The Spagnoletto.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

DON JOHN of AUSTRIA.

JOSEF RIBERA, the Spagnoletto.

LORENZO, noble young Italian artist, pupil of Ribera.

DON TOMMASO MANZANO.

LUCA, servant to Ribera.

A GENTLEMAN.

FIRST LORD.

SECOND LORD.

MARIA-ROSA, daughter to Ribera.

ANNICCA, daughter to Ribera, and wife to Don Tommaso.

FIAMETTA, servant to Maria-Rosa.

ABBESS.

LAY-SISTER.

FIRST LADY.

SECOND LADY.

Lords, Ladies, Gentlemen, Servants.

SCENE - During the first four acts, in Naples; latter part of the fifth act, in Palermo.    Time, about 1655.

ACT. I.

SCENE I.

The studio of the Spagnoletto. RIBERA at work before his canvas. MARIA seated some distance behind him; a piece of embroidery is in her hands, but she glances up from it incessantly toward her father with impatient movements.

MARIA.

Father!

(RIBERA, absorbed in his work, makes no reply; she puts by her embroidery, 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 me

To 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 turn

And beckon me.    The rosy angels breathe

Upon the canvas; I might sit till night,

And, if I spake not, you would never glance

From 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 toil

As 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 forget

Those days of degradation, when I starved

Before the gates of palaces.    The germs

Stirred then within me of the perfect fruits

Wherewith 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 press

Upon my brain, each claiming from my hand

Its 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 deign

To add to-day the final touch of life

Unto this masterpiece.

MARIA.

So! that is well.

Put by the envious brush that separates

Father 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 Austria

Desires our presence at his ball to-night.

MARIA.

Prince John?

RIBERA.

Ay, girl, Prince John.    I looked to see

A haughty joy dance sparkling in thine eyes

And burn upon thy cheek.    But what is this?

Timid and pale, thou droop'st thy head abashed

As a poor flower-girl whom a lord accosts.

MARIA.

Forgive me.    Sure, 't is you Don John desires

The 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 quest

Of that which, freely given, they reject.

Hold!    Haply just occasion bids thee seem

Unlike 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 love

Willfully, knowing me as soft as clay,

Whom the world knows of marble.    In such moods,

I see my spirit mirror's first, and then

From thy large eyes thy sainted mother's soul

Unclouded 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 brow

Worthy 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 therewithal

A swaying, languid motion all thine own,

Recalls Valencia more than Italy.

Like and unlike thou art to her, as still

My memory loves to hold her, as she first

Beamed like the star of morning on my life.

Hot, faint, and footsore, I had paced since dawn

The sun-baked streets of Naples, seeking work,

Not alms, despite the beggar that I looked.

Now 't was nigh vespers, and my suit had met

With curt refusal, sharp rebuff, and gibes.

Praised be the saints! for every drop of gall

In that day's brimming cup, I have upheld

A poisoned beaker to another's lips.

Many a one hath the Ribera taught

To fare a vagabond through alien streets;

A god unrecognized 'midst churls and clowns,

With kindled soul aflame, and body faint

Or lack of bread.    Domenichino knows,

And Gessi, Guido, Annibal Caracci -

MARIA.

Dear father, calm yourself.    You had begun

To 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 words

I heard in Naples; but I took small heed

Of speech or toe, for all my sense was rapt

In wonder at the angel by his side

Who smiled upon me.    Large, clear eyes that held

The very soul of sunlight in their depths;

Low, pure, pale brow, with masses of black hair

Flung loosely back, and rippling unconfined

In shadowy magnificence below

The 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 morn

Hath 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 lacked

To prove my unfamed skill.    A savage pride,

Matched oddly with my rags, the haughtiness

Wherewith 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 wine

With    her own flower-white hands.    The parting grace

I craved was granted, that my work might be

The portrait of herself.    Thou knowest the rest.

MARIA.

Why did she leave us, father?    Oh, how oft

I yearn to see her face, to hear her voice,

Hushed in an endless silence!    Strange that she,

Whose rich love beggared our return, should bear

Such separation!    Though engirdled now

By 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 guess

The peace of disembodied souls like hers.

The vanishing glimpses that my fancies catch

Through heaven's half-opened gates, exalt even me,

Poor sinner that I am.    And what are these,

The painted shadows that make all my life

A glory, to the splendor of that light?

For thee, my child, has not my doting love

Sufficed, at least in part, to fill the breach

Of that tremendous void?    What dost thou lack?

What help, what counsel, what most dear caress?

What dost thou covet?    What least whim remains

Ungratified, because not yet expressed?

MARIA.

None, none, dear father!    Pardon me!    Thy love,

Generous and wise as tender, shames my power

To merit or repay.    Fie o my lips!

Look if they be not blistered.    Let them smooth

With 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 day

Before 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 energy

Of earnest, indefatigable toil,

That help to make the artist.

RIBERA.

'S death!    He dares

Belie me, and deny the testimony

Of his own handiwork, whose every line

Betrays a sluggard soul, an indolent will,

A brain that's bred to idleness.    So be it!

Master Lorenzo tells the Spagnoletto

His own defects and qualities!    'T were best

He find another teacher competent

To 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 slips

Of young nobility; they lack the stuff

That 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 defect

Be an hereditary grain i' the blood,

Even as you say, I must abide by it;

But if patrician habits more than birth

Beget 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 content

With such achievement as a strenuous will,

A firm endeavor, unfaltering love,

And an unwearying spirit might attain.

Cast me not lightly back.    Banish me not

From 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 you

Anon upon this work.    I judged in haste.

Yea, it hath merit.    I am weary now;

To-morrow I shall be in fitter mood

To give you certain hints.

