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.