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 G.o.d--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 pa.s.sion 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----

_FIFTH SCENE_.

THE SAME. THE MARSHAL.

The Queen.

(_Who until now has listened, anxious but not altogether unfriendly, collects herself, and draws herself up in sudden anger_.) I deliver this insolent fellow to you, Marshal. Deal with him as he deserves.

(_She goes to the door. There she stops, and gives_ The Sleepy Maid of Honour _two angry little blows with her fan. The latter springs up, bows, and goes out gravely behind_ The Queen, _with_ The Deaf Maid of Honour, _who has risen_.)

_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!