[LORENZO bows his thanks and advances to address MARIA.    RIBERA silences and dismisses him with a wave of the hand.    Exit LORENZO.]

RIBERA.

Should I o'ersleep

Mine 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 height

Homage so slight from John of Austria, even.

A glance exchanged, a smile, a fallen flower

Dropped from my hair, and pressed against his lips.

The Prince! my father gloats upon that name.

Were he no more than gentleman, I think

I should be glad.    I cannot tell to-day

If I be sad or gay.    Now could I weep

Warm, longing tears; anon, a fire of joy

Leaps in my heart and dances through my veins.

Why should I nurse such idle thoughts?    Tonight

We 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 draw

The curtain.

[She stands irresolute before the picture with her hand on the curtain.]

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 head

Pillowed upon the stone.    Oh, blessed dream

That visits his rapt sense, of airy forms,

Mounting, descending on the shining ladder,

With messages of peace.    I will be true

Unto my lineage divine, and breathe

The passion of just pride that overfills

HIS soul inspired.

While she stands before the canvas, reenter, unperceived by her, 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 look

Upon this wonder.

LORENZO (with enthusiasm, looking for he first time at the picture).

Ah, what an answer this

For envious minds that would restrict his power

To writhing limbs and shrivelled flesh!    Repose,

Beauty, and large simplicity are here.

Yes, that is art!    Before such work I stand

And feel myself a dwarf.

MARIA.

There, you are wrong.

My father even, who knows his proper worth,

Before his best achievements I have seen

In like dejection; 't is the curse of genius.

Oft have I heard the master grace your name

With flattering addition.

LORENZO.

'T is your goodness,

And not the echo of his praise, that speaks.

My work was worthless - 't was your generous voice

Alone secured the master's second glance.

MARIA.

Nay, signor, frankly, he esteems your talent.

Because you are of well-assured means

And gentle birth, he will be rude to you.

Not without base is the deep grudge he owes

To riches and prosperity.

LORENZO.

Signora,

Why do I bear such harsh, injurious terms

As he affronts me with?    Why must I seem

In mine own eyes a craven?    Spiritless,

Dishonorably patient?    'T is not his fame,

His power, his gift, his venerable years

That 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 but makes no reply.]

At thy dear feet

I 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 seem

Other than you have been.    A milder light

Beams from your eyes - a gentler grace is throned

Upon your brow - your words fall soft as dew

To melt my fixed resolve.

MARIA.

You find me, signor,

In an unguarded mood.    I would be true

To you; and to myself; yet, know no answer.

Anon, I will be calm; pray you withdraw.

LORENZO.

Till when?    Remember what mad hopes and fears

Meantime 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, these

Are 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 wear

The 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 - exquisite

In courtly compliment, of simple manners;

You may not hear a merrier laugh than his

From any boatman on the bay; well-versed

In all such arts as most become his station;

Light in the dance as winged-foot Mercury,

Eloquent on the zither, and a master

Of rapier and -

MARIA.

A puppet could be made

To 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 outstrip

The hero of Lepanto; bright and bold

As fire, he is the very soul, the star

Of Spanish chivalry; his last achievement

Seems 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 him

Her spirit with her beauty, and the power

To win and hold men's hearts.

MARIA.

I knew it, sister!

His eye hath a command in it; his brow

Seems garlanded with laurel.

ANNICCA.

What is this?

You kindle with his praise, your whole heart glows

In light and color on your face, your words

Take 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 betrayed

That 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 love

Flaunts his triumphant colors in my cheek,

And quickens my lame speech - but not for him,

Not for the Prince - so may I vaunt his worth

With 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 be

Any 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 judgment

Before you leave our father.

MARIA.

Does love steal

So gently o'er our soul?    What if he come

A cloud, a fire, a whirlwind, to o'erbear

The feeble barriers wherewith we oppose him,

And blind our eyes and wrest from us our reason?

Fear not, Annicca, for in no such guise

He visits my calm breast; but yet you speak

Somewhat too sagely.    Did such cautious wisdom

Guide 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 happier

Then I had dreamed; yet matching now with then,

I see his love is not that large, rich passion

Our 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 shape

Than lesser men's.    He brooks no rivalry

With his own offspring, and toward me his love

Hath ebbed, I mark, to a more even flow,

While deeper, stronger, sets the powerful current

Toward you alone.    Consider this, Maria,

Nor wantonly discrown that sacred head

Of 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 aspires

To see you nobly mated.

MARIA (after a pause).

Him will I wed

Whose name is ancient, fair, and honorable,

As the Ribera's is illustrious -

Him who no less than I will venerate

That white, divine old head.    In art his pupil,

In love his son; tender as I to watch,

And to delay the slow extinguishing

Of 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 thee

With 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 lost the richest feast in the world for hungry eyes.    Her gown of cloth o' silver clad her, as it were, with light; there twinkled about her waist a girdle stiff with stones - you would have said they breathed.    Mine own hands wreathed the dropping pearls in her hair, and pearls again were clasped around her throat.    But no, I might tell thee every ornament - her jeweled fan, her comb of pearls, her floating 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 a woman when I weigh the worth of beauty and rich apparel.    Heigh-ho! I have felt the need of this.    Thou, good Luca, who might have been my father, canst understand me?    HE was poor as thou.    Why shouldst thou be his lackey, his slave?    My hand were as dainty as hers, if it could but be spared its daily labor.

LUCA.

