The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 48

Now, while my brain is clear, I have a word To speak. I think not I have been to thee, Nor to that other one, an unkind father.

I do not now remember any act, Or any word of mine, could cause thee grief.

But I am old--perchance my memory Deceives in this? Speak! Am I right, Annicca?

ANNICCA (weeping).

Oh, father, father, why will you torture me?

You were too good, too good.

RIBERA.

Why, so I thought.

Since it appears the guerdon of such goodness Is treachery, abandonment, disgrace, I here renounce my fatherhood. No child Will I acknowledge mine. Thou art a wife; Thy duty is thy husband's. When Antonio Returns from Seville, tell him that his father Is long since dead. Henceforward I will own No kin, no home, no tie. I will away, To-morrow morn, and live an anchorite.

One thing ye cannot rob me of--my work.

My name shall still outsoar these low, mirk vapors-- Not the Ribera, stained with sin and shame, As she hath left it, but the Spagnoletto.

My glory is mine own. I have done with it, But I bequeath it to my country. Now I will make friends with beasts--they'll prove less savage Than she that was my daughter. I have spoken For the last time that word. Thee I curse not; Thou hast not set thy heel upon my heart; But yet I will not bless thee. Go. Good-night.

ANNICCA (embracing him).

What! will you spurn me thus? Nay, I will bide, And be to thee all that she should have been, Soothe thy declining years, and heal the wound Of this sharp sorrow. Thou shalt bless me still, Father-- [RIBERA has yielded for a moment to her embrace; but, suddenly rising, he pushes her roughly from him.]

RIBERA.

Away! I know thee. Thou art one With her who duped me with like words last night.

Then I believed; but now my sense is closed, My heart is dead as stone. I cast thee forth.

By heaven, I own thee not! Thou dost forget I am the Spagnoletto. Away, I say, Or ere I strike thee.

[He threatens her.]

ANNICCA.

Woe is me! Help, help!

[Exit.]

RIBERA.

So, the last link is snapt. Had I not steeled My heart, I fain had kissed her farewell.

'T is better so. I leave my work unfinished.

Could I arise each day to face this spectre, Or sleep with it at night?--to yearn for her Even while I curse her? No! The dead remain Sacred and sweet in our remembrance still; They seem not to have left us; they abide And linger nigh us in the viewless air.

The fallen, the guilty, must be rooted out From heart and thought and memory. With them No hope of blest reunion; they must be As though they had not been; their spoken name Cuts like a knife. When I essay to think Of what hath pa.s.sed to-day, my sick brain reels.

The letter I remember, but all since Floats in a mist of horror, and I grasp No actual form. Did I not wander forth?

A mob surrounded me. All Naples knew My downfall, and the street was paved with eyes That stared into my soul. Then friendly hands Guided me hither. When I woke, I felt As though a stone had rolled from off my brain.

But still this nightmare bides the truth. I know They watch me, they suspect me. I will wait Till the whole household sleep, and then steal forth, Nor unavenged return.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A Room in DON TOMMASO'S House. ANNICCA discovered, attired in mourning. Enter DON TOMMASO.

DON TOMMASO.

If he still live, now shall we hear of him.

The news I learn will lure him from his covert, Where'er it lie, to pardon or avenge.

ANNICCA (eagerly).

What news? What cheer, Tommaso?

DON TOMMASO.

Meagre cheer, But tidings that break through our slow suspense, Like the first thunder-clap in sultry air.

Don John sets sail from Sicily, to wed A Princess chosen by the King. Maria--

ANNICCA.

Talk not of her--I know her not; her name Will sear thy tongue. Think'st thou, in truth this news Will draw my father from his hiding-place?

No--teach me not to hope. Within my heart A sure voice tells me he is dead. Not his The spirit to drag out a shameful life, To shrink from honest eyes, to sink his brow Unto the dust, here where he wore his crown.

Thou knowest him. Have I not cause to mourn Uncomforted, that he, the first of fathers, Self-murdered--nay, child-murdered--Oh, Tommaso, I would fare barefoot to the ends of the earth To look again upon his living face, See in his eyes the light of love restored-- Not blasting me with lightnings as before-- To kneel to him, to solace him, to win For mine own head, yoked in my sister's curse The blessing he refused me.

DON TOMMASO.

Well, take comfort; This grace may yet be thine.

SCENE II.

Palermo. A Nunnery. Enter ABBESS, followed by a Lay-Sister.

ABBESS.

Is the poor creature roused?

LAY-SISTER.

Nay, she still sleeps.

'T would break your pious heart to see her, mother.

She begged our meanest cell, though 't is past doubt She has been bred to delicate luxury.

I deemed her spent, had not the soft breast heaved As gently as a babe's and even in dreams Two crystal drops oozed from her swollen lids, And trickled down her cheeks. Her grief sleeps not, Although the fragile body craves its rest.

ABBESS.

Poor child! I fear she hath sore need of prayer.

Hath she yet spoken?

LAY-SISTER.