SCENE I.The studio of the Spagnoletto. RIBERA at work before his canvas.MARIA seated some distance behind him; a piece of embroidery isin her hands, but she glances up from it incessantly toward herfather with impatient movements.
MARIA.Father!(RIBERA, absorbed in his work, makes no reply; she puts by herembroidery, goes toward him and kisses him gently. He starts,looks up at her, and returns her caress).
RIBERA.My child!
MARIA.Already you forget,Oh, heedless father! Did you not promise meTo lay aside your brush to-day at noon,And tell me the great secret?
RIBERA.Ah, 't is true,I am to blame. But it is morning yet;My child, wait still a little.
MARIA.'T is morning yet!Nay, it was noon one mortal hour ago.All patience I have sat till you should turnAnd beckon me. The rosy angels breatheUpon the canvas; I might sit till night,And, if I spake not, you would never glanceFrom their celestial faces. Dear my father,Your brow is moist, and yet your hands are ice;Your very eyes are tired—pray, rest awhile.The Spagnoletto need no longer toilAs in the streets of Rome for beggars' fare;Now princes bide his pleasure.
RIBERA (throws aside his brush and palette).Ah, Maria,Thou speak'st in season. Let me ne'er forgetThose days of degradation, when I starvedBefore the gates of palaces. The germsStirred then within me of the perfect fruitsWherewith my hands have since enriched God's world.Vengeance I vowed for every moment's sting—Vengeance on wealth, rank, station, fortune, genius.See, while I paint, all else escapes my sense,Save this bright throng of phantasies that pressUpon my brain, each claiming from my handIts immortality. But thou, my child,Remind'st me of mine oath, my sacred pride,The eternal hatred lodged within my breast.Philip of Spain shall wait. I will not deignTo add to-day the final touch of lifeUnto this masterpiece.
MARIA.So! that is well.Put by the envious brush that separatesFather from daughter. Now you are all mine own.And now—your secret.
RIBERA.Mine? 'T is none of mine;'T is thine, Maria. John of AustriaDesires our presence at his ball to-night.
MARIA.Prince John?
RIBERA.Ay, girl, Prince John. I looked to seeA haughty joy dance sparkling in thine eyesAnd burn upon thy cheek. But what is this?Timid and pale, thou droop'st thy head abashedAs a poor flower-girl whom a lord accosts.
MARIA.Forgive me. Sure, 't is you Don John desiresThe prince of artists—
RIBERA.Art! Prate not of art!Think'st thou I move an artist 'midst his guests?As such I commune with a loftier race;Angels and spirits are my ministers.These do I part aside to grace his halls;A Spanish gentleman—and so, his peer.
MARIA.Father, I am not well; my head throbs fast,Unwonted languor weighs upon my frame.
RIBERA.Anger me not, Maria. 'T is my will,Thou shalt obey. Hell, what these women be!No obstacle would daunt them in the questOf that which, freely given, they reject.Hold! Haply just occasion bids thee seemUnlike thyself. Speak fearlessly child;Confide to me thy knowledge, thy surmise.
MARIA (hurriedly).No, father, you were right. I have no cause;Punish me—nay, forgive, and I obey.
RIBERA.There spake my child; kiss me and be forgiven.Sometimes I doubt thou playest upon my loveWillfully, knowing me as soft as clay,Whom the world knows of marble. In such moods,I see my spirit mirror's first, and thenFrom thy large eyes thy sainted mother's soulUnclouded shine.
MARIA.Can I be like to her?I only knew her faded, white, and grave,And so she still floats vaguely through my dreams,With eyes like your own angels', and a browWorthy an aureole.
