Act II., Scene 1.
Laura. To-day
Is fixed for the decision of the prizes.
Rav.To-day?
Lau. Yes! were you not aware of that?
Rav. How should I know it?
Lau. (sighing) Ay! too true—too true—
You are no painter.
Rav. Wherefore do you sigh?
Oh, Laura—Laura! does the painter's art
Engross so large a share of your esteem,
That but a secondary love is left
For a poor surgeon?
Lau. What you are to me,
Bernardo—you know well. Yet I confess
If you were but a painter, all my wishes
Would be fulflll'd. I have a love for painters
A love inhaled with the first air I breathed —
My father was devoted to the art
With all the zeal of an enthusiast.
He had himself some skill—and our whole house
Was filled with paintings by the greatest masters.
Thus, in an atmosphere of grace and beauty
My infancy was spent—my playmates, pictures.
After my father's death my guardian took me;
And he, too, is possess'd by the same passion.
Mew'd up, secluded by his jealous care,
From all society of men, I still
Had friends about me, and these friends were still
The bright creations of the painter's hand.
