DON JOHN.I dread to askWhat quivers on my lips. My heart is free,But thine?
MARIA.My heart is free, my lord.
DON JOHN.Thank God!
MARIA.It never beat less calmly at the soundOf any voice till now. I laugh to thinkThis very morn I fancied it had metIts master.
DON JOHN.Ah!
MARIA.Fear naught—a simple boy,A pupil of my father's.
DON JOHN.I was madTo dream it could be otherwise. Forgive me;I, a mere stranger in they life, am jealousOf all thy present and thy past.
MARIA.Listen, my lord;You shall hear all. What hour, think you, he choseTo urge his cause? The same wherein I learnedYour Highness had commanded for to-nightOur presence. My winged thoughts were flying backTo Count Lodovico's; again I saw you,My white rose at your lips, your grave eyes fixedMost frankly, yet most reverently, on mine.Again my heart sank as I heard the name,The Prince of Austria; and while I mused,He spake of love. Oh, I am much to blame!My mood was soft;—although I promised naught,I listened, yea, I listened. Good, my lord,Do you not pity him?
DON JOHN.Thanks, and thanks again,For thy confession! Now no spot remainsOn the unblemished mirror of my faith.Since that dear night, I with one only thoughtHave gained the sum of knowledge and opinionsTouching thine honored father, with such scrapsAs the gross public voice could dole to meConcerning thine own far-removed, white life.Thou art, I learn, immured in close seclusion;Thy father, be it with all reverence said,Hedges with jealous barriers his treasure;Whilst thou, most duteous, tenderest of daughters,Breath'st but for him.
MARIA.Dear father! Were it so,'T were simple justice. Ah, if you knew him—A proud, large, tameless heart. This is the cloisterWhere he immures me—Naples' gayest revels;The only bar wherewith he hedges meIs his unbounded trust, that leaves me free.Let us go in; the late night air is chill.
DON JOHN.Yet one more dance?
MARIA.You may command, my lord.[Exeunt.]Enter RIBERA.
RIBERA.I lost them in the press. Ah, there they danceAgain together. I would lay my handsIn blessing on that darling, haughty head.Like the Ribera's child, she bears her honorsAs lightly as a flower. Yet there glowsUnwonted lustre in her starry eyes,And richer beauty blushes on her cheek.Enough. Now must I strive to fix that formThat haunts my brain—the blind, old Count Camillo,The Prince's oracle. 'Midst the thick throngMy fancy singled him; white beard, white hair,Sealed eyes, and brow lit by an inward light.So will I paint mine Isaac blessing Esau,While Jacob kneels before him—blind, betrayedBy his own flesh!As RIBERA stands aside, lost in thought, enter DON JOHN and MARIA.
MARIA.See the impatient dayWakes in the east.
DON JOHN.One moment here, signora,Breathe we the charm of this enchanted night.Look where behind yon vines the slow moon sets,Hidden from us, while every leaf hangs black,Each tender stalk distinct, each curling edgeAgainst the silver sky.
MARIA (perceiving RIBERA).What, father! here?
RIBERA.Maria!—Ah, my Prince, I crave your pardon.When thus I muse, 't is but my mind that lives;Each outward sense is dead. I saw you not,I heard nor voice nor footstep. Yonder linesThat streak the brightening sky east warn us away.For all your grace to us, the SpagnolettoProffers his thanks to John of Austria.My daughter, art thou ready?
DON JOHN.I am bound,Illustrious signor, rather unto youAnd the signora, past all hope of payment.When may I come to tender my poor homageTo the Sicilian master?
RIBERA.My lord will jest.Our house is too much honored when he deignsO'erstep the threshold. Let your royal pleasureAlone decide the hour.
DON JOHN.To-morrow, then.Or I should say to-day, for dawn is nigh.
RIBERA.And still we trespass. Be it as you will;We are your servants.
MARIA.So, my lord, good-night.[Exeunt MARIA and RIBERA.]
