THE ETERNAL MASCULINE
The scene represents a state apartment in a royal castle. On the left, a throne in baroque style. On the right, in the background a screen with a table and chairs beside it. In the centre, an easel.
FIRST SCENE.
THE QUEEN in a plaited coronation robe, on the throne. THE PAINTER with palette in hand, painting. A CHILD as CUPID, suspended by the waist, swings on THE QUEEN'S left, holding a crown over her head. The background and the right of the stage are occupied by ladies and gentlemen of the court, among them THE DEAF MAID OF HONOUR, THE SLEEPY MAID OF HONOUR, THE MARQUIS IN PINK, and MARQUIS IN PALE BLUE.
SONG OF THE MAIDS OF HONOUR.
(Led by The Marquis in Pale Blue.)
Zephyr rises at the dawn
From the budding pillows of the roses.
Lo, he will cool his hot desire
In the silvery dew,
Since he must console himself
That his dream still fans the flame,
And that Luna's icy kiss
Does but touch his parched mouth.
And Aurora's violet passion
Looks on him with floods of tears.
Ah! What matters Luna's favour?--
She knows not how to kiss.
The Queen (yawning).
The pretty verses which you have just sung to sweeten this long posing for me, grieve me slightly. Yet--aside from that--accept my thanks.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Oh, your Majesty!
The Queen.
Are you a poet, Marquis?
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Oh, your Majesty, up to this time I have not been; but who should not speak in verse where this magic enthrals us, where our hearts are habitually broken, and Cupid himself bears the royal crown?
(Cupid begins to cry).
First Maid of Honour.
What is the matter with him?
Second Maid of Honour.
Ah, the sweet child!
First Maid of Honour.
Be good! Nice and good! Here is a sweetmeat!
Cupid.
I want to get down! My legs are cold.
The Queen.
Oh, fie! The word offends my ears.
The Marquis in Pink.
Pardon him, your Majesty, the saucy child surely does not know that in your presence one can speak only of roses, lilies, and such delicate things.
The Queen.
It seems to me that the little fellow lacks education.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Hereafter, only children from superior families should be chosen for this purpose.
The Queen.
And you, respected artist, have no word to say?
The Painter.
It is not fitting that every one should speak. I am engaged to paint, not to make speeches. Still, may I ask you to send the boy away?
(The Queen laughing, makes a sign. Two maids of honour set him free.)
The Marquis in Pink.
What a way of speaking!
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
What a plebeian!
The Marquis in Pink.
How self-conscious!
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
And she dotes on him!
The Queen.
Nay, dear master, speak! For rarely do I have the pleasure of finding my thought sympathetically stimulated by the thought of another. I do so like to think--I like to feel perhaps even better--yet these gentlemen talk as if they were in a fever.
The Marquises.
Oh, your Majesty!
The Queen.
Yes, indeed! Look for the man who without hope of meretricious gain knows how to devote himself faithfully to noble service, and who without honeyed phrases gracefully pursues what is dear to his soul; as for you--you could borrow for yourselves a little of love's fire merely from the confectioner's kitchen.
The Marquis in Pink.
Oh, that is severe!
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Oh, that is almost deadly!
The Queen.
Then resist, and do not drag along inoffensively the burden, new every day, of my old contempt which I bestow upon you, because it pleases me to, like the ordinance of God. But let him expect my reward who can say worthily and honourably: Behold, oh Queen, I am a man!
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
I am one!
The Marquis in Pink.
So am I!
The Queen.
I don't think ill of you! I like you. You don't disturb my repose--yet, dear master, what say you to that?
The Painter.<//p>
I pray, your Majesty, still a little farther to the right.
The Queen (smiling).
And is that all? Does nothing which may occur in this room interest you?
The Painter.
Pardon me, your Majesty, the daylight is scanty, and besides--I am painting.
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 want him, 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 to The 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 to The 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 to The 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 to The Marquis, which he returns in kind, then follows the other ladies.)
SECOND SCENE.
THE MARQUISES. THE PAINTER.
(The Painter paints, 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! (To The 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, which The Painter good-humouredly returns, The Marquises depart at the centre.)
(The Painter smiling, continues to paint.)
THIRD SCENE
THE PAINTER. THE VALET DE CHAMBRE. Then THE DEAF MAID OF HONOUR. THE SLEEPY MAID OF HONOUR. THE QUEEN.
