Scene III.
PRINCE.
Her portrait! Let it come; it is not herself. But perhaps I may see in the picture what I can no longer find in her person. But I have no wish to make such a discovery. The importunate painter! I almost believe that she has bribed him. But even were it so, if another picture which is pourtrayed in brighter colours and on a different canvas, could be obliterated to make room for her once more in my heart, I really think that I should be content. When I loved the Countess, I was ever gay, sprightly, and cheerful; now I am the reverse. But no, no, no; happy or unhappy, it is better as it is.
Scene IV.
The Prince, Conti, with the portraits; he places one with the face reversed against a chair, and prepares to show the other.
CONTI.
I beg your Highness will bear in mind the limits of our art; much of the highest perfection of beauty lies altogether beyond its limits. Look at it in this position.
PRINCE (after a brief inspection).
Excellent! Conti, most excellent! It does credit to your taste,--to your skill. But flattered, Conti--quite, infinitely flattered!
CONTI.
The original did not seem to be of your opinion. But, in truth, she is not more flattered than art is bound to flatter. It is the province of art to paint as plastic nature--if there is such a thing--intended her original design, without the defects which the unmanageable materials render inevitable, and free from the ravages which result from a conflict with time.
PRINCE.
The intelligent artist has therefore double merit. But the original, you say, notwithstanding all this----
CONTI.
Pardon me, Prince! The original is a person who commands my respect. I did not intend to insinuate anything to her disadvantage.
PRINCE.
As much as you please. But what said the original?
CONTI.
"I am satisfied," said the Countess, "if I am not plainer."
PRINCE.
Not plainer! The original herself!
CONTI.
And she uttered this with an expression of which the portrait affords no trace, no idea.
PRINCE.
That is just what I meant; therein lies your infinite flattery. Oh! I know well her proud, contemptuous look, which would disfigure the face of one of the Graces. I do not deny that a handsome mouth set off with a slight curl of scorn, sometimes acquires thereby additional beauty. But, observe, it must be only slight; the look must not amount to grimace, as it does with this Countess. The eyes, too, must keep control over the disdainful charmer; eyes which the worthy Countess decidedly does not possess. You do not even give them to her in the picture.
CONTI.
Your Highness, I am perfectly amazed.
PRINCE.
And wherefore? All that could be achieved by the resources of art out of the great prominent staring Medusa eyes of the Countess, you have honourably accomplished. Honourably, I say, but less honourably would have been more honest; for tell me yourself, Conti, is the character of the individual expressed by this picture? yet it should be. You have converted pride into dignity, disdain into a smile, and the gloom of discontent into soft melancholy.
CONTI (somewhat vexed).
Ah! Prince, we painters expect that a portrait when finished will find the lover as warm as when he ordered it. We paint with eyes of love, and the eyes of love alone must judge our works.
PRINCE.
'Tis true, Conti; but why did you not bring it a month sooner? Lay it aside. What is the other?
CONTI (taking it up and holding it still reversed).
It is also a female portrait.
PRINCE.
Then I had almost rather not see it; for the ideal depicted here (pointing to his forehead), or rather here (laying his hand upon his heart), it cannot equal. I should like, Conti, to admire your art in other subjects.
CONTI.
There may be more admirable examples of art, but a more admirable subject than this cannot exist.
PRINCE.
Then I'll lay a wager, Conti, that it is the portrait of the artist's own mistress. (Conti turns the picture.) What do I see? Your work, Conti, or the work of my fancy? Emilia Galotti!
CONTI.
How, Prince! do you know this angel?
PRINCE (endeavouring to compose himself, but unable to remove his eyes from the picture).
A little; just enough to recognise her. A few weeks ago I met her with her mother at an assembly; since then I have only seen her in sacred places, where staring is unseemly. I know her father also; he is not my friend. He it was who most violently opposed my pretensions to Sabionetta. He is a veteran, proud and unpolished, but upright and brave.
CONTI.
You speak of the father, this is the daughter.
PRINCE.
By Heavens! you must have stolen the resemblance from her mirror (with his eyes still rivetted on the picture). Oh, you well know, Conti, that we praise the artist most when we forget his merits in his works.
CONTI.
Yet I am extremely dissatisfied with this portrait, and nevertheless I am satisfied with being dissatisfied with myself. Alas! that we cannot paint directly with our eyes! On the long journey from the eye through the arm to the pencil, how much is lost! But, as I have already said, though I know what is lost, and how and why it is lost, I am as proud and prouder of this loss than of what I have preserved. For by the former I perceive more than by the latter, that I am a good painter, though my hand is not always so. Or do you hold, Prince, that Raffaelle would not have been the greatest of all artists even had he unfortunately been born without hands?
PRINCE (turning his eyes a moment from the picture).
What do you say, Conti? What was your enquiry?
CONTI.
Oh, nothing--nothing; mere idle observations! Your soul, I observe, was wholly in your eyes. I like such souls and such eyes.
PRINCE (affecting coldness).
And so, Conti, you really consider Emilia Galotti amongst the first beauties of our city.
CONTI.
Amongst them? Amongst the first? The first of our city? You jest, Prince, or your eyesight must have been all this time as insensible as your hearing.
PRINCE.
Dear Conti (again fixing his eyes on the picture), how can we uninitiated trust our eyes? In fact, none but an artist can judge of beauty.
CONTI.
And must the feeling of every person wait for the decision of a painter? To a cloister with him who would learn from us what is beautiful! But this much I must own to you, as a painter, Prince. It is one of the greatest delights of my life that Emilia Galotti has sat to me. This head, this countenance, this forehead, these eyes, this nose, this mouth, this chin, this neck, this bosom, this shape, this whole form, are from the present time forward my only model of female beauty. The original picture for which she sat, is in the possession of her absent father. But this copy----
PRINCE (turning to him quickly).
Well, Conti--is not surely bespoke already?
CONTI.
Is for you, Prince, if it affords you any pleasure.
PRINCE.
Pleasure! (smiling.) How can I do better than make your model of female beauty my own? There, take back that other portrait, and order a frame for it.
CONTI.
Good.
PRINCE.
As rich and splendid as the carver can possibly make it. It shall be placed in the gallery. But this must remain here. A study need not be treated with so much ceremony; one does not hang it up for display. It should always be at hand. I thank you, Conti, cordially. And as I said before, the arts shall never starve in my dominions, as long as I have bread. Send to my treasurer, Conti, and let him pay your own price for both pictures; as much as you please, Conti.
CONTI.
I must begin to fear, Prince, that you mean to reward me for something else besides my art?
PRINCE.
Oh the jealousy of an artist! No, no! But remember, Conti, as much as you please. (Exit Conti.)