FOURTH SCENE.
Archibald Alexander translation
THE QUEEN. THE PAINTER.THE DEAF MAID OF HONOUR (who seats herself behind the screen). THE SLEEPY MAID OF HONOUR (who falls asleep directly on a chair near the door on the left).
The Queen.
Well, master, tell me: what is Genius doing?
The Painter.
Oh, your Majesty, he is pursuing Beauty.
The Queen.
Yet since Beauty lingers no more on earth, your genius will soon grow weary.
The Painter.
How so? Does your Majesty think it roams in the sky? It lingers just at the goal and cries: Oh behold! and what thou beholdest, that give to eternity!
The Queen.
I did not know, my dear master, that you were so ready with your compliments. Very well! As a man of many travels and of great reputation, you tread continually on the scorn of men; and since we are here chatting in confidence, take heart and tell me without reserve, tell me quite frankly: am I really beautiful?
The Painter.
If I were to speak as a man, every word would be presumptuous. Yet you ask the painter only. And he says that his hand is withered with anxiety lest on this canvas there will be found only a pale blotted vapour seen by a blind man.
The Queen.
There spoke the painter. But what says the man?
The Painter.
He has no opinion, your Majesty!
The Queen.
What a pity! One hears now and then this thing and that thing, yet that seems to me insipid above all things. And one must be strict and always be suppressing--suppressing. You don't need that. So I tell you discreetly, I can't resist the suspicion that my beauty is leaving me. Yes, indeed. And besides that, I am growing old. Yes, indeed. I am almost thirty, and the matron has to go to the rear. I indeed do what I can. They take great pains with me. And my late brother used to send me a beauty powder from the holy sepulchre which was good for my complexion. Then it is my habit to wash myself with the extract of lilies, and off and on to nibble at arsenic bonbons. That is very good--the eyes flash, and the blood comes to the cheeks.... (Alarmed.) It seems to me I am confiding in you.
The Painter.
Consider me as a thing--as a slave!
The Queen.
And you know how to be silent? Tell me--swear!
The Painter.
What you did not will me to hear, that I have not heard. What I did not hear, I cannot keep as a secret.
The Queen.
Lofty sentiment and noble will find expression in you. So, in all silence, I may show your heart what favours are granted to you.
The Painter (tremulously).
Am I worth it? And if you regret it to-morrow?
The Queen.
I do not know a to-morrow nor a to-day. My weary sense with crippled wing never strays into the far future, for ah! I, poor, poor Queen, suffer from intense melancholy. I have too much feeling. I have told you that already, and then I am tired of my throne in this world of dreary elegance, where----
The Painter.
Your Majesty! Remember the ladies there!
The Queen.
Ah, the ladies! No chance favours me. That you have perceived already. Yet there is no question of the ladies. One doesn't hear a word; the other sleeps, even while standing up.
The Painter.
Sure enough.... Yet when I consider----
The Queen.
Consider nothing.... Give me only a consoling word, which in the sultriness of this perverted nature may penetrate my soul like a breath from the forest. You are a man!
The Painter (laughing to himself).
Who has lost his head!
The Queen.
So I saw him in my dreams. I feel, too, that you could quite overflow, and I am a little afraid of it.
The Painter.
(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----