SCENE V.Night. A Room in RIBERA'S House. ANNICCA seated alone, in anattitude of extreme weariness and despondency.
ANNICCA.His heavy sleep still lasts. Despite the wordsOf the physician, I can cast not offThat ghastly fear. Albeit he owned no drugs,This deathlike slumber, this deep breathing slow,His livid pallor makes me dread each momentHis weary pulse will cease. This is the end,And from the first I knew it. The worst evilMy warning tongue had wrought were joy to this.No heavier curse could I invoke on herThan that she see him in her dreams, her thoughts,As he is now. I could no longer bear it;I have fled hither from his couch to breathe—To quicken my spent courage for the end.I cannot pray—my heart is full of curses.He sleeps; he rests. What better could I wishFor his rent heart, his stunned, unbalanced brain,Than sleep to be eternally prolonged?Enter FIAMETTA. ANNICCA looks up anxiously, half rising.
ANNICCA.How now? What news?
FIAMETTA.The master is awakeAnd calls for you, signora.
ANNICCA.Heaven be praised![Exit hastily.]
FIAMETTA.Would I had followed my young mistress! HereI creep about like a scared, guilty thing,And fancy at each moment they will guess'T was I who led her to the hut. I will confess,If any sin there be, to Father Clement,And buy indulgence with her golden chain.'T would burn my throat, the master's rolling eyesWould haunt me ever, if I went to wear it.So, all will yet be well.[Exit.]
SCENE VI.RIBERA'S Room. RIBERA discovered sitting on the couch. He looksold and haggard, but has regained his natural bearing andexpression. Enter ANNICCA. She hastens towards him, and kneelsbeside the couch, kissing him affectionately.
ANNICCA.Father, you called me?
RIBERA.Aye, to bid good-night.Why do you kiss me? To betray to-morrow?
ANNICCA.Dear father, you are better; you have slept.Are you not rested?
RIBERA.Child, I was not weary.There was some cloud pressed here (pointing to his forehead) butthat is past,I have no pain nor any sense of ill.Now, while my brain is clear, I have a wordTo speak. I think not I have been to thee,Nor to that other one, an unkind father.I do not now remember any act,Or any word of mine, could cause thee grief.But I am old—perchance my memoryDeceives in this? Speak! Am I right, Annicca?
ANNICCA (weeping).Oh, father, father, why will you torture me?You were too good, too good.
RIBERA.Why, so I thought.Since it appears the guerdon of such goodnessIs treachery, abandonment, disgrace,I here renounce my fatherhood. No childWill I acknowledge mine. Thou art a wife;Thy duty is thy husband's. When AntonioReturns from Seville, tell him that his fatherIs long since dead. Henceforward I will ownNo kin, no home, no tie. I will away,To-morrow morn, and live an anchorite.One thing ye cannot rob me of—my work.My name shall still outsoar these low, mirk vapors—Not the Ribera, stained with sin and shame,As she hath left it, but the Spagnoletto.My glory is mine own. I have done with it,But I bequeath it to my country. NowI will make friends with beasts—they'll prove less savageThan she that was my daughter. I have spokenFor the last time that word. Thee I curse not;Thou hast not set thy heel upon my heart;But yet I will not bless thee. Go. Good-night.
ANNICCA (embracing him).What! will you spurn me thus? Nay, I will bide,And be to thee all that she should have been,Soothe thy declining years, and heal the woundOf this sharp sorrow. Thou shalt bless me still,Father—[RIBERA has yielded for a moment to her embrace; but, suddenlyrising, he pushes her roughly from him.]
RIBERA.Away! I know thee. Thou art oneWith her who duped me with like words last night.Then I believed; but now my sense is closed,My heart is dead as stone. I cast thee forth.By heaven, I own thee not! Thou dost forgetI am the Spagnoletto. Away, I say,Or ere I strike thee.[He threatens her.]
ANNICCA.Woe is me! Help, help![Exit.]
RIBERA.So, the last link is snapt. Had I not steeledMy heart, I fain had kissed her farewell.'T is better so. I leave my work unfinished.Could I arise each day to face this spectre,Or sleep with it at night?—to yearn for herEven while I curse her? No! The dead remainSacred and sweet in our remembrance still;They seem not to have left us; they abideAnd linger nigh us in the viewless air.The fallen, the guilty, must be rooted outFrom heart and thought and memory. With themNo hope of blest reunion; they must beAs though they had not been; their spoken nameCuts like a knife. When I essay to thinkOf what hath passed to-day, my sick brain reels.The letter I remember, but all sinceFloats in a mist of horror, and I graspNo actual form. Did I not wander forth?A mob surrounded me. All Naples knewMy downfall, and the street was paved with eyesThat stared into my soul. Then friendly handsGuided me hither. When I woke, I feltAs though a stone had rolled from off my brain.But still this nightmare bides the truth. I knowThey watch me, they suspect me. I will waitTill the whole household sleep, and then steal forth,Nor unavenged return.
