SIXTH SCENE.

THE MARSHAL. THE PAINTER.

The Marshal.

Sir, if you wish to say a paternoster, make haste with it.

The Painter.

Your magnanimity affects me deeply, Marshal. But my soul carries light baggage. Even so, it will journey to heaven. And instead of a last testament, I present this portrait to you, so that, in the confusion, no serious danger may happen to it.

The Marshal.

By your will, it has become mine, and I will gladly keep it. So, draw your sword!

The Painter.

I, sir?

The Marshal.

So, draw!

The Painter.

No, that you will never live to see!

The Marshal.

Then why do you wear a sword?

The Painter.

Because I choose to.

The Marshal.

You are a coward.

The Painter.

(Controlling himself, with a smiling bow.) And you are a hero! (In the meanwhile the door at the centre is opened. The Marquises put their heads in, listening. The Painter observes it and takes his sword from the table where he has just laid it.) See! As the traveller uses the staff to defend himself against dogs, so I must wield it. Such people are to be found at all doors where small men work and lie in wait and play the parasite. (The Marquises draw back. The door at the centre is suddenly closed.) Yet ever to bare the sword against you, with whom, out of a timid trustfulness, a bond, a splendid bond of pride, entwined me; whom of all the incompletely great men, I admiringly called the only great man--if ever I were to be guilty of such ignominy, I should not find my small share of peace even in the shade of the most beautiful church-yard lindens.

The Marshal.

Are you still young?

The Painter.

I am not exactly old, yet my fortune has been so checkered and various that I joyfully had given seven every-day lives for one surfeit of this. And in the end--however one may work and strive, it is man's destiny: he dies of Woman. Therefore, instead of passing away slowly by my own, I will quickly find my end by the wife of another. My chariot of victory stops indeed suddenly. I greet its well-appointed driver--and I greet my judge. Thrust on!

The Marshal.

I may be a judge, but I am not an executioner. So do me the favour----

The Painter.

And fighting, let you run me through? No, Marshal! That I must refuse. See! Each of us two has his art. You employ the sword, I the palette. How would it be if I should say to you now in accordance with the practice of my craft: Come, we will paint on a wager? And you do not know the merest precept of light-value, azure, modelling. Very well, you are a dead man for me. Afterward you might--that is allowed you--come to life into the bargain, if you liked.

The Marshal.

You are mocking me, surely!

The Painter.

Surely, no! Yet every fight should be a fight on a wager. Because in a fight between men you are a complete man, I should like to show that I too can do something. You are laughing.

The Marshal.

One who is so nimble with his tongue has, it is said, a sure hand. Perhaps, too, many a device unknown to me is concealed in the wielding of your sword. So be quick, I pray you. I hear the sound of footsteps. Do you stare at me in silence?

The Painter.

Still a little farther to the right!

The Marshal.

What does that mean?

The Painter.

So!--And that may not be looked at, because one is mouldering away! I cannot get over it. Never yet have I found lines like those, never yet a working so gloriously true in the frontal plexus of veins, in the eyebrows, as if one by pure will became a giant. The body delicate--the cheeks thin; for Nature when she fashions her best, makes no boast of vigorous strength.... The wish overpowers me--Before I die, sir, I must paint you.

The Marshal.

You seem altogether mad.

The Painter.

I beg you to grant me a respite. I shall be glad to let you kill me, yet only after your portrait is finished.

The Marshal.

And by your creation, you hope to obtain all manner of favour, and quietly to escape. You are cunning indeed.

The Painter.

It is the peculiar pleasure of magnanimity to suspect the magnanimity of others.

The Marshal.

Are you reading me a lecture?

The Painter.

It seems that I must. I must make an effort to win your heart's esteem, which is worth more to me than any amount of foolish play with briskly wielded swords.

The Marshal.

By heaven, sir, you risk a great deal!

The Painter.

I risk nothing. I am a man of death. The world lies behind me--a many-colored picture which God has bestrewed with crumbs of white bread, where each one snatches up and devours and yet does not satisfy his appetite. Only in intoxication can a child of fortune know how the flowers beneath bloom and wither. I have been able to, and my soul with every new work drank to satiety. What matters it if life has deceived me? I asked nothing of it--that was my strength. You see I am pronouncing my obituary. Yet I depart gladly.... Already the new host approaches and swarms for me in forests and on plains: What matters it that this hand was mortal; for the portraying is as eternal as the image.

The Marshal.

You are mistaken. Only the deed is eternal. If with bloody sword it did not teach mankind to remember, I should perish like a seed sown by the wind.

The Painter.

It is you who are mistaken, sir. Not your deed has life. It soon follows you into the grave. The portrait of the dead which we give to posterity, in song and form, in parchment and stone, this it is which belongs to immortality. By this you shall be hereafter loved and hated.--So even if Achilles destroys the whole world, he has but to let Homer live.

The Marshal.

And so I, you? Yet no song tells us that Homer ever kneeled before Helen.

The Painter.

Not that. But every child knows why: the poor singer was blind.

The Marshal.

Your brush, alas, will not help you at all. Yet I should be well disposed toward you. For he who in death seems to remain a trifler, has taken life in earnest.

The Painter.

That is true.

The Marshal.

I am sorry for you.

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.)