Yes, poor child, I understand thee, and yet thou art wrong.    He is more 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 I fear him.    Why, girl, my task is sport beside his toil!    If my limbs be weary, I sleep; but I have seen him sit before his canvas with straining eyes and the big beads standing on his brow.    When at last he gave o'er, and I have smoothed his pillow, and served and soothed him, what sleep could he snatch?    His brain is haunted with evil visions, whereof some be merely of his own imaginings, and others the phantoms of folk who are living or have lived, and who rouse his jealousy or mayhap his remorse, God only knows!    If that be genius - to be alive to pain at every pore, to be possessed of a devil that robs you of your sleep and grants no space between the 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 a strange, sour mien.    I shudder when he turns suddenly, as his wont is, and bends his evil eyes on me.    The holy father tells me such warnings come from God.    No matter how slight the service he asks of me, my flesh creeps and my limbs refuse to move, till I have whispered an Ave.    But what of Lady Maria-Rosa?    Both heaven and earth smile upon her.    To-night she wears a poor girl's dowry, a separate fortune, on her head, her neck, her hands, yes, on her little jeweled feet.    One tiny shoe of hers would make me free to wed my lad.

LUCA.

If he have but eyes, I warrant thee he finds jewels enough in thy bright 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 earned a dowry.

FIAMETTA.

A poor-souled lad! my good Vicenzo - ah! but no matter; thou knowest him, Luca, my Lord Lorenzo's page.    There! - is he poor, or mean, or plain, or dull?    He claims no dowry, he - but I have my pride, as well as the great ones.

LUCA.

May the saints preserve thee from such as theirs!    I am heartily glad of thy good fortune.    I am not sure whether thou or Lady Marie-Rosa be 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 brings

The richest jewels - what say'st thou, my son?

DON TOMMASO.

I who have robbed you of one gem, need scarce

Re-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 thee

That she is thine; nor am I quite bereft,

I have some treasure still.    I do repent

So heartily of my discourteous speech,

That I will crave your leave before I kiss

Your wife's soft palm.

ANNICCA (kissing him repeatedly).

Why, father, what is this?

Can Don Tommaso's wife so soon forget

She is the Spagnoletto's child?

RIBERA.

Enough.

I can bear praise, thou knowest, from all save thee

And 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.]

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Ball in the Palace of DON JOHN.    Dance.    DON JOHN and MARIA together. DON TOMMASO, ANNICCA.    LORDS and LADIES, dancing or promenading.

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 balcony

The evening breeze.

1st LORD.

Still at cross purposes.

When will you cease to flout me?

1st LADY.

When I prize

A 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 naught

For 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 pearls

Within her odd, bright hair.

[They pass on.]

DON JOHN.

Now hope, now fear

Reigned lord of my wild dreams.    One name still sang

Like the repeated strain of some caged bird,

Its sweet, persistent music through my brain.

One vanishing face upon the empty air

Shone 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 thought

Might prove too rustic for a royal ear.

DON JOHN.

Speak on, speak on!

Though you should rail, your voice would still outsing

Rebeck 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 hues

Of 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 higher

Than 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 angels

Reward such treason.    Say me those words again.

Let the rich blush born of that dear confession

Again dye cheek and brow, and fade and melt

Forever, 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 revelry come though the open windows of the ball-room, seen in the background.    RIBERA, pacing the stage, occasionally pausing to 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 eyes

Fixed on thy triumph!    Now am I well repaid

For my slow, martyred years.    Was I not wrung

by 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 pang

Of 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 please

To yield to gentler influence, to own

The strength of beauty and the power of joy,

And welcome gracious phantasies that throng

And hover over me in airy shapes.

The spirits of earth and heaven contend to-night

For mastery within me; ne'er before

Have I been more the Spagnoletto, fired

With noble wrath, with the consuming fever

And fierce delight of vengeance.

From this point

I see her clearly - the auroral face

A-light with smiles, the imperial head upraised;

Her languid hand sways the broad, silken fan,

Whose wing-like movement stirs above her brow

The fine, bright curls, as though warm airs of heaven

Around 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.

DON JOHN.

I dread to ask

What 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 sound

Of any voice till now.    I laugh to think

This very morn I fancied it had met

Its master.

DON JOHN.

Ah!

MARIA.

Fear naught - a simple boy,

A pupil of my father's.

DON JOHN.

I was mad

To dream it could be otherwise.    Forgive me;

I, a mere stranger in they life, am jealous

Of all thy present and thy past.

MARIA.

Listen, my lord;

You shall hear all.    What hour, think you, he chose

To urge his cause?    The same wherein I learned

Your Highness had commanded for to-night

Our presence.    My winged thoughts were flying back

To Count Lodovico's; again I saw you,

My white rose at your lips, your grave eyes fixed

Most 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 remains

On the unblemished mirror of my faith.

Since that dear night, I with one only thought

Have gained the sum of knowledge and opinions

Touching thine honored father, with such scraps

As the gross public voice could dole to me

Concerning 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 cloister

Where he immures me - Naples' gayest revels;

The only bar wherewith he hedges me

Is 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 dance

Again together.    I would lay my hands

In blessing on that darling, haughty head.

Like the Ribera's child, she bears her honors

As lightly as a flower.    Yet there glows

Unwonted lustre in her starry eyes,

And richer beauty blushes on her cheek.

Enough.    Now must I strive to fix that form

That haunts my brain - the blind, old Count Camillo,

The Prince's oracle. 'Midst the thick throng

My 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, betrayed

By his own flesh!

As RIBERA stands aside, lost in thought, enter DON JOHN and MARIA.

MARIA.

See the impatient day

Wakes 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 edge

Against 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 lines

That streak the brightening sky east warn us away.

For all your grace to us, the Spagnoletto

Proffers his thanks to John of Austria.

My daughter, art thou ready?

DON JOHN.

I am bound,

Illustrious signor, rather unto you

And the signora, past all hope of payment.

When may I come to tender my poor homage

To the Sicilian master?

RIBERA.

My lord will jest.

