Part 4

Ah! I will shoot the dog dead for that.

Fritz.

Well, I hope they will decide favourably to me.

Major.

If not, the dev-- (_Softly_.) And then I will tell you a couple of measures to take so as to have a steady hand. Sleep properly, and don't eat a bite, and then tell the doctor----

Fritz.

Enough, enough, father, that is of no further use.

Major.

What does that mean? Is it possible that you will--to Lanski?----

Fritz.

Lanski will hit me. Depend upon it....

Major.

Man, are you--are you----?

Fritz.

Lanski will hit me. Depend upon it....

Major.

Man, yet have--yet consider----

Fritz.

I will not, father! And if you had seen the spectacle which the people of Wartenstein saw yesterday (_shudders_), you would demand nothing more of life for me than a half-respectable death....

Major (_brokenly_).

Perhaps--they will not--grant you--the duel.

Fritz.

Well, if we have got to that last hope, father, then we are indeed in bad straits.... Shall I perhaps open a dram-shop in Chicago, or a cattle business with my paternal capital? Yes? Would you have done it?

Major (_perplexed_).

I?

Fritz.

Say then say!

Major (_drawing himself up_).

No! (_Sinks down in his chair_.)

Fritz.

So you see, father--so or so--your Fritz is done for.

Major (_sunk in gloomy reverie_).

My fault!--my----

_NINTH SCENE_.

THE SAME. WILHELM. _Afterward_ LIEUTENANT VON HALLERPFORT.

Fritz.

What is it?

Wilhelm.

Lieutenant von Hallerpfort wishes to speak to the young master.

Fritz.

(_Hurrying past him to the door_.) Well?

(Hallerpfort _shakes hands with him and the_ Major, _and casts a glance at_ Wilhelm, _who forthwith disappears_.)

Fritz.

Well?

Hallerpfort.

Does your father know?

Major.

Yes, my dear Hallerpfort, I know.--Granted?

Hallerpfort.

To-morrow morning, half after four o'clock behind the large drill-ground.

Fritz.

Thank God!

Major.

Thank God! (_They embrace_.)

Fritz (_disengaging himself_).

Conditions?

Hallerpfort.

Fifteen paces--advance--five paces barrier--exchange of shots----

Fritz.

To a finish?

Hallerpfort.

To a finish.

Fritz.

Very well!

(Major _turns toward the door, and presses his hands to his face_.)

Hallerpfort (_approaching him_).

Major, as your son's best friend----

Major (_grasping his hands_).

I thank you, my dear Hallerpfort, I thank you.... You will ride away at once, will you not?

Hallerpfort.

Unfortunately we must, Major.

Major.

Then just listen.... I will pass the hours until the duel, with my son.... That you can understand, can't you?... My carriage is hitched up but I cannot go away with you for fear of making my sick wife uneasy. Wait for me at the end of half an hour in Schrander's inn.... Don't fear. We shall be on time....

Hallerpfort.

It will be as you order, Major.

Major.

And now, courage, Fritz!

Fritz.

That is understood, father!

Major.

(_Holding open the door on the left, in a different tone_.) Now, boys, just come quickly in! Only think, darling----

_TENTH SCENE_.

THE SAME. FRAU VON DROSSE.

Frau von Drosse.

Ah--Herr von Hallerpfort! (_He kisses her hand_.) How does this happen? Two lieutenants in the house at the same time--if that doesn't bring luck!

Fritz (_quickly_).

We have orders together, mamma.

Hallerpfort.

And alas, madam, we have to be off this very minute.

Frau von Drosse.

How is that? Then I don't have my full hour? And now everything is so beautifully arranged.... Fritz, my dear Hallerpfort--just a bite, won't you?... Richard, dear, come to my aid.

Major.

But, dear child, service is service.

Fritz (_with quick decision_).

So, good-bye, mamma!

Frau von Drosse (_embracing him_).

My boy--you will soon have furlough, won't you?

Fritz.

Yes indeed, mamma! After the man[oe]uvres. Then we are free. Then we will be merry!

Frau von Drosse.

And Hallerpfort is coming with you, isn't he?

Hallerpfort.

With your permission, madam.

Major (_softly, to_ Agnes).

Take leave of him! You will never see him again!

Fritz.

(_Stretching out his hand cheerfully to her_.) Dear Ag-- (_Looks into her face, and understands that she knows. Softly, earnestly_.) Farewell, then.

Agnes.

Farewell, Fritz!

Fritz.

I love you.

Agnes.

I shall always love you, Fritz!

Fritz.

Away then, Hallerpfort! Au revoir, papa! Au revoir! Revoir! (_Starts for the door on the right_.)

Frau von Drosse.

Go by the park, boys--there I have you longer in sight.

Fritz.

Very well, mamma, we will do it! (_Passes with_ Hallerpfort _through the door at the centre; on the terrace, he turns with a cheerful gesture, and calls once more_.) Au revoir! (_His voice is still audible_.) Au revoir!

(Frau von Drosse _throws kisses after him, and waves her handkerchief, then presses her hand wearily to her heart and sighs heavily_.)

_ELEVENTH SCENE_.

MAJOR. FRAU VON DROSSE. AGNES.

(Agnes _hurries to her, and leads her to a chair, then goes over to the_ Major, _who, with heaving breast is lost in thought_.)

Frau von Drosse.

Thank you, my darling!--Already, I am quite well again!... God, the boy! How handsome he looked! And so brown and so healthy.... You see, I saw him exactly like that last night.... No, that is no illusion! And I told you how the Emperor led him in among all the generals! And the emperor said (_More softly, looking far away with a beatific smile_.) And the Emperor said----

CURTAIN.

III

THE ETERNAL MASCULINE

A PLAY IN ONE ACT

PERSONS

The Queen. The Marshal. The Painter. The Valet de Chambre. The Marquis in Pink. The Marquis in Pale Blue. The Sleepy Maid of Honour. The Deaf Maid of Honour. A Child as Cupid.

Several other Marquises and Maids of Honour.

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.

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.