Morituri: Three One-Act Plays Part 37

The Painter.

I risk nothing. I am a man of death. The world lies behind me--a many-colored picture which G.o.d has bestrewed with crumbs of white bread, where each one s.n.a.t.c.hes up and devours and yet does not satisfy his appet.i.te. 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 p.r.o.nouncing 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 a.s.sure 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.