SCENE.—A Room in the Palace; the Purses still in a pile.
SALADIN, _and_, _soon after_, _several_ MAMALUKES.
SALADIN (_as he comes in_).
Here lies the money still, and no one finds
The dervis yet—he’s probably got somewhere
Over a chess-board. Play would often make
The man forget himself, and why not, me.
Patience—Ha! what’s the matter.
SALADIN _and_ IBRAHIM.
IBRAHIM.
Happy news—
Joy, sultan, joy, the caravan from Cairo
Is safe arrived and brings the seven years’ tribute
Of the rich Nile.
SALADIN.
Bravo, my Ibrahim,
Thou always wast a welcome messenger,
And now at length—at length—accept my thanks
For the good tidings.
IBRAHIM (_waiting_).
Hither with them, sultan.
SALADIN.
What art thou waiting for? Go.
IBRAHIM.
Nothing further
For my glad news?
SALADIN.
What further?
IBRAHIM.
Errand boys
Earn hire—and when their message smiles i’ the telling,
The sender’s hire by the receiver’s bounty
Is oft outweighed. Am I to be the first
Whom Saladin at length has learnt to pay
In words? The first about whose recompense
The sultan higgled?
SALADIN.
Go, pick up a purse.
IBRAHIM.
No, not now—you might give them all away
SALADIN.
All—hold, man. Here, come hither, take these two—
And is he really going—shall he conquer
Me then in generosity? for surely
’Tis harder for this fellow to refuse
Than ’tis for me to give. Here, Ibrahim—
Shall I be tempted, just before my exit,
To be a different man—small Saladin
Not die like Saladin, then wherefore live so?
ABDALLAH _and_ SALADIN.
ABDALLAH.
Hail, Sultan!
SALADIN.
If thou comest to inform me
That the whole convoy is arrived from Egypt,
I know it already.
ABDALLAH.
Do I come too late?
SALADIN.
Too late, and why too late? There for thy tidings
Pick up a purse or two.
ABDALLAH.
Does that make three?
SALADIN.
So thou wouldst reckon—well, well, take them, take them.
ABDALLAH.
A third will yet be here if he be able.
SALADIN.
How so?
ABDALLAH.
He may perhaps have broke his neck.
We three, as soon as certain of the coming
Of the rich caravan, each crossed our horses,
And galloped hitherward. The foremost fell,
Then I was foremost, and continued so
Into the city, but sly Ibrahim,
Who knows the streets—
SALADIN.
But he that fell, go, seek him.
ABDALLAH.
That will I quickly—if he lives, the half
Of what I’ve got is his.
[_Goes_.
SALADIN.
What a fine fellow!
And who can boast such mamalukes as these;
And is it not allowed me to imagine
That my example helped to form them. Hence
With the vile thought at last to turn another.
_A third_ COURIER.
Sultan—
SALADIN.
Was’t thou who fell?
COURIER.
No, I’ve to tell thee
That Emir Mansor, who conducts the convoy,
Alights.
SALADIN.
O bring him to me—Ah, he’s there—
Be welcome, Emir. What has happened to thee?
For we have long expected thee.
SALADIN _and_ EMIR.
EMIR (_after the wont obeisance_).
This letter
Will show, that, in Thebais, discontents
Required thy Abulkassem’s sabred hand,
Ere we could march. Since that, our progress, sultan,
My zeal has sped most anxiously.
SALADIN.
I trust thee—
But my good Mansor take without delay—
Thou art not loth to go further—fresh protection,
And with the treasure on to Libanon;
The greater part at least I have to lodge
With my old father.
EMIR.
O, most willingly.
SALADIN.
And take not a slight escort. Libanon
Is far from quiet, as thou wilt have heard;
The templars stir afresh, be therefore cautious.
Come, I must see thy troop, and give the orders.
[_To a slave_.
Say I shall be with Sittah when I’ve finished.
SCENE—A Place of Palms.
_The_ TEMPLAR _walking to and fro_.
TEMPLAR.
Into this house I go not—sure at last
He’ll show himself—once, once they used to see me
So instantly, so gladly—time will come
When he’ll send out most civilly to beg me
Not to pace up and down before his door.
