Chapter 3

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.