Leonardo. I told her I was tired, but her color frightened me—her labored breath. There is no hope.
Imperia. They say that those who die of this disease are never conscious of the approach of death. But Donina thinks of nothing else. She looks forward to it, she expects it.
Leonardo. It is the cunning of despair, the fearsome dread of death. She knows that it is a bad sign to be cheerful, so she pretends to be afraid. But she does not deceive herself.
Donina laughs.
Imperia. She is laughing! She is happy! Oh, so happy! What are you doing, Donina?
Donina. Picking flowers for you—roses. Aren't roses your favorite flowers? I was laughing because Nunu was telling me a story about them. It wasn't very nice, but it was funny; all his stories are. It was about a nunnery with a garden that had roses in it, and the devil came and hung a little imp on every bush, just the same in color as the roses, so that they looked like little babies. And when the nuns saw them, they thought they were in mortal sin, and so as not to make a scandal they ran and hid them in their cells. But the little devils jumped out and began to run and skip and cut up all sorts of capers—they sang in the choir, and danced while the organ played, and rang the bells in the belfry and then finally—no, I don't think I'll tell you what they did finally—it might not seem nice; but it was funny. You tell them, Nunu; they'll laugh as much as I did.
Nunu. Don't be silly. Come on and pick some more flowers.
Imperia. Yes, laugh, Donina, laugh! Ah, Leonardo, why do we waste our lives in dreams and ambition? Our true life is the love which springs in our hearts. The happiness of a child is the only lasting joy, the one hint which life gives us of the value and meaning of life.