Psha—and yet I’m a little nettled too;
And what has thus embittered me against him?
He answered yes. He has refused me nothing
As yet. And Saladin has undertaken
To bring him round. And does the Christian nestle
Deeper in me than the Jew lurks in him?
Who, who can justly estimate himself?
How comes it else that I should grudge him so
The little booty that he took such pains
To rob the Christians of? A theft, no less
Than such a creature tho’—but whose, whose creature?
Sure not the slave’s who floated the mere block
On to life’s barren strand, and then ran off;
But his the artist’s, whose fine fancy moulded
Upon the unowned block a godlike form,
Whose chisel graved it there. Recha’s true father,
Spite of the Christian who begot her, is,
Must ever be, the Jew. Alas, were I
To fancy her a simple Christian wench,
And without all that which the Jew has given,
Which only such a Jew could have bestowed—
Speak out my heart, what had she that would please thee?
No, nothing! Little! For her very smile
Shrinks to a pretty twisting of the muscles—
Be that, which makes her smile, supposed unworthy
Of all the charms in ambush on her lips?
No, not her very smile—I’ve seen sweet smiles
Spent on conceit, on foppery, on slander,
On flatterers, on wicked wooers spent,
And did they charm me then? then wake the wish
To flutter out a life beneath their sunshine?
Indeed not—Yet I’m angry with the man
Who alone gave this higher value to her.
How this, and why? Do I deserve the taunt
With which I was dismissed by Saladin?
’Tis bad enough that Saladin should think so;
How little, how contemptible must I
Then have appeared to him—all for a girl.
Conrade, this will not do—back, back—And if
Daya to boot had prated matter to me
Not easy to be proved—At last he’s coming,
Engaged in earnest converse—and with whom?
My friar in Nathan’s house! then he knows all—
Perhaps has to the patriarch been betrayed.
O Conrade, what vile mischiefs thou hast brooded
Out of thy cross-grained head, that thus one spark
Of that same passion, love, can set so much
O’ th’ brain in flame? Quick, then, determine, wretch,
What shalt thou say or do? Step back a moment
And see if this good friar will please to quit him.
NATHAN _and the_ FRIAR _come together out of Nathan’s house_.
NATHAN.
Once more, good brother, thanks.
FRIAR.
The like to you.
NATHAN.
To me, and why; because I’m obstinate—
Would force upon you what you have no use for?
FRIAR.
The book besides was none of mine. Indeed
It must at any rate belong to th’ daughter;
It is her whole, her only patrimony—
Save she has you. God grant you ne’er have reason
To sorrow for the much you’ve done for her.
NATHAN.
How should I? that can never be; fear nothing.
FRIAR.
Patriarchs and templars—
NATHAN.
Have not in their power
Evil enough to make me e’er repent.
And then—But are you really well assured
It is a templar who eggs on your patriarch?
FRIAR.
It scarcely can be other, for a templar
Talked with him just before, and what I heard
Agreed with this.
NATHAN.
But there is only one
Now in Jerusalem; and him I know;
He is my friend, a noble open youth.
FRIAR.
The same. But what one is at heart, and what
One gets to be in active life, mayn’t always
Square well together.
NATHAN.
No, alas, they do not.
Therefore unangered I let others do
Their best or worst. O brother, with your book
I set all at defiance, and am going
Straight with it to the Sultan.
FRIAR.
God be with you!
Here I shall take my leave.
NATHAN.
And have not seen her—
Come soon, come often to us. If to-day
The patriarch make out nothing—but no matter,
Tell him it all to-day, or when you will.
FRIAR.
Not I—farewell!
NATHAN.
Do not forget us, brother
My God, why may I not beneath thy sky
Here drop upon my knees; now the twined knot,
Which has so often made my thinkings anxious,
Untangles of itself—God, how I am eased,
Now that I’ve nothing in the world remaining
That I need hide—now that I can as freely
Walk before man as before thee, who only
Need’st not to judge a creature by his deeds—
Deeds which so seldom are his own—O God!
NATHAN _and_ TEMPLAR.
TEMPLAR (_coming forward_).
Hoa, Nathan, take me with you.
NATHAN.
Ha! Who calls?