(The Valet entering from the left, greets The Painter with 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!
(Valet after 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 Honour have entered during this soliloquy, and have taken their positions to the right and left of the door.)
The Queen.
(Nods cordially to The 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.)
FOURTH SCENE.
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--yet if I 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----
FIFTH SCENE.
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 gives The Sleepy Maid of Honour two angry little blows with her fan. The latter springs up, bows, and goes out gravely behind The Queen, with The Deaf Maid of Honour, who has risen.)
SIXTH SCENE.
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?
The Marshal.
So, draw!
The Painter.
No, that you will never live to see!
The Marshal.
Then why do you wear a sword?
The Painter.
Because I choose to.
The Marshal.
You are a coward.
The Painter.
(Controlling himself, with a smiling bow.) And you are a hero! (In the meanwhile the door at the centre is opened. The Marquises put their heads in, listening. The Painter observes it and takes his sword from the table where he has just laid it.) See! As the traveller uses the staff to defend himself against dogs, so I must wield it. Such people are to be found at all doors where small men work and lie in wait and play the parasite. (The Marquises draw back. The door at the centre is suddenly closed.) Yet ever to bare the sword against you, with whom, out of a timid trustfulness, a bond, a splendid bond of pride, entwined me; whom of all the incompletely great men, I admiringly called the only great man--if ever I were to be guilty of such ignominy, I should not find my small share of peace even in the shade of the most beautiful church-yard lindens.
The Marshal.
Are you still young?
The Painter.
I am not exactly old, yet my fortune has been so checkered and various that I joyfully had given seven every-day lives for one surfeit of this. And in the end--however one may work and strive, it is man's destiny: he dies of Woman. Therefore, instead of passing away slowly by my own, I will quickly find my end by the wife of another. My chariot of victory stops indeed suddenly. I greet its well-appointed driver--and I greet my judge. Thrust on!
The Marshal.
I may be a judge, but I am not an executioner. So do me the favour----
The Painter.
And fighting, let you run me through? No, Marshal! That I must refuse. See! Each of us two has his art. You employ the sword, I the palette. How would it be if I should say to you now in accordance with the practice of my craft: Come, we will paint on a wager? And you do not know the merest precept of light-value, azure, modelling. Very well, you are a dead man for me. Afterward you might--that is allowed you--come to life into the bargain, if you liked.
The Marshal.
You are mocking me, surely!
The Painter.
Surely, no! Yet every fight should be a fight on a wager. Because in a fight between men you are a complete man, I should like to show that I too can do something. You are laughing.
The Marshal.
One who is so nimble with his tongue has, it is said, a sure hand. Perhaps, too, many a device unknown to me is concealed in the wielding of your sword. So be quick, I pray you. I hear the sound of footsteps. Do you stare at me in silence?
The Painter.
Still a little farther to the right!
The Marshal.
What does that mean?
The Painter.
So!--And that may not be looked at, because one is mouldering away! I cannot get over it. Never yet have I found lines like those, never yet a working so gloriously true in the frontal plexus of veins, in the eyebrows, as if one by pure will became a giant. The body delicate--the cheeks thin; for Nature when she fashions her best, makes no boast of vigorous strength.... The wish overpowers me--Before I die, sir, I must paint you.
The Marshal.
You seem altogether mad.
The Painter.
I beg you to grant me a respite. I shall be glad to let you kill me, yet only after your portrait is finished.
The Marshal.
And by your creation, you hope to obtain all manner of favour, and quietly to escape. You are cunning indeed.
The Painter.
It is the peculiar pleasure of magnanimity to suspect the magnanimity of others.
The Marshal.
Are you reading me a lecture?
The Painter.
It seems that I must. I must make an effort to win your heart's esteem, which is worth more to me than any amount of foolish play with briskly wielded swords.
The Marshal.
By heaven, sir, you risk a great deal!
The Painter.
I risk nothing. I am a man of death. The world lies behind me--a many-colored picture which God has bestrewed with crumbs of white bread, where each one snatches up and devours and yet does not satisfy his appetite. Only in intoxication can a child of fortune know how the flowers beneath bloom and wither. I have been able to, and my soul with every new work drank to satiety. What matters it if life has deceived me? I asked nothing of it--that was my strength. You see I am pronouncing my obituary. Yet I depart gladly.... Already the new host approaches and swarms for me in forests and on plains: What matters it that this hand was mortal; for the portraying is as eternal as the image.