DON JOHN (alone).Gods, what a haughty devil rules that man!As though two equal princes interchangedImperial courtesies! The SpagnolettoThanks John of Austria! Louis of FranceMight so salute may father. By heaven, I know notWhat patience or what reverence withheldMy enchafed spirit in bounds of courtesy.Nay, it was she, mine angel, whose mere aspectIs balm and blessing. How her love-lit eyesBurned through my soul! How her soft hand's slight pressureTingled along my veins! Oh, she is worthyA heart' religion! How shall I wear the hoursEre I may seek her? Lo, I stand and dream,While my late guests await me. Patience, patience![Exeunt.]
SCENE III.Morning twilight in RIBERA'S Garden. During this scene the daygradually breaks, and at the close the full light of morningilluminates the stage. LORENZO.AUBADE.
LORENZO (sings).From thy poppied sleep awake;From they golden dreams arise;Earth and seas new colors take,Love-light dawns in rosy skies,Weird night's fantastic shadows are outworn;Why tarriest thou, oh, sister to the morn?
Hearken, love! the matin choirOf birds salutes thee, and with theseBlends the voice of my desire.Unto no richer promisesOf deeper, dearer, holier love than mine,Canst thou awaken from they dreams divine.
Lo, thine eastern windows flame,Brightening with the brightened sky;Rise, and with thy beauty shameMorning's regal pageantry,To thrill and bless as the reviving sun,For my heart gropes in doubt, though night be gone.
(He speaks.)Why should I fear? Her soul is pledged to mine,Albeit she still withheld the binding word.How long hath been the night! but morn breathes hope."I fain were true to you and to myself"—Did she say thus? or is my fevered brainThe fool of its desires? The world swam;The blood rang beating in mine ears and roaredLike rushing waters; yet, as through a dream,I saw her dimly. Surely on her lidsShone the clear tears. As there's a God in heaven,She spake those words! My lips retain the touchOf those soft, snow-cold hands, neither refusedNor proffered. Such things ARE, nor can they beForgotten or foreknown. Yes, she is mine.But soft! Her casement opes. Oh, joy, 't is she!Pale, in a cloud of white she stands and drinksThe morning sunlight.
MARIA (above at the window).Ah, how sweet this airKisses my sleepless lids and burning temples.I am not weary, though I found no rest.My spirit leaps within me; a new gloryBlesses the dear, familiar scene—ripe orchard,The same—yet oh, how different! Even I thoughtSoft music trembled on the listening air,As though a harp were touched, blent with low song.Sure, that was phantasy. I will descend,Visit my flowers, and see whereon the dewHangs heaviest, and what fairest bud hath bloomedSince yester-eve. Why should I court reposeAnd dull forgetfulness, while the large earthWakes no lesser joy than mine?[Exit from above.]
LORENZO.Oh, heart!How may my breast contain thee, with thy burdenOf too much happiness?Enter MARIA below; LORENZO springs forward to greet her; sheshrinks back in a sort of terror.
LORENZO.Good-day, sweet mistress.May the blithe spirit of this auspicious mornBecome the genius of thy days to come,Whereof be none less beautiful than this.Why art thou silent? Does not love inspireJoyous expression, be it but a sigh,A song, a smile, a broken word, a cry?Thou hast not granted me the promised pledgeFor which I hunger still. I would confirmWith dear avowals, frequent seals of love,That which, though sure, I yet can scarce believe.
MARIA.Somewhat too sure, I think, my lord Lorenzo.I scarce deemed possible that one so shyBut yester-morn should hold so high a mien,Claiming what ne'er was given.
LORENZO.Maria!
MARIA.Sir,You are a trifle bold to speak my nameFamiliarly as no man, save my fatherOr my own brother, dares.
LORENZO.Ah, now I seeYour jest. You will not seem so lightly wonWithout a wooing? You will feign disdain,Only to make more sweet your rich concession?Too late—I heard it all. "A new light shinesOn the familiar scene." What may that be,Save the strange splendor of the dawn of love?Nay, darling, cease to jest, lest my poor heart,Hanging 'twixt hell and heaven, in earnest break.
