The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 37

RIBERA (aside, seating himself slowly).

Curse his swollen arrogance! Doth he imagine I 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 hand Regain the iron strength of sinew mated With such heroic frame? You have conspired With Nature to produce a man. Behold, I chatter foolish speech; for such a marvel The fittest praise is silence.

[He rises and stands before the picture.]

RIBERA (after a pause).

I am glad Your 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 treasures Of the Queen's gallery.

DON JOHN.

'T is another jewel Set in my father's crown, and, in his name, I thank you for it.

[RIBERA bows silently. DON JOHN glances around the studio.]

DON JOHN.

There hangs a quaint, strong head, Though merely sketched. What a marked, cunning leer Grins on the wide mouth! what a b.e.s.t.i.a.l 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 down Yonder portfolio. I can show your Highness The graven copy.

[LUCA brings forward a large portfolio. RIBERA looks hastily over the engravings and draws one out which he shows to DON JOHN.]

DON JOHN.

Ah, most admirable!

I know not who is best portrayed--the G.o.d, Plump, reeling, wreathed with vine, in whom abides Something Olympian still, or the coa.r.s.e Satyrs, Thoroughly brutish. Here I scarcely miss, So masterly the grouping, so distinct The baccha.n.a.lian 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 wors.h.i.+p, 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 blus.h.i.+ng.]

RIBERA.

Child, his Royal Highness Prince John of Austria.

DON JOHN.

Good-day, signora.