Is it you, knight? And whither have you been
That you could not be met with at the Sultan’s?
TEMPLAR.
We missed each other—take it not amiss.
NATHAN.
I, no, but Saladin.
TEMPLAR.
You was just gone.
NATHAN.
O, then you spoke with him; I’m satisfied.
TEMPLAR.
Yes—but he wants to talk with us together.
NATHAN.
So much the better. Come with me, my step
Was eitherwise bent thither.
TEMPLAR.
May I ask,
Nathan, who ’twas now left you?
NATHAN.
Did you know him?
TEMPLAR.
Was’t that good-hearted creature the lay-brother,
Whom the hoar patriarch has a knack of using
To feel his way out?
NATHAN.
That may be. In fact
He’s at the patriarch’s.
TEMPLAR.
’Tis no awkward hit
To make simplicity the harbinger
Of craft.
NATHAN.
If the simplicity of dunces,
But if of honest piety?
TEMPLAR.
This last
No patriarch can believe in.
NATHAN.
I’ll be bound for’t
This last belongs to him who quitted me.
He’ll not assist his patriarch to accomplish
A vile or cruel purpose.
TEMPLAR.
Such, at least,
He would appear—but has he told you then
Something of me?
NATHAN.
Of you? No—not by name,
He can’t well be acquainted with your name.
TEMPLAR.
No, that not.
NATHAN.
He indeed spoke of a templar,
Who—
TEMPLAR.
What?
NATHAN.
But by this templar could not mean
To point out you.
TEMPLAR.
Stay, stay, who knows? Let’s hear.
NATHAN.
Who has accused me to his patriarch.
TEMPLAR.
Accused thee, no, that by his leave is false.
Nathan do hear me—I am not the man
Who would deny a single of his actions;
What I have done, I did. Nor am I one
Who would defend all he has done as right—
Why be ashamed of failing? Am I not
Firmly resolved on better future conduct?
And am I not aware how much the man
That’s willing can improve? O, hear me, Nathan—
I am the templar your lay-brother talked of—
Who has accused—You know what made me angry,
What set the blood in all my veins on fire,
The mad-cap that I was—I had drawn nigh
To fling myself with soul and body whole
Into your arms—and you received me, Nathan—
How cold, how lukewarm, for that’s worse than cold.—
How with words weighed and measured, you took care
To put me off; and with what questioning
About my parentage, and God knows what,
You seemed to answer me—I must not think on’t
If I would keep my temper—Hear me, Nathan—
While in this ferment—Daya steps behind me,
Bolts out a secret in my ear, which seemed
At once to lend a clue to your behaviour.
NATHAN.
How so?
TEMPLAR.
Do hear me to the end. I fancied
That what you from the Christians had purloined
You wasn’t content to let a Christian have;
And so the project struck me short and good,
To hold the knife to your throat till—
NATHAN.
Short and good;
And good—but where’s the good?
TEMPLAR.
Yet hear me, Nathan,
I own I did not right—you are unguilty,
No doubt. The prating Daya does not know
What she reported—has a grudge against you—
Seeks to involve you in an ugly business—
May be, may be, and I’m a crazy looby,
A credulous enthusiast—both ways mad—
Doing ever much too much, or much too little—
That too may be—forgive me, Nathan.
NATHAN.
If
Such be the light in which you view—
TEMPLAR.
In short
I to the patriarch went. I named you not.
That, as I said, was false. I only stated
In general terms, the case, to learn his notion,
That too might have been let alone—assuredly.
For knew I not the patriarch then to be
A knave? And might I not have talked with you?
And ought I to have exposed the poor girl—ha!
To part with such a father? Now what happens?
The patriarch’s villainy consistent ever
Restored me to myself—O, hear me out—
Suppose he was to ferret out your name,
What then? What then? He cannot seize the maid,
Unless she still belong to none but you.
’Tis from your house alone that he could drag her
Into a convent; therefore grant her me—
Grant her to me, and let him come. By God—
Sever my wife from me—he’ll not be rash
Enough to think about it. Give her to me,
Be she or no thy daughter, Christian, Jewess,
Or neither, ’tis all one, all one—I’ll never
In my whole life ask of thee which she is,
Be’t as it may.
