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.