TEMPLAR.
Well—
FRIAR.
How easy ’twereTo seize his person in these expeditions,And make an end of all! You shudder, sir—Two Maronites, who fear the Lord, have offerTo share the danger of the enterprise,Under a proper leader.
TEMPLAR.
And the patriarchHad cast his eye on me for this brave office?
FRIAR.
He thinks King Philip might from PtolemaisBest second such a deed.
TEMPLAR.
On me? on me?Have you not heard then, just now heard, the favourWhich I received from Saladin?
FRIAR.
Oh, yes!
TEMPLAR.
And yet?
FRIAR.
The patriarch thinks—that’s mighty well—God, and the order’s interest—
TEMPLAR.
Alter nothing,Command no villainies.
FRIAR.
No, that indeed not;But what is villainy in human eyesMay in the sight of God, the patriarch thinks,Not be—
TEMPLAR.
I owe my life to Saladin,And might take his?
FRIAR.
That—fie! But Saladin,The patriarch thinks, is yet the common foeOf Christendom, and cannot earn a rightTo be your friend.
TEMPLAR.
My friend—because I will notBehave like an ungrateful scoundrel to him.
FRIAR.
Yet gratitude, the patriarch thinks, is notA debt before the eye of God or man,Unless for our own sakes the benefitHad been conferred; and, it has been reported,The patriarch understands that SaladinPreserved your life merely because your voice,Your air, or features, raised a recollectionOf his lost brother.
TEMPLAR.
He knows this? and yet—If it were sure, I should—ah, Saladin!How! and shall nature then have formed in meA single feature in thy brother’s likeness,With nothing in my soul to answer to it?Or what does correspond shall I suppressTo please a patriarch? So thou dost not cheat us,Nature—and so not contradict Thyself,Kind God of all.—Go, brother, go away:Do not stir up my anger.
FRIAR.
I withdrawMore gladly than I came. We cloister-folkAre forced to vow obedience to superiors.
[Goes.
TemplarandDaya.
DAYA.
The monk, methinks, left him in no good mood:But I must risk my message.
TEMPLAR.
Better stillThe proverb says that monks and women areThe devil’s clutches; and I’m tossed to-dayFrom one to th’ other.
DAYA.
Whom do I behold?—Thank God! I see you, noble knight, once more.Where have you lurked this long, long space? You’ve notBeen ill?
TEMPLAR.
No.
DAYA.
Well, then?
TEMPLAR.
Yes.
DAYA.
We’ve all been anxiousLest something ailed you.
TEMPLAR.
So?
DAYA.
Have you been journeying?
TEMPLAR.
Hit off!
DAYA.
How long returned?
TEMPLAR.
Since yesterday.
DAYA.
Our Recha’s father too is just returned,And now may Recha hope at last—
TEMPLAR.
For what?
DAYA.
For what she often has requested of you.Her father pressingly invites your visit.He now arrives from Babylon, with twentyHigh-laden camels, brings the curious drugs,And precious stones, and stuffs, he has collectedFrom Syria, Persia, India, even China.
TEMPLAR.
I am no chap.
DAYA.
His nation honours him,As if he were a prince, and yet to hear himCalled thewiseNathan by them, not therich,Has often made me wonder.
TEMPLAR.
To his nationArerichandwiseperhaps of equal import.
DAYA.
But above all he should be called thegood.You can’t imagine how much goodness dwellsWithin him. Since he has been told the serviceYou rendered to his Recha, there is nothingThat he would grudge you.
TEMPLAR.
Aye?
DAYA.
Do—see him, try him.
TEMPLAR.
A burst of feeling soon is at an end.
DAYA.
And do you think that I, were he less kind,Less bountiful, had housed with him so long:That I don’t feel my value as a Christian:For ’twas not o’er my cradle said, or sung,That I to Palestina should pursueMy husband’s steps, only to educateA Jewess. My husband was a noble pageIn Emperor Frederic’s army.
TEMPLAR.
