Act III: Scene I

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 toilWill make it ready for Madrid, and worthyNot merely Philip's eyes, but theirs whose glanceOutvalues a king's gaze, my noble friendVelasquez, and the monkish Zurbaran.Luca!

LUCA.My lord.

RIBERA.Hath the signora risen?

LUCA.Fiametta passed a brief while since, and leftMy 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 readThe tokens of an overwearied spirit,Strained past endurance, he had spared her still,At any cost of silence. What is such loveTo 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 ratesHer wooers--light as all-embracing airOr universal sunshine. Luca, goAnd tell Fiametta--rather, bid the lassHither herself.He comes to pay me homage,As would his royal father, if he pleasedTo 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 dreamFixed in immortal beauty on the canvas.

FIAMETTA.My lord, you called me?

RIBERA.When thy mistress wakes,Array her richly, that she be preparedTo 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 forbidThat I should thwart her holy exercise!Myself will go. I cannot. Bid her muffle,Like our Valencian ladies, her silk mantleAbout her face and head.Yes, God will bless her.What should I fear? I will make sure her beautyIs duly masked.Ay, there she goes--the mantle,Draped round the stately head, discloses naughtSave the live jewel of the eye. Unless one guessedFrom 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!

LUCA.A noble gentleman of Spain awaitsThe master's leave to enter.

RIBERA.Show him in.

RIBERA.A gentleman of Spain! Perchance the PrinceSends couriers to herald his approach,Or craves a longer grace.

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 attendedBy one page only. Here I blush to claimSuch honor as depends on outward pomp.No royalty is here, save the crowned monarchOf our Sicilian artists. Be it mineTo press with reverent lips my master's hand.

RIBERA.Your Highness is too gracious; if you glanceRound mine ill-furnished studio, my worksShall 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 imagineI 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 handRegain the iron strength of sinew matedWith such heroic frame? You have conspiredWith Nature to produce a man. Behold,I chatter foolish speech; for such a marvelThe fittest praise is silence.

RIBERA (after a pause).I am gladYour 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 treasuresOf the Queen's gallery.

DON JOHN.'T is another jewelSet in my father's crown, and, in his name,I thank you for it.

DON JOHN.There hangs a quaint, strong head,Though merely sketched. What a marked, cunning leerGrins 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 downYonder portfolio. I can show your HighnessThe graven copy.

DON JOHN.Ah, most admirable!I know not who is best portrayed--the god,Plump, reeling, wreathed with vine, in whom abidesSomething Olympian still, or the coarse Satyrs,Thoroughly brutish. Here I scarcely miss,So masterly the grouping, so distinctThe bacchanalian spirit, your rich brush,So vigorous in color. Do you findThe pleasure in this treatment equals thatOf the oil painting?

RIBERA.All is in my mood;We have so many petty talents, cleverTo mimic Nature's surface. I name notThe 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 artTo a nice craft for plodding artisans--Mere realism, which they mistake for truth.My soul rejects such limits. The true artistGives Nature's best effects with far less means.Plain black and white suffice him to expressA finer grace, a stronger energyThan 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 workAs you see there.

DON JOHN.Would it be overmuch,In my brief stay in Naples, to beg of youA portrait of myself in aqua-fortis?'T would rob you, sir, of fewer golden hoursThan the full-colored canvas, and enrichWith 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 returnFor 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 acceptThe 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 hopeTo 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 lastWho 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.hat. LUCA springs forward, and, while he is throwing the cloakaround the Princes's shoulders, enter hastily MARIA, enveloped in

MARIA.Well, father, an I veiled and swathed to suit you,To cross the Strada?to embrace her father, when she suddenly perceives the Prince, and

RIBERA.Child, his Royal HighnessPrince 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, twiceHave 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 feltMy father was alone.

DON JOHN.And so you hopedTo 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 bothWill 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 marvelAt the enchantments of your feast. For meThe night was brief, rich, beautiful, and strangeAs a bright dream.

DON JOHN.I will gainsay you not.A beauteous soul can shed her proper gloryOn mean surroundings. I have likewise dreamed,Nor am I yet awake. This morn hath beenA feast for mind and eye. Yon shepherd-prince,Whom angels visit in his sleep, shall crownYour father's brow with a still fresher laurel,And link in equal fame the Spanish artistWith the Lord's chosen prophet.

RIBERA.That may be,For in the form of that wayfarerI drew myself. So have I slept beneathThe naked heavens, pillowed by a stone,With no more shelter than the wind-stirred branches,While the thick dews of our Valencian nightsDrenched 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 strangeThat you, dear masters, standing on the crownOf a long life's continuous ascent,Should backward glance unto such dark beginnings.

RIBERA.Obscure are all beginnings. Yet I museWith 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 rearedMine own. But now my child's heart I would pierceSooner than see it bear the least of ills,Such as I then endured.

DON JOHN.Donna MariaMay smile, sir, at your threat; she is in a pleasance,Where no rude breezes blow, no shadow fallsDarker than that of cool and fragrant leaves.Yea, were it otherwise--had you not reapedThe fruit of your own works, she had not suffered.Your children are Spain's children.

RIBERA.Sir, that wordIs 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.

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-dayYou have deeply vexed me. Go not thus againAcross the street with that light child, Fiametta.Faith, you were closely muffled. What was this--This tell-tale auburn curl that rippled downOver 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 matinsIn thine own room. I know what vague cloudObscures my sight and weighs upon my brain.I am very weary. Luca, follow me.

MARIA.Poor father! Dimly he perceives some troubleWithin the threatening air. Thank heaven, I calmed him,Yet I spake truth. What could have roused so soonHis quick suspicion? Did Fiametta seeThe 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 fearMakes monsters out of shadows. I may readThe priceless lines and grave them on my heart.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!