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.