RIBERA.An earthly crown,My princess, might more fitly rest on thine.Annicca hath her colors, blue-black hair,And pale, brown flesh, and gray, untroubled eyes;Yet thou more often bring'st her to mind,For all the tawny gold of thy thick locks,Thy rare white face, and brilliant Spanish orbs.Thine is her lisping trick of voice, her laugh,The blithest music still this side of heaven;Thine her free, springing gait, though therewithalA swaying, languid motion all thine own,Recalls Valencia more than Italy.Like and unlike thou art to her, as stillMy memory loves to hold her, as she firstBeamed like the star of morning on my life.Hot, faint, and footsore, I had paced since dawnThe sun-baked streets of Naples, seeking work,Not alms, despite the beggar that I looked.Now 't was nigh vespers, and my suit had metWith curt refusal, sharp rebuff, and gibes.Praised be the saints! for every drop of gallIn that day's brimming cup, I have upheldA poisoned beaker to another's lips.Many a one hath the Ribera taughtTo fare a vagabond through alien streets;A god unrecognized 'midst churls and clowns,With kindled soul aflame, and body faintOr lack of bread. Domenichino knows,And Gessi, Guido, Annibal Caracci—
MARIA.Dear father, calm yourself. You had begunTo tell me how you saw my mother first.
RIBERA.True, I forgot it not. Why, I AM calm;The old man now can well be grave and cold,Or laugh at his own youth's indignities,Past a long lifetime back. 'T was vespers' hour,Or nigh it, when I reached her father's door.Kind was his greeting, the first cordial wordsI heard in Naples; but I took small heedOf speech or toe, for all my sense was raptIn wonder at the angel by his sideWho smiled upon me. Large, clear eyes that heldThe very soul of sunlight in their depths;Low, pure, pale brow, with masses of black hairFlung loosely back, and rippling unconfinedIn shadowy magnificence belowThe slim gold girdle o'er the snow-soft gown.Vested and draped about her throat and waist and wrists,A stately lily ere the dew of mornHath passed away—such was thy mother, child.
MARIA.Would I were like her! But what said she, father?How did she plead for you?
RIBERA.Ah, cunning child,I see thy tricks; thou humorest my age,Knowing how much I love to tell this tale,Though thou hast heard it half a hundred times.
MARIA.I find it sweet to hear as you to tell,Believe me, father.
RIBERA.'T was to pleasure her,Signor Cortese gave me all I lackedTo prove my unfamed skill. A savage pride,Matched oddly with my rags, the haughtinessWherewith I claimed rather than begged my tools,And my quaint aspect, oft she told me since,Won at a glance her faith. Before I left,She guessed my need, and served me meat and wineWith her own flower-white hands. The parting graceI craved was granted, that my work might beThe portrait of herself. Thou knowest the rest.
MARIA.Why did she leave us, father? Oh, how oftI yearn to see her face, to hear her voice,Hushed in an endless silence! Strange that she,Whose rich love beggared our return, should bearSuch separation! Though engirdled nowBy heavenly hosts of saints and seraphim,I cannot fancy it. What! shall her child,Whose lightest sigh reechoed in her heart,Have need of her and cry to her in vain?
RIBERA.Now, for God's sake, Maria, speak not thus;Let me not see such tears upon thy cheek.Not unto us it has been given to guessThe peace of disembodied souls like hers.The vanishing glimpses that my fancies catchThrough heaven's half-opened gates, exalt even me,Poor sinner that I am. And what are these,The painted shadows that make all my lifeA glory, to the splendor of that light?For thee, my child, has not my doting loveSufficed, at least in part, to fill the breachOf that tremendous void? What dost thou lack?What help, what counsel, what most dear caress?What dost thou covet? What least whim remainsUngratified, because not yet expressed?
MARIA.None, none, dear father! Pardon me! Thy love,Generous and wise as tender, shames my powerTo merit or repay. Fie o my lips!Look if they be not blistered. Let them smoothWith contrite kisses the last frown away.We must be young to-night—no wrinkles then!Genius must show immortal as she is.
RIBERA.Thou wilt unman me with thy pretty ways.I had forgot the ball. Yea, I grow old;This scanty morning's work has wearied me.Once I had thought it play to dream all dayBefore my canvas and then dance till dawn,And now must I give o'er and rest at noon.[Rises.]Enter LUCA, ushering in LORENZO, who carries a portfolio.
LUCA.Signor Lorenzo.[LORENZO ceremoniously salutes RIBERA and MARIA. Exit LUCA.]
LORENZO.Master, I bring my sketch.[Opens his portfolio and hands a sketch to RIBERA.]