Our house is too much honored when he deigns

O'erstep the threshold.    Let your royal pleasure

Alone 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 interchanged

Imperial courtesies!    The Spagnoletto

Thanks John of Austria!    Louis of France

Might so salute may father.    By heaven, I know not

What patience or what reverence withheld

My enchafed spirit in bounds of courtesy.

Nay, it was she, mine angel, whose mere aspect

Is balm and blessing.    How her love-lit eyes

Burned through my soul!    How her soft hand's slight pressure

Tingled along my veins!    Oh, she is worthy

A heart' religion!    How shall I wear the hours

Ere 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 day gradually breaks, and at the close the full light of morning illuminates 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 choir

Of birds salutes thee, and with these

Blends the voice of my desire.

Unto no richer promises

Of 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 shame

Morning'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 brain

The fool of its desires?    The world swam;

The blood rang beating in mine ears and roared

Like rushing waters; yet, as through a dream,

I saw her dimly.    Surely on her lids

Shone the clear tears.    As there's a God in heaven,

She spake those words!    My lips retain the touch

Of those soft, snow-cold hands, neither refused

Nor proffered.    Such things ARE, nor can they be

Forgotten 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 drinks

The morning sunlight.

MARIA (above at the window).

Ah, how sweet this air

Kisses my sleepless lids and burning temples.

I am not weary, though I found no rest.

My spirit leaps within me; a new glory

Blesses the dear, familiar scene - ripe orchard,

The same - yet oh, how different!    Even I thought

Soft 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 dew

Hangs heaviest, and what fairest bud hath bloomed

Since yester-eve.    Why should I court repose

And dull forgetfulness, while the large earth

Wakes no lesser joy than mine?

[Exit from above.]

LORENZO.

Oh, heart!

How may my breast contain thee, with thy burden

Of too much happiness?

Enter MARIA below; LORENZO springs forward to greet her; she shrinks back in a sort of terror.

LORENZO.

Good-day, sweet mistress.

May the blithe spirit of this auspicious morn

Become the genius of thy days to come,

Whereof be none less beautiful than this.

Why art thou silent?    Does not love inspire

Joyous expression, be it but a sigh,

A song, a smile, a broken word, a cry?

Thou hast not granted me the promised pledge

For which I hunger still.    I would confirm

With 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 shy

But 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 name

Familiarly as no man, save my father

Or my own brother, dares.

LORENZO.

Ah, now I see

Your jest.    You will not seem so lightly won

Without a wooing?    You will feign disdain,

Only to make more sweet your rich concession?

Too late - I heard it all.    "A new light shines

On 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 me

With rude impatience, ere I have found time

To con a gentle answer.    Pardon me

If any phrase or word or glance of mine

Hath bred or nourished in your heart a hope

That you might win my love.    It cannot be.

LORENZO.

A word, a glance!    Why, the whole frozen statue

Warmed into life.    Surely it was not you.

You must have bribed some angel with false prayers

To 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 hand

Sufficed 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 guess

The bitter sweetness, the delicious pain!

A new heart fills my breast, as soft and weak

And 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 theirs

Who suffer without hope!    Even I, who hold

So many dear assurances, who hear

Still 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 heaven

And 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 hate

No whit more cruel.    (To Maria.)    Lady!

MARIA (rising hastily).

Signor Lorenzo!

Again what would you with me?

LORENZO.

No such suit

As late I proffered, but your gracious pardon.

MARIA.

Rise, sir, forgiven.    I, too, have been to blame,

Although less deeply than you deemed.    Forbear

To bind your life.    I feel myself unworthy

Of 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 first

In your own chamber, where the lattice, oped,

Let in the morning splendor and smells

Of 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 watched

All 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 wait

Expectant of the hour when you fulfil

Your woman's destiny.    You have full freedom;

Yet I rejoice at this reprieve, and thank thee

For thy brave truthfulness.    Be ever thus,

Withholding naught from him whose heart reflects

Only thine image.    Thou art still my pride,

Even as last night when all eyes gazed thy way,

Thy bearing equal in disdainful grace

To 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 delight

In the world's envy; - something more than these,

Far deeper, sweeter - What have I said?    My brain

Is dull with sleep.    'T is only now I feel

The 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.]

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The studio of the Spagnoletto.    RIBERA before his canvas.    LUCA in 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 toil

Will make it ready for Madrid, and worthy

Not merely Philip's eyes, but theirs whose glance

Outvalues a king's gaze, my noble friend

Velasquez, and the monkish Zurbaran.

Luca!

LUCA.

My lord.

RIBERA.

Hath the signora risen?

LUCA.

Fiametta passed a brief while since, and left

My 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 read

The tokens of an overwearied spirit,

Strained past endurance, he had spared her still,

At any cost of silence.    What is such love

To 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 rates

Her wooers - light as all-embracing air

Or universal sunshine.    Luca, go

And tell Fiametta - rather, bid the lass

Hither herself.

[Exit Luca.]

He comes to pay me homage,

As would his royal father, if he pleased

To 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 dream

Fixed 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 prepared

To 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 forbid

That I should thwart her holy exercise!

Myself will go.    I cannot.    Bid her muffle,

Like our Valencian ladies, her silk mantle

About 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 beauty

Is duly masked.

[He goes toward the casement.]

Ay, there she goes - the mantle,

Draped round the stately head, discloses naught

Save the live jewel of the eye.    Unless one guessed

From 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 awaits

The 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 Prince

Sends couriers to herald his approach,

Or craves a longer grace.

Enter LUCA, ushering in DON JOHN unattended, completely enveloped in a Spanish mantle, which he throws off, his face almost hidden by a cavalier's hat.    He uncovers his head on entering.    RIBERA, repressing a movement of surprise, hastens to greet him and kisses his 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 attended

By one page only.    Here I blush to claim

Such honor as depends on outward pomp.