SCENE I.A Room in DON TOMMASO'S House. ANNICCA discovered, attired inmourning. Enter DON TOMMASO.
DON TOMMASO.If he still live, now shall we hear of him.The news I learn will lure him from his covert,Where'er it lie, to pardon or avenge.
ANNICCA (eagerly).What news? What cheer, Tommaso?
DON TOMMASO.Meagre cheer,But tidings that break through our slow suspense,Like the first thunder-clap in sultry air.Don John sets sail from Sicily, to wedA Princess chosen by the King. Maria—
ANNICCA.Talk not of her—I know her not; her nameWill sear thy tongue. Think'st thou, in truth this newsWill draw my father from his hiding-place?No—teach me not to hope. Within my heartA sure voice tells me he is dead. Not hisThe spirit to drag out a shameful life,To shrink from honest eyes, to sink his browUnto the dust, here where he wore his crown.Thou knowest him. Have I not cause to mournUncomforted, that he, the first of fathers,Self-murdered—nay, child-murdered—Oh, Tommaso,I would fare barefoot to the ends of the earthTo look again upon his living face,See in his eyes the light of love restored—Not blasting me with lightnings as before—To kneel to him, to solace him, to winFor mine own head, yoked in my sister's curseThe blessing he refused me.
DON TOMMASO.Well, take comfort;This grace may yet be thine.
SCENE II.Palermo. A Nunnery. Enter ABBESS, followed by a Lay-Sister.
ABBESS.Is the poor creature roused?
LAY-SISTER.Nay, she still sleeps.'T would break your pious heart to see her, mother.She begged our meanest cell, though 't is past doubtShe has been bred to delicate luxury.I deemed her spent, had not the soft breast heavedAs gently as a babe's and even in dreamsTwo crystal drops oozed from her swollen lids,And trickled down her cheeks. Her grief sleeps not,Although the fragile body craves its rest.
ABBESS.Poor child! I fear she hath sore need of prayer.Hath she yet spoken?
LAY-SISTER.Only such scant wordsOf thanks or answer as our proffered serviceOr questionings demand. When we are silent,Even if she wake, she seemeth unawareOf any presence. She will sit and wail,Rocking upon the ground, with dull, wide eyes,Wherefrom the streaming tears unceasing course;The only sound that then escapes her lipsIs, "Father, Father!" in such piteous strainAs though her rent heart bled to utter it.
ABBESS.Still she abides then by her first requestTo take the black veil and its vows to-morrow?
LAY-SISTER.Yea, to that purpose desperately she clings.This evening, if she rouse, she makes confession.Even now a holy friar waits without,Fra Bruno, of the order of Carthusians,Beyond Palermo.
ABBESS.I will speak with him,Ere he confess her, since we know him not.Follow me, child, and see if she have waked.[Exeunt.]
SCENE III.A Cell in the Nunnery. MARIA discovered asleep on a strawpallet. She starts suddenly from her sleep with a little cry,half rises and remains seated on her pallet.
MARIA.Oh, that wild dream! My weary bones still acheWith the fierce pain; they wrenched me limb from limb.Thou hadst full cause, my father. But thou, Juan,What was my sin to thee, save too much love?Oh, would to God my back were crooked with age,My smooth cheek seamed with wrinkles, my bright hairHoary with years, and my quick blood impededBy sluggish torpor, so were I near the endOf woes that seem eternal! I am strong—Death will not rescue me. Within my veinsI feel the vigorous pulses of young life,Refusing my release. My heart at timesRebels against the habit of despair,And, ere I am aware, has wandered back,Among forbidden paths. What prayer, what penance,Will shrive me clean before the sight of heaven?My hands are black with parricide. Why elseShould his dead face arise three nights before me,Bleached, ghastly, dripping as of one that's drowned,To freeze my heart with horror? Christ, have mercy![She covers her face with her hands in an agony of despair.]Enter a MONK.