NATHAN.
You may perhaps imagine
That I’ve an interest to conceal the truth.
TEMPLAR.
Be’t as it may.
NATHAN.
I neither have to you
Nor any one, whom it behooved to know it,
Denied that she’s a Christian, and no more
Than my adopted daughter. Why, to her
I have not yet betrayed it—I am bound
To justify only to her.
TEMPLAR.
Of that
Shall be no need. Indulge, indulge her with
Never beholding you with other eyes—
Spare, spare her the discovery. As yet
You have her to yourself, and may bestow her;
Give her to me—oh, I beseech thee, Nathan,
Give her to me, I, only I can save her
A second time, and will.
NATHAN.
Yes, could have saved her.
But ’tis all over now—it is too late.
TEMPLAR.
How so, too late.
NATHAN.
Thanks to the patriarch.
TEMPLAR.
How
Thanks to the patriarch, and for what? Can he
Earn thanks of us. For what?
NATHAN.
That now we know
To whom she is related—to whose hands
She may with confidence be now delivered.
TEMPLAR.
He thank him who has more to thank him for.
NATHAN.
From theirs you now have to obtain her, not
From mine.
TEMPLAR.
Poor Recha—what befalls thee? Oh,
Poor Recha—what had been to other orphans
A blessing, is to thee a curse. But, Nathan,
Where are they, these new kinsmen?
NATHAN.
Where they are?
TEMPLAR.
Who are they?
NATHAN.
Who—a brother is found out
To whom you must address yourself.
TEMPLAR.
A brother!
And what is he, a soldier or a priest?
Let’s hear what I’ve to hope.
NATHAN.
As I believe
He’s neither of the two—or both. Just now
I cannot say exactly.
TEMPLAR.
And besides
He’s—
NATHAN.
A brave fellow, and with whom my Recha
Will not be badly placed.
TEMPLAR.
But he’s a Christian.
At times I know not what to make of you—
Take it not ill of me, good Nathan. Will she
Not have to play the Christian among Christians;
And when she has been long enough the actress
Not turn so? Will the tares in time not stifle
The pure wheat of your setting—and does that
Affect you not a whit—you yet declare
She’ll not be badly placed.
NATHAN.
I think, I hope so.
And should she there have need of any thing
Has she not you and me?
TEMPLAR.
Need at her brother’s—
What should she need when there? Won’t he provide
His dear new sister with all sorts of dresses,
With comfits and with toys and glittering jewels?
And what needs any sister wish for else—
Only a husband? And he comes in time.
A brother will know how to furnish that,
The Christianer the better. Nathan, Nathan,
O what an angel you had formed, and how
Others will mar it now!
NATHAN.
Be not so downcast,
Believe me he will ever keep himself
Worthy our love.
TEMPLAR.
No, say not that of mine.
My love allows of no refusal—none.
Were it the merest trifle—but a name.
Hold there—has she as yet the least suspicion
Of what is going forward?
NATHAN.
That may be,
And yet I know not whence.
TEMPLAR.
It matters not,
She shall, she must in either case from me
First learn what fate is threatening. My fixed purpose
To see her not again, nor speak to her,
Till I might call her mine, is gone. I hasten—
NATHAN.
Stay, whither would you go?
TEMPLAR.
To her, to learn
If this girl’s soul be masculine enough
To form the only resolution worthy
Herself.
NATHAN.
What resolution?
TEMPLAR.
This—to ask
No more about her brother and her father,
And—
NATHAN.
And—
TEMPLAR.
To follow me. E’en if she were
So doing to become a Moslem’s wife.
NATHAN.
Stay, you’ll not find her—she is now with Sittah,
The Sultan’s sister.
TEMPLAR.
How long since, and wherefore?
NATHAN.
And would you there behold her brother, come
Thither with me.
TEMPLAR.
Her brother, whose then? Sittah’s
Or Recha’s do you mean?
NATHAN.
Both, both, perchance.
Come this way—I beseech you, come with me.
[_Leads off the Templar with him_.
SCENE.—The Sultan’s Palace. A Room in Sittah’s Apartment.
SITTAH _and_ RECHA.
SITTAH.
