The Poems of Emma Lazarus Volume I Part 28

MARIA.

None, none, dear father! Pardon me! Thy love, Generous and wise as tender, shames my power To merit or repay. Fie o my lips!

Look if they be not blistered. Let them smooth With contrite kisses the last frown away.

We must be young to-night--no wrinkles then!

Genius must show immortal as she is.

RIBERA.

Thou wilt unman me with thy pretty ways.

I had forgot the ball. Yea, I grow old; This scanty morning's work has wearied me.

Once I had thought it play to dream all day Before my canvas and then dance till dawn, And now must I give o'er and rest at noon.

[Rises.]

Enter LUCA, ushering in LORENZO, who carries a portfolio.

LUCA.

Signor Lorenzo.

[LORENZO ceremoniously salutes RIBERA and MARIA. Exit LUCA.]

LORENZO.

Master, I bring my sketch.

[Opens his portfolio and hands a sketch to RIBERA.]

RIBERA.

Humph! the design is not so ill-conceived; I note some progress; but your drawing's bad-- Yes, bad, sir. Mark you how this leg hangs limp, As though devoid of life; these hands seem clenched, Not loosely clasped, as you intended them.

[He takes his pencil and makes a few strokes.

Thus should it stand--a single line will mend.

And here, what's this? Why, 't is a sloven's work.

You dance too many nights away, young gallant.

You s.h.i.+rk close labor as do all your mates.

You think to win with service frivolous, s.n.a.t.c.hed 'twixt your cups, or set between two kisses, The favor of the mistress of the world.

LORENZO.

Your pardon, master, but you do me wrong.

Mayhap I lack the gift. Alas, I fear it!

But not the patience, not the energy Of earnest, indefatigable toil, That help to make the artist.

RIBERA.

'S death! He dares Belie me, and deny the testimony Of his own handiwork, whose every line Betrays a sluggard soul, an indolent will, A brain that's bred to idleness. So be it!

Master Lorenzo tells the Spagnoletto His own defects and qualities! 'T were best He find another teacher competent To guide so apt, so diligent a scholar.

MARIA.

Dear father, what hath given thee offence?

Cast but another glance upon the sketch; Surely it hath some grace, some charm, some promise.

RIBERA.

Daughter, stand by! I know these insolent slips Of young n.o.bility; they lack the stuff That makes us artists. What! to answer me!

When next I drop a hint as to his colors, The lengthening or the shortening of a stroke, He'll bandy words with me about his error, To prove himself the master.

LORENZO.

If my defect Be an hereditary grain i' the blood, Even as you say, I must abide by it; But if patrician habits more than birth Beget such faults, then may I dare to hope.

Not mine, I knew, I felt, to clear new paths, To win new kingdoms; yet were I content With such achievement as a strenuous will, A firm endeavor, unfaltering love, And an unwearying spirit might attain.

Cast me not lightly back. Banish me not From this, my home of hope, of inspiration!

MARIA.

What, my ungentle father! Will you hear, And leave this worthy signor's suit unanswered?

RIBERA.

Well, he may bide. Sir, I will speak with you Anon upon this work. I judged in haste.

Yea, it hath merit. I am weary now; To-morrow I shall be in fitter mood To give you certain hints.

[LORENZO bows his thanks and advances to address MARIA. RIBERA silences and dismisses him with a wave of the hand. Exit LORENZO.]

RIBERA.

Should I o'ersleep Mine hour, Maria, thou must awaken me; But come what may, I will be fresh to-night, To triumph in thy triumph.

[Exit RIBERA.]

MARIA (alone).

Could I have told, Then when he bade me? Nay, what is to tell?

He had flouted me for prizing at such height Homage so slight from John of Austria, even.

A glance exchanged, a smile, a fallen flower Dropped from my hair, and pressed against his lips.

The Prince! my father gloats upon that name.

Were he no more than gentleman, I think I should be glad. I cannot tell to-day If I be sad or gay. Now could I weep Warm, longing tears; anon, a fire of joy Leaps in my heart and dances through my veins.

Why should I nurse such idle thoughts? Tonight We are to meet again. Will he remember?-- Nay, how should he forget? His heart is young; His eyes do mirror loyalty. Oh, day!

Quicken thy dull, slow round of tedious hours!

G.o.d make me beautiful this happy night!

My father's sleeping saint rebukes my thought.

Strange he has left his work, against his wont, Revealed before completed. I will draw The curtain.

[She stands irresolute before the picture with her hand on the curtain.]

Beautiful, oh, beautiful!

The far, bright, opened heavens--the dark earth, Where the tranced pilgrim lies, with eyelids sealed, His calm face flushed with comfortable sleep, His weary limbs relaxed, his heavy head Pillowed upon the stone. Oh, blessed dream That visits his rapt sense, of airy forms, Mounting, descending on the s.h.i.+ning ladder, With messages of peace. I will be true Unto my lineage divine, and breathe The pa.s.sion of just pride that overfills HIS soul inspired.

While she stands before the canvas, reenter, unperceived by her, LORENZO.

LORENZO.

Oh, celestial vision!

What brush may reproduce those magic tints, Those lines ethereal?--