The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 42

But I am not myself to-day; strange pains Shoot through my head and limbs and vex my spirit.

Oh, I have wronged my child! Return, Maria!

[Exit, calling.]

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Night. RIBERA'S bedroom. RIBERA discovered in his dressing-gown, seated reading beside a table, with a light upon it. Enter from an open door at the back of the stage, MARIA. She stands irresolute for a moment on the threshold behind her father, watching him, pa.s.ses her hand rapidly over her brow and eyes, and then knocks.

MARIA.

May I come in, dear father?

RIBERA (putting down his book and looking at her affectionately).

Child, you ask?

MARIA (advancing).

You study late. I came to bid good-night.

RIBERA.

Poor child, thou must be weary. Thou art pale Still from thy swoon.

MARIA (with a forced laugh).

I had forgotten it.

Nay, I am well again.

RIBERA.

But I forget it not, Neither forgive myself. Well, it is past, Enough! When the Prince left I sent for thee; Thou wast still sleeping?

MARIA (with confusion).

Yes, I was outworn.

What didst thou wish of me?

RIBERA.

Merely to tell thee Don John leaves Naples. He expressed regret Most courteously that thou wast suffering.

He had fain ordered us his parting thanks For our kind welcome--so he deigned to say.

To-morrow he may steal a moment's grace To see us both once more; but this is doubtful, So he entrusted his farewells to me.

MARIA.

May peace go with him.

RIBERA.

We are alone-- Are we not, darling? Thanks for the calm content Wherewith thou biddest him farewell, to nestle Once more in mine embrace. Not long, I feel, May these old h.o.r.n.y eyes be blest with sight Of thy full-flowering grace, these wrinkled lips Be pressed against thy brow. I am no more What I have been; at times both hand and brain Refuse their task. Myself will follow soon-- The better part of me already dead.

So the worm claims us by slow torture, child.

Thou'lt bear with me, if as to-day I wrong Thy gentle spirit?

MARIA.

Father, no more, no more!

You break my heart.

RIBERA.

Mine angel-child, weep not So bitterly. I thought not thus to move thee.

Still thou art overwrought. I would have asked At last a promise of thee. I am selfish, But I would sleep less startingly o'nights, And bear a calmer soul by day, were I secure That thou wilt bide with me until the end.

[A pause.]

To-night I will not press thee. Thou art weary; Thy nerves have scarce regained their tension yet; But from thy deep emotion I can see 'T will cost thee less than I have feared. To-morrow We will talk of this again.

MARIA.

To-morrow!

RIBERA.

Now, Good-night. 'T is time thou shouldst be sleeping.

MARIA.

Father, I cannot leave thee! Every word of thine Gnaws like a burning coal my sore, soft heart.

What! thou shalt suffer, and thine own Maria Will leave thee daughterless, uncomforted?

What! thou shalt weep, and other eyes than mine Shall see the Spagnoletto's spirit broken?

RIBERA.

There, there, poor child! Look up, cling not so wildly About my neck. Thou art too finely touched, If thus the faint foreshadow of a grief Can overcome thee. Listen? What was that?

MARIA (starts up, shudders violently, and, all at once, masters her emotion).

Why, I heard nothing, father.

RIBERA.

Yes, a sound Of footsteps, and a stifled call.

[He goes toward the cas.e.m.e.nt. MARIA tries to detain him.]

MARIA.