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 pa.s.sing 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!