The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 47

RIBERA.

Nor do I care to know thee. Thou must be An arrant coward, thus to league with foes Against so poor a wretch as I--to call me By the most curst, despised, unhallowed name G.o.d's creatures can own. Away! and let me pa.s.s; I injure no man.

LORENZO.

Look at me, dear master.

Your head is bare, your face is ashy pale, The sun is fierce. I am your friend, your pupil; Let me but guide my reverend master home, In token of the grateful memory Wherein I hold his guidance of my mind Up the steep paths of art.

[While LORENZO speaks, RIBERA slowly gains consciousness of his situation, raises his hand to his head and shudders violently.

LORENZO'S last words seem to awaken him thoroughly.]

RIBERA.

I crave your pardon If I have answered roughly, Sir Lorenzo.

My thoughts were far away--I failed to know you-- I have had trouble, sir. You do remind me, I had forgot my hat; that is a trifle, Yet now I feel the loss. What slaves are we To circ.u.mstance! One who is wont to cover For fas.h.i.+on or for warmth his pate, goes forth Bareheaded, and the sun will seem to smite The shrinking spot, the breeze will make him s.h.i.+ver, And yet our hatless beggars heed them not.

We are the fools of habit.

Enter two gentlemen together as promenading; they cross the stage, looking hard at RIBERA and LORENZO, and exeunt.

LORENZO.

Pray you, sir Let me conduct you home. Here is no place To hold discourse. In G.o.d's name, come with me.

RIBERA.

What coupled staring fools were they that pa.s.sed?

They seemed to scare thee. Why, boy, face them out.

I am the shadow of the Spagnoletto, Else had I brooked no gaze so insolent.

Well, I will go with thee. But, hark thee, lad; A word first in thine ear. 'T is a grim secret; Whisper it not in Naples; I but tell thee, Lest thou should fancy I had lost my wits.

My daughter hath deserted me--hath fled From Naples with a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Thou hast seen her, Maria-Rosa--thou must remember her; She, whom I painted as Madonna once.

She had fair hair and Spanish eyes. When was it?

I came forth thinking I might meet with her And find all this a dream--a foolish thought!

I am very weary. (Yawning.) I have walked and walked For hours. How far, sir, stand we from the Strada Nardo? I live there, nigh Saint Francis' church.

LORENZO.

Why, 't is hard by; a stone's throw from this square.

So, lean on me--you are not well. This way.

Pluck up good heart, sir; we shall soon be there.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE V.

Night. A Room in RIBERA'S House. ANNICCA seated alone, in an att.i.tude of extreme weariness and despondency.

ANNICCA.

His heavy sleep still lasts. Despite the words Of the physician, I can cast not off That ghastly fear. Albeit he owned no drugs, This deathlike slumber, this deep breathing slow, His livid pallor makes me dread each moment His weary pulse will cease. This is the end, And from the first I knew it. The worst evil My warning tongue had wrought were joy to this.

No heavier curse could I invoke on her Than that she see him in her dreams, her thoughts, As he is now. I could no longer bear it; I have fled hither from his couch to breathe-- To quicken my spent courage for the end.

I cannot pray--my heart is full of curses.

He sleeps; he rests. What better could I wish For his rent heart, his stunned, unbalanced brain, Than sleep to be eternally prolonged?

Enter FIAMETTA. ANNICCA looks up anxiously, half rising.

ANNICCA.

How now? What news?

FIAMETTA.

The master is awake And calls for you, signora.

ANNICCA.

Heaven be praised!

[Exit hastily.]

FIAMETTA.

Would I had followed my young mistress! Here I creep about like a scared, guilty thing, And fancy at each moment they will guess 'T was I who led her to the hut. I will confess, If any sin there be, to Father Clement, And buy indulgence with her golden chain.

'T would burn my throat, the master's rolling eyes Would haunt me ever, if I went to wear it.

So, all will yet be well.

[Exit.]

SCENE VI.

RIBERA'S Room. RIBERA discovered sitting on the couch. He looks old and haggard, but has regained his natural bearing and expression. Enter ANNICCA. She hastens towards him, and kneels beside the couch, kissing him affectionately.

ANNICCA.

Father, you called me?

RIBERA.

Aye, to bid good-night.

Why do you kiss me? To betray to-morrow?

ANNICCA.

Dear father, you are better; you have slept.

Are you not rested?

RIBERA.

Child, I was not weary.

There was some cloud pressed here (pointing to his forehead) but that is past, I have no pain nor any sense of ill.