MARIA.My lord! you have been waiting?
DON JOHN.Darling, not long; 't was but my restless loveThat drove me here before the promised hour.So were I well content to wait through agesUpon the threshold of a joy like this,Knowing the gates of heaven might ope to meAt any moment.
MARIA.Your love is less than mine,For I have counted every tedious minuteSince our last meeting.
DON JOHN.I had rather speakLess than the truth to have you chide me thus;Yet if you enter in the lists with me,Faith match with faith, and loyal heart with heart,I warrant you, the jealous god of love,Who spies us from yon pomegranate bush,Would crown me victor.
MARIA.Why should we compete?Who could decide betwixt two equal truths,Two perfect faiths?
DON JOHN.The worship of my lifeWill be slight payment for your boundless trust.Look we nor forth nor back, are we not happy?Heaven smiles above our heads with all her stars.The envious day forced us apart, the wingOf obscure night protects and shelters us.Now like a pure, night-blooming flower, puts forthThe perfect blossom of our love. Oh, leanThy royal head upon my breast; assure meThat this unheard-of bliss is no fond dream.Cling to me, darling, till thy love's dear burdenTake root about my heart-strings.
MARIA (after a pause).Did you not hearA sound, a cry? Oh, God! was it my father?
DON JOHN.Naught save the beating of our hearts I heard.Be calm, my love; the very air is hushed.Listen, the tinkle of the fountain yonder,The sleepy stir of leaves, the querulous pipeOf some far bird—no more.
MARIA.I heard, I heard!A rude voice called me. Wherefore did it comeTo snatch me from that dream of restful love?Oh, Juan, you will save me, you will help,—Tell me you will—I have lost all for you!
DON JOHN.To-morrow you will laugh at fears like these.You have lost naught—you have but won my love.Lose not your faith in that—your shield and weapon.
MARIA.I tremble still in every limb. Good-night,I must be gone. To-morrow when you come,Be wary with my father; he is fierceIn love and hatred. Listen and look, my lord.If one dared say to me but yester-mornThat I would meet at night a stranger youthIn mine own garden, talk with him of love,And hint a thought against the Spagnoletto,I had smitten with this bauble such a one.[Pointing to a jewelled poniard in her belt.]Kiss me, my Juan, once again. Good-night.[Exit MARIA.]
SCENE IV.The studio. RIBERA and ANNICCA.
ANNICCA.Has he come often?
RIBERA.Nay, I caught the trickOf his fair face in some half-dozen sittings.His is a bold and shapely head—it pleased me.I like the lad; the work upon his portraitWas pastime—'t is already nigh complete.
ANNICCA.And has Maria sat here while you worked?
RIBERA (sharply).Why not? What would'st thou say? Speak, fret me notWith ticklish fears. Is she not by my side,For work or rest?
ANNICCA.Surely, I meant no harm.Father, how quick you are! I had but askedIf she, being here, had seen the work progress,And found it his true counterpart.
RIBERA.Annicca,There is something in your thought you hold from me.Have the lewd, prying eyes, the slanderous mindOf public envy, spied herein some mischief?What hast thou heard? By heaven, if one foul wordHave darkened the fair fame of my white dove,Naples shall rue it. Let them not forgetThe chapel of Saint Januarius!
ANNICCA (aside).Tommaso judged aright. I dare not tell him.Dear father, listen. Pray, be calm. Sit down;Your own hot rage engenders in my mindThoughts, fears, suspicions.
RIBERA (seating himself).I am foolish, hasty; but it makes me mad.Listen to me. Here sits the Prince before me;We talk, we laugh. We have discussed all themes,From the great Angelo's divinity,Down to the pest of flies that fret us hereAt the day's hottest. Sometimes he will paceThe studio—such young blood is seldom still.He brought me once his mandoline, and drewEloquent music thence. I study thusThe changeful play of soul. I catch the spiritBehind the veil, and burn it on the plate.Maria comes and goes—will sit awhileOver her broidery, then will haste awayAnd serve us with a dish of golden fruit.That is for me; she knows the sweet, cool juice,After long hours of work, refreshes meMore than strong wine. She meets his Royal HighnessAs the Ribera's child should meet a Prince—Nor over bold, nor timid; one would thinkTheir rank was equal, and that neither sprangFrom less than royal lineage.