And by birthA Switzer, who obtained the gracious honourOf drowning in one river with his master.Woman, how often you have told me this!Will you ne’er leave off persecuting me?
DAYA.
My Jesus! persecute—
TEMPLAR.
Aye, persecute.Observe then, I henceforward will not see,Not hear you, nor be minded of a deedOver and over, which I did unthinking,And which, when thought about, I wonder at.I wish not to repent it; but, remember,Should the like accident occur again,’Twill be your fault if I proceed more coolly,Ask a few questions, and let burn what’s burning.
DAYA.
My God forbid!
TEMPLAR.
From this day forth, good woman,Do me at least the favour not to know me:I beg it of you; and don’t send the father.A Jew’s a Jew, and I am rude and bearish.The image of the maid is quite erasedOut of my soul—if it was ever there—
DAYA.
But yours remains with her.
TEMPLAR.
Why so—what then—Wherefore give harbour to it?—
DAYA.
Who knows wherefore?Men are not always what they seem to be.
TEMPLAR.
They’re seldom better than they seem to be.
DAYA.
Ben’t in this hurry.
TEMPLAR.
Pray, forbear to makeThese palm-trees odious. I have loved to walk here.
DAYA.
Farewell then, bear. Yet I must track the savage.
Scene.—The Sultan’s Palace.—An outer room of Sittah’s apartment.
SaladinandSittah,playing chess.
SITTAH.
Wherefore so absent, brother? How you play!
SALADIN.
Not well? I thought—
SITTAH.
Yes; very well for me,Take back that move.
SALADIN.
Why?
SITTAH.
Don’t you see the knightBecomes exposed?
SALADIN.
’Tis true: then so.
SITTAH.
And soI take the pawn.
SALADIN.
That’s true again. Then, check!
SITTAH.
That cannot help you. When my king is castledAll will be safe.
SALADIN.
But out of my dilemma’Tis not so easy to escape unhurt.Well, you must have the knight.
SITTAH.
I will not have him,I pass him by.
SALADIN.
In that, there’s no forbearance:The place is better than the piece.
SITTAH.
Maybe.
SALADIN.
Beware you reckon not without your host:This stroke you did not think of.
SITTAH.
No, indeed;I did not think you tired of your queen.
SALADIN.
My queen?
SITTAH.
Well, well! I find that I to-dayShall earn a thousand dinars to an asper.
SALADIN.
How so, my sister?
SITTAH.
Play the ignorant—As if it were not purposely thou losest.I find not my account in ’t; for, besidesThat such a game yields very little pastime,When have I not, by losing, won with thee?When hast thou not, by way of comfort to meFor my lost game, presented twice the stake?
SALADIN.
So that it may have been on purpose, sister,That thou hast lost at times.
SITTAH.
At least, my brother’sGreat liberality may be one causeWhy I improve no faster.
SALADIN.
We forgetThe game before us: lot us make an end of it.
SITTAH.
I move—so—now then—check! and check again!
SALADIN.
This countercheck I wasn’t aware of, Sittah;My queen must fall the sacrifice.
SITTAH.
Let’s see—Could it be helped?
SALADIN.
No, no, take off the queen!That is a piece which never thrives with me.
SITTAH.
Only that piece?
SALADIN.
Off with it! I shan’t miss it.Thus I guard all again.
SITTAH.
How civillyWe should behave to queens, my brother’s lessonsHave taught me but too well.
SALADIN.
Take her, or not,I stir the piece no more.
SITTAH.
Why should I take her?Check!
SALADIN.
Go on.
SITTAH.
Check!—
SALADIN.
And check-mate?
SITTAH.
Hold! not yet.You may advance the knight, and ward the danger,Or as you will—it is all one.
SALADIN.
It is so.You are the winner, and Al-Hafi pays.Let him be called. Sittah, you was not wrong;I seem to recollect I was unmindful—A little absent. One isn’t always willingTo dwell upon some shapeless bits of woodCoupled with no idea. Yet the Imam,When I play with him, bends with such abstraction—The loser seeks excuses. Sittah, ’twas notThe shapeless men, and the unmeaning squares,That made me heedless—your dexterity,Your calm sharp eye.