MARIA.Here is no jest, sir, but a fatal error,Crying for swift correction. You surprise meWith rude impatience, ere I have found timeTo con a gentle answer. Pardon meIf any phrase or word or glance of mineHath bred or nourished in your heart a hopeThat you might win my love. It cannot be.
LORENZO.A word, a glance! Why, the whole frozen statueWarmed into life. Surely it was not you.You must have bribed some angel with false prayersTo wear your semblance—nay, no angel served,But devilish witchcraft—
MARIA.Sir, enough, enough!I hoped to find here peace and solitude.These lacking, I retire. Farewell.[Going toward the house.]
LORENZO.Signora,I will not rob you of your own. Farewell to you.[Exit.]
MARIA.Where have you flown, bright dreams? Has that rude handSufficed to dash to naught your frail creations?Sad thoughts and humors black now fill my soul.So his rough foot hath bruised the dewy grass,And left it sere. Why should his harsh words touch me?The truth of yesterday is false to-day.How could I know, dear God! How might I guessThe bitter sweetness, the delicious pain!A new heart fills my breast, as soft and weakAnd melting as a tear, unto its lord;But kindled with quick courage to endure,If I need front for him, a world of foes.If this be love, ah, what a hell is theirsWho suffer without hope! Even I, who holdSo many dear assurances, who hearStill ringing in mine ears such sacred vows,Am haunted with an unaccustomed doubt,Not wonted to go hand-in-hand with joy.A gloomy omen greets me with the morn;I, who recoil from pain, must strike and wound.What may this mean? Help me, ye saints of heavenAnd holy mother, for my strength is naught!She falls on her knees and bursts into tears. Reenter LORENZO.
LORENZO (aside).Thank heaven, I came. How have I wrung her soul!A noble love, forsooth! A blind, brute passion,That being denied, is swift transformed to hateNo whit more cruel. (To Maria.) Lady!
MARIA (rising hastily).Signor Lorenzo!Again what would you with me?
LORENZO.No such suitAs late I proffered, but your gracious pardon.
MARIA.Rise, sir, forgiven. I, too, have been to blame,Although less deeply than you deemed. ForbearTo bind your life. I feel myself unworthyOf that high station where your thoughts enthrone me.Yet I dare call myself your friend.[Offering him her hand, which LORENZO presses to his lips.]
LORENZO.Thanks, thanks!Be blessed, and farewell.[Exit.]Enter RIBERA, calling.
RIBERA.Daughter! Maria!
MARIA.Why, father, I am here (kissing him). Good-day. What will you?
RIBERA.Darling, no more than what I always will.Before I enter mine own world removed,I fain would greet the dearest work of God.I missed you when I rose. I sought you firstIn your own chamber, where the lattice, oped,Let in the morning splendor and smellsOf the moist garden, with the sound of voices.I looked, I found you here—but not alone.What man was that went from you?
MARIA.Your disciple,My lord Lorenzo. You remember, father,How yester-morn I pleaded for his work;Thus he, through gratitude and—love, hath watchedAll night within our garden, while I danced;And when I came to nurse my flowers—he spake.
RIBERA.And you?
MARIA.Am I not still beside you, father?I will not leave you.
RIBERA.Ah, mine angel-child!I cannot choose but dread it, though I waitExpectant of the hour when you fulfilYour woman's destiny. You have full freedom;Yet I rejoice at this reprieve, and thank theeFor thy brave truthfulness. Be ever thus,Withholding naught from him whose heart reflectsOnly thine image. Thou art still my pride,Even as last night when all eyes gazed thy way,Thy bearing equal in disdainful graceTo his who courted thee—thy sovereign's son.
MARIA.Yea, so? And yet it was not pride I felt,Nor consciousness of self, nor vain delightIn the world's envy;—something more than these,Far deeper, sweeter—What have I said? My brainIs dull with sleep. 'T is only now I feelThe weariness of so much pleasure.
RIBERA (rising).Well,Go we within. Yes, I am late to work;We squander precious moments. Thou, go rest,And waken with fresh roses in they cheeks,To greet our royal guest.[Exeunt.]
