Poems of Emma Lazarus. Vol. I, narrative, lyric and dramatic [electronic text]

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 yon 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 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 Saytrs, 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 your 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 Prince's shoulders, enter hastily MARIA, enveloped in her mantilla, as she went to church.

MARIA.

Well, father, am 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 worn 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 master, 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 art 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 not 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.