ANNICCA.Why, I know it.Here is no need to excuse or justify.Speak rather of your work—is the plate finished?
RIBERA.So nigh, that were Don John to leave to-morrow,It might go with him.
ANNICCA.What! he leaves Naples?
RIBERA.Yea, but I know not when; he seems to waitMomently, orders from his MajestyTo travel onward.
ANNICCA (aside).Would he were well away!
RIBERA.What do you mutter? I grow deaf this side.
ANNICCA.I spake not, father. I regret with youThe Prince should leave us; you have more enjoyedHis young companionship than any strangersThese many years.
RIBERA.Well, well, enough of him.He hath a winning air—so far, so good.I know not that I place more trust in himThan in another. 'T is a lying world;I am too old now to be duped or dazzledBy fair externals.Enter MARIA, carrying a kirtle full of flowers.
MARIA.Father, see! my rosesHave blossomed over night; I bring you someTo prank your study. Sister, Don TommasoSeeks you below.
ANNICCA (rising).I will go to meet him. Father,Until to-morrow.[Embraces MARIA and exits. MARIA sits by her father's side anddisplays her flowers.]
RIBERA.Truly, a gorgeous show!Pink, yellow, crimson, white—which is the fairest?Those with the deepest blush should best become you—Nay, they accord not with your hair's red gold;The white ones suit you best—pale, innocent,So flowers too can lie! Is not that strange?[MARIA looks at him in mingled wonder and affright. He roughlybrushes aside all the flowers upon the floors, than picks one upand carefully plucks it to pieces.]I think not highly of your flowers, girl;I have plucked this leaf; it has no heart.See there![He laughs contemptuously.]
MARIA.What have I done? Alas! what mean you?Have you then lost your reason?
RIBERA.Nay, but found it.I, who was dull of wit, am keen at last."Don John is comely," and "Don John is kind;""A wonderful musician is Don John,""A princely artist"—and then, meek of mien,You enter in his presence, modest, simple.And who beneath that kitten grace had spiedThe claws of mischief? Who! Why, all the world,Save the fond, wrinkled, hoary fool, thy father.Out, girl, for shame! He will be here anon;Hence to your room—he shall not find you here.Thank God, thank God! no evil hath been wroughtThat may not be repaired. I have sat byAt all your meetings. You shall have no more;Myself will look to that. Away, away![Exit Maria.]
RIBERA (looks after her).As one who has received a deadly hurt,She walks. What if my doubts be false? The terrorOf an unlooked-for blow, a treacherous thrustWhen least expected—that is all she showed.On a false charge, myself had acted thus.She had been moved far otherwise if guilty;She had wept, protested, begged—she had not leftWith such a proud and speechless show of grief.I was too harsh, too quick on slight suspicion.What did Annicca say? Why, she said naught.'T was her grave air, her sudden reticence,Her ill-assumed indifference. They play on me;They know me not. They dread my violent passions,Not guessing what a firm and constant bridleI hold them with. On just cause to be angered,Is merely human. Yet they sound my temper;They try to lead me like some half-tamed beast,That must be coaxed. Well, I may laugh thereat.But I am not myself to-day; strange painsShoot through my head and limbs and vex my spirit.Oh, I have wronged my child! Return, Maria![Exit, calling.]
SCENE I.Night. RIBERA'S bedroom. RIBERA discovered in his dressing-gown,seated reading beside a table, with a light upon it. Enter froman open door at the back of the stage, MARIA. She standsirresolute for a moment on the threshold behind her father,watching him, passes her hand rapidly over her brow and eyes,and then knocks.
MARIA.May I come in, dear father?
RIBERA (putting down his book and looking at her affectionately).Child, you ask?
MARIA (advancing).You study late. I came to bid good-night.
RIBERA.Poor child, thou must be weary. Thou art paleStill from thy swoon.
MARIA (with a forced laugh).I had forgotten it.Nay, I am well again.
