SCENE.—A Room in Nathan’s House.
RECHA _and_ DAYA.
RECHA.
What, Daya, did my father really say
I might expect him, every instant, here?
That meant—now did it not? he would come soon.
And yet how many instants have rolled by!—
But who would think of those that are elapsed?—
To the next moment only I’m alive.—
At last the very one will come that brings him.
DAYA.
But for the sultan’s ill-timed message, Nathan
Had brought him in.
RECHA.
And when this moment comes,
And when this warmest inmost of my wishes
Shall be fulfilled, what then? what then?
DAYA.
What then?
Why then I hope the warmest of my wishes
Will have its turn, and happen.
RECHA.
’Stead of this,
What wish shall take possession of my bosom,
Which now without some ruling wish of wishes
Knows not to heave? Shall nothing? ah, I shudder.
DAYA.
Yes: mine shall then supplant the one fulfilled—
My wish to see thee placed one day in Europe
In hands well worthy of thee.
RECHA.
No, thou errest—
The very thing that makes thee form this wish
Prevents its being mine. The country draws thee,
And shall not mine retain me? Shall an image,
A fond remembrance of thy home, thy kindred,
Which years and distance have not yet effaced,
Be mightier o’er thy soul, than what I hear,
See, feel, and hold, of mine.
DAYA.
’Tis vain to struggle—
The ways of heaven are the ways of heaven.
Is he the destined saviour, by whose arm
His God, for whom he fights, intends to lead thee
Into the land, which thou wast born for—
RECHA.
Daya,
What art thou prating of? My dearest Daya,
Indeed thou hast some strange unseemly notions.
“_His_ God—_for_ whom he fights”—what is a God
Belonging to a man—needing another
To fight his battles? And can we pronounce
_For_ which among the scattered clods of earth
You, I was born; unless it be for that
_On_ which we were produced. If Nathan heard thee—
What has my father done to thee, that thou
Hast ever sought to paint my happiness
As lying far remote from him and his.
What has he done to thee that thus, among
The seeds of reason, which he sowed unmixed,
Pure in my soul, thou ever must be seeking
To plant the weeds, or flowers, of thy own land.
He wills not of these pranking gaudy blossoms
Upon this soil. And I too must acknowledge
I feel as if they had a sour-sweet odour,
That makes me giddy—that half suffocates.
Thy head is wont to bear it. I don’t blame
Those stronger nerves that can support it. Mine—
Mine it behoves not. Latterly thy angel
Had made me half a fool. I am ashamed,
Whene’er I see my father, of the folly.
DAYA.
As if here only wisdom were at home—
Folly—if I dared speak.
RECHA.
And dar’st thou not?
When was I not all ear, if thou beganst
To talk about the heroes of thy faith?
Have I not freely on their deeds bestowed
My admiration, to their sufferings yielded
The tribute of my tears? Their faith indeed
Has never seemed their most heroic side
To me: yet, therefore, have I only learnt
To find more consolation in the thought,
That our devotion to the God of all
Depends not on our notions about God.
My father has so often told us so—
Thou hast so often to this point consented—
How can it be that thou alone art restless
To undermine what you built up together?
This is not the most fit discussion, Daya,
To usher in our friend to; tho’ indeed
I should not disincline to it—for to me
It is of infinite importance if
He too—but hark—there’s some one at the door.
If it were he—stay—hush—
(_A Slave who shows in the Templar_.)
They are—here this way.
TEMPLAR, DAYA, _and_ RECHA.
RECHA.
(_starts_—_composes herself_—_then offers to fall at his feet_)
’Tis he—my saviour! ah!
TEMPLAR.
This to avoid
Have I alone deferred my call so long.
RECHA.
Yes, at the feet of this proud man, I will
Thank—God alone. The man will have no thanks;
No more than will the bucket which was busy
In showering watery damps upon the flame.
That was filled, emptied—but to me, to thee
What boots it? So the man—he too, he too
Was thrust, he knew not how, and the fire.
I dropped, by chance, into his open arm.
By chance, remained there—like a fluttering spark
Upon his mantle—till—I know not what
Pushed us both from amid the conflagration.
What room is here for thanks? How oft in Europe
Wine urges men to very different deeds!
Templars must so behave; it is their office,
Like better taught or rather handier spaniels,
To fetch from out of fire, as out of water.
TEMPLAR.
Oh Daya, Daya, if, in hasty moments
Of care and of chagrin, my unchecked temper
Betrayed me into rudeness, why convey
To her each idle word that left my tongue?
