University of Virginia Library

SCENE IV.

A Street. Enter Lorenzo and a Gentleman, meeting. They salute, and Lorenzo is about to pass on.
LORENZO.
Good-morning, sir.

GENTLEMAN.
Hail and farewell so soon,
Friend dreamer? I will lay a goodly sum
The news that flies like fire from tongue to tongue
Hath not yet warmed thine ear.

LORENZO.
What's that? I lay
A sum as fair thy news is some dry tale
Of courtly gossip, touching me as nigh
As the dissensions of the antipodes.

GENTLEMAN.
Done for a hundred florins! In the night,
'Midst the wild storm whose roar must have invaded
Even thy leaden sleep, Prince John left Naples.
We should have had a pageant here to-day,
A royal exit, floral arches thrown
From house to house in all the streets he passed,
Music and guards of honor, homage fitting
The son of Philip—but the bird has flown.

LORENZO.
So! I regret our busy citizens,
Who sun themselves day-long upon the quays,
Should be deprived of such a festival.
Your wager 's lost—how am I moved by this?

GENTLEMAN.
Hark to the end. 'T would move all men whose veins
Flow not clear water. He hath carried off
The Rose of Naples.

LORENZO.
What wouldst thou say? Speak out!
In God's name, who hath followed him?

GENTLEMAN.
Ah, thou 'rt roused.
Thy master hath been robbed—the Spagnoletto—
Maria of the Golden Locks—his daughter.

LORENZO.
How is this known? 'T is a foul slander forged
By desperate malice. What! in the night, you say?—
She whose bright name was clean as gold, whose heart
Shone a fixed star of loyal love and duty
Beside her father's glory! This coarse lie
Denies itself. I will go seek the master,
And if this very noon she walk not forth,
Led by the Spagnoletto, through the streets,
To blind the dazed eyes of her slanderers,—
I am your debtor for a hundred florins.

GENTLEMAN.
Your faith in womanhood becomes you, sir.
(Aside.)
A beggar's child the mistress of a Prince;
Humph! there be some might think the weight of scandal
Lay on the other side. (To Lorenzo.)
You need not forth
To seek her father. See, he comes, alone.
I will not meddle in this broil. Farewell!

[Exit Gentleman.
Enter Ribera, without hat or mantle, slowly, with folded arms and bent head.
LORENZO.
Oh heart, break not for pity! Shall he thus
Unto all Naples blazon his disgrace?
This must not be (advancing).
Father!

RIBERA
(starts and looks up sharply).
Who calls me father?

LORENZO.
Why, master, I—you know me not? Lorenzo.

RIBERA.
Nor do I care to know thee. Thou must be
An arrant coward, thus to league with foes
Against so poor a wretch as I—to call me
By the most curst, despised, unhallowed name
God's creatures own. Away! and let me pass;
I injure no man.

LORENZO.
Look at me, dear master.
Your head is bare, your face is ashy pale,
The sun is fierce. I am your friend, your pupil;
Let me but guide my reverend master home,
In token of the grateful memory
Wherein I hold his guidance of my mind
Up the steep paths of art.

[While Lorenzo speaks, Ribera slowly gains consciousness of his situation, raises his hand to his head, and shudders violently. Lorenzo's last words seem to awaken him thoroughly.
RIBERA.
I crave your pardon
If I have answered roughly, Sir Lorenzo.
My thoughts were far away—I failed to know you—
I have had trouble, sir. You do remind me,
I had forgot my hat; that is a trifle,
Yet now I feel the loss. What slaves are we
To circumstance! One who is wont to cover
For fashion or for warmth his pate, goes forth
Bareheaded, and the sun will seem to smite
The shrinking spot, the breeze will make him shiver,
And yet our hatless beggars heed them not.
We are the fools of habit.

Enter two gentlemen together as promenading; they cross the stage, looking hard at Ribera and Lorenzo, and exeunt.
LORENZO.
Pray you, sir,
Let me conduct you home. Here is no place
To hold discourse. In God's name, come with me.

RIBERA.
What coupled staring fools were they that passed?
They seemed to scare thee. Why, boy, face them out.
I am the shadow of the Spagnoletto,
Else had I brooked no gaze so insolent.
Well, I will go with thee. But, hark thee, lad;
A word first in thine ear. 'T is a grim secret;
Whisper it not in Naples; I but tell thee,
Lest thou should fancy I had lost my wits.
My daughter hath deserted me—hath fled
From Naples with a bastard. Thou hast seen her,
Maria-Rosa—thou must remember her;
She, whom I painted as Madonna once.
She had fair hair and Spanish eyes. When was it?
I came forth thinking I might meet with her
And find all this a dream—a foolish thought!
I am very weary. (Yawning.)
I have walked and walked
For hours. How far, sir, stand we from the Strada
Nardo? I live there, nigh Saint Francis' church.

LORENZO.
Why, 't is hard by; a stone's throw from this square.
So, lean on me—you are not well. This way.
Pluck up good heart, sir; we shall soon be there.

[Exeunt.