now we can absolutely no longer contain our admiration! You said that final pose was absolutely ugly—I say so too—but what is the reason? It is because the movement ceased, and with it the story the dancer told. Believe me, immobility is death!”
“But,” advanced Duclari, “you have also rejected waterfalls as an expression of beauty. Yet waterfalls move!”
“Yes, only . . . without a story! They move, but don’t get away from the place. They move like a rocking-horse, without even the va et vient. They make a sound, but do not speak. They cry: hrrroo . . . hrrroo . . . hrrroo . . . and never anything else! You cry for six thousand years or longer: hrrroo, hrrroo . . . and then see how few people will look upon you as an entertaining man.”
“I won’t put it to the test,” said Duclari. “But I still am not quite convinced that the movement you demand is so absolutely indispensable. I give in about the waterfalls, but surely, I think, a good painting may express much.”
“Undoubtedly, not only for one moment. I’ll try to explain my meaning by an example. To-day is the 18th of February . . .”
“Certainly not,” said Verbrugge, “we are still in January . . .”
“No, no, to-day is the 18th of February, 1587, and you are locked up in Fotheringay Castle . . .”
“I?” asked Duclari, who thought he had not clearly understood.
“Yes, you. You are bored and seek diversion. The wall over there has an opening in it, but it is too high for you to see through it, and yet that’s what you wish to do. You put your table beneath it, and on it a stool with only three legs, one of which is rather weak. You once at a fair saw an acrobat who placed seven chairs on top of one another, and then himself on top head downwards. Conceit and boredom both urge you to do something similar. With tottering effort you climb that stool . . . achieve your object . . . cast a glance through the opening, and exclaim: ‘O, God!’ Then you fall down! Now can you tell me why you exclaimed: ‘O, God!’ and why you fell?”