No royalty is here, save the crowned monarch

Of our Sicilian artists.    Be it mine

To press with reverent lips my master's hand.

RIBERA.

Your Highness is too gracious; if you glance

Round mine ill-furnished studio, my works

Shall 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 imagine

I 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 hand

Regain the iron strength of sinew mated

With such heroic frame?    You have conspired

With Nature to produce a man.    Behold,

I chatter foolish speech; for such a marvel

The fittest praise is silence.

[He rises and stands before the picture.]

RIBERA (after a pause).

I am glad

Your 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 treasures

Of the Queen's gallery.

DON JOHN.

'T is another jewel

Set 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 leer

Grins 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 down

Yonder portfolio.    I can show your Highness

The graven copy.

[LUCA brings forward a large portfolio.    RIBERA looks hastily over 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 abides

Something Olympian still, or the coarse Satyrs,

Thoroughly brutish.    Here I scarcely miss,

So masterly the grouping, so distinct

The bacchanalian spirit, your rich brush,

So vigorous in color.    Do you find

The pleasure in this treatment equals that

Of the oil painting?

RIBERA.

All is in my mood;

We have so many petty talents, clever

To mimic Nature's surface.    I name not

The 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 art

To a nice craft for plodding artisans -

Mere realism, which they mistake for truth.

My soul rejects such limits.    The true artist

Gives Nature's best effects with far less means.

Plain black and white suffice him to express

A finer grace, a stronger energy

Than 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 work

As you see there.

[Pointing to the picture.]

DON JOHN.

Would it be overmuch,

In my brief stay in Naples, to beg of you

A portrait of myself in aqua-fortis?

'T would rob you, sir, of fewer golden hours

Than the full-colored canvas, and enrich

With 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 return

For 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 accept

The 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 hope

To 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 last

Who 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 and hat.    LUCA springs forward, and, while he is throwing the cloak around the Princes's shoulders, enter hastily MARIA,    enveloped in her 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 goes to embrace her father, when she suddenly perceives the Prince, and stands speechless and blushing.]

RIBERA.

Child, his Royal Highness

Prince 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, twice

Have 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 felt

My father was alone.

DON JOHN.

And so you hoped

To 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 both

Will 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 marvel

At the enchantments of your feast.    For me

The night was brief, rich, beautiful, and strange

As a bright dream.

DON JOHN.

I will gainsay you not.

A beauteous soul can shed her proper glory

On mean surroundings.    I have likewise dreamed,

Nor am I yet awake.    This morn hath been

A feast for mind and eye.    Yon shepherd-prince,

Whom angels visit in his sleep, shall crown

Your father's brow with a still fresher laurel,

And link in equal fame the Spanish artist

With the Lord's chosen prophet.

RIBERA.

That may be,

For in the form of that wayfarer

I drew myself.    So have I slept beneath

The naked heavens, pillowed by a stone,

With no more shelter than the wind-stirred branches,

While the thick dews of our Valencian nights

Drenched 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 strange

That you, dear masters, standing on the crown

Of a long life's continuous ascent,

Should backward glance unto such dark beginnings.

RIBERA.

Obscure are all beginnings.    Yet I muse

With 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 reared

Mine own.    But now my child's heart I would pierce

Sooner than see it bear the least of ills,

Such as I then endured.

DON JOHN.

Donna Maria

May smile, sir, at your threat; she is in a pleasance,

Where no rude breezes blow, no shadow falls

Darker than that of cool and fragrant leaves.

Yea, were it otherwise - had you not reaped

The fruit of your own works, she had not suffered.

Your children are Spain's children.

RIBERA.

Sir, that word

Is 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-day

You have deeply vexed me.    Go not thus again

Across the street with that light child, Fiametta.

Faith, you were closely muffled.    What was this -

This tell-tale auburn curl that rippled down

Over 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 matins

In thine own room.    I know what vague cloud

Obscures 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 trouble

Within the threatening air.    Thank heaven, I calmed him,

Yet I spake truth.    What could have roused so soon

His quick suspicion?    Did Fiametta see

The 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 fear

Makes monsters out of shadows.    I may read

The priceless lines and grave them on my heart.

[She draws from her bosom a letter, reads it, and presses it to

her 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 touch

Of the Ribera's spirit fired the lass.

Don John was but her weapon of revenge

Against the malice of our haughty matrons,

Who hurled this icy shafts of scorn from heights

Of dignity upon the artist's daughter.

ANNICCA.

I cannot think with you.    In her demeanor,

Her kindled cheek, her melting eye, was more

Than sly revenge or cautious policy.

If that was art, it overreached itself.

Ere the night ended, I had blushed to see

Slighting regards cast on my father's child,

And hear her name and his tossed lightly round.

DON TOMMASO.

Could you not read in such disparagement

The envy of small natures?

ANNICCA.

I had as lief

Maria were to dance the tarantella

Upon the quay at noonday, as to see her

Gazed at again with such insulting homage.

DON TOMMASO.

You are too strict; your baseless apprehensions

Wrong her far more than strangers' jests.

ANNICCA.

Not so;

My timely fears prevent a greater ill

And work no harm, since they shall be imparted

Only 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 worst

Of your imaginings; his rage would smite

All near him, and rebound upon himself;

For, as I learn, Don John brings royal orders

For the Queen's gallery; he would dismiss

The Prince as roughly as a begging artist.

Make no such breach just now betwixt the court

And 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 love

Was 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 perfect

From 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 wait

In rich security of bliss.    I know

How brief an interval divides us now.

She hastes to meet me with no less impatience

Than mine to clasp her in my arms, to press

Heart unto heart, and see the love within

The unfathomable depths of her great eyes.