RIBERA.Humph! the design is not so ill-conceived;I note some progress; but your drawing's bad—Yes, bad, sir. Mark you how this leg hangs limp,As though devoid of life; these hands seem clenched,Not loosely clasped, as you intended them.[He takes his pencil and makes a few strokes.Thus should it stand—a single line will mend.And here, what's this? Why, 't is a sloven's work.You dance too many nights away, young gallant.You shirk close labor as do all your mates.You think to win with service frivolous,Snatched 'twixt your cups, or set between two kisses,The favor of the mistress of the world.
LORENZO.Your pardon, master, but you do me wrong.Mayhap I lack the gift. Alas, I fear it!But not the patience, not the energyOf earnest, indefatigable toil,That help to make the artist.
RIBERA.'S death! He daresBelie me, and deny the testimonyOf his own handiwork, whose every lineBetrays a sluggard soul, an indolent will,A brain that's bred to idleness. So be it!Master Lorenzo tells the SpagnolettoHis own defects and qualities! 'T were bestHe find another teacher competentTo guide so apt, so diligent a scholar.
MARIA.Dear father, what hath given thee offence?Cast but another glance upon the sketch;Surely it hath some grace, some charm, some promise.
RIBERA.Daughter, stand by! I know these insolent slipsOf young nobility; they lack the stuffThat makes us artists. What! to answer me!When next I drop a hint as to his colors,The lengthening or the shortening of a stroke,He'll bandy words with me about his error,To prove himself the master.
LORENZO.If my defectBe an hereditary grain i' the blood,Even as you say, I must abide by it;But if patrician habits more than birthBeget such faults, then may I dare to hope.Not mine, I knew, I felt, to clear new paths,To win new kingdoms; yet were I contentWith such achievement as a strenuous will,A firm endeavor, unfaltering love,And an unwearying spirit might attain.Cast me not lightly back. Banish me notFrom this, my home of hope, of inspiration!
MARIA.What, my ungentle father! Will you hear,And leave this worthy signor's suit unanswered?
RIBERA.Well, he may bide. Sir, I will speak with youAnon upon this work. I judged in haste.Yea, it hath merit. I am weary now;To-morrow I shall be in fitter moodTo give you certain hints.[LORENZO bows his thanks and advances to address MARIA. RIBERAsilences and dismisses him with a wave of the hand. Exit LORENZO.]
RIBERA.Should I o'ersleepMine hour, Maria, thou must awaken me;But come what may, I will be fresh to-night,To triumph in thy triumph.[Exit RIBERA.]
MARIA (alone).Could I have told,Then when he bade me? Nay, what is to tell?He had flouted me for prizing at such heightHomage so slight from John of Austria, even.A glance exchanged, a smile, a fallen flowerDropped from my hair, and pressed against his lips.The Prince! my father gloats upon that name.Were he no more than gentleman, I thinkI should be glad. I cannot tell to-dayIf I be sad or gay. Now could I weepWarm, longing tears; anon, a fire of joyLeaps in my heart and dances through my veins.Why should I nurse such idle thoughts? TonightWe are to meet again. Will he remember?—Nay, how should he forget? His heart is young;His eyes do mirror loyalty. Oh, day!Quicken thy dull, slow round of tedious hours!God make me beautiful this happy night!My father's sleeping saint rebukes my thought.Strange he has left his work, against his wont,Revealed before completed. I will drawThe curtain.[She stands irresolute before the picture with her hand on thecurtain.]Beautiful, oh, beautiful!The far, bright, opened heavens—the dark earth,Where the tranced pilgrim lies, with eyelids sealed,His calm face flushed with comfortable sleep,His weary limbs relaxed, his heavy headPillowed upon the stone. Oh, blessed dreamThat visits his rapt sense, of airy forms,Mounting, descending on the shining ladder,With messages of peace. I will be trueUnto my lineage divine, and breatheThe passion of just pride that overfillsHIS soul inspired.While she stands before the canvas, reenter, unperceived byher, LORENZO.