This is too piercing a revenge indeed;
Yet if henceforth thou wilt interpret better—
DAYA.
I question if these barbed words, Sir Knight,
Alighted so, as to have much disserved you.
RECHA.
How, you had cares, and were more covetous
Of them than of your life?
TEMPLAR.
(_who has been viewing her with wonder and perturbation_).
Thou best of beings,
How is my soul ’twixt eye and ear divided!
No: ’twas not she I snatched from amid fire:
For who could know her and forbear to do it?—
Indeed—disguised by terror—
[_Pause_: _during which he gazes on her as it were entranced_.
RECHA.
But to me
You still appear the same you then appeared.
[_Another like pause_—_till she resumes_, _in order to interrupt him_.
Now tell me, knight, where have you been so long?
It seems as might I ask—where are you now?
TEMPLAR.
I am—where I perhaps ought not to be.
RECHA.
Where have you been? where you perhaps ought not—
That is not well.
TEMPLAR.
Up—how d’ye call the mountain?
Up Sinai.
RECHA.
Oh, that’s very fortunate.
Now I shall learn for certain if ’tis true—
TEMPLAR.
What! if the spot may yet be seen where Moses
Stood before God; when first—
RECHA.
No, no, not that.
Where’er he stood, ’twas before God. Of this
I know enough already. Is it true,
I wish to learn from you that—that it is not
By far so troublesome to climb this mountain
As to get down—for on all mountains else,
That I have seen, quite the reverse obtains.
Well, knight, why will you turn away from me?
Not look at me?
TEMPLAR.
Because I wish to hear you.
RECHA.
Because you do not wish me to perceive
You smile at my simplicity—You smile
That I can think of nothing more important
To ask about the holy hill of hills:
Do you not?
TEMPLAR.
Must I meet those eyes again?
And now you cast them down, and damp the smile—
Am I in doubtful motions of the features
To read what I so plainly hear—what you
So audibly declare; yet will conceal?—
How truly said thy father “Do but know her!”
RECHA.
Who has—of whom—said so to thee?
TEMPLAR.
Thy father
Said to me “Do but know her,” and of thee.
DAYA.
And have not I too said so, times and oft.
TEMPLAR.
But where is then your father—with the sultan?
RECHA.
So I suppose.
TEMPLAR.
Yet there? Oh, I forget,
He cannot be there still. He is waiting for me
Most certainly below there by the cloister.
’Twas so, I think, we had agreed, Forgive,
I go in quest of him.
DAYA.
Knight, I’ll do that.
Wait here, I’ll bring him hither instantly.
TEMPLAR.
Oh no—Oh no. He is expecting me.
Besides—you are not aware what may have happened.
’Tis not unlikely he may be involved
With Saladin—you do not know the sultan—
In some unpleasant—I must go, there’s danger
If I forbear.
RECHA.
Danger—of what? of what?
TEMPLAR.
Danger for me, for thee, for him; unless
I go at once.
[_Goes_.
RECHA _and_ DAYA.
RECHA.
What is the matter, Daya?
So quick—what comes across him, drives him hence?
DAYA.
Let him alone, I think it no bad sign.
RECHA.
Sign—and of what?
DAYA.
That something passes in him.
It boils—but it must not boil over. Leave him—
Now ’tis your turn.
RECHA.
My turn? Thou dost become
Like him incomprehensible to me.
DAYA.
Now you may give him back all that unrest
He once occasioned. Be not too severe,
Nor too vindictive.
RECHA.
Daya, what you mean
You must know best.
DAYA.
And pray are you again
So calm.
RECHA.
I am—yes that I am.
DAYA.
At least
Own—that this restlessness has given you pleasure,
And that you have to thank his want of ease
For what of ease you now enjoy.
RECHA.
Of that
I am unconscious. All I could confess
Were, that it does seem strange unto myself,
How, in this bosom, such a pleasing calm
Can suddenly succeed to such a tossing.
DAYA.
His countenance, his speech, his manner, has
By this the satiated thee.
RECHA.
Satiated,
I will not say—not by a good deal yet.
DAYA.
But satisfied the more impatient craving.
RECHA.
Well, well, if you must have it so.
DAYA.
I? no.
RECHA.
To me he will be ever dear, will ever
Remain more dear than my own life; altho’
My pulse no longer flutters at his name,
My heart no longer, when I think about him,
Beats stronger, swifter. What have I been prating?
Come, Daya, let us once more to the window
Which overlooks the palms.
