Yes, yes. You always know. You’re always right. An inner tide seems rising in me as the time draws near. You understand my woman’s moods, and so forgive them. _Paulo_ (_Painting._) Picture the scene, as we used to do when scudi were very scarce. It always makes us happy--the brilliant forecast. _Lucia_ Tell me again. I love to hear it all. _Paulo_ The judging will be in the Council Hall where the Doge holds high state, crowded with the noblest and loveliest of all Venice. The pictures chosen for the final verdict--that’s Vernio’s and Marco Gagliano’s, and mine--I mean ours--of course--will stand apart on easels. And on a pillar in front of them shines the jewelled casket with the thousand gold pieces that Venice bestows--a mere trifle--upon him she decrees the greatest artist---- _Lucia_ And the pillar is garlanded with roses--more than these two, but not more lovely, Paulo. _Paulo_ Of course. And the competitors waiting in a hungry, anxious group---- _Lucia_ _You_ won’t be hungry. I’ll have so many sprats the night before---- _Paulo_ I shan’t be anxious either. _Lucia_ (_Happier._) You will be dressed in a new doublet of purple cloth. If we can buy no golden thread for the embroidery I shall weave this across it. (_Holds out her hair._) You’ll look magnificent---- _Paulo_ The picture---- _Lucia_ Still more magnificent. They won’t know which to look at---- _Paulo_ (_Merry._) Then they’ll squint. _Lucia_ The judge will call aloud your name: Paulo Salviati. You will be victor, and all the Assembly will rise to honour you---- _Paulo_ (_Correcting her again._) The work. My art, not me. My art, my work---- [_LUCIA stands up to show the judge’s gestures. She hears the water lapping. Her face changes._ What is it, Little Child? _Lucia_ N--nothing, Paulo. I--I merely thought a moment of those other painters, of Vernio, of Gagliano, the favoured ones who have wealthy patrons, so that they can work in ease and comfort, lacking nothing---- _Paulo_ (_Grandly._) Except my inspiration--and my liberty. Think what that means. My work is done in freedom, and _must_ surpass their best since it is bought of luxury. (_Earnest and contemptuous._) What artist, no matter his genius, that can see truth while a patron jogs his brush, bidding him do this and that, set here a touch of gold and there of scarlet, put here a flower, a bird, and there a--a (_explodes_)--a sprat--! Why not? It is the soul alone that sees truth, and such men have sold their souls. They will be paid accordingly. _Lucia_ (_Agitated._) There are some patrons who--it is said--give freedom, liberty too. _Paulo_ I never heard their names. _Lucia_ There are some who know, who understand better. (_Confused and rapidly._) They say the Medicis---- _Paulo_