LORENZO.Oh, celestial vision!What brush may reproduce those magic tints,Those lines ethereal?—
MARIA (turns suddenly).Is it not marvellous,Signor Lorenzo? I would draw the curtain,But, gazing, I forgot.You are the first,After the master and myself, to lookUpon this wonder.
LORENZO (with enthusiasm, looking for he first time at the picture).Ah, what an answer thisFor envious minds that would restrict his powerTo writhing limbs and shrivelled flesh! Repose,Beauty, and large simplicity are here.Yes, that is art! Before such work I standAnd feel myself a dwarf.
MARIA.There, you are wrong.My father even, who knows his proper worth,Before his best achievements I have seenIn like dejection; 't is the curse of genius.Oft have I heard the master grace your nameWith flattering addition.
LORENZO.'T is your goodness,And not the echo of his praise, that speaks.My work was worthless—'t was your generous voiceAlone secured the master's second glance.
MARIA.Nay, signor, frankly, he esteems your talent.Because you are of well-assured meansAnd gentle birth, he will be rude to you.Not without base is the deep grudge he owesTo riches and prosperity.
LORENZO.Signora,Why do I bear such harsh, injurious termsAs he affronts me with? Why must I seemIn mine own eyes a craven? Spiritless,Dishonorably patient? 'T is not his fame,His power, his gift, his venerable yearsThat bind me here his willing slave. Maria,'T is thou, 't is thou alone! 'T is that I love thee,And exile hence is death![A pause. He kneels at her feet. She looks at him kindly butmakes no reply.]At thy dear feetI lay my life with its most loyal service,The subject of thy pleasure.
MARIA (tenderly).You are too humble.
LORENZO.Too humble! Do you seek mine utter ruin,With words whose very tone is a caress?I say all. I love you!—you have known it.Why should I tell you? Yet, to-day you seemOther than you have been. A milder lightBeams from your eyes—a gentler grace is thronedUpon your brow—your words fall soft as dewTo melt my fixed resolve.
MARIA.You find me, signor,In an unguarded mood. I would be trueTo you; and to myself; yet, know no answer.Anon, I will be calm; pray you withdraw.
LORENZO.Till when? Remember what mad hopes and fearsMeantime will riot in my brain.
MARIA.To-morrow—Farewell, farewell.
LORENZO (kisses her hand).Farewell.[Exit.]
MARIA.A faithful heart,A name untainted, a fair home—yea, theseAre what I need. Oh, lily soul in heaven,Who wast on earth my mother, guide thy child!While MARIA sits rapt in thought, enter from behind her, ANNICCA,who bends over her and kisses her brow.
ANNICCA.What, sister! lost in dreams by daylight? Fie!Who is the monarch of thy thoughts?
MARIA (starting).Annicca!My thoughts are bounden to no master yet;They fly from earth to heaven in a breath.Now are they all of earth. Hast heard the tidings?
ANNICCA.Yea—of the Prince's ball? We go together.Braid in thy hair our mother's pearls, and wearThe amulet ingemmed with eastern stones;'T will bring good fortune.
MARIA.Tell me, ere we go,What manner of man is John of Austria?
ANNICCA.Scarce man at all—a madcap, charming boy;Well-favored—you have seen him—exquisiteIn courtly compliment, of simple manners;You may not hear a merrier laugh than hisFrom any boatman on the bay; well-versedIn all such arts as most become his station;Light in the dance as winged-foot Mercury,Eloquent on the zither, and a masterOf rapier and—
MARIA.A puppet could be madeTo answer in all points your praise of him.Hath he no substance as of a man?
ANNICCA.Why, sister,What may that be to us?
MARIA.He is our Prince.
ANNICCA.The promise of his youth is to outstripThe hero of Lepanto; bright and boldAs fire, he is the very soul, the starOf Spanish chivalry; his last achievementSeems still the flower of his accomplishments.Musician, soldier, courtier, yea, and artist."He had been a painter, were he not a prince,"Says Messer Zurbaran. The Calderona,His actress-mother, hath bequeathed to himHer spirit with her beauty, and the powerTo win and hold men's hearts.
MARIA.I knew it, sister!His eye hath a command in it; his browSeems garlanded with laurel.