DAYA.
So that ’tis not
Yet satisfied—the more impatient craving.
RECHA.
Now I shall see the palm-trees once again,
Not him alone amid them.
DAYA.
This cold fit
Is but the harbinger of other fevers.
RECHA.
Cold—cold—I am not cold; but I observe not
Less willingly what I behold with calmness.
SCENE.—An Audience Room in the Sultan’s Palace.
SITTAH: SALADIN _giving directions at the door_.
SALADIN.
Here, introduce the Jew, whene’er he comes—
He seems in no great haste.
SITTAH.
May be at first
He was not in the way.
SALADIN.
Ah, sister, sister!
SITTAH.
You seem as if a combat were impending.
SALADIN.
With weapons that I have not learnt to wield.
Must I disguise myself? I use precautions?
I lay a snare? When, where gained I that knowledge?
And this, for what? To fish for money—money—
For money from a Jew—and to such arts
Must Saladin descend at last to come at
The least of little things?
SITTAH.
Each little thing
Despised too much finds methods of revenge.
SALADIN.
’Tis but too true. And if this Jew should prove
The fair good man, as once the dervis painted—
SITTAH.
Then difficulties cease. A snare concerns
The avaricious, cautious, fearful Jew;
And not the good wise man: for he is ours
Without a snare. Then the delight of hearing
How such a man speaks out; with what stern strength
He tears the net, or with what prudent foresight
He one by one undoes the tangled meshes;
That will be all to boot—
SALADIN.
That I shall joy in.
SITTAH.
What then should trouble thee? For if he be
One of the many only, a mere Jew,
You will not blush to such a one to seem
A man, as he thinks all mankind to be.
One, that to him should bear a better aspect,
Would seem a fool—a dupe.
SALADIN.
So that I must
Act badly, lest the bad think badly of me.
SITTAH.
Yes, if you call it acting badly, brother,
To use a thing after its kind.
SALADIN.
There’s nothing
That woman’s wit invents it can’t embellish.
SITTAH.
Embellish—
SALADIN.
But their fine-wrought filligree
In my rude hand would break. It is for those
That can contrive them to employ such weapons:
They ask a practised wrist. But chance what may,
Well as I can—
SITTAH.
Trust not yourself too little.
I answer for you, if you have the will.
Such men as you would willingly persuade us
It was their swords, their swords alone that raised them.
The lion’s apt to be ashamed of hunting
In fellowship of the fox—’tis of his fellow
Not of the cunning that he is ashamed.
SALADIN.
You women would so gladly level man
Down to yourselves. Go, I have got my lesson.
SITTAH.
What—_must_ I go?
SALADIN.
Had you the thought of staying?
SITTAH.
In your immediate presence not indeed,
But in the by-room.
SALADIN.
You could like to listen.
Not that, my sister, if I may insist.
Away! the curtain rustles—he is come.
Beware of staying—I’ll be on the watch.
[_While Sittah retires through one door_, _Nathan enters at another_,
_and Saladin seats himself_.
SALADIN _and_ NATHAN.
SALADIN.
Draw nearer, Jew, yet nearer; here, quite by me,
Without all fear.
NATHAN.
Remain that for thy foes!
SALADIN.
Your name is Nathan?
NATHAN.
Yes.
SALADIN.
Nathan the wise?
NATHAN.
No.
SALADIN.
If not thou, the people calls thee so.
NATHAN.
May be, the people.
SALADIN.
Fancy not that I
Think of the people’s voice contemptuously;
I have been wishing much to know the man
Whom it has named the wise.
NATHAN.
And if it named
Him so in scorn. If wise meant only prudent.
And prudent, one who knows his interest well.
SALADIN.
Who knows his real interest, thou must mean.
NATHAN.
Then were the interested the most prudent,
Then wise and prudent were the same.
SALADIN.
I hear
You proving what your speeches contradict.
You know man’s real interests, which the people
Knows not—at least have studied how to know them.
That alone makes the sage.
NATHAN.
Which each imagines
Himself to be.
SALADIN.
Of modesty enough!
Ever to meet it, where one seeks to hear
Dry truth, is vexing. Let us to the purpose—
But, Jew, sincere and open—
NATHAN.
I will serve thee
So as to merit, prince, thy further notice.
SALADIN.
Serve me—how?
NATHAN.
Thou shalt have the best I bring.
Shalt have them cheap.
SALADIN.
What speak you of?—your wares?
