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.