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 assure 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.