Act V: Scene III

MARIA.Oh, that wild dream! My weary bones still acheWith the fierce pain; they wrenched me limb from limb.Thou hadst full cause, my father. But thou, Juan,What was my sin to thee, save too much love?Oh, would to God my back were crooked with age,My smooth cheek seamed with wrinkles, my bright hairHoary with years, and my quick blood impededBy sluggish torpor, so were I near the endOf woes that seem eternal! I am strong--Death will not rescue me. Within my veinsI feel the vigorous pulses of young life,Refusing my release. My heart at timesRebels against the habit of despair,And, ere I am aware, has wandered back,Among forbidden paths. What prayer, what penance,Will shrive me clean before the sight of heaven?My hands are black with parricide. Why elseShould his dead face arise three nights before me,Bleached, ghastly, dripping as of one that's drowned,To freeze my heart with horror? Christ, have mercy!

THE MONK.May peace be in this place!sees the MONK with bent head, and hands partially extended, as onewho invokes a blessing. She rises, falls at his feet, and takes the

MARIA.Welcome, thrice welcome!Bid me not rise, nor bless me with pure hands.Ask not to see my face. Here let me lie,Kissing the dust--a cast-away, a trait'ress,A murderess, a parricide!

MONK.AccursedWith all Hell's curses is the crime thou nam'st!What devil moved thee? Who and whence art thou,That wear'st the form of woman, though thou lack'stThe heart of the she-wolf? Who was thy parent,What fiend of torture, that thine impious handsShould quench the living source of thine own life?

MARIA.Spare me! oh, spare me! Nay, my hands are clean.He was the first, best, noblest among men.I was his light, his soul, his breath of life.These I withdrew from him, and made his daysA darkness. Yet, perchance he is not dead,And blood and tears may wash away my guilt.Oh, tell me there is hope, though it gleam far--One solitary ray, one steadfast spark,Beyond a million years of purgatory!My burning soul thirsts for the dewy balmOf comfortable grace. One word, one word,Or ere I perish of despair!

MONK.What word?The one wherewith thou bad'st thy father hope?What though he be not dead? Is breathing life?Hast thou not murdered him in spirit? dealtThe death-blow to his heart? Cheat not thy soulWith empty dreams--thy God hath judged ye guilty!

MARIA.Have pity, father! Let me tell thee all.Thou, cloistered, holy and austere, know'st notMy glittering temptations. My betrayerWas of an angel's aspect. His were all gifts,All grace, all seeming virtue. I was plunged,Deaf, dumb, and blind, and hand-bound in the deep.If a poor drowning creature craved thine aid,Thou wouldst not spurn it. Such a one am I,And all the waves roll over me. Wrest me from my doom!Say not that I am lost!

MONK.I can but sayWhat the just Spirit prompts. Myself am naughtTo pardon or condemn. The sin is sinned;The fruit forbid is tasted, yea, and pressedOf its last honeyed juices. Wilt thou nowEscape the after-bitterness with prayers,Scourgings, and wringings of the hands? Shall theseUndo what has been done?--make whole the heartThy crime hath snapt in twain?--restore the witsThy sin hath scattered? No! Thy punishmentIs huge as thine offence. Death shall not help,Neither shall pious life wash out the stain.Living thou'rt doomed, and dead, thou shalt be lost,Beyond salvation.

MARIA (springing to her feet).Impious priest, thou liest!God will have mercy--as my father would,Could he but see me in mine agony!SPAGNOLETTO. MARIA utters a piercing cry and throws herself

RIBERA.Thou know'st me not. I am not what I was.My outward shape remains unchanged; these eyes,Now gloating on thine anguish, are the sameThat wept to see a shadow cross thy brow;These ears, that drink the music of thy groans,Shrank from thy lightest sigh of melancholy.Thou think'st to find the father in me still?Thy parricidal hands have murdered him--Thou shalt not find a man. I am the spiritOf blind revenge--a brute, unswerving force.What deemest thou hath bound me unto life?Ambition, pleasure, or the sense of fear?What, but the sure hope of this fierce, glad hour,That I might track thee down to this--might seeThy tortured body writhe beneath my feet,And blast thy stricken spirit with my curse?

MARIA (in a crushed voice).Have mercy! mercy!

RIBERA.Yes, I will have mercy--The mercy of the tiger or the wolf,Athirst for blood.

MARIA (terror-struck, rises upon her knees in an attitude ofsupplication. RIBERA averts his face).Oh, father, kill me not!Turn not away--I am not changed for thee!In God's name, look at me--thy child, thine own!Spare me, oh, spare me, till I win of HeavenSome sign of promise! I am lost foreverIf I die now.

RIBERA (looks at her in silence, then pushing her from him laughsbitterly).Nay, have no fear of me.I would not do thee that much grace to ease theeOf the gross burden of the flesh. Behold,Thou shalt be cursed with weary length of days;And when thou seek'st to purge thy guilty heart,Thou shalt find there a sin no prayer may shrive--The murder of thy father. To all dreamsThat haunt thee of past anguish, shall be addedThe vision of this horror!