SCENE I.

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 noble friend
Velasquez, and the monkish Zurbaran.
Luca!

LUCA.
My lord.

RIBERA.
Hath the signora risen?

LUCA.
Fiametta passed 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-prick of pain,
Ay, or to please her? At their worth she rates
Her wooers—light as all-embracing air
Or universal sunshine. Luca, go
And tell Fiametta—rather, bid the lass
Hither 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 lordship'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 muffle,
Like our Valencian ladies, her silk mantle
About her face and head.
[At a sign from RIBERA, exit FIAMETTA.]
Yes, God will bless her.
What should I fear? I will make sure her beauty
Is duly masked.
[He goes toward the casement.]
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 pass 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 noble 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.

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 bestial 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 god,
Plump, reeling, wreathed with vine, in whom abides
Something Olympian still, or the coarse Satyrs,
Thoroughly brutish. Here I scarcely miss,
So masterly the grouping, so distinct
The bacchanalian 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 worship, and compose such work
As you see there.
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