The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 36

The studio of the Spagnoletto. RIBERA before his canvas. LUCA in attendance.

RIBERA (laying aside his brush).

So! I am weary. Luca, what 's o'clock?

LUCA.

My lord, an hour past noon.

RIBERA.

So late already!

Well, one more morning of such delicate toil Will make it ready for Madrid, and worthy Not merely Philip's eyes, but theirs whose glance Outvalues a king's gaze, my n.o.ble friend Velasquez, and the monkish Zurbaran.

Luca!

LUCA.

My lord.

RIBERA.

Hath the signora risen?

LUCA.

Fiametta pa.s.sed a brief while since, and left My lady sleeping.

RIBERA.

Good! she hath found rest; Poor child, she sadly lacked it. She had known 'Twixt dawn and dawn no respite from emotion; Her chill hand fluttered like a bird in mine; Her soft brow burned my lips. Could that boy read The tokens of an overwearied spirit, Strained past endurance, he had spared her still, At any cost of silence. What is such love To mine, that would outrival Roman heroes-- Watch mine arm crisp and shrivel in quick flame, Or set a lynx to gnaw my heart away, To save her from a needle-p.r.i.c.k of pain, Ay, or to please her? At their worth she rates Her wooers--light as all-embracing air Or universal suns.h.i.+ne. Luca, go And tell Fiametta--rather, bid the la.s.s. .h.i.ther herself.

[Exit Luca.]

He comes to pay me homage, As would his royal father, if he pleased To visit Naples; yet she too shall see him.

She is part of all I think, of all I am; She is myself, no less than yon bright dream Fixed in immortal beauty on the canvas.

Enter FIAMETTA.

FIAMETTA.

My lord, you called me?

RIBERA.

When thy mistress wakes, Array her richly, that she be prepared To come before the Prince.

FIAMETTA.

Sir, she hath risen, And only waits me with your lords.h.i.+p's leave, To cross the street unto St. Francis' church.

RIBERA (musingly).

With such slight escort? Nay, this troubles me.

Only the Strada's width? The saints forbid That I should thwart her holy exercise!

Myself will go. I cannot. Bid her m.u.f.fle, Like our Valencian ladies, her silk mantle About her face and head.

[At a sign from RIBERA, exit FIAMETTA.]

Yes, G.o.d will bless her.

What should I fear? I will make sure her beauty Is duly masked.

[He goes toward the cas.e.m.e.nt.]

Ay, there she goes--the mantle, Draped round the stately head, discloses naught Save the live jewel of the eye. Unless one guessed From the majestic grace and proud proportions, She might so pa.s.s through the high thoroughfares.

Ah, one thick curl escapes from its black prison.

Alone in Naples, wreathed with rays of gold, Her crown of light betrays her. So, she's safe!

Enter LUCA.

LUCA.

A n.o.ble gentleman of Spain awaits The master's leave to enter.

RIBERA.

Show him in.

[Exit LUCA. RIBERA draws the curtain before his picture of "Jacob's Dream."]

RIBERA.

A gentleman of Spain! Perchance the Prince Sends couriers to herald his approach, Or craves a longer grace.

Enter LUCA, ushering in DON JOHN unattended, completely enveloped in a Spanish mantle, which he throws off, his face almost hidden by a cavalier's hat. He uncovers his head on entering. RIBERA, repressing a movement of surprise, hastens to greet him and kisses his hand.

RIBERA.

Welcome, my lord!

I am shamed to think my sovereign's son should wait, Through a churl's ignorance, without my doors.

DON JOHN.

Dear master, blame him not. I came attended By one page only. Here I blush to claim Such honor as depends on outward pomp.

No royalty is here, save the crowned monarch Of our Sicilian artists. Be it mine To press with reverent lips my master's hand.

RIBERA.

Your Highness is too gracious; if you glance Round mine ill-furnished studio, my works Shall best proclaim me and my poor deserts.

Luca, uplift you hangings.

DON JOHN (seating himself).

Sir, you may sit.