My sister shall be called to bargain with you
For them (so much for the sly listener), I
Have nothing to transact now with the merchant.
NATHAN.
Doubtless then you would learn, what, on my journey,
I noticed of the motions of the foe,
Who stirs anew. If unreserved I may—
SALADIN.
Neither was that the object of my sending:
I know what I have need to know already.
In short I willed your presence—
NATHAN.
Sultan, order.
SALADIN.
To gain instruction quite on other points.
Since you are a man so wise, tell me which law,
Which faith appears to you the better?
NATHAN.
Sultan,
I am a Jew.
SALADIN.
And I a Mussulman:
The Christian stands between us. Of these three
Religions only one came be the true.
A man, like you, remains not just where birth
Has chanced to cast him, or, if he remains there,
Does it from insight, choice, from grounds of preference.
Share then with me your insight—let me hear
The grounds of preference, which I have wanted
The leisure to examine—learn the choice,
These grounds have motived, that it may be mine.
In confidence I ask it. How you startle,
And weigh me with your eye! It may well be
I’m the first sultan to whom this caprice,
Methinks not quite unworthy of a sultan,
Has yet occurred. Am I not? Speak then—Speak.
Or do you, to collect yourself, desire
Some moments of delay—I give them you—
(Whether she’s listening?—I must know of her
If I’ve done right.) Reflect—I’ll soon return—
[_Saladin steps into the room to which Sittah had retired_.
NATHAN.
Strange! how is this? what wills the sultan of me?
I came prepared with cash—he asks truth. Truth?
As if truth too were cash—a coin disused
That goes by weight—indeed ’tis some such thing—
But a new coin, known by the stamp at once,
To be flung down and told upon the counter,
It is not that. Like gold in bags tied up,
So truth lies hoarded in the wise man’s head
To be brought out.—Which now in this transaction
Which of us plays the Jew; he asks for truth,
Is truth what he requires, his aim, his end?
That this is but the glue to lime a snare
Ought not to be suspected, ’twere too little,
Yet what is found too little for the great—
In fact, through hedge and pale to stalk at once
Into one’s field beseems not—friends look round,
Seek for the path, ask leave to pass the gate—
I must be cautious. Yet to damp him back,
And be the stubborn Jew is not the thing;
And wholly to throw off the Jew, still less.
For if no Jew he might with right inquire—
Why not a Mussulman—Yes—that may serve me.
Not children only can be quieted
With stories. Ha! he comes—well, let him come.
SALADIN (_returning_).
So, there, the field is clear, I’m not too quick,
Thou hast bethought thyself as much as need is,
Speak, no one hears.
NATHAN.
Might the whole world but hear us.
SALADIN.
Is Nathan of his cause so confident?
Yes, that I call the sage—to veil no truth,
For truth to hazard all things, life and goods.
NATHAN.
Aye, when ’tis necessary and when useful.
SALADIN.
Henceforth I hope I shall with reason bear
One of my titles—“Betterer of the world
And of the law.”
NATHAN.
In truth a noble title.
But, sultan, e’er I quite unfold myself
Allow me to relate a tale.
SALADIN.
Why not?
I always was a friend of tales well told.
NATHAN.
Well told, that’s not precisely my affair.
SALADIN.
Again so proudly modest, come begin.
NATHAN.
In days of yore, there dwelt in east a man
Who from a valued hand received a ring
Of endless worth: the stone of it an opal,
That shot an ever-changing tint: moreover,
It had the hidden virtue him to render
Of God and man beloved, who in this view,
And this persuasion, wore it. Was it strange
The eastern man ne’er drew it off his finger,
And studiously provided to secure it
For ever to his house. Thus—He bequeathed it;
First, to the _most beloved_ of his sons,
Ordained that he again should leave the ring
To the _most dear_ among his children—and
That without heeding birth, the _favourite_ son,
In virtue of the ring alone, should always
Remain the lord o’ th’ house—You hear me, Sultan?
SALADIN.
I understand thee—on.
NATHAN.
From son to son,
At length this ring descended to a father,
Who had three sons, alike obedient to him;
Whom therefore he could not but love alike.
At times seemed this, now that, at times the third,
(Accordingly as each apart received
The overflowings of his heart) most worthy
To heir the ring, which with good-natured weakness
He privately to each in turn had promised.
This went on for a while. But death approached,
And the good father grew embarrassed. So
To disappoint two sons, who trust his promise,
He could not bear. What’s to be done. He sends
In secret to a jeweller, of whom,
Upon the model of the real ring,
He might bespeak two others, and commanded
To spare nor cost nor pains to make them like,
Quite like the true one. This the artist managed.