SCENE I.The studio of the Spagnoletto. RIBERA before his canvas. LUCAin attendance.
RIBERA (laying aside his brush).So! I am weary. Luca, what 's o'clock?
LUCA.My lord, an hour past noon.
RIBERA.So late already!Well, one more morning of such delicate toilWill make it ready for Madrid, and worthyNot merely Philip's eyes, but theirs whose glanceOutvalues a king's gaze, my noble friendVelasquez, and the monkish Zurbaran.Luca!
LUCA.My lord.
RIBERA.Hath the signora risen?
LUCA.Fiametta passed a brief while since, and leftMy lady sleeping.
RIBERA.Good! she hath found rest;Poor child, she sadly lacked it. She had known'Twixt dawn and dawn no respite from emotion;Her chill hand fluttered like a bird in mine;Her soft brow burned my lips. Could that boy readThe tokens of an overwearied spirit,Strained past endurance, he had spared her still,At any cost of silence. What is such loveTo mine, that would outrival Roman heroes—Watch mine arm crisp and shrivel in quick flame,Or set a lynx to gnaw my heart away,To save her from a needle-prick of pain,Ay, or to please her? At their worth she ratesHer wooers—light as all-embracing airOr universal sunshine. Luca, goAnd tell Fiametta—rather, bid the lassHither herself.[Exit Luca.]He comes to pay me homage,As would his royal father, if he pleasedTo visit Naples; yet she too shall see him.She is part of all I think, of all I am;She is myself, no less than yon bright dreamFixed in immortal beauty on the canvas.Enter FIAMETTA.
FIAMETTA.My lord, you called me?
RIBERA.When thy mistress wakes,Array her richly, that she be preparedTo come before the Prince.
FIAMETTA.Sir, she hath risen,And only waits me with your lordship's leave,To cross the street unto St. Francis' church.
RIBERA (musingly).With such slight escort? Nay, this troubles me.Only the Strada's width? The saints forbidThat I should thwart her holy exercise!Myself will go. I cannot. Bid her muffle,Like our Valencian ladies, her silk mantleAbout her face and head.[At a sign from RIBERA, exit FIAMETTA.]Yes, God will bless her.What should I fear? I will make sure her beautyIs duly masked.[He goes toward the casement.]Ay, there she goes—the mantle,Draped round the stately head, discloses naughtSave the live jewel of the eye. Unless one guessedFrom the majestic grace and proud proportions,She might so pass through the high thoroughfares.Ah, one thick curl escapes from its black prison.Alone in Naples, wreathed with rays of gold,Her crown of light betrays her. So, she's safe!Enter LUCA.
LUCA.A noble gentleman of Spain awaitsThe master's leave to enter.
RIBERA.Show him in.[Exit LUCA. RIBERA draws the curtain before his picture of"Jacob's Dream."]
RIBERA.A gentleman of Spain! Perchance the PrinceSends couriers to herald his approach,Or craves a longer grace.Enter LUCA, ushering in DON JOHN unattended, completely envelopedin a Spanish mantle, which he throws off, his face almost hiddenby a cavalier's hat. He uncovers his head on entering. RIBERA,repressing a movement of surprise, hastens to greet him and kisseshis hand.
RIBERA.Welcome, my lord!I am shamed to think my sovereign's son should wait,Through a churl's ignorance, without my doors.
DON JOHN.Dear master, blame him not. I came attendedBy one page only. Here I blush to claimSuch honor as depends on outward pomp.No royalty is here, save the crowned monarchOf our Sicilian artists. Be it mineTo press with reverent lips my master's hand.
RIBERA.Your Highness is too gracious; if you glanceRound mine ill-furnished studio, my worksShall best proclaim me and my poor deserts.Luca, uplift you hangings.
DON JOHN (seating himself).Sir, you may sit.
RIBERA (aside, seating himself slowly).Curse his swollen arrogance! Doth he imagineI waited leave of him?(Luca uncovers the picture).
