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.