ABSTRACT
At these words, the artist, who has listened in a stupor, falls on the cushions as if struck by lightning. the critic, unaware of this, turns, and goes slowly to the table to consult his books.
the woman:(Getting up dumbfounded.) My God! That poor youth is dying! (She kneels in front of the artist and caresses him kindly.)
the artist: (Reviving.) Oh! Signora! Thank you! Oh! Love . .. maybe love . .. (Revives more and more.) How beautiful you are! Listen . . . Listen to me . . . If you know what a terrible thing the struggle is without love! I want to love, understand?