The rings were brought, and e’en the father’s eye
Could not distinguish which had been the model.
Quite overjoyed he summons all his sons,
Takes leave of each apart, on each bestows
His blessing and his ring, and dies—Thou hearest me?
SALADIN.
I hear, I hear, come finish with thy tale;
Is it soon ended?
NATHAN.
It is ended, Sultan,
For all that follows may be guessed of course.
Scarce is the father dead, each with his ring
Appears, and claims to be the lord o’ th’ house.
Comes question, strife, complaint—all to no end;
For the true ring could no more be distinguished
Than now can—the true faith.
SALADIN.
How, how, is that
To be the answer to my query?
NATHAN.
No,
But it may serve as my apology;
If I can’t venture to decide between
Rings, which the father got expressly made,
That they might not be known from one another.
SALADIN.
The rings—don’t trifle with me; I must think
That the religions which I named can be
Distinguished, e’en to raiment, drink and food,
NATHAN.
And only not as to their grounds of proof.
Are not all built alike on history,
Traditional, or written. History
Must be received on trust—is it not so?
In whom now are we likeliest to put trust?
In our own people surely, in those men
Whose blood we are, in them, who from our childhood
Have given us proofs of love, who ne’er deceived us,
Unless ’twere wholesomer to be deceived.
How can I less believe in my forefathers
Than thou in thine. How can I ask of thee
To own that thy forefathers falsified
In order to yield mine the praise of truth.
The like of Christians.
SALADIN.
By the living God,
The man is in the right, I must be silent.
NATHAN.
Now let us to our rings return once more.
As said, the sons complained. Each to the judge
Swore from his father’s hand immediately
To have received the ring, as was the case;
After he had long obtained the father’s promise,
One day to have the ring, as also was.
The father, each asserted, could to him
Not have been false, rather than so suspect
Of such a father, willing as he might be
With charity to judge his brethren, he
Of treacherous forgery was bold t’ accuse them.
SALADIN.
Well, and the judge, I’m eager now to hear
What thou wilt make him say. Go on, go on.
NATHAN.
The judge said, If ye summon not the father
Before my seat, I cannot give a sentence.
Am I to guess enigmas? Or expect ye
That the true ring should here unseal its lips?
But hold—you tell me that the real ring
Enjoys the hidden power to make the wearer
Of God and man beloved; let that decide.
Which of you do two brothers love the best?
You’re silent. Do these love-exciting rings
Act inward only, not without? Does each
Love but himself? Ye’re all deceived deceivers,
None of your rings is true. The real ring
Perhaps is gone. To hide or to supply
Its loss, your father ordered three for one.
SALADIN.
O charming, charming!
NATHAN.
And (the judge continued)
If you will take advice in lieu of sentence,
This is my counsel to you, to take up
The matter where it stands. If each of you
Has had a ring presented by his father,
Let each believe his own the real ring.
’Tis possible the father chose no longer
To tolerate the one ring’s tyranny;
And certainly, as he much loved you all,
And loved you all alike, it could not please him
By favouring one to be of two the oppressor.
Let each feel honoured by this free affection.
Unwarped of prejudice; let each endeavour
To vie with both his brothers in displaying
The virtue of his ring; assist its might
With gentleness, benevolence, forbearance,
With inward resignation to the godhead,
And if the virtues of the ring continue
To show themselves among your children’s children,
After a thousand thousand years, appear
Before this judgment-seat—a greater one
Than I shall sit upon it, and decide.
So spake the modest judge.
SALADIN.
God!
NATHAN.
Saladin,
Feel’st thou thyself this wiser, promised man?
SALADIN.
I dust, I nothing, God!
[_Precipitates himself upon Nathan_, _and takes hold of his hand_, _which
he does not quit the remainder of the scene_.
NATHAN.
What moves thee, Sultan?
SALADIN.
Nathan, my dearest Nathan, ’tis not yet
The judge’s thousand thousand years are past,
His judgment-seat’s not mine. Go, go, but love me.
NATHAN.
Has Saladin then nothing else to order?
SALADIN.
No.
NATHAN.
Nothing?
SALADIN.
Nothing in the least, and wherefore?
NATHAN.
I could have wished an opportunity
To lay a prayer before you.
SALADIN.
Is there need
Of opportunity for that? Speak freely.
NATHAN.