RIBERA.But I forget it not,Neither forgive myself. Well, it is past,Enough! When the Prince left I sent for thee;Thou wast still sleeping?
MARIA (with confusion).Yes, I was outworn.What didst thou wish of me?
RIBERA.Merely to tell theeDon John leaves Naples. He expressed regretMost courteously that thou wast suffering.He had fain ordered us his parting thanksFor our kind welcome—so he deigned to say.To-morrow he may steal a moment's graceTo see us both once more; but this is doubtful,So he entrusted his farewells to me.
MARIA.May peace go with him.
RIBERA.We are alone—Are we not, darling? Thanks for the calm contentWherewith thou biddest him farewell, to nestleOnce more in mine embrace. Not long, I feel,May these old horny eyes be blest with sightOf thy full-flowering grace, these wrinkled lipsBe pressed against thy brow. I am no moreWhat I have been; at times both hand and brainRefuse their task. Myself will follow soon—The better part of me already dead.So the worm claims us by slow torture, child.Thou'lt bear with me, if as to-day I wrongThy gentle spirit?
MARIA.Father, no more, no more!You break my heart.
RIBERA.Mine angel-child, weep notSo bitterly. I thought not thus to move thee.Still thou art overwrought. I would have askedAt last a promise of thee. I am selfish,But I would sleep less startingly o'nights,And bear a calmer soul by day, were I secureThat thou wilt bide with me until the end.[A pause.]To-night I will not press thee. Thou art weary;Thy nerves have scarce regained their tension yet;But from thy deep emotion I can see'T will cost thee less than I have feared. To-morrowWe will talk of this again.
MARIA.To-morrow!
RIBERA.Now,Good-night. 'T is time thou shouldst be sleeping.
MARIA.Father,I cannot leave thee! Every word of thineGnaws like a burning coal my sore, soft heart.What! thou shalt suffer, and thine own MariaWill leave thee daughterless, uncomforted?What! thou shalt weep, and other eyes than mineShall see the Spagnoletto's spirit broken?
RIBERA.There, there, poor child! Look up, cling not so wildlyAbout my neck. Thou art too finely touched,If thus the faint foreshadow of a griefCan overcome thee. Listen? What was that?
MARIA (starts up, shudders violently, and, all at once, mastersher emotion).Why, I heard nothing, father.
RIBERA.Yes, a soundOf footsteps, and a stifled call.[He goes toward the casement. MARIA tries to detain him.]
MARIA.Dear father,Surely 't was naught. Your ears deceive you.The wind is rising, and you heard the leavesRustling together.
RIBERA.Nay, I will look forth.[He opens the casement and looks out in silence. MARIA standsbehind him, with her hands clasped in an agony of fear.]
RIBERA (calling).Hist, answer! Who goes there? (a pause.) No sound. Thou'rt right,Maria; I see naught; our garden liesVacant and still, save for the swaying branchesOf bush and tree. 'T is a wild, threatening night.A sultry breeze is blowing, and the skyHangs black above Vesuvius. Yonder cloudHath lightnings in it. Ah, a blinding boltDims the volcano's pillared fire. Enough.[He closes the casement and returns to MARIA.]Hark, how the thunder rolls! My child, you trembleLike the blown leaves without.
MARIA.I am oppressedBy the same stormy influence. Thou knowestI dread the thunder.
RIBERA.Thou, who art safely housed,Why shouldst thou dread it? Try to sleep, my darling;Forget the terror of the tempest; mornWill break again in sunshine.
MARIA.Father, sayYou love me and you trust me once again,Before I bid good-night.
RIBERA.If it will calm thee,I love thee and I trust thee. Thou art to meMy genius—thou, the breathing image stillOf thy saint-mother, whom the angels guard.Even as thou standest now, vested in white,With glowing eyes and pale, unsmiling face,I see her as she stood the day her heartWent forth from home and kin to bless the strangerWho craved her father's alms.
MARIA.Thanks, thanks. Good-night.God bless us through these wild, dark hours.
RIBERA.Good-night.