The Marshal.
You are mistaken. Only the deed is eternal. If with bloody sword it did not teach mankind to remember, I should perish like a seed sown by the wind.
The Painter.
It is you who are mistaken, sir. Not your deed has life. It soon follows you into the grave. The portrait of the dead which we give to posterity, in song and form, in parchment and stone, this it is which belongs to immortality. By this you shall be hereafter loved and hated.--So even if Achilles destroys the whole world, he has but to let Homer live.
The Marshal.
And so I, you? Yet no song tells us that Homer ever kneeled before Helen.
The Painter.
Not that. But every child knows why: the poor singer was blind.
The Marshal.
Your brush, alas, will not help you at all. Yet I should be well disposed toward you. For he who in death seems to remain a trifler, has taken life in earnest.
The Painter.
That is true.
The Marshal.
I am sorry for you.
The Painter.
Without cause, I assure you!
The Marshal.
And why could you not be silent? How did you so dare, contrary to good reason to climb to your Queen? Did nothing within you say: this is a crime?
The Painter.
You call it crime--I call it folly!
The Marshal.
Do you pursue your secret pleasures, then, like a sly, cold-hearted thief? The one thing fails which spoke in your favour, the almighty love which disturbs the brain!
The Painter.
Marshal, see, love is a tribute which we piously pay to eternal beauty; and since Nature in creative pride has poured it forth out of her fulness, how should we in fretful resignation say: "This one I love--not that one"? In my love, I love only the picture which proceeds from the lap of pure forms; even as this Queen bestows it as a favour, so it sheds its light far and near; and wherever a picture invites me to a banquet, my heart is present without delay.
The Marshal.
Yet I ask you whether this picture invited you to a banquet. Speak quickly--by my sword!
The Painter.
You know very well that no gallant man should move an eyelash at such a question.
The Marshal.
You do not love her--only like a faun you make bold to court her madly. (Taking hold of him.) But I love her, and for this reason, you must die.
The Painter.
Forgive me if I am surprised at your logic. It is a great honour for me to know whom you love; moreover, you have already told me repeatedly that I must die; yet that you are confused as to this--is--indeed--only--temper. And see, it is but proper that you love her. The contrary--according to court manners and practice--would be unnatural. Yet the more important question seems to be: does she love you? You look away. Very well, I will tell you. She has met you with smiles and furtive questions, with sweet glances, half longingly, has promised you a thousand delights and gradually has subdued you and your obstinacy. Yet if it involved keeping her promises, she would understand how to wrap herself in her innocence.----It was so--was it not? You are silent, because you are ashamed of the game. Pardon me, sir, if I irritate your wounds.
The Marshal.
It seems you set spies at the door!
The Painter.
Why spies? Eve's old practice, that, Marshal, I know well. Yet what lies behind it, whether true love or not, for you or me, cannot be deciphered. If I should survive the duel, she would probably love me: yet because it is decreed that by your arm, you should be the victor in this absurd quarrel, she will love you, Marshal. Where woman's glory rules the world, that is the law--so says natural history. Do you say nothing?
The Marshal.
A poison is distilled from your words which eats into the very marrow of my soul.
The Painter.
Only the truth! I swear it, I promise it! And since against my wish I am still very much alive, because of your favour, be of use to me, sir, in an experiment.
The Marshal.
Explain yourself!
The Painter.
In order to know exactly how you are thought of in the highest place, you must perish in the duel.
The Marshal.
In the duel?
The Painter.
Understand me rightly: only in appearance.
The Marshal.
And my reputation as a swordsman goes with it into the bargain.
The Painter.
Oh, not at all! You will get up again.
The Marshal (laughing).
My friend, I am not sorry that you are still alive. I have become reconciled with you, and I who have dared a great deal in toil and strife, am astonished at the extent of your courage. Very well, what your cunning mind has devised for your escape, I accept. Yet woe to you if this time you do not win! And now to the work!
The Painter.
Come on!... Yet no, by your leave! So that they may believe the incredible about me, I will arrange the thing in naturalistic fashion. (He draws his sword.) Is the door locked? (He walks to the door at the centre, and points his sword at the keyhole.) Eyes away! I am going to thrust! (A scream is uttered in the antechamber.) And now look out! I am going to mark horrid pools of spilt blood! (He mixes colours on the palette, and hands the Marshal his sword.) Hold it, I beg you. (He smears the sword blade with his brush.)
