Part 5

(_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 Honour.

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 Honour.

(_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]

End of Project Gutenberg's Morituri: Three One-Act Plays, by Hermann Sudermann