She comes.    Maria!

Enter MARIA, half timid, half joyous.

MARIA.

My lord! you have been waiting?

DON JOHN.

Darling, not long; 't was but my restless love

That drove me here before the promised hour.

So were I well content to wait through ages

Upon the threshold of a joy like this,

Knowing the gates of heaven might ope to me

At any moment.

MARIA.

Your love is less than mine,

For I have counted every tedious minute

Since our last meeting.

DON JOHN.

I had rather speak

Less 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 life

Will 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 wing

Of obscure night protects and shelters us.

Now like a pure, night-blooming flower, puts forth

The perfect blossom of our love.    Oh, lean

Thy royal head upon my breast; assure me

That this unheard-of bliss is no fond dream.

Cling to me, darling, till thy love's dear burden

Take root about my heart-strings.

MARIA (after a pause).

Did you not hear

A 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 pipe

Of some far bird - no more.

MARIA.

I heard, I heard!

A rude voice called me.    Wherefore did it come

To 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 fierce

In love and hatred.    Listen and look, my lord.

If one dared say to me but yester-morn

That I would meet at night a stranger youth

In 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 trick

Of 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 portrait

Was 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 not

With 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 asked

If 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 mind

Of public envy, spied herein some mischief?

What hast thou heard?    By heaven, if one foul word

Have darkened the fair fame of my white dove,

Naples shall rue it.    Let them not forget

The 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 mind

Thoughts, 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 here

At the day's hottest.    Sometimes he will pace

The studio - such young blood is seldom still.

He brought me once his mandoline, and drew

Eloquent music thence.    I study thus

The changeful play of soul.    I catch the spirit

Behind the veil, and burn it on the plate.

Maria comes and goes - will sit awhile

Over her broidery, then will haste away

And serve us with a dish of golden fruit.

That is for me; she knows the sweet, cool juice,

After long hours of work, refreshes me

More than strong wine.    She meets his Royal Highness

As the Ribera's child should meet a Prince -

Nor over bold, nor timid; one would think

Their rank was equal, and that neither sprang

From 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 wait

Momently, orders from his Majesty

To 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 you

The Prince should leave us; you have more enjoyed

His young companionship than any strangers

These 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 him

Than in another.    'T is a lying world;

I am too old now to be duped or dazzled

By fair externals.

Enter MARIA, carrying a kirtle full of flowers.

MARIA.

Father, see! my roses

Have blossomed over night; I bring you some

To prank your study.    Sister, Don Tommaso

Seeks 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 and displays 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 roughly brushes aside all the flowers upon the floors, than picks one up and 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 spied

The 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 wrought

That may not be repaired.    I have sat by

At 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 terror

Of an unlooked-for blow, a treacherous thrust

When 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 left

With 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 bridle

I 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 pains

Shoot through my head and limbs and vex my spirit.

Oh, I have wronged my child!    Return, Maria!

[Exit, calling.]

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Night. RIBERA'S bedroom.    RIBERA discovered in his dressing-gown, seated reading beside a table, with a light upon it. Enter from an open door at the back of the stage, MARIA. She stands irresolute 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 pale

Still 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 thee

Don John leaves Naples.    He expressed regret

Most courteously that thou wast suffering.

He had fain ordered us his parting thanks

For our kind welcome - so he deigned to say.

To-morrow he may steal a moment's grace

To 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 content

Wherewith thou biddest him farewell, to nestle

Once more in mine embrace.    Not long, I feel,

May these old horny eyes be blest with sight

Of thy full-flowering grace, these wrinkled lips

Be pressed against thy brow.    I am no more

What I have been; at times both hand and brain

Refuse 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 wrong

Thy gentle spirit?

MARIA.

Father, no more, no more!

You break my heart.

RIBERA.

Mine angel-child, weep not

So bitterly.    I thought not thus to move thee.

Still thou art overwrought.    I would have asked

At 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 secure

That 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-morrow

We 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 thine

Gnaws like a burning coal my sore, soft heart.

What! thou shalt suffer, and thine own Maria

Will leave thee daughterless, uncomforted?

What! thou shalt weep, and other eyes than mine

Shall see the Spagnoletto's spirit broken?

RIBERA.

There, there, poor child!    Look up, cling not so wildly

About my neck.    Thou art too finely touched,

If thus the faint foreshadow of a grief

Can overcome thee.    Listen?    What was that?

MARIA (starts up, shudders violently, and, all at once, masters her emotion).

Why, I heard nothing, father.

RIBERA.

Yes, a sound

Of 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 leaves

Rustling together.

RIBERA.

Nay, I will look forth.

[He opens the casement and looks out in silence.    MARIA stands behind 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 lies

Vacant and still, save for the swaying branches

Of bush and tree.    'T is a wild, threatening night.

A sultry breeze is blowing, and the sky

Hangs black above Vesuvius.    Yonder cloud

Hath lightnings in it.    Ah, a blinding bolt

Dims the volcano's pillared fire.    Enough.

[He closes the casement and returns to MARIA.]

Hark, how the thunder rolls!    My child, you tremble

Like the blown leaves without.

MARIA.

I am oppressed

By the same stormy influence.    Thou knowest

I 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; morn

Will break again in sunshine.

MARIA.

Father, say

You 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 me

My genius - thou, the breathing image still

Of 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 heart

Went forth from home and kin to bless the stranger

Who 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-clouded moon, the rest obscured by an approaching storm.    Occasional thunder and lightning.    On on side of the stage a summer-house open to the audience, on the other side the exterior of the dwelling.    DON JOHN discovered waiting near the house.    The door opens, 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 woes

Since we last met!    What have I not endured!