SCENE II.RIBERA'S garden. Half the sky illuminated by an over-cloudedmoon, the rest obscured by an approaching storm. Occasionalthunder and lightning. On on side of the stage a summer-houseopen to the audience, on the other side the exterior of thedwelling. DON JOHN discovered waiting near the house. The dooropens, and enter MARIA.
DON JOHN (springing forward and embracing her).At last! at last!
MARIA.Juan, beware! My father's fears,I cannot guess by whom or what, are roused.[She extends her arms gropingly to embrace him.]Oh, let me feel thee near me—I see naught.Follow me; here our voices may be heard.[She hastens towards the summer-house, leaning upon his arm,and sinks upon a seat.]Have not slow ages passed with crowding woesSince we last met! What have I not endured!Oh, Juan, save me!
DON JOHN.Dearest child, be calm.Thou art strangely overwrought. Speak not. AwaitTill this wild fear be past.
MARIA.How great you are!Your simple presence stills and comforts me.While you are here, the one thing real to meIn all the universe is love.
DON JOHN.And yetMy love is here, if I be far or nigh.Is this the spirit of a soldier's wife?Nay, fiery courage, iron fortitude,That soul must own that dares to say, "I love."
MARIA.And I dare say it. I can bear the worstThat envious fate may heap upon my head,If thou art with me, or for hope of thee.
DON JOHN.Art sure of that? Thou couldst not part from me,Even for thy father's sake?
MARIA.Talk you of parting?For God's sake, what is this? You love no more?
DON JOHN.Rather I love so truly that I shrinkFrom asking thee to share a soldier's fate.I tremble to uproot so fine a flowerFrom its dear native earth. I—
MARIA (putting her hand on his lips).Hush, no more!I need no preparation more than this,Your mere request.
DON JOHN.There spake my heroine.The King, my father, bids me to repairUnto Palermo.
MARIA.Shall we sail to-night?
DON JOHN.My Princess! Thou recoilest not from allThou must endure, ere I can openlyClaim thee my wife!
MARIA.The pangs of purgatoryWere lightly borne with such a heaven in view.I were content with one brief hour a day,Snatched from the toils of war and thy high duties,To gaze on thy dear face—to feel thy hand,Even as now a stay and a caress.
DON JOHN.Angel, I have no thanks. May God forget meWhen I forget this hour! So, thou art firm—Ready this night to leave thy home, thy kin,Thy father?
MARIA (solemnly).I am ready and resolved.Yet judge me not so lightly as to deemI say this with no pang. My love were naught,Could I withdraw it painlessly at onceFrom him round whose colossal strength the tendrilsOf mine own baby heart were taught to twine.I speak not now as one who swerves or shrinks,But merely, dear, to show thee what sharp torturesI, nowise blind, but with deliberate soul,Embrace for thee.
DON JOHN.How can I doubt the anguishSo rude a snapping of all ties must smiteThy tender heart withal? Yet, dwell we notOn the brief pain, but on the enduring joys.If Ribera's love be all thou deemest,He will forgive thy secret flight, thy—
MARIA.Secret!May I not bid farewell? May I not tell himWhere we are bound? How soon he may have hopeTo hear from me—to welcome me, thy Princess?I dare not leave him without hope.
DON JOHN.My child,Thou art mad! We must be secret as the grave,Else are we both undone. I have given outThat I depart in princely state to-morrow.Far from the quay a bark awaiteth us.I know my man. Shrouded by careful night,We will set secret sail for Sicily.Once in Palermo, thou mayst write thy father—Sue for his pardon—tell him that, ere long,When I have won by cautious policyKing Philip's favor, thou shalt be proclaimedPrincess of Austria.
MARIA (who has hung upon his words with trembling excitement,covers her face with her hands, and bursts into tears).I cannot! no! I cannot!
DON JOHN (scornfully).I feared as much. Well, it is better thus.I asked thee not to front the "worst of illsThat envious fate could heap upon thy head"—Only a little patience. 'T was too much;I cannot blame thee. 'T is a loving father.I, a mere stranger, had naught else to hope,Matching my claim with his.