ANNICCA.What is this?You kindle with his praise, your whole heart glowsIn light and color on your face, your wordsTake wing and fly as bold as reckless birds.What! can so rash a thought, a dream so wild,So hopeless an ambition, tempt your soul?
MARIA.Pray you, what thought, what dream, and what ambition?I knew not I had uttered any such.
ANNICCA.Nor have you in your speech; your eyes now veiled,Where the light leaped to hear me voice his fame,Your blushes and your pallor have betrayedThat which should lie uncounted fathom deep—The secret of a woman's foolish heart.
MARIA.And there it lies, my sibyl sister, still!Your plummet hath not reached it. Yes, 't is loveFlaunts his triumphant colors in my cheek,And quickens my lame speech—but not for him,Not for the Prince—so may I vaunt his worthWith a free soul.
ANNICCA.Say on.
MARIA.A gentleman,Favored of earth and heaven, true and loving,Hath cast his heart at my imperial feet;And if to-morrow find me as to-day,I will e'en stoop and raise it to mine own.
ANNICCA.Signor Vitruvio?
MARIA.Not he, indeed!Did not I say favored of earth and heaven?That should mean other gifts than bags of gold,Or a straight-featured mask. Nor will it beAny you name, though you should name him right.Must it not lie—how many fathom deep—The secret of a woman's foolish heart?
ANNICCA.Kiss me, Maria. You are still a child.You cannot vex me, wilful as you be.Your choice, I fear not, doubtless 't will prove wise,Despite your wild wit, for your heart is pure,And you will pause with sure deliberate judgmentBefore you leave our father.
MARIA.Does love stealSo gently o'er our soul? What if he comeA cloud, a fire, a whirlwind, to o'erbearThe feeble barriers wherewith we oppose him,And blind our eyes and wrest from us our reason?Fear not, Annicca, for in no such guiseHe visits my calm breast; but yet you speakSomewhat too sagely. Did such cautious wisdomGuide your own fancy?
ANNICCA.Jest no more, Maria.Since I became a wife, is much made clear,Which a brief year ago was dark and vague.Tommaso loves me—we are happierThen I had dreamed; yet matching now with then,I see his love is not that large, rich passionOur father bore us.
MARIA.You regret your home?
ANNICCA.No, no! I have no wish and no regret.I speak for you. His is a sovereign soul,And all his passions loom in huger shapeThan lesser men's. He brooks no rivalryWith his own offspring, and toward me his loveHath ebbed, I mark, to a more even flow,While deeper, stronger, sets the powerful currentToward you alone. Consider this, Maria,Nor wantonly discrown that sacred headOf your young love to wreathe some curled boy's brow.
MARIA.Think you his wish were that I should not wed?
ANNICCA.Nay, that I say not, for his pride aspiresTo see you nobly mated.
MARIA (after a pause).Him will I wedWhose name is ancient, fair, and honorable,As the Ribera's is illustrious—Him who no less than I will venerateThat white, divine old head. In art his pupil,In love his son; tender as I to watch,And to delay the slow extinguishingOf that great light.
ANNICCA.There spake his darling child!
MARIA.What is't o'clock? If he should sleep too late—He bade me rouse him—
ANNICCA.Haste to seek him, then.'T is hard on sunset, and he looks for theeWith his first waking motion. Till to-night.[Exeunt severally.]
SCENE II.A hall in RIBERA'S house. Enter LUCA and FIAMETTA.
FIAMETTA.But did you see her?
LUCA.Nay, I saw her sister, Donna Annicca.
FIAMETTA.Tush, man! never name her beside my lady Maria-Rosa. You have lostthe richest feast in the world for hungry eyes. Her gown of clotho' silver clad her, as it were, with light; there twinkled abouther waist a girdle stiff with stones—you would have said theybreathed. Mine own hands wreathed the dropping pearls in her hair,and pearls again were clasped around her throat. But no, I mighttell thee every ornament—her jeweled fan, her comb of pearls, herfloating veil of gauze, and still the best of all would escape us.
LUCA.Thou speakest more like her page than her handmaiden.