The Marshal.
My blood!
The Painter.
Without doubt! Merci. (Takes back his sword.) Just one tap upon the breast. Yet in case you wish that I spare the waistcoat?
The Marshal.
By no means! That would be too much loss of blood!
The Painter.
Just as you please. (He moves the easel and table to one side. Softly.) And make no mistake, the door will open at the first clash of blades.
The Marshal.
Are you ready?
(The Painter nods assent. They fence.)
The Marshal.
Famous.... Do you know that feint?
The Painter.
It is a good one, is it not?
The Marshal.
Who taught you that?
The Painter.
And this!...
The Marshal.
There you missed the quint.
The Painter.
Damnation!...
The Marshal.
Ah, that was admirable!
The Painter.
Yet at painting I do better.... Is any one listening?
The Marshal.
They are huddled together in a confused group.
The Painter.
Now, if you please!
The Marshal.
Only be at it!
The Painter.
Be careful of the throne, or you will get a bump if you fall! (He lunges at The Marshal, far under the armpit. The Marshal falls. The Marquises who are pressing in at the half-open door, draw back in horror.)
SEVENTH SCENE.
THE SAME. THE MARQUIS IN PINK. THE MARQUIS IN PALE BLUE. THE OTHER MARQUISES.
The Painter.
Listen to me, gentlemen! What are you about in there? Stay and bear witness to what you saw.
The Marquis In Pink (approaching timidly).
We stand benumbed at such a glorious deed.
The Marquis In Pale Blue (likewise).
And we are almost beside ourself with admiration.
The Marquis in Pink.
What? Really dead?
The Painter (tauntingly).
Sir, you seem to be in doubt?
The Marquis in Pink.
Oh, dear man, how could you think it? I wished only to afford myself the rapture of seeing whether you had altogether freed us.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Yes, indeed, freed! For even although you hated him, you can never imagine how, in the chambers of this castle, he has trodden on our dignity.
The Marquis in Pink.
He stalked about, puffed up with self-conceit, and when we were rising in the esteem of his or her majesty----
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Then came this man with a couple of new triumphs.
The Painter.
How odious!
The Marquis in Pink.
If you please, sir, how we have laughed when his dear name rang through all the streets after some brand-new fight! As the clever man is aware, fools advertise fools. And without going too near him, I will----
The Marshal.
There, wait!
(All The Marquises starting With fear.)
The Marquis In Pink (trembling).
You said?
The Painter.
I said nothing at all.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
Yet plainly----
EIGHTH SCENE.
THE SAME. THE VALET DE CHAMBRE. THE QUEEN. THE DEAF MAID OF HONOUR. THE SLEEPY MAID OF HONOUR.
The Valet (announces).
Her Majesty!
The Queen.
I heard a rumour which greatly displeased me and troubled my peace of mind extremely. Is it true?... There lies the great hero; and truly, in death he seems even more insignificant than he was--as insignificant as one of the most insignificant. Yet mourn with me! We have had a great loss. Even if ambition urge you on with a double spur, many a fine day will come and go before his like will be born to us.
(The Marshal clears his throat softly.)
The Queen.
May his courtliness, too, be pleasantly remembered! After his campaign he always brought back to his Queen the best of the splendid spoil of his booty. That touched my royal heart and will be cited as a glorious example. And yet now to you ... What did they say to me? It sounds almost untrue and unnatural: are you the David of our Goliath? I use the term "Goliath" only figuratively. For though we are mourning at his bier, it cannot be said that he was a giant. Yet we know his disposition was haughty. (The Marquises eagerly assent.) Surely he broke in upon you in sudden anger? You are silent out of generosity. So I will graciously forgive this fault and another fault too. (The Painter clears his throat softly. She stretches out her hand to him, which he kisses.) And be not grieved! (To The Marquises.) Does not what has happened seem almost like a judgment of God?
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
It is true! Here a higher power has been at work.
The Deaf Maid of Honor.
Pardon me, your Majesty! The Marshal is laughing.
The Marquises (muttering in horror).
Is he laughing? Is he laughing? (Silence.)
The Marshal (rising).
Madam, forgive me! In the fight a sudden fainting fit overcame me.
The Marquis in Pale Blue.
(Pointing at The Painter's sword lying on the floor.) And what is this blood? (Movement by The Painter.)
The Marshal.