I come from a long journey from collecting
Debts, and I’ve almost of hard cash too much;
The times look perilous—I know not where
To lodge it safely—I was thinking thou,
For coming wars require large sums, couldst use it.
SALADIN (_fixing Nathan_).
Nathan, I ask not if thou sawst Al-Hafi,
I’ll not examine if some shrewd suspicion
Spurs thee to make this offer of thyself.
NATHAN.
Suspicion—
SALADIN.
I deserve this offer. Pardon,
For what avails concealment, I acknowledge
I was about—
NATHAN.
To ask the same of me?
SALADIN.
Yes.
NATHAN.
Then ’tis well we’re both accommodated.
That I can’t send thee all I have of treasure
Arises from the templar; thou must know him,
I have a weighty debt to pay to him.
SALADIN.
A templar! How, thou dost not with thy gold
Support my direst foes.
NATHAN.
I speak of him
Whose life the sultan—
SALADIN.
What art thou recalling?
I had forgot the youth, whence is he, knowest thou?
NATHAN.
Hast thou not heard then how thy clemency
To him has fallen on me. He at the risk
Of his new-spared existence, from the flames
Rescued my daughter.
SALADIN.
Ha! Has he done that;
He looked like one that would—my brother too,
Whom he’s so like, bad done it. Is he here still?
Bring him to me—I have so often talked
To Sittah of this brother, whom she knew not,
That I must let her see his counterfeit.
Go fetch him. How a single worthy action,
Though but of whim or passion born, gives rise
To other blessings! Fetch him.
NATHAN.
In an instant.
The rest remains as settled.
SALADIN.
O, I wish
I had let my sister listen. Well, I’ll to her.
How shall I make her privy to all this?
SCENE.—The Place of Palms.
The TEMPLAR _walking and agitated_.
TEMPLAR.
Here let the weary victim pant awhile.—
Yet would I not have time to ascertain
What passes in me; would not snuff beforehand
The coming storm. ’Tis sure I fled in vain;
But more than fly I could not do, whatever
Comes of it. Ah! to ward it off—the blow
Was given so suddenly. Long, much, I strove
To keep aloof; but vainly. Once to see her—
Her, whom I surely did not court the sight of,
To see her, and to form the resolution,
Never to lose sight of her here again,
Was one—The resolution?—Not ’tis will,
Fixt purpose, made (for I was passive in it)
Sealed, doomed. To see her, and to feel myself
Bound to her, wove into her very being,
Was one—remains one. Separate from her
To live is quite unthinkable—is death.
And wheresoever after death we be,
There too the thought were death. And is this love?
Yet so in troth the templar loves—so—so—
The Christian loves the Jewess. What of that?
Here in this holy land, and therefore holy
And dear to me, I have already doffed
Some prejudices.—Well—what says my vow?
As templar I am dead, was dead to that
From the same hour which made me prisoner
To Saladin. But is the head he gave me
My old one? No. It knows no word of what
Was prated into yon, of what had bound it.
It is a better; for its patrial sky
Fitter than yon. I feel—I’m conscious of it,
With this I now begin to think, as here
My father must have thought; if tales of him
Have not been told untruly. Tales—why tales?
They’re credible—more credible than ever—
Now that I’m on the brink of stumbling, where
He fell. He fell? I’d rather fall with men,
Than stand with children. His example pledges
His approbation, and whose approbation
Have I else need of? Nathan’s? Surely of his
Encouragement, applause, I’ve little need
To doubt—O what a Jew is he! yet easy
To pass for the mere Jew. He’s coming—swiftly—
And looks delighted—who leaves Saladin
With other looks? Hoa, Nathan!
NATHAN _and_ TEMPLAR.
NATHAN.
Are you there?
TEMPLAR.
Your visit to the sultan has been long.
NATHAN.
Not very long; my going was indeed
Too much delayed. Troth, Conrade, this man’s fame
Outstrips him not. His fame is but his shadow.
But before all I have to tell you—
TEMPLAR.
What?
NATHAN.
That he would speak with you, and that directly.
First to my house, where I would give some orders,
Then we’ll together to the sultan.
TEMPLAR.
Nathan,
I enter not thy doors again before—
NATHAN.
Then you’ve been there this while—have spoken with her.
How do you like my Recha?
TEMPLAR.
Words cannot tell—
Gaze on her once again—I never will—
Never—no never: unless thou wilt promise
That I for ever, ever, may behold her.
NATHAN.
How should I take this?
TEMPLAR (_falling suddenly upon his neck_).
