painter.
Consider me as a thing--as a slave!
The Queen.
And you know how to be silent? Tell me--swear!
The Painter.
What you did not will me to hear, that I have not heard. What I did not hear, I cannot keep as a secret.
The Queen.
Lofty sentiment and noble will find expression in you. So, in all silence, I may show your heart what favours are granted to you.
The Painter(tremulously).
Am I worth it? And if you regret it to-morrow?
The Queen.
I do not know a to-morrow nor a to-day. My weary sense with crippled wing never strays into the far future, for ah! I, poor, poor Queen, suffer from intense melancholy. I have too much feeling. I have told you that already, and then I am tired of my throne in this world of dreary elegance, where----
The Painter.
Your Majesty! Remember the ladies there!
The Queen.
Ah, the ladies! No chance favours me. That you have perceived already. Yet there is no question of the ladies. One doesn't hear a word; the other sleeps, even while standing up.
The Painter.
Sure enough.... Yet when I consider----
The Queen.
Consider nothing.... Give me only a consoling word, which in the sultriness of this perverted nature may penetrate my soul like a breath from the forest. You are a man!
The Painter(laughing to himself).
Who has lost his head!
The Queen.
So I saw him in my dreams. I feel, too, that you could quite overflow, and I am a little afraid of it.
The Painter.
(Controlling himself with difficulty.) Oh, fear nothing. I know very well the barrier between me and the height of your throne. Not a desire, not a thought, rises to you.
The Queen.
And yet you think that I am beautiful?
The Painter(impulsively).
Yes, you are beautiful! You--(restraining himself). Your Majesty, I beg you to turn a little more to the left.
The Queen.
(Turns her head quite to the left.) So?
The Painter.
Yes.
The Queen.
What are you painting now?
The Painter.
Your hand.
The Queen(pointing to her face).
And it is for that, that I am to turn to the left?
The Painter.
I meant, just to the centre.
The Queen.
Is the hand well posed?
The Painter.
Very well.
The Queen.
Can you see it from where you sit?
The Painter.
No, yes--(she laughs). Forgive me if I am talking nonsense.
The Queen(spreading out her hand).
Here you have it! How the sapphire sparkles! A beautiful stone!... You praised my face, but yet you don't say whether you like my hand.
The Painter.
Instead of finding fault with me, look! I have painted it.
The Queen(pouting).
You have indeed painted it, but you have not kissed it. From that I conclude that it is not attractive.
The Painter.
And forgive me, if I transgress the rules of your court, more from shyness than from want of intelligence. Even so, the sailor knows well the laws of the stars' movements and yet must often sail a false course.
The Queen.
It seems as if you wished to avoid the subject. I was speaking of a hand--you speak of stars.
The Painter.
You were speaking of your hand and that is so far from me that even the eternal will, the might which compels the starry heaven, brings it not one inch nearer to me.
The Queen.
Indeed, do you believe that? (She rises and goes to the easel.) Now pray what happened? You willed nothing and compelled nothing, yet please observe--the hand is there.
The Painter.
Madam, where others fell down before you, here it is my duty to warn you. I am not a simple shepherd, and never do I let people make game of me.
The Queen.
Ah, now it becomes interesting! You look at me as savagely as if a hatred quite unappeased and unappeasable possessed you.
The Painter.
A hatred? No, what I laughingly veiled from you was not hatred, no--yetifI hate, I hate myself, because, dazzled with splendour, like a drowning man I grasp at the little words which you mockingly deal out to me; because, after the manner of a venal courtier, I quite forgot the pride of the man, and by your favour ate sweetmeats greedily from these hands! Yes, just show them--the white fairy[3]hands laden with the splendid tokens of love: yet stop--think of the end, by the holy God--I recognise myself no more.
The Queen.
Never yet did I hear such words.
The Painter.
When did you ever bow yourself to force? When did passion build you a throne on the ruins of the universe, the only throne to win which is more than an idle pastime, on which in splendid grandeur, instead of all the queens, sits Woman! And if a drone playing in colours ever indeed won a smile from you, take from me but your crown, for I, oh Queen, am--a man!
The Queen.
(Shrinking back to the throne.) Enough, I should not listen to you any longer.
The Painter.
You must. You have so willed it.
The Queen.
I will beg you, sir, I will conjure you.
The Painter.
Too late. You offered me love's pay as you would throw a gold piece into the cap of a beggar crouching in the street, and if I, thrilled now by hot desire, employ the only moment of life which commits you into my hands, I will not have you play with me any longer. I will, and you--you--must--before this throne our alliance is ratified. Take away the hand. That, others may kiss, but I, Queen, will have the mouth. I will----
THE SAME.THE MARSHAL.
The Queen.
(Who until now has listened, anxious but not altogether unfriendly, collects herself, and draws herself up in sudden anger.) I deliver this insolent fellow to you, Marshal. Deal with him as he deserves. (She goes to the door. There she stops, and givesThe Sleepy Maid of Honourtwo angry little blows with her fan. The latter springs up, bows, and goes out gravely behindThe Queen,withThe Deaf Maid of Honour,who has risen.)
THE MARSHAL.THE PAINTER.
The Marshal.
Sir, if you wish to say a paternoster, make haste with it.
The Painter.
Your magnanimity affects me deeply, Marshal. But my soul carries light baggage. Even so, it will journey to heaven. And instead of a last testament, I present this portrait to you, so that, in the confusion, no serious danger may happen to it.
The Marshal.
By your will, it has become mine, and I will gladly keep it. So, draw your sword!
The Painter.
I, sir?