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.