Oh, Juan, save me!

DON JOHN.

Dearest child, be calm.

Thou art strangely overwrought.    Speak not.    Await

Till 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 me

In all the universe is love.

DON JOHN.

And yet

My 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 worst

That 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 shrink

From asking thee to share a soldier's fate.

I tremble to uproot so fine a flower

From 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 repair

Unto Palermo.

MARIA.

Shall we sail to-night?

DON JOHN.

My Princess!    Thou recoilest not from all

Thou must endure, ere I can openly

Claim thee my wife!

MARIA.

The pangs of purgatory

Were 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 me

When 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 deem

I say this with no pang.    My love were naught,

Could I withdraw it painlessly at once

From him round whose colossal strength the tendrils

Of 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 tortures

I, nowise blind, but with deliberate soul,

Embrace for thee.

DON JOHN.

How can I doubt the anguish

So rude a snapping of all ties must smite

Thy tender heart withal?    Yet, dwell we not

On 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 him

Where we are bound?    How soon he may have hope

To 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 out

That 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 policy

King Philip's favor, thou shalt be proclaimed

Princess 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 ills

That 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 efface

The 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-day

On storm-drenched green, and cool, far-glittering seas!

When she comes in to greet me, she will blush

For last night's terrors.    How she crouched and shuddered

At the mere thought of the wild war without!

Poor, clinging women's souls, what need is theirs

Of our protecting love!    Yet even on me

The 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 long

Since I have felt so fresh.

[He seats himself before his easel and takes up his brush and palette, but holds them idly in his hand.]

Strange, she still sleeps!

The hour is past when she is wont to come

To bless me with the kiss of virgin love.

Mayhap 't was fever in her eyes last night

Gave 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 come

This morn to greet me.

[Exit LUCA.]

RIBERA (begins pacing the stage).

What fond fears are these

Mastering my spirit?    Since her mother died

I 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 finds

The 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 not

I have been robbed?    Hence!    Ransack every house

From cave to roof in Naples.    Search all streets.

Arrest whomso ye meet.    Let no sail stir

From 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 enemies

Have 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 conspired

Against me - the hoarse thunder drowned her shrieks!

Oh, agony!

[He buries his face in his hands.    Enter ANNICCA; she throws herself 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 me

From 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 - remember

Thou art the Spagnoletto still.    Last night

Don 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. Exit LUCA, who returns immediately with a silver flagon of water. ANNICCA seizes it and raises it to RIVERA'S lips.    He takes it from her hand and drinks.]

RIBERA.

How your hand trembles!

See, mine is firm.    You had spilt it o'er my beard

Had 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 father

Are long since palsied.    But my firm touch comes

From handling of the brush.    I am a painter,

The Spagnoletto -

[As he speaks his name he suddenly throws off his apathy, rises to his full height, and casts the flagon to the ground.]

Ah, the Spagnoletto,

Disgraced, abandoned!    My exalted name

The laughing-stock of churls; my hearthstone stamped

With 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 huge

As mine affront.    I will demand full justice

From Philip.    We will treat as King with King.

HE shall be stripped of rank and name and wealth,

Degraded, lopped from off the fellowship

Of Christians like a rotten limb, proclaimed

The 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 shadow

Shall 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 grave

Where she will lie!    Cursed -    Oh, my child, my child!

[He throws himself on the floor and buries his head among the cushions of the couch.    DON TOMMASO advances and lays his hand on 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 stinted

Sweat, blood, or spirit through long years of toil.

I have passed through peril scathless; I was spared

When Naples was plague-stricken; I have 'scaped

Mine 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 truly

For a wise purpose.

ANNICCA.

Father, rise; take courage;

We know not yet the end.

RIBERA.

Why should I rise

To 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 thunder

Struck 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, reads it rapidly, then to ANNICCA wildly).

Look, look there -

'T is writ in blood: "My duty to my lord

Forbids my telling you our present port."

I would track her down with sleuth-hounds, did I not

Abhor to see her face.    Ah, press thy hands

Against 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 sum

The news that flies like fire from tongue to tongue

Hath not yet warmed thine ear.

LORENZO.

What's that?    I lay

A sum as fair thy news is some dry tale

Of courtly gossip, touching me as nigh

As the dissensions of the antipodes.

GENTLEMAN.

Done for a hundred florins!    In the night,

'Midst the wild storm whose roar must have invaded

Even thy leaden sleep, Prince John left Naples.

We should have had a pageant here to-day,

A royal exit, floral arches thrown

From house to house in all the streets he passed,

Music and guard of honor, homage fitting

The 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 veins

Flow not clear water.    He hath carried off

The 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 forged

By desperate malice.    What! in the night, you say? -

She whose bright name was clean as gold, whose heart

Shone a fixed star of loyal love and duty

Beside her father's glory!    This coarse lie

Denies 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 scandal

Lay on the other side.    (To Lorenzo.) You need not forth

To 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 arms and bent head.

LORENZO.

Oh heart, break not for pity!    Shall he thus

Unto 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 be

An arrant coward, thus to league with foes

Against so poor a wretch as I - to call me

By the most curst, despised, unhallowed name

God'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 memory

Wherein I hold his guidance of my mind

Up the steep paths of art.

[While LORENZO speaks, RIBERA slowly gains consciousness of his situation, raises his hand to his head and shudders violently. LORENZO'S last words seem to awaken him thoroughly.]

RIBERA.

I crave your pardon

If 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 we

To circumstance!    One who is wont to cover

For fashion or for warmth his pate, goes forth

Bareheaded, and the sun will seem to smite

The 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, sir

Let me conduct you home.    Here is no place

To 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 fled

From 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 her

And find all this a dream - a foolish thought!

