The Poems of Emma Lazarus, Vol.I, Narrative, Lyric, and Dramatic

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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.

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