Act II: Scene II

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 eyesFixed on thy triumph! Now am I well repaidFor my slow, martyred years. Was I not wrungby 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 pangOf 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 pleaseTo yield to gentler influence, to ownThe strength of beauty and the power of joy,And welcome gracious phantasies that throngAnd hover over me in airy shapes.The spirits of earth and heaven contend to-nightFor mastery within me; ne'er beforeHave I been more the Spagnoletto, firedWith noble wrath, with the consuming feverAnd fierce delight of vengeance.From this pointI see her clearly--the auroral faceA-light with smiles, the imperial head upraised;Her languid hand sways the broad, silken fan,Whose wing-like movement stirs above her browThe fine, bright curls, as though warm airs of heavenAround her breathed. He leads her 'midst the throng.So, they have gone; but I will follow them,And watch them from afar.

DON JOHN.I dread to askWhat 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 soundOf any voice till now. I laugh to thinkThis very morn I fancied it had metIts master.

DON JOHN.Ah!

MARIA.Fear naught--a simple boy,A pupil of my father's.

DON JOHN.I was madTo dream it could be otherwise. Forgive me;I, a mere stranger in they life, am jealousOf all thy present and thy past.

MARIA.Listen, my lord;You shall hear all. What hour, think you, he choseTo urge his cause? The same wherein I learnedYour Highness had commanded for to-nightOur presence. My winged thoughts were flying backTo Count Lodovico's; again I saw you,My white rose at your lips, your grave eyes fixedMost 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 remainsOn the unblemished mirror of my faith.Since that dear night, I with one only thoughtHave gained the sum of knowledge and opinionsTouching thine honored father, with such scrapsAs the gross public voice could dole to meConcerning 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 cloisterWhere he immures me--Naples' gayest revels;The only bar wherewith he hedges meIs 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.

RIBERA.I lost them in the press. Ah, there they danceAgain together. I would lay my handsIn blessing on that darling, haughty head.Like the Ribera's child, she bears her honorsAs lightly as a flower. Yet there glowsUnwonted lustre in her starry eyes,And richer beauty blushes on her cheek.Enough. Now must I strive to fix that formThat haunts my brain--the blind, old Count Camillo,The Prince's oracle. 'Midst the thick throngMy 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, betrayedBy his own flesh!

MARIA.See the impatient dayWakes 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 edgeAgainst 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 linesThat streak the brightening sky east warn us away.For all your grace to us, the SpagnolettoProffers his thanks to John of Austria.My daughter, art thou ready?

DON JOHN.I am bound,Illustrious signor, rather unto youAnd the signora, past all hope of payment.When may I come to tender my poor homageTo the Sicilian master?

RIBERA.My lord will jest.Our house is too much honored when he deignsO'erstep the threshold. Let your royal pleasureAlone 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.

DON JOHN (alone).Gods, what a haughty devil rules that man!As though two equal princes interchangedImperial courtesies! The SpagnolettoThanks John of Austria! Louis of FranceMight so salute may father. By heaven, I know notWhat patience or what reverence withheldMy enchafed spirit in bounds of courtesy.Nay, it was she, mine angel, whose mere aspectIs balm and blessing. How her love-lit eyesBurned through my soul! How her soft hand's slight pressureTingled along my veins! Oh, she is worthyA heart' religion! How shall I wear the hoursEre I may seek her? Lo, I stand and dream,While my late guests await me. Patience, patience!