How I am pleased with thee, sweet girl! But do
Shake off this perturbation, be not anxious,
Be not alarmed, I want to hear thee talk—
Be cheerful.
RECHA.
Princess!
SITTAH.
No, not princess, child.
Call me thy friend, or Sittah, or thy sister,
Or rather aunt, for I might well be thine;
So young, so good, so prudent, so much knowledge,
You must have read a great deal to be thus.
RECHA.
I read—you’re laughing, Sittah, at your sister,
I scarce can read.
SITTAH.
Scarce can, you little fibber.
RECHA.
My father’s hand or so—I thought you spoke
Of books.
SITTAH.
Aye, surely so I did, of books.
RECHA.
Well really now it puzzles me to read them.
SITTAH.
In earnest?
RECHA.
Yes, in earnest, for my father
Hates cold book-learning, which makes an impression
With its dead letters only on the brain.
SITTAH.
What say you? Aye, he’s not unright in that.
So then the greater part of what you know—
RECHA.
I know but from his mouth—of most of it
I could relate to you, the how, the where,
The why he taught it me.
SITTAH.
So it clings closer,
And the whole soul drinks in th’ instruction.
RECHA.
Yes,
And Sittah certainly has not read much.
SITTAH.
How so? Not that I’m vain of having read;
But what can be thy reason? Speak out boldly,
Thy reason for it.
RECHA.
She is so right down,
Unartificial—only like herself
And books do seldom leave us so; my father
Says.
SITTAH.
What a man thy father is, my Recha.
RECHA.
Is not he?
SITTAH.
How he always hits the mark.
RECHA.
Does not he? And this father—
SITTAH.
Love, what ails thee?
RECHA.
This father—
SITTAH.
God, thou’rt weeping
RECHA.
And this father—
It must have vent, my heart wants room, wants room.
SITTAH.
Child, child, what ails you, Recha?
RECHA.
And this father
I am to lose.
SITTAH.
Thou lose him, O no, never:
Arise, be calm, how so? It must not be.
RECHA.
So shall thy offer not have been in vain,
To be my friend, my sister.
SITTAH.
Maid, I am.
Rise then, or I must call for help.
RECHA.
Forgive,
My agony made me awhile forgetful
With whom I am. Tears, sobbing, and despair,
Can not avail with Sittah. Cool calm reason
Alone is over her omnipotent;
Whose cause that pleads before her, he has conquered.
SITTAH.
Well, then!
RECHA.
My friend, my sister, suffer not
Another father to be forced upon me.
SITTAH.
Another father to be forced upon thee—
Who can do that, or wish to do it, Recha?
RECHA.
Who? Why my good, my evil genius, Daya,
She, she can wish it, will it—and can do it.
You do not know this dear good evil Daya.
God, God forgive it her—reward her for it;
So much good she has done me, so much evil.
SITTAH.
Evil to thee—much goodness she can’t have.
RECHA.
O yes, she has indeed.
SITTAH.
Who is she?
RECHA.
Who?
A Christian, who took care of all my childhood.
You cannot think how little she allowed me
To miss a mother—God reward her for it—
But then she has so teased, so tortured me.
SITTAH.
And about what? Why, how, when?
RECHA.
The poor woman,
I tell thee, is a Christian—and she must
From love torment—is one of those enthusiasts
Who think they only know the one true road
To God.
SITTAH.
I comprehend thee.
RECHA.
And who feel
Themselves in duty bound to point it out
To every one who is not in this path,
To lead, to drag them into it. And indeed
They can’t do otherwise consistently;
For if theirs really be the only road
On which ’tis safe to travel—they cannot
With comfort see their friends upon another
Which leads to ruin, to eternal ruin:
Else were it possible at the same instant
To love and hate the same man. Nor is ’t this
Which forces me to be aloud complainant.
Her groans, her prayers, her warnings, and her threats,
I willingly should have abided longer—
Most willingly—they always called up thoughts
Useful and good; and whom does it not flatter
To be by whomsoever held so dear,
So precious, that they cannot bear the thought
Of parting with us at some time for ever?
SITTAH.
Most true.
RECHA.
But—but—at last this goes too far;
I’ve nothing to oppose to it, neither patience,
Neither reflection—nothing.
SITTAH.