MARIA (looks at him and throws herself at his feet).Oh, pardon, pardon!My Lord, my Prince, my husband! I am thine!Lead wheresoe'er thou wilt, I follow thee.Tell me a life's devotion may effaceThe weakness of a moment!
DON JOHN (raising her tenderly and embracing her).Ah, mine own!
SCENE III.Morning. The studio. Enter RIBERA.
RIBERA.How laughingly the clear sun shines to-dayOn storm-drenched green, and cool, far-glittering seas!When she comes in to greet me, she will blushFor last night's terrors. How she crouched and shudderedAt the mere thought of the wild war without!Poor, clinging women's souls, what need is theirsOf our protecting love! Yet even on meThe shadow of the storm-cloud seemed to breed.Through my vexed sleep I heard the thunder roll;My dreams were ugly—Well, all that is past;To-day my spirit is renewed. 'T is longSince I have felt so fresh.[He seats himself before his easel and takes up his brush andpalette, but holds them idly in his hand.]Strange, she still sleeps!The hour is past when she is wont to comeTo bless me with the kiss of virgin love.Mayhap 't was fever in her eyes last nightGave them so wild a glance, so bright a lustre.God! if she should be ill![He rises and calls.]Luca!Enter LUCA.
LUCA.My lord?
RIBERA.Go ask Fiametta if the mistress sleeps—If she be ailing—why she has not comeThis morn to greet me.[Exit LUCA.]
RIBERA (begins pacing the stage).What fond fears are theseMastering my spirit? Since her mother diedI tremble at the name of pain or ill.How can my rude love tend, my hard hand soothe,The dear child's fragile—[A confused cry without.]What is that? My God!How hast thou stricken me![He staggers and falls into a chair. Enter hastily FIAMETTA,weeping, and LUCA with gestures of terror and distress.]
FIAMETTA.Master!
LUCA.Dear master![RIBERA rises with a great effort and confronts them.]
RIBERA.What is it? Speak!
LUCA.Dear master, she is gone.
RIBERA.How? Murdered—dead? Oh, cruel God! Away!Follow me not![Exit RIBERA.]
FIAMETTA.Help, all ye saints of heaven.Have pity on him! Oh, what a day is this!
LUCA.Quiet, Fiametta. When the master findsThe empty, untouched bed, the silent room,His wits will leave him. Hark! was that his cry?Reenter RIBERA calling.
Maria! Daughter! Where have they taken thee,My only one, my darling? Oh, the brigands!Naples shall bleed for this. What do ye here,Slaves, fools, who stare upon me? Know ye notI have been robbed? Hence! Ransack every houseFrom cave to roof in Naples. Search all streets.Arrest whomso ye meet. Let no sail stirFrom out the harbor. Ring the alarum! Quick!This is a general woe.[Exeunt LUCA and FIAMETTA.]The Duke's my friend;He'll further me. The Prince—oh, hideous fear!—No, no, I will not dream it. Mine enemiesHave done this thing; the avengers of that beggar—Domenichino—they have struck home at last.How was it that I heard no sound, no cry,Throughout the night? The heavens themselves conspiredAgainst me—the hoarse thunder drowned her shrieks!Oh, agony![He buries his face in his hands. Enter ANNICCA; she throwsherself speechless and weeping upon his neck.]Thou knowest it, Annicca!The thief has entered in the night—she's gone.I stand and weep; I stir not hand or foot.Is not the household roused? Do they not seek her?I am helpless, weak; an old man overnight.The brigands' work was easy. I heard naught.But surely, surely, had they murdered her,I had heard that—that would have wakened meFrom out my grave.
ANNICCA.Father, she is not dead.
RIBERA (wildly).Where have they found her? What dost thou know? Speak, speak,Ere my heart break!
ANNICCA.Alas! they have not found her;But that were easy. Nerve thyself—rememberThou art the Spagnoletto still. Last nightDon John fled secretly from Naples.
RIBERA.Ah!Give me a draft of water.[He sinks down on his chair.]