DON JOHN.Oh, wonderful!You have bettered here your best. Why, sir, he breathes!Will not those locked lids ope?—that nerveless handRegain the iron strength of sinew matedWith such heroic frame? You have conspiredWith Nature to produce a man. Behold,I chatter foolish speech; for such a marvelThe fittest praise is silence.[He rises and stands before the picture.]
RIBERA (after a pause).I am gladYour highness deigns approve. Lose no more time,Lest the poor details should repay you not.Unto your royal home 't will follow you,Companion, though unworthy, to the treasuresOf the Queen's gallery.
DON JOHN.'T is another jewelSet in my father's crown, and, in his name,I thank you for it.[RIBERA bows silently. DON JOHN glances around the studio.]
DON JOHN.There hangs a quaint, strong head,Though merely sketched. What a marked, cunning leerGrins on the wide mouth! what a bestial glance!
RIBERA.'T is but a slight hint for my larger work,"Bacchus made drunk by Satyrs."
DON JOHN.Where is that?I ne'er have seen the painting.
RIBERA.'T is not in oils,But etched in aqua-fortis. Luca, fetch downYonder portfolio. I can show your HighnessThe graven copy.[LUCA brings forward a large portfolio. RIBERA looks hastilyover the engravings and draws one out which he shows to DON JOHN.]
DON JOHN.Ah, most admirable!I know not who is best portrayed—the god,Plump, reeling, wreathed with vine, in whom abidesSomething Olympian still, or the coarse Satyrs,Thoroughly brutish. Here I scarcely miss,So masterly the grouping, so distinctThe bacchanalian spirit, your rich brush,So vigorous in color. Do you findThe pleasure in this treatment equals thatOf the oil painting?
RIBERA.All is in my mood;We have so many petty talents, cleverTo mimic Nature's surface. I name notThe servile copyists of the greater masters,Or of th' archangels, Raphael and Michael;But such as paint our cheap and daily marvels.Sometimes I fear lest they degrade our artTo a nice craft for plodding artisans—Mere realism, which they mistake for truth.My soul rejects such limits. The true artistGives Nature's best effects with far less means.Plain black and white suffice him to expressA finer grace, a stronger energyThan she attains with all the aid of color.I argue thus and work with simple tools,Like the Greek fathers of our art—the sculptors,Who wrought in white alone their matchless types.Then dazzled by the living bloom of earth,Glowing with color, I return to that,My earliest worship, and compose such workAs you see there.[Pointing to the picture.]
DON JOHN.Would it be overmuch,In my brief stay in Naples, to beg of youA portrait of myself in aqua-fortis?'T would rob you, sir, of fewer golden hoursThan the full-colored canvas, and enrichWith a new treasure our royal gallery.
RIBERA.You may command my hours and all that's mine.
DON JOHN (rising).Thanks, generous master. When may I returnFor the first sitting?
RIBERA.I am ready now—To-day, to-morrow—when your Highness please.
DON JOHN.'T would be abuse of goodness to acceptThe present moment. I will come to-morrow,At the same hour, in some more fitting garb.Your hand, sir, and farewell. Salute for me,I pray you, the signora. May I not hopeTo see and thank her for her grace to me,In so adorning my poor feast?
RIBERA.The debt is ours.She may be here to-morrow—she is free,She only, while I work, to come and go.Pray, sir, allow her—she is never crossed.I stoop to beg for her—she is the lastWho bides with me—I crave you pardon, sir;What should this be to you?
DON JOHN.'T is much to me,Whose privilege has been in this rare hour,Beneath the master to discern the man,And thus add friendship unto admiration.[He presses RIBERA'S hand and is about to pick up his mantle andhat. LUCA springs forward, and, while he is throwing the cloakaround the Princes's shoulders, enter hastily MARIA, enveloped inher mantilla, as she went to church.]
MARIA.Well, father, an I veiled and swathed to suit you,To cross the Strada?[She throws off her mantilla and appears all in white. She goesto embrace her father, when she suddenly perceives the Prince, andstands speechless and blushing.]
