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.