How, to what?
RECHA.
To what she has just now, as she will have it,
Discovered to me.
SITTAH.
How discovered to thee?
RECHA.
Yes, just this instant. Coming hitherward
We past a fallen temple of the Christians—
She all at once stood still, seemed inly struggling,
Turned her moist eyes to heaven, and then on me.
Come, says she finally, let us to the right
Thro’ this old fane—she leads the way, I follow.
My eyes with horror overran the dim
And tottering ruin—all at once she stops
By the sunk steps of a low Moorish altar.—
O how I felt, when there, with streaming tears
And wringing hands, prostrate before my feet
She fell
SITTAH.
Good child—
RECHA.
And by the holy Virgin,
Who there had hearkened many a prayer, and wrought
Many a wonder, she conjured, intreated,
With looks of heartfelt sympathy and love,
I would at length take pity of myself—
At least forgive, if she must now unfold
What claims her church had on me.
SITTAH.
Ah! I guessed it.
RECHA.
That I am sprung of Christian blood—baptised—
Not Nathan’s daughter—and he not my father.
God, God, he not my father! Sittah, Sittah,
See me once more low at thy feet.
SITTAH.
O Recha,
Not so; arise, my brother’s coming, rise.
SALADIN, SITTAH, _and_ RECHA.
SALADIN (_entering_).
What is the matter, Sittah?
SITTAH.
She is swooned—
God—
SALADIN.
Who?
SITTAH.
You know sure.
SALADIN.
What, our Nathan’s daughter?
What ails her?
SITTAH.
Child, come to thyself, the sultan.
RECHA.
No, I’ll not rise, not rise, not look upon
The Sultan’s countenance—I’ll not admire
The bright reflection of eternal justice
And mercy on his brow, and in his eye,
Before—
SALADIN.
Rise, rise.
RECHA.
Before he shall have promised—
SALADIN.
Come, come, I promise whatsoe’er thy prayer.
RECHA.
Nor more nor less than leave my father to me,
And me to him. As yet I cannot tell
What other wants to be my father. Who
Can want it, care I not to inquire. Does blood
Alone then make the father? blood alone?
SALADIN (_raising her_).
Who was so cruel in thy breast to shed
This wild suspicion? Is it proved, made clear?
RECHA.
It must, for Daya had it from my nurse,
Whose dying lips intrusted it to her.
SALADIN.
Dying, perhaps delirious; if ’twere true,
Blood only does not make by much the father,
Scarcely the father of a brute, scarce gives
The first right to endeavour at deserving
The name of father. If there be two fathers
At strife for thee, quit both, and take a third,
And take me for thy father.
SITTAH.
Do it, do it.
SALADIN.
I will be a kind father—but methinks
A better thought occurs, what hast thou need
Of father upon father? They will die,
So that ’tis better to look out by times
For one that starts fair, and stakes life with life
On equal terms. Knowst thou none such?
SITTAH.
My brother,
Don’t make her blush.
SALADIN.
Why that was half my project.
Blushing so well becomes the ugly, that
The fair it must make charming—I have ordered
Thy father Nathan hither, and another,
Dost guess who ’tis? one other.—Sittah, you
Will not object?
SITTAH.
Brother—
SALADIN.
And when he comes,
Sweet girl, then blush to crimson.
RECHA.
Before whom—
Blush?
SALADIN.
Little hypocrite—or else grow pale,
Just as thou willst and canst. Already there?
SITTAH (_to a female slave who comes in_).
Well, be they ushered in. Brother, ’tis they.
SALADIN, SITTAH, RECHA, NATHAN, _and_ TEMPLAR.
SALADIN.
Welcome, my dear good friends. Nathan, to you
I’ve first to mention, you may send and fetch
Your monies when you will.
NATHAN.
Sultan—
SALADIN.
And now
I’m at your service.
NATHAN.
Sultan—
SALADIN.
For my treasures
Are all arrived. The caravan is safe.
I’m richer than I’ve been these many years.
Now tell me what you wish for, to achieve
Some splendid speculation—you in trade
Like us, have never too much ready cash.
NATHAN (_going towards Recha_).
