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.