ANNICCA (calling).Help, Tommaso!Luca! Fiametta! Father, lookup, look up!Gaze not so hollowly.Enter DON TOMMASO and SERVANTS.Quick! water, water!Do ye not see he swoons?[She kneels before her father, chafing and kissing his hands. ExitLUCA, who returns immediately with a silver flagon of water. ANNICCAseizes it and raises it to RIVERA'S lips. He takes it from her handand drinks.]
RIBERA.How your hand trembles!See, mine is firm. You had spilt it o'er my beardHad I not saved it. Thanks. I am strong again.I am very old for such a steady grasp.Why, girl, most men as hoary as thy fatherAre long since palsied. But my firm touch comesFrom handling of the brush. I am a painter,The Spagnoletto—[As he speaks his name he suddenly throws off his apathy, risesto his full height, and casts the flagon to the ground.]Ah, the Spagnoletto,Disgraced, abandoned! My exalted nameThe laughing-stock of churls; my hearthstone stampedWith everlasting shame; my pride, my fame,Mine honor—where are they? With yon spilt water,Fouled in the dust, sucked by the thirsty air.Now, by Christ's blood, my vengeance shall be hugeAs mine affront. I will demand full justiceFrom Philip. We will treat as King with King.HE shall be stripped of rank and name and wealth,Degraded, lopped from off the fellowshipOf Christians like a rotten limb, proclaimedThe bastard that he is. She shall go with him,Linked in a common infamy, haled round,A female Judas, who betrayed her father,Her God, her conscience, with a kiss. Her shadowShall be my curse. Cursed be her sleep by night,Accursed her light by day—her meat and drink!Accursed the fruit of her own womb—the graveWhere she will lie! Cursed—Oh, my child, my child![He throws himself on the floor and buries his head among thecushions of the couch. DON TOMMASO advances and lays his handon RIBERA'S shoulder.]
DON TOMMASO.Mine honored sir—
RIBERA (looks up without rising).Surely you mock me, signor.Honored! Yes, honored with a rifled home,A desecrated heart, a strumpet child.For honors such as these, I have not stintedSweat, blood, or spirit through long years of toil.I have passed through peril scathless; I was sparedWhen Naples was plague-stricken; I have 'scapedMine enemies' stiletto—fire and flood;I have survived my love, my youth, my self,My thrice-blest Leonora, whom I pitied,Fool that I was! in her void, silent tomb.The God of mercy hath reserved me trulyFor a wise purpose.
ANNICCA.Father, rise; take courage;We know not yet the end.
RIBERA.Why should I riseTo front the level eyes of men's contempt?Oh, I am shamed! Cover my head, Annicca;Darken mine eyes, and veil my face. Oh, God,Would that I were a nameless, obscure man,So could I bury with me my disgrace,That now must be immortal. Where thou standest,Annicca, there she stood last night. She kissed me;Round mine old neck she wreathed her soft, young arms.My wrinkled cheeks were wet with her warm tears.She shuddered, and I thought it was the thunderStruck terror through her soul. White-bearded fool!
FIAMETTA.I found this scrip upon the chamber-floor,Mayhap it brings some comfort.
RIBERA (starts up and snatches the paper she offers him, readsit rapidly, then to ANNICCA wildly).Look, look there—'T is writ in blood: "My duty to my lordForbids my telling you our present port."I would track her down with sleuth-hounds, did I notAbhor to see her face. Ah, press thy handsAgainst my head—my brain is like to burst—My throat is choked. Help! help![He swoons.]
SCENE IV.A street. Enter LORENZO and a GENTLEMAN, meeting. They salute,and LORENZO is about to pass on.
LORENZO.Good-morning, sir.
GENTLEMAN.Hail and farewell so soon,Friend dreamer? I will lay a goodly sumThe news that flies like fire from tongue to tongueHath not yet warmed thine ear.
LORENZO.What's that? I layA sum as fair thy news is some dry taleOf courtly gossip, touching me as nighAs the dissensions of the antipodes.
GENTLEMAN.Done for a hundred florins! In the night,'Midst the wild storm whose roar must have invadedEven thy leaden sleep, Prince John left Naples.We should have had a pageant here to-day,A royal exit, floral arches thrownFrom house to house in all the streets he passed,Music and guard of honor, homage fittingThe son of Philip—but the bird has flown.