Why first about this trifle?—I behold
An eye in tears, which ’tis far more important
To me to dry. My Recha thou hast wept,
What hast thou lost? Thou art still, I trust, my daughter.
RECHA.
My father!
NATHAN.
That’s enough, we are understood
By one another; but be calm, be cheerful.
If else thy heart be yet thy own—if else
No threatened loss thy trembling bosom wring
Thy father shall remain to thee.
RECHA.
None, none.
TEMPLAR.
None, none—then I’m deceived. What we don’t fear
To lose, we never fancied, never wished
Ourselves possessed of. But ’tis well, ’tis well.
Nathan, this changes all—all. Saladin,
At thy command we came, but I misled thee,
Trouble thyself no further.
SALADIN.
Always headlong;
Young man, must every will then bow to thine,
Interpret all thy meanings?
TEMPLAR.
Thou hast heard,
Sultan, hast seen.
SALADIN.
Aye, ’twas a little awkward
Not to be certain of thy cause.
TEMPLAR.
I now
Do know my doom,
SALADIN.
Pride in an act of service
Revokes the benefit. What thou hast saved
Is therefore not thy own, or else the robber,
Urged by his avarice thro’ fire-crumbling halls,
Were like thyself a hero. Come, sweet maid,
[_Advances toward Recha in order to lead her up to the Templar_.
Come, stickle not for niceties with him.
Other—he were less warm and proud, and had
Paused, and not saved thee. Balance then the one
Against the other, and put him to the blush,
Do what he should have done—own thou thy love—
Make him thy offer, and if he refuse,
Or o’er forgot how infinitely more
By this thou do for him than he for thee—
What, what in fact has he then done for thee
But make himself a little sooty? That
(Else he has nothing of my Assad in him,
But only wears his mask) that was mere sport,
Come, lovely girl.
SITTAH.
Go, go, my love, this step
Is for thy gratitude too short, too trifling.
[_They are each taking one of Recha’s hands when Nathan with a solemn
gesture of prohibition says_,
NATHAN.
Hold, Saladin—hold, Sittah.
SALADIN.
Ha! thou too?
NATHAN.
One other has to speak.
SALADIN.
Who denies that?
Unquestionably, Nathan, there belongs
A vote to such a foster-father—and
The first, if you require it. You perceive
I know how all the matter lies.
NATHAN.
Not all—
I speak not of myself. There is another,
A very different man, whom, Saladin,
I must first talk with.
SALADIN.
Who?
NATHAN.
Her brother.
SALADIN.
Recha’s?
NATHAN.
Yes, her’s.
RECHA.
My brother—have I then a brother?
[_The templar starts from his silent and sullen inattention_.
TEMPLAR.
Where is this brother? Not yet here? ’Twas here
I was to find him.
NATHAN.
Patience yet a while.
TEMPLAR (_very bitterly_).
He has imposed a father on the girl,
He’ll find her up a brother.
SALADIN.
That was wanting!
Christian, this mean suspicion ne’er had past
The lips of Assad. Go but on—
NATHAN.
Forgive him,
I can forgive him readily. Who knows
What in his place, and at his time of life,
We might have thought ourselves? Suspicion, knight,
[_Approaching the templar in a friendly manner_.
Succeeds soon to mistrust. Had you at first
Favoured me with your real name.
TEMPLAR.
How? what?
NATHAN.
You are no Stauffen.
TEMPLAR.
Who then am I? Speak.
NATHAN.
Conrade of Stauffen is no name of yours.
TEMPLAR.
What is my name then?
NATHAN.
Guy of Filnek.
TEMPLAR.
How?
NATHAN.
You startle—
TEMPLAR.
And with reason. Who says that?
NATHAN.
I, who can tell you more. Meanwhile, observe
I do not tax you with a falsehood.
TEMPLAR.
No?
NATHAN.
May be you with propriety can wear
Yon name as well.
TEMPLAR.
I think so too. (God—God
Put that speech on his tongue.)
NATHAN.
In fact your mother—
She was a Stauffen: and her brother’s name,
(The uncle to whose care you were resigned,
When by the rigour of the climate chased,
Your parents quitted Germany to seek
This land once more) was Conrade. He perhaps
Adopted you as his own son and heir.