RIBERA.Child, his Royal HighnessPrince John of Austria.
DON JOHN.Good-day, signora.Already twice my gracious stars have smiled.I saw you in the street. You wore your mantle,As the noon sun might wear a veil of cloud,Covering, but not concealing.
MARIA.I, sir, twiceHave unaware stood in your royal presence.You are welcome to my father's home and mine.I scarce need crave your pardon for my entrance;Yourself must see how well assured I feltMy father was alone.
DON JOHN.And so you hopedTo find him—shall I read your answer thus?
RIBERA.Nay, press her not. Your Highness does her wrong,So harshly to construe her simpleness.My daughter and myself are one, and bothWill own an equal pleasure if you bide.
DON JOHN (seating himself).You chain me with kind words.
MARIA.My father, sir,Hath surely told you our delight and marvelAt the enchantments of your feast. For meThe night was brief, rich, beautiful, and strangeAs a bright dream.
DON JOHN.I will gainsay you not.A beauteous soul can shed her proper gloryOn mean surroundings. I have likewise dreamed,Nor am I yet awake. This morn hath beenA feast for mind and eye. Yon shepherd-prince,Whom angels visit in his sleep, shall crownYour father's brow with a still fresher laurel,And link in equal fame the Spanish artistWith the Lord's chosen prophet.
RIBERA.That may be,For in the form of that wayfarerI drew myself. So have I slept beneathThe naked heavens, pillowed by a stone,With no more shelter than the wind-stirred branches,While the thick dews of our Valencian nightsDrenched my rude weeds, and chilled through blood and bone.Yet to me also were the heavens revealed,And angels visited my dreams.
DON JOHN.How strangeThat you, dear masters, standing on the crownOf a long life's continuous ascent,Should backward glance unto such dark beginnings.
RIBERA.Obscure are all beginnings. Yet I museWith pleasing pain on those fierce years of struggle.They were to me my birthright; all the vigor,The burning passion, the unflinching truth,My later pencil gained, I gleaned from them.I prized them. I reclaimed their ragged freedom,Rather than hold my seat, a liveried slave,At the rich board of my Lord Cardinal.A palace was a prison till I rearedMine own. But now my child's heart I would pierceSooner than see it bear the least of ills,Such as I then endured.
DON JOHN.Donna MariaMay smile, sir, at your threat; she is in a pleasance,Where no rude breezes blow, no shadow fallsDarker than that of cool and fragrant leaves.Yea, were it otherwise—had you not reapedThe fruit of your own works, she had not suffered.Your children are Spain's children.
RIBERA.Sir, that wordIs the most grateful you have spoken yet.Why are thou silent, daughter?
MARIA (absently).What should I say?The Prince is kind. I scarcely heard your words.I listened to your voices, and I mused.DON JOHN (rising).I overstep your patience.
MARIA.You will be gone?What have I said?
RIBERA.You are a child, Maria.To-morrow I will wait your Highness.
DON JOHN.Thanks.To-morrow noon. Farewell, signora.[Exit DON JOHN.]
RIBERA.What ails you, daughter? You forget yourself.Your tongue cleaves to your mouth. You sit and muse,A statue of white silence. Twice to-dayYou have deeply vexed me. Go not thus againAcross the street with that light child, Fiametta.Faith, you were closely muffled. What was this—This tell-tale auburn curl that rippled downOver the black mantilla? Were I harsh,Suspicious, jealous, fearful, prone to wrath,Or anything of all that I am not,I should have deemed it no mere negligence,But a bold token.
MARIA.Father you make me quail.Why do you threat me with such evil eyes?Would they could read my heart!
RIBERA.Elude me not.Whom have you met beside the Prince this morn?Who saw you pass? Whom have you spoken with?
MARIA.For God's sake, father, what strange thoughts are these?With none, with none! Beside the Prince, you say?Why even him I saw not, as you know.I hastened with veiled eyes cast on the ground,Swathed in my mantle still, I told my beads,And in like manner hasted home to you.
