FIRST SCENE.
Archibald Alexander translation
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.<//p>
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.)