FIAMETTA.Thou knowest not woman truly, for all thy wit. I speak most like awoman when I weigh the worth of beauty and rich apparel. Heigh-ho!I have felt the need of this. Thou, good Luca, who might havebeen my father, canst understand me? HE was poor as thou. Whyshouldst thou be his lackey, his slave? My hand were as dainty ashers, if it could but be spared its daily labor.
LUCA.Yes, poor child, I understand thee, and yet thou art wrong. He ismore slave to pride than I am to him. I know him well, Fiametta,after so many years of service, and to-day I pity him more than Ifear him. Why, girl, my task is sport beside his toil! If mylimbs be weary, I sleep; but I have seen him sit before his canvaswith straining eyes and the big beads standing on his brow. Whenat last he gave o'er, and I have smoothed his pillow, and servedand soothed him, what sleep could he snatch? His brain is hauntedwith evil visions, whereof some be merely of his own imaginings,and others the phantoms of folk who are living or have lived, andwho rouse his jealousy or mayhap his remorse, God only knows! Ifthat be genius—to be alive to pain at every pore, to be possessedof a devil that robs you of your sleep and grants no space betweenthe hours of grinding toil—I thank the saints I am a simple man!
FIAMETTA.I grant thee thou mayst be right concerning him; he hath indeed astrange, sour mien. I shudder when he turns suddenly, as his wontis, and bends his evil eyes on me. The holy father tells me suchwarnings come from God. No matter how slight the service he asksof me, my flesh creeps and my limbs refuse to move, till I havewhispered an Ave. But what of Lady Maria-Rosa? Both heaven andearth smile upon her. To-night she wears a poor girl's dowry, aseparate fortune, on her head, her neck, her hands, yes, on herlittle jeweled feet. One tiny shoe of hers would make me free towed my lad.
LUCA.If he have but eyes, I warrant thee he finds jewels enough in thybright face. Tell me his name.
FIAMETTA.Nay, that is my secret.
LUCA.He must be a poor-souled lad if he will wait till thou hast earneda dowry.
FIAMETTA.A poor-souled lad! my good Vicenzo—ah! but no matter; thou knowesthim, Luca, my Lord Lorenzo's page. There!—is he poor, or mean, orplain, or dull? He claims no dowry, he—but I have my pride, as wellas the great ones.
LUCA.May the saints preserve thee from such as theirs! I am heartily gladof thy good fortune. I am not sure whether thou or Lady Marie-Rosabe the most favored. Well, the end proves all.[Exeunt.]Enter on one side ANNICCA and DON TOMMASO, attired for the ball;on the other side, RIBERA.
RIBERA.What do ye here, my children? Haste away!Maria waits you for the ball; folk say'T will be the bravest show e'er seen in Naples.I warrant you the Spagnoletto bringsThe richest jewels—what say'st thou, my son?
DON TOMMASO.I who have robbed you of one gem, need scarceRe-word, sir, how I prize it.
RIBERA.Why, 't is true.Robbed me, thou sayst? So hast thou. She was mine—The balanced beauty of her flesh and spirit,That was my garland, and I was her all,Till thou, a stranger, stole her heart's allegiance,Suborned—Forgive me, I am old, a father,Whose doting passions blind. I am not jealous,Believe me, sir. When we Riberas give,We give without retraction or reserve,Were it our life-blood. I rejoice with theeThat she is thine; nor am I quite bereft,I have some treasure still. I do repentSo heartily of my discourteous speech,That I will crave your leave before I kissYour wife's soft palm.
ANNICCA (kissing him repeatedly).Why, father, what is this?Can Don Tommaso's wife so soon forgetShe is the Spagnoletto's child?
RIBERA.Enough.I can bear praise, thou knowest, from all save theeAnd my Maria. My grave son, I fear,Will mock these transports. Pray go in with me.No one of us but has this night a triumph.Let us make ready.[Exeunt.]
SCENE I.Ball in the Palace of DON JOHN. Dance. DON JOHN and MARIAtogether. DON TOMMASO, ANNICCA. LORDS and LADIES, dancing orpromenading.