Is it long since you hither travelled with him?
Is he alive yet?
TEMPLAR.
So in fact it stands.
What shall I say? Yes, Nathan, ’tis all right:
Tho’ he himself is dead. I came to Syria
With the last reinforcement of our order,
But—but what has all this long tale to do
With Recha’s brother, whom—
NATHAN.
Your father—
TEMPLAR.
Him,
Him did you know?
NATHAN.
He was my friend.
TEMPLAR.
Your friend?
And is that possible?
NATHAN.
He called himself
Leonard of Filnek, but he was no German.
TEMPLAR.
You know that too?
NATHAN.
He had espoused a German,
And followed for a time your mother thither.
TEMPLAR.
No more I beg of you—But Recha’s brother—
NATHAN.
Art thou
TEMPLAR.
I, I her brother—
RECHA.
He, my brother?
SITTAH.
So near akin—
RECHA (_offers to clasp him_).
My brother!
TEMPLAR (_steps back_).
Brother to her—
RECHA (_turning to Nathan_).
It cannot be, his heart knows nothing of it.
We are deceivers, God.
SALADIN (_to the templar_).
Deceivers, yes;
All is deceit in thee, face, voice, walk, gesture,
Nothing belongs to thee. How, not acknowledge
A sister such as she? Go.
TEMPLAR (_modestly approaching him_).
Sultan, Sultan
O do not misinterpret my amazement—
Thou never saw’st in such a moment, prince,
Thy Assad’s heart—mistake not him and me.
[_Hastening towards Nathan_.
O Nathan, you have taken, you have given,
Both with full hands indeed; and now—yes—yes,
You give me more than you have taken from me,
Yes, infinitely more—my sister—sister.
[_Embraces Recha_.
NATHAN.
Blanda of Filnek.
TEMPLAR.
Blanda, ha! not Recha,
Your Recha now no longer—you resign her,
Give her her Christian name again, and then
For my sake turn her off. Why Nathan, Nathan,
Why must she suffer for it? she for me?
NATHAN.
What mean you? O my children, both my children—
For sure my daughter’s brother is my child,
So soon as he but will it!
[_While they embrace Nathan by turns_, _Saladin draws nigh to Sittah_.
SALADIN.
What sayst thou
Sittah to this?
SITTAH.
I’m deeply moved.
SALADIN.
And I
Half tremble at the thought of the emotion
Still greater, still to come. Nathan, a word
[_While he converses with Nathan_, _Sittah goes to express her sympathy
to the others_.
With thee apart. Wast thou not saying also
That her own father was no German born?
What was he then? Whence was he?
NATHAN.
He himself
Never intrusted me with that. From him
I knew it not.
SALADIN.
You say he was no Frank?
NATHAN.
No, that he owned: he loved to talk the Persian.
SALADIN.
The Persian—need I more? ’Tis he—’twas he!
NATHAN.
Who?
SALADIN.
Assad certainly, my brother Assad.
NATHAN.
If thou thyself perceive it, be assured;
Look in this book—
[_Gives the breviary_.
SALADIN (_eagerly looking_.)
O ’tis his hand, his hand,
I recollect it well.
NATHAN.
They know it not;
It rests with thee what they shall learn of this.
SALADIN (_turning over the breviary_.)
I not acknowledge my own brother’s children,
Not own my nephew—not my children—I
Leave them to thee? Yes, Sittah, it is they,
[_Aloud_.
They are my brother’s and thy brother’s children.
[_Rushes to embrace them_.
SITTAH.
What do I hear? Could it be otherwise?
[_The like_.
SALADIN (_to the templar_).
Now, proud boy, thou shalt love me, thou must love me,
[_To Recha_.
And I am, what I offered to become,
With or without thy leave.
SITTAH.
I too—I too.
SALADIN (_to the templar_.)
My son—my Assad—my lost Assad’s son.
TEMPLAR.
I of thy blood—then those were more than dreams
With which they used to lull my infancy—
Much more.
[_Falls at the Sultan’s feet_.
SALADIN (_raising him_.)
Now mark his malice. Something of it
He knew, yet would have let me butcher him—
Boy, boy!
[_During the silent continuance of reciprocal embraces the curtain
falls_.