LORENZO.So! I regret our busy citizens,Who sun themselves day-long upon the quays,Should be deprived of such a festival.Your wager's lost—how am I moved by this?GENTLEMAN.Hark to the end. 'T would move all men whose veinsFlow not clear water. He hath carried offThe Rose of Naples.
LORENZO.What wouldst thou say? Speak out!In God's name, who hath followed him?
GENTLEMAN.Ah, thou'rt roused.Thy master hath been robbed—the Spagnoletto—Maria of the Golden Locks—his daughter.
LORENZO.How is this known? 'T is a foul slander forgedBy desperate malice. What! in the night, you say?—She whose bright name was clean as gold, whose heartShone a fixed star of loyal love and dutyBeside her father's glory! This coarse lieDenies itself. I will go seek the master,And if this very noon she walk not forth,Led by the Spagnoletto, through the streets,To blind the dazed eyes of her slanderers,—I am your debtor for a hundred florins.
GENTLEMAN.Your faith in womanhood becomes you, sir.(Aside.) A beggar's child the mistress of a Prince;Humph! there be some might think the weight of scandalLay on the other side. (To Lorenzo.) You need not forthTo seek her father. See, he comes, alone.I will not meddle in the broil. Farewell![Exit Gentleman.]Enter RIBERA, without hat or mantle, slowly, with folded armsand bent head.
LORENZO.Oh heart, break not for pity! Shall he thusUnto all Naples blazon his disgrace?This must not be (advancing). Father!
RIBERA (starts and looks up sharply).Who calls me father?
LORENZO.Why, master, I—you know me not? Lorenzo.
RIBERA.Nor do I care to know thee. Thou must beAn arrant coward, thus to league with foesAgainst so poor a wretch as I—to call meBy the most curst, despised, unhallowed nameGod's creatures can own. Away! and let me pass;I injure no man.
LORENZO.Look at me, dear master.Your head is bare, your face is ashy pale,The sun is fierce. I am your friend, your pupil;Let me but guide my reverend master home,In token of the grateful memoryWherein I hold his guidance of my mindUp the steep paths of art.[While LORENZO speaks, RIBERA slowly gains consciousness of hissituation, raises his hand to his head and shudders violently.LORENZO'S last words seem to awaken him thoroughly.]
RIBERA.I crave your pardonIf I have answered roughly, Sir Lorenzo.My thoughts were far away—I failed to know you—I have had trouble, sir. You do remind me,I had forgot my hat; that is a trifle,Yet now I feel the loss. What slaves are weTo circumstance! One who is wont to coverFor fashion or for warmth his pate, goes forthBareheaded, and the sun will seem to smiteThe shrinking spot, the breeze will make him shiver,And yet our hatless beggars heed them not.We are the fools of habit.Enter two gentlemen together as promenading; they cross the stage,looking hard at RIBERA and LORENZO, and exeunt.
LORENZO.Pray you, sirLet me conduct you home. Here is no placeTo hold discourse. In God's name, come with me.
RIBERA.What coupled staring fools were they that passed?They seemed to scare thee. Why, boy, face them out.I am the shadow of the Spagnoletto,Else had I brooked no gaze so insolent.Well, I will go with thee. But, hark thee, lad;A word first in thine ear. 'T is a grim secret;Whisper it not in Naples; I but tell thee,Lest thou should fancy I had lost my wits.My daughter hath deserted me—hath fledFrom Naples with a bastard. Thou hast seen her,Maria-Rosa—thou must remember her;She, whom I painted as Madonna once.She had fair hair and Spanish eyes. When was it?I came forth thinking I might meet with herAnd find all this a dream—a foolish thought!I am very weary. (Yawning.) I have walked and walkedFor hours. How far, sir, stand we from the StradaNardo? I live there, nigh Saint Francis' church.LORENZO.Why, 't is hard by; a stone's throw from this square.So, lean on me—you are not well. This way.Pluck up good heart, sir; we shall soon be there.[Exeunt.]