1st LORD.Were it not better to withdraw awhile,After our dance, unto the torch-lit gardens?The air is fresh and sweet without.
1st LADY.Nay, signor.I like this heavy air, rich with warm odors,The broad, clear light, the many-colored throng.I might have breathed on mine own balconyThe evening breeze.
1st LORD.Still at cross purposes.When will you cease to flout me?
1st LADY.When I prizeA lover's sigh more dear than mine own pleasure.See, the Signora Julia passed again.She is far too pale for so much white, I find.Donna Aurora—ah, how beautiful!That spreading ruff, sprinkled with seeds of gold,Becomes her well. Would you believe it, sir,Folk say her face is twin to mine—what think you?
1st LORD.For me, the huge earth holds but one such face.You know it well.
1St LADY.The hall is overfilled;Go we without.[They pass on.]
2d LADY.Thrice he hath danced with her.She is not one of us—her face is strange;Colored and carven to meet most men's desire—Is't not, my lord? Certes, it loses naughtFor lack of ornament. Pray, ask her name,If but for my sake.
2d LORD.I have already asked.She is the daughter to the Spagnoletto,Maria-Rosa.
2d LADY.Ah, I might have guessed.The form and face are matched with the apparel,As in a picture. 'T was the master's hand,I warrant you, arranged with such quaint art,Such seeming-careless care, the dead, white pearlsWithin her odd, bright hair.[They pass on.]
DON JOHN.Now hope, now fearReigned lord of my wild dreams. One name still sangLike the repeated strain of some caged bird,Its sweet, persistent music through my brain.One vanishing face upon the empty airShone forth and faded night and day. And you,Did you not find me hasty, over-bold?Nay, tell me all your thought.
MARIA.You know, my lord,I am no courtier, and belike my thoughtMight prove too rustic for a royal ear.
DON JOHN.Speak on, speak on!Though you should rail, your voice would still outsingRebeck and mandoline.
MARIA.Is it not strange?I knew you not, albeit I might have guessed,If only from the simple garb of black,And golden collar, 'midst the motley huesOf our gay nobles. I know not what besides,But this first won me. Be not angered, sir;But, as I looked, I never ranked you higherThan simple gentleman. I asked your name;Then, when you Highness stooped to pick my flower,My lord, that moment was my thought a traitor,For it had fain discrowned you.
DON JOHN.May God's angelsReward such treason. Say me those words again.Let the rich blush born of that dear confessionAgain dye cheek and brow, and fade and meltForever, even as then.
MARIA.We are watched, my lord.This is no place, no hour, for words like these.
DON JOHN.When, where then, may we meet?[They pass on.]
SCENE II.The Palace Gardens. Interrupted sounds of music and revelrycome though the open windows of the ball-room, seen in thebackground. RIBERA, pacing the stage, occasionally pausingto look in upon the dancers.
RIBERA.This is revenge. Is she not beautiful,Ye gods? The beggar's child matched with a prince!Throb not so high, my heart, 'neath envious eyesFixed on thy triumph! Now am I well repaidFor my slow, martyred years. Was I not wrungby keener tortures than my savage brush,Though dipped in my heart's blood, might reproduce!No twisted muscle, no contorted limb,No agony of flesh, have I yet drawn,That owed not its suggestion to some pangOf my pride crucified, my spirit racked,My entrails gnawed by the blind worm of hate,Engendered of oppression. That is past,But not forgotten; though to-night I pleaseTo yield to gentler influence, to ownThe strength of beauty and the power of joy,And welcome gracious phantasies that throngAnd hover over me in airy shapes.The spirits of earth and heaven contend to-nightFor mastery within me; ne'er beforeHave I been more the Spagnoletto, firedWith noble wrath, with the consuming feverAnd fierce delight of vengeance.From this pointI see her clearly—the auroral faceA-light with smiles, the imperial head upraised;Her languid hand sways the broad, silken fan,Whose wing-like movement stirs above her browThe fine, bright curls, as though warm airs of heavenAround her breathed. He leads her 'midst the throng.So, they have gone; but I will follow them,And watch them from afar.[Exit.]Enter from the opposite side DON JOHN and MARIA.