Until the return to my senses relieved me (with emphasis) of this trouble and another trouble.
The Queen.
(Quickly collecting herself. Sharply.) My congratulations, sir! And my sympathy as well! What has happened to you gives me unspeakable distress. The court atmosphere is indeed rather close, and seems insupportable to great conquerors; which often betrays itself in wrong fancies and swoons. Therefore I am obliged to exercise my power as Queen, and protect your good health against danger. Jean, announce me to his Majesty! (Exit Jean on the left. The Queen, punishing The Painter with a glance of unspeakable scorn, follows slowly. The two Maids of Honour go after her.)
NINTH SCENE.
THE MARSHAL. THE PAINTER. THE MARQUISES (in the background).
The Marshal.
I thank you, sir! The mists are dissipated. The eye sees clearly once more; the will has a free hand.
The Painter.
But I was silently executed. Did you notice her look?
The Marshal (pointing at The Marquises).
Of looks, there are sufficient.
The Painter (snatching up his sword).
Oho! I am always expecting foul play.
The Marshal.
For what reason? Get along with you! Get along with you! Be quick!
The Painter.
It is true. You are right. Here, we are ruined.
The Marshal.
And what is to become of you?
The Painter.
That has never troubled me. The world is wide. One can walk about it, and find something to sketch by the way.
The Marshal.
How would it be if you went with me?
The Painter.
Where?
The Marshal.
To the camp.
The Painter.
Yes, and what is there?
The Marshal.
Plenty for you! You will find gay fare, and pastimes and diversions. As much as you want.
The Painter.
And are there fights too?
The Marshal.
Indeed, there are!
The Painter.
And will there be a bold reconnoissance by night?
The Marshal.
Often.
The Painter.
Capital! I will ride with you. In my mind's eye I see already golden moonrise, and silver vapour on the dark alder bush.... Are there also songs and notes of the mandolin?
The Marshal.
Plenty of them!
The Painter.
Hurrah! There is music too!
The Marshal.
And in the story-telling by night at the camp-fire many a tale of human destiny will be unfolded to you.
The Painter.
A world of pictures! (More softly.) And love adventures?
The Marshal.
If you choose to call them "adventures."
The Painter.
Agreed, sir! And an excess of happiness will flow out of my soul like a prayer.--Yet it seems I am forgetting the greatest happiness. I shall be with you. I may paint you.
The Marshal.
Take care!
TENTH SCENE.
THE SAME. THE VALET DE CHAMBRE. THE QUEEN. THE TWO MAIDS OF HONOUR.
Valet.
Your Majesty!
(The Queen rustles over from the left to the right, without bestowing a glance on the two men. At the door on the right she gives the Valet a scroll with which he advances. Then she goes out, followed by the Maids of Honour.)
The Marshal.
Now the hastily contrived reward of our misdeeds is at hand. (To Jean.) My noble sir, bestir yourself. (To The Painter.) That is the handsome Jean as an angel of justice! (He unfolds the scroll and reads, laughing.)
The Painter.
And to me, what do you bring to me?
The Valet.
(With an expression of awkward contempt.) You?--Nothing!
The Painter.
Exquisite!
The Valet.
But yes! Your reward shall be meted out to you in the office of the Marshal of the court.
The Painter (amused).
Indeed?
The Valet.
Yes! (Behind the scenes on the right are heard cries of "Jean! Jean!")
The Deaf Maid of Honor.
(Hurries in from the right.) Jean! Have you forgotten her Majesty?
The Valet (sweetly).
Oh, no! Tell her Majesty I am coming directly.
The Painter and The Marshal.
(Look at each other, and break out into laughter.)
The Marshal.
Look, look, my friend! He seems to have got into bad habits.
The Painter (pointing at him).
It is rightly so. I had almost begged him, at the court where we men are forbidden, proudly to represent the eternal masculine. (Laughing, they both bow to him.)
(Exit The Valet.)
The Painter.
But we are going into the flowery open, to our merry pursuits.
The Marshal.
And to combat! (They walk arm in arm, bowing right and left, toward the door, past The Marquises, who, without hiding their disrespect, nevertheless recognise them in a not uncourtly fashion.)
Curtain.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 1]: Milchbart--literally "milky beard."
[Footnote 2]: The colonel.
[Footnote 3]: The document is defective here--showing "--iry." I have inserted the word "fairy" based on context.--Transcriber.