Nathan—O my father!
NATHAN.
Young man!
TEMPLAR (_quitting him as suddenly_).
Not son?—I pray thee, Nathan—ha!
NATHAN.
Thou dear young man!
TEMPLAR.
Not son?—I pray thee, Nathan,
Conjure thee by the strongest bonds of nature,
Prefer not those of later date, the weaker.—
Be it enough to thee to be a man!
Push me not from thee!
NATHAN.
Dearest, dearest friend!—
TEMPLAR.
Not son? Not son? Not even—even if
Thy daughter’s gratitude had in her bosom
Prepared the way for love—not even if
Both wait thy nod alone to be but one?—
You do not speak?
NATHAN.
Young knight, you have surprised me.
TEMPLAR.
Do I surprise thee—thus surprise thee, Nathan,
With thy own thought? Canst thou not in my mouth
Know it again? Do I surprise you?
NATHAN.
Ere
I know, which of the Stauffens was your father?
TEMPLAR.
What say you, Nathan?—And in such a moment
Is curiosity your only feeling?
NATHAN.
For see, once I myself well knew a Stauffen,
Whose name was Conrade.
TEMPLAR.
Well, and if my father
Was bearer of that name?
NATHAN.
Indeed?
TEMPLAR.
My name
Is from my father’s, Conrade.
NATHAN.
Then thy father
Was not my Conrade. He was, like thyself,
A templar, never wedded.
TEMPLAR.
For all that—
NATHAN.
How?
TEMPLAR.
For all that he may have been my father.
NATHAN.
You joke.
TEMPLAR.
And you are captious. Boots it then
To be true-born? Does bastard wound thine ear?
The race is not to be despised: but hold,
Spare me my pedigree; I’ll spare thee thine.
Not that I doubt thy genealogic tree.
O, God forbid! You may attest it all
As far as Abraham back; and backwarder
I know it to my heart—I’ll swear to it also.
NATHAN.
Knight, you grow bitter. Do I merit this?
Have I refused you ought? I’ve but forborne
To close with you at the first word—no more.
TEMPLAR.
Indeed—no more? O then forgive—
NATHAN.
’Tis well.
Do but come with me.
TEMPLAR.
Whither? To thy house?
No? there not—there not: ’tis a burning soil.
Here I await thee, go. Am I again
To see her, I shall see her times enough:
If not I have already gazed too much.
NATHAN.
I’ll try to be soon back.
[_Goes_.
TEMPLAR.
Too much indeed—
Strange that the human brain, so infinite
Of comprehension, yet at times will fill
Quite full, and all at once, of a mere trifle—
No matter what it teems with. Patience! Patience!
The soul soon calms again, th’ upboiling stuff
Makes itself room and brings back light and order.
Is this then the first time I love? Or was
What by that name I knew before, not love—
And this, this love alone that now I feel?
DAYA _and_ TEMPLAR.
DAYA.
Sir knight, sir knight.
TEMPLAR.
Who calls? ha, Daya, you?
DAYA.
I managed to slip by him. No, come here
(He’ll see us where you stand) behind this tree.
TEMPLAR.
Why so mysterious? What’s the matter, Daya?
DAYA.
Yes, ’tis a secret that has brought me to you
A twofold secret. One I only know,
The other only you. Let’s interchange,
Intrust yours first to me, then I’ll tell mine.
TEMPLAR.
With pleasure when I’m able to discover
What you call me. But that yours will explain.
Begin—
DAYA.
That is not fair, yours first, sir knight;
For be assured my secret serves you not
Unless I have yours first. If I sift it out
You’ll not have trusted me, and then my secret
Is still my own, and yours lost all for nothing.
But, knight, how can you men so fondly fancy
You ever hide such secrets from us women.
TEMPLAR.
Secrets we often are unconscious of.
DAYA.
May be—So then I must at last be friendly,
And break it to you. Tell me now, whence came it
That all at once you started up abruptly
And in the twinkling of an eye were fled?
That you left us without one civil speech!
That you return no more with Nathan to us—
Has Recha then made such a slight impression,
Or made so deep a one? I penetrate you.
Think you that on a limed twig the poor bird
Can flutter cheerfully, or hop at ease
With its wing pinioned? Come, come, in one word
Acknowledge to me plainly that you love her,
Love her to madness, and I’ll tell you what.
TEMPLAR.
To madness, oh, you’re very penetrating.
DAYA.
Grant me the love, and I’ll give up the madness.
TEMPLAR.
