Act IV: Scene I

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 paleStill 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 theeDon John leaves Naples. He expressed regretMost courteously that thou wast suffering.He had fain ordered us his parting thanksFor our kind welcome--so he deigned to say.To-morrow he may steal a moment's graceTo 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 contentWherewith thou biddest him farewell, to nestleOnce more in mine embrace. Not long, I feel,May these old horny eyes be blest with sightOf thy full-flowering grace, these wrinkled lipsBe pressed against thy brow. I am no moreWhat I have been; at times both hand and brainRefuse 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 wrongThy gentle spirit?

MARIA.Father, no more, no more!You break my heart.

RIBERA.Mine angel-child, weep notSo bitterly. I thought not thus to move thee.Still thou art overwrought. I would have askedAt 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 secureThat thou wilt bide with me until the end.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-morrowWe 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 thineGnaws like a burning coal my sore, soft heart.What! thou shalt suffer, and thine own MariaWill leave thee daughterless, uncomforted?What! thou shalt weep, and other eyes than mineShall see the Spagnoletto's spirit broken?

RIBERA.There, there, poor child! Look up, cling not so wildlyAbout my neck. Thou art too finely touched,If thus the faint foreshadow of a griefCan overcome thee. Listen? What was that?

MARIA (starts up, shudders violently, and, all at once, mastersher emotion).Why, I heard nothing, father.

RIBERA.Yes, a soundOf footsteps, and a stifled call.

MARIA.Dear father,Surely 't was naught. Your ears deceive you.The wind is rising, and you heard the leavesRustling together.

RIBERA.Nay, I will look forth.

RIBERA (calling).Hist, answer! Who goes there? (a pause.) No sound. Thou'rt right,Maria; I see naught; our garden liesVacant and still, save for the swaying branchesOf bush and tree. 'T is a wild, threatening night.A sultry breeze is blowing, and the skyHangs black above Vesuvius. Yonder cloudHath lightnings in it. Ah, a blinding boltDims the volcano's pillared fire. Enough.Hark, how the thunder rolls! My child, you trembleLike the blown leaves without.

MARIA.I am oppressedBy the same stormy influence. Thou knowestI 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; mornWill break again in sunshine.

MARIA.Father, sayYou 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 meMy genius--thou, the breathing image stillOf 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 heartWent forth from home and kin to bless the strangerWho craved her father's alms.

MARIA.Thanks, thanks. Good-night.God bless us through these wild, dark hours.

RIBERA.Good-night.