RIBERA.Well, it may pass; but henceforth say thy matinsIn thine own room. I know what vague cloudObscures my sight and weighs upon my brain.I am very weary. Luca, follow me.[Exeunt RIBERA and LUCA.]
MARIA.Poor father! Dimly he perceives some troubleWithin the threatening air. Thank heaven, I calmed him,Yet I spake truth. What could have roused so soonHis quick suspicion? Did Fiametta seeThe wary page slip in my hand the missive,As we came forth again? Nay, even so,My father hath not spoken with her since.Sure he knows naught; 't is but my foolish fearMakes monsters out of shadows. I may readThe priceless lines and grave them on my heart.[She draws from her bosom a letter, reads it, and presses it toher lips.]He loves me, yes, he loves me! Oh, my God,This awful joy in mine own breast is love!To-night he will await me in our garden.Oh, for a word, a pressure of the hand!I fly, my prince, at thy most dear behest![Exit.]
SCENE II.A room in DON TOMMASO'S HOUSE. DON TOMMASO and ANNICCA.
DON TOMMASO.Truly, you wrong your sister; she is young,Heedless, and wilful, that is all; a touchOf the Ribera's spirit fired the lass.Don John was but her weapon of revengeAgainst the malice of our haughty matrons,Who hurled this icy shafts of scorn from heightsOf dignity upon the artist's daughter.
ANNICCA.I cannot think with you. In her demeanor,Her kindled cheek, her melting eye, was moreThan sly revenge or cautious policy.If that was art, it overreached itself.Ere the night ended, I had blushed to seeSlighting regards cast on my father's child,And hear her name and his tossed lightly round.
DON TOMMASO.Could you not read in such disparagementThe envy of small natures?
ANNICCA.I had as liefMaria were to dance the tarantellaUpon the quay at noonday, as to see herGazed at again with such insulting homage.
DON TOMMASO.You are too strict; your baseless apprehensionsWrong her far more than strangers' jests.
ANNICCA.Not so;My timely fears prevent a greater illAnd work no harm, since they shall be impartedOnly to him who hath the power to quell them,Dissolving them to air—my father.
DON TOMMASO.How!You surely will not rouse his fatal wrath?Annicca, listen: if your doubts were true,He whose fierce love guards her with sleepless eyes,More like the passion of some wild, dumb creature,With prowling jealousy and deadly spring,Forth leaping at the first approach of ill,Than the calm tenderness of human fathers;He surely had been keen to scent the danger.I saw him at the ball—as is his wont,He mingled not among the revellers,But like her shadow played the spy on her.
ANNICCA.A word would stir less deeply than you dread.
DON TOMMASO.Ah, there you err; he knows no middle term.At once he would accept as fact the worstOf your imaginings; his rage would smiteAll near him, and rebound upon himself;For, as I learn, Don John brings royal ordersFor the Queen's gallery; he would dismissThe Prince as roughly as a begging artist.Make no such breach just now betwixt the courtAnd our own kindred.
ANNICCA.Be it so, Tommaso.I will do naught in haste.
DON TOMMASO.Watch thou and wait.A slight reproof might now suffice the child,Tame as a bird unto a gentle voice.
ANNICCA.My mind misgives me; yet will I find patience.
SCENE III.Night in RIBERA'S Garden. DON JOHN alone.
DON JOHN.In any less than she, so swift a passion,So unreserved, so reckless, had repelled.In her 't is godlike. Our mutual loveWas born full-grown, as we gazed each on each.Nay, 't was not born, but like a thing eternal,It WAS ere we had consciousness thereof;No growth of slow development, but perfectFrom the beginning, neither doomed to end.Her garden breathes her own warm, southern beauty,Glowing with dewy and voluptuous bloom.Here I am happy—happy to dream and waitIn rich security of bliss. I knowHow brief an interval divides us now.She hastes to meet me with no less impatienceThan mine to clasp her in my arms, to pressHeart unto heart, and see the love withinThe unfathomable depths of her great eyes.She comes. Maria!Enter MARIA, half timid, half joyous.