I am very weary.    (Yawning.)    I have walked and walked

For hours.    How far, sir, stand we from the Strada

Nardo?    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.]

SCENE V.

Night.    A Room in RIBERA'S House.    ANNICCA seated alone, in an attitude of extreme weariness and despondency.

ANNICCA.

His heavy sleep still lasts.    Despite the words

Of the physician, I can cast not off

That ghastly fear.    Albeit he owned no drugs,

This deathlike slumber, this deep breathing slow,

His livid pallor makes me dread each moment

His weary pulse will cease.    This is the end,

And from the first I knew it.    The worst evil

My warning tongue had wrought were joy to this.

No heavier curse could I invoke on her

Than 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 wish

For 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 awake

And calls for you, signora.

ANNICCA.

Heaven be praised!

[Exit hastily.]

FIAMETTA.

Would I had followed my young mistress!    Here

I 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 eyes

Would 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 looks old and haggard, but has regained his natural bearing and expression.    Enter ANNICCA.    She hastens towards him, and kneels beside 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) but that is past,

I have no pain nor any sense of ill.

Now, while my brain is clear, I have a word

To 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 memory

Deceives 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 goodness

Is treachery, abandonment, disgrace,

I here renounce my fatherhood.    No child

Will I acknowledge mine.    Thou art a wife;

Thy duty is thy husband's.    When Antonio

Returns from Seville, tell him that his father

Is long since dead.    Henceforward I will own

No 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.    Now

I will make friends with beasts - they'll prove less savage

Than she that was my daughter.    I have spoken

For 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 wound

Of this sharp sorrow.    Thou shalt bless me still,

Father -

[RIBERA has yielded for a moment to her embrace; but, suddenly

rising, he pushes her roughly from him.]

RIBERA.

Away!    I know thee.    Thou art one

With 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 forget

I 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 steeled

My 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 her

Even while I curse her?    No!    The dead remain

Sacred and sweet in our remembrance still;

They seem not to have left us; they abide

And linger nigh us in the viewless air.

The fallen, the guilty, must be rooted out

From heart and thought and memory.    With them

No hope of blest reunion; they must be

As though they had not been; their spoken name

Cuts like a knife.    When I essay to think

Of what hath passed to-day, my sick brain reels.

The letter I remember, but all since

Floats in a mist of horror, and I grasp

No actual form.    Did I not wander forth?

A mob surrounded me.    All Naples knew

My downfall, and the street was paved with eyes

That stared into my soul.    Then friendly hands

Guided me hither.    When I woke, I felt

As though a stone had rolled from off my brain.

But still this nightmare bides the truth.    I know

They watch me, they suspect me.    I will wait

Till the whole household sleep, and then steal forth,

Nor unavenged return.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A Room in DON TOMMASO'S House.    ANNICCA discovered, attired in mourning.    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 wed

A Princess chosen by the King.    Maria -

ANNICCA.

Talk not of her - I know her not; her name

Will sear thy tongue.    Think'st thou, in truth this news

Will draw my father from his hiding-place?

No - teach me not to hope.    Within my heart

A sure voice tells me he is dead.    Not his

The spirit to drag out a shameful life,

To shrink from honest eyes, to sink his brow

Unto the dust, here where he wore his crown.

Thou knowest him.    Have I not cause to mourn

Uncomforted, that he, the first of fathers,

Self-murdered - nay, child-murdered - Oh, Tommaso,

I would fare barefoot to the ends of the earth

To 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 win

For mine own head, yoked in my sister's curse

The 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 doubt

She has been bred to delicate luxury.

I deemed her spent, had not the soft breast heaved

As gently as a babe's and even in dreams

Two 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 words

Of thanks or answer as our proffered service

Or questionings demand.    When we are silent,

Even if she wake, she seemeth unaware

Of 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 lips

Is, "Father, Father!" in such piteous strain

As though her rent heart bled to utter it.

ABBESS.

Still she abides then by her first request

To 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 straw pallet.    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 ache

With 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 hair

Hoary with years, and my quick blood impeded

By sluggish torpor, so were I near the end

Of woes that seem eternal!    I am strong -

Death will not rescue me.    Within my veins

I feel the vigorous pulses of young life,

Refusing my release.    My heart at times

Rebels 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 else

Should 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 and sees the MONK with bent head, and hands partially extended, as one who invokes a blessing.    She rises, falls at his feet, and takes the hem 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.

Accursed

With 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'st

The heart of the she-wolf?    Who was thy parent,

What fiend of torture, that thine impious hands

Should 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 days

A 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 balm

Of 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? dealt

The death-blow to his heart?    Cheat not thy soul

With empty dreams - thy God hath judged ye guilty!

MARIA.

Have pity, father!    Let me tell thee all.

Thou, cloistered, holy and austere, know'st not

My glittering temptations.    My betrayer

Was 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 say

What the just Spirit prompts.    Myself am naught

To pardon or condemn.    The sin is sinned;

The fruit forbid is tasted, yea, and pressed

Of its last honeyed juices. Wilt thou now

Escape the after-bitterness with prayers,

Scourgings, and wringings of the hands?    Shall these

Undo what has been done? - make whole the heart

Thy crime hath snapt in twain? - restore the wits

Thy sin hath scattered?    No!    Thy punishment

Is 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 the SPAGNOLETTO.    MARIA utters a piercing cry and throws herself speechless 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 same

That 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 spirit

Of 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 see

Thy 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 of supplication.    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 Heaven

Some sign of promise!    I am lost forever

If I die now.

RIBERA (looks at her in silence, then pushing her from him laughs bitterly).

Nay, have no fear of me.

I would not do thee that much grace to ease thee

Of 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 dreams

That haunt thee of past anguish, shall be added

The 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.]