Because that must be understood of course—
A templar love a Jewess—
DAYA.
Seems absurd,
But often there’s more fitness in a thing
Than we at once discern; nor were this time
The first, when through an unexpected path
The Saviour drew his children on to him
Across the tangled maze of human life.
TEMPLAR.
So solemn that—(and yet if in the stead
Of Saviour, I were to say Providence,
It would sound true) you make me curious, Daya,
Which I’m unwont to be.
DAYA.
This is the place
For miracles
TEMPLAR.
For wonders—well and good—
Can it be otherwise, where the whole world
Presses as toward a centre. My dear Daya,
Consider what you asked of me as owned;
That I do love her—that I can’t imagine
How I should live without her—that
DAYA.
Indeed!
Then, knight, swear to me you will call her yours,
Make both her present and eternal welfare.
TEMPLAR.
And how, how can I, can I swear to do
What is not in my power?
DAYA.
’Tis in your power,
A single word will put it in your power.
TEMPLAR.
So that her father shall not be against it.
DAYA.
Her father—father? he shall be compelled.
TEMPLAR.
As yet he is not fallen among thieves—
Compelled?
DAYA.
Aye to be willing that you should.
TEMPLAR.
Compelled and willing—what if I inform thee
That I have tried to touch this string already,
It vibrates not responsive.
DAYA.
He refused thee?
TEMPLAR.
He answered in a tone of such discordance
That I was hurt.
DAYA.
What do you say? How, you
Betrayed the shadow of a wish for Recha,
And he did not spring up for joy, drew back,
Drew coldly back, made difficulties?
TEMPLAR.
Almost.
DAYA.
Well then I’ll not deliberate a moment.
TEMPLAR.
And yet you are deliberating still.
DAYA.
That man was always else so good, so kind,
I am so deeply in his debt. Why, why
Would he not listen to you? God’s my witness
That my heart bleeds to come about him thus.
TEMPLAR.
I pray you, Daya, once for all, to end
This dire uncertainty. But if you doubt
Whether what ’tis your purpose to reveal
Be right or wrong, be praiseworthy or shameful,
Speak not—I will forget that you have had
Something to hide.
DAYA.
That spurs me on still more.
Then learn that Recha is no Jewess, that
She is a Christian.
TEMPLAR.
I congratulate you,
’Twas a hard labour, but ’tis out at last;
The pangs of the delivery won’t hurt you.
Go on with undiminished zeal, and people
Heaven, when no longer fit to people earth.
DAYA.
How, knight, does my intelligence deserve
Such bitter scorn? That Recha is a Christian
On you a Christian templar, and her lover,
Confers no joy.
TEMPLAR.
Particularly as
She is a Christian of your making, Daya.
DAYA.
O, so you understand it—well and good—
I wish to find out him that might convert her.
It is her fate long since to have been that
Which she is spoiled for being.
TEMPLAR.
Do explain—
Or go.
DAYA.
She is a Christian child—of Christian
Parents was born and is baptised.
TEMPLAR (_hastily_).
And Nathan—
DAYA.
Is not her father.
TEMPLAR.
Nathan not her father—
And are you sure of what you say?
DAYA.
I am,
It is a truth has cost me tears of blood.
No, he is not her father.
TEMPLAR.
And has only
Brought her up as his daughter, educated
The Christian child a Jewess.
DAYA.
Certainly.
TEMPLAR.
And she is unacquainted with her birth?
Has never learnt from him that she was born
A Christian, and no Jewess?
DAYA.
Never yet.
TEMPLAR.
And he not only let the child grow up
In this mistaken notion, but still leaves
The woman in it.
DAYA.
Aye, alas!
TEMPLAR.
How, Nathan,
The wise good Nathan thus allow himself
To stifle nature’s voice? Thus to misguide
Upon himself th’ effusions of a heart
Which to itself abandoned would have formed
Another bias, Daya—yes, indeed
You have intrusted an important secret
That may have consequences—it confounds me,
I cannot tell what I’ve to do at present,
Therefore go, give me time, he may come by
And may surprise us.
DAYA.
I should drop for fright.
TEMPLAR.
I am not able now to talk, farewell;
And if you chance to meet him, only say
That we shall find each other at the sultan’s.
DAYA.
Let him not see you’ve any grudge against him.
That should be kept to give the proper impulse
To things at last, and may remove your scruples
Respecting Recha. But then, if you take her
Back with you into Europe, let not me
Be left behind.
TEMPLAR.
That we’ll soon settle, go.