THE MONK.May peace be in this place![MARIA shudders violently at the sound of his voice; looks up andsees the MONK with bent head, and hands partially extended, as onewho invokes a blessing. She rises, falls at his feet, and takes thehem of his skirt between her hands, pressing it to he lips.]
MARIA.Welcome, thrice welcome!Bid me not rise, nor bless me with pure hands.Ask not to see my face. Here let me lie,Kissing the dust—a cast-away, a trait'ress,A murderess, a parricide!
MONK.AccursedWith all Hell's curses is the crime thou nam'st!What devil moved thee? Who and whence art thou,That wear'st the form of woman, though thou lack'stThe heart of the she-wolf? Who was thy parent,What fiend of torture, that thine impious handsShould quench the living source of thine own life?
MARIA.Spare me! oh, spare me! Nay, my hands are clean.He was the first, best, noblest among men.I was his light, his soul, his breath of life.These I withdrew from him, and made his daysA darkness. Yet, perchance he is not dead,And blood and tears may wash away my guilt.Oh, tell me there is hope, though it gleam far—One solitary ray, one steadfast spark,Beyond a million years of purgatory!My burning soul thirsts for the dewy balmOf comfortable grace. One word, one word,Or ere I perish of despair!
MONK.What word?The one wherewith thou bad'st thy father hope?What though he be not dead? Is breathing life?Hast thou not murdered him in spirit? dealtThe death-blow to his heart? Cheat not thy soulWith empty dreams—thy God hath judged ye guilty!
MARIA.Have pity, father! Let me tell thee all.Thou, cloistered, holy and austere, know'st notMy glittering temptations. My betrayerWas of an angel's aspect. His were all gifts,All grace, all seeming virtue. I was plunged,Deaf, dumb, and blind, and hand-bound in the deep.If a poor drowning creature craved thine aid,Thou wouldst not spurn it. Such a one am I,And all the waves roll over me. Wrest me from my doom!Say not that I am lost!
MONK.I can but sayWhat the just Spirit prompts. Myself am naughtTo pardon or condemn. The sin is sinned;The fruit forbid is tasted, yea, and pressedOf its last honeyed juices. Wilt thou nowEscape the after-bitterness with prayers,Scourgings, and wringings of the hands? Shall theseUndo what has been done?—make whole the heartThy crime hath snapt in twain?—restore the witsThy sin hath scattered? No! Thy punishmentIs huge as thine offence. Death shall not help,Neither shall pious life wash out the stain.Living thou'rt doomed, and dead, thou shalt be lost,Beyond salvation.
MARIA (springing to her feet).Impious priest, thou liest!God will have mercy—as my father would,Could he but see me in mine agony![The MONK throws back his cowl and discovers himself as theSPAGNOLETTO. MARIA utters a piercing cry and throws herselfspeechless at his feet.]
RIBERA.Thou know'st me not. I am not what I was.My outward shape remains unchanged; these eyes,Now gloating on thine anguish, are the sameThat wept to see a shadow cross thy brow;These ears, that drink the music of thy groans,Shrank from thy lightest sigh of melancholy.Thou think'st to find the father in me still?Thy parricidal hands have murdered him—Thou shalt not find a man. I am the spiritOf blind revenge—a brute, unswerving force.What deemest thou hath bound me unto life?Ambition, pleasure, or the sense of fear?What, but the sure hope of this fierce, glad hour,That I might track thee down to this—might seeThy tortured body writhe beneath my feet,And blast thy stricken spirit with my curse?
MARIA (in a crushed voice).Have mercy! mercy!
RIBERA.Yes, I will have mercy—The mercy of the tiger or the wolf,Athirst for blood.
MARIA (terror-struck, rises upon her knees in an attitude ofsupplication. RIBERA averts his face).Oh, father, kill me not!Turn not away—I am not changed for thee!In God's name, look at me—thy child, thine own!Spare me, oh, spare me, till I win of HeavenSome sign of promise! I am lost foreverIf I die now.
RIBERA (looks at her in silence, then pushing her from him laughsbitterly).Nay, have no fear of me.I would not do thee that much grace to ease theeOf the gross burden of the flesh. Behold,Thou shalt be cursed with weary length of days;And when thou seek'st to purge thy guilty heart,Thou shalt find there a sin no prayer may shrive—The murder of thy father. To all dreamsThat haunt thee of past anguish, shall be addedThe vision of this horror![He draws from his girdle a dagger and stabs himself to the heart;he falls and dies, and MARIA flings herself, swooning upon his body.]