SITTAH.
And what of that, good brother,Is that to be th’ excuse for your defeat?Enough—you played more absently than I.
SALADIN.
Than you! What dwells upon your mind, my Sittah?Not your own cares, I doubt—
SITTAH.
O Saladin,When shall we play again so constantly?
SALADIN.
An interruption will but whet our zeal.You think of the campaign. Well, let it come.It was not I who first unsheathed the sword.I would have willingly prolonged the truce,And willingly have knit a closer bond,A lasting one—have given to my SittahA husband worthy of her, Richard’s brother.
SITTAH.
You love to talk of Richard.
SALADIN.
Richard’s sisterMight then have been allotted to our Melek.O what a house that would have formed—the first—The best—and what is more—of earth the happiest!You know I am not loth to praise myself;Why should I?—Of my friends am I not worthy?O we had then led lives!
SITTAH.
A pretty dream.It makes me smile. You do not know the Christians.You will not know them. ’Tis this people’s prideNot to be men, but to be Christians. EvenWhat of humane their Founder felt, and taught,And left to savour their found superstition,They value not because it is humane,Lovely, and good for man; they only prize itBecause ’twas Christ who taught it, Christ who did it.’Tis well for them He was so good a man:Well that they take His goodness all for granted,And in His virtues put their trust. His virtues—’Tis not His virtues, but His name aloneThey wish to thrust upon us—’Tis His nameWhich they desire should overspread the world,Should swallow up the name of all good men,And put the best to shame. ’Tis His mere nameThey care for—
SALADIN.
Else, my Sittah, as thou sayst,They would not have required that thou, and Melek,Should be called Christians, ere you might be sufferedTo feel for Christians conjugal affection.
SITTAH.
As if from Christians only, and as Christians,That love could be expected which our MakerIn man and woman for each other planted.
SALADIN.
The Christians do believe such idle notions,They well might fancy this: and yet thou errest.The templars, not the Christians, are in fault.’Tis not as Christians, but as templars, thatThey thwart my purpose. They alone prevent it.They will on no account evacuate Acca,Which was to be the dower of Richard’s sister,And, lest their order suffer, use this cant—Bring into play the nonsense of the monk—And scarcely would await the truce’s endTo fall upon us. Go on so—go on,To me you’re welcome, sirs. Would all things elseWent but as right!
SITTAH.
What else should trouble thee,If this do not?
SALADIN.
Why, that which ever has.I’ve been on Libanon, and seen our father.He’s full of care.
SITTAH.
Alas!
SALADIN.
He can’t make shift,Straitened on all sides, put off, disappointed;Nothing comes in.
SITTAH.
What fails him, Saladin?
SALADIN.
What? but the thing I scarcely deign to name,Which, when I have it, so superfluous seems,And, when I have it not, so necessary.Where is Al-Hafi then—this fatal money—O welcome, Hafi!
Hafi,Saladin,andSittah.
HAFI.
I suppose the goldFrom Egypt is arrived.
SALADIN.
Hast tidings of it?
HAFI.
I? no, not I. I thought to have ta’en it here.
SALADIN.
To Sittah pay a thousand dinars.
HAFI.
Pay?And not receive—that’s something less than nothing.To Sittah and again to Sittah—andOnce more for loss at chess? Is this your game?
SITTAH.
Dost grudge me my good fortune?
HAFI(examining the board).
Grudge! you know—
SITTAH(making signs to Hafi).
Hush, Hafi, hush!
HAFI.
And were the white men yours?You gave the check?
SITTAH.
’Tis well he does not hear.
HAFI.
And he to move?
SITTAH(approaching Hafi).
Say then aloud that IShall have my money.
HAFI(still considering the game).
Yes, yes! you shall have it—As you have always had it.
SITTAH.
Are you crazy?
HAFI.
The game is not decided; Saladin,You have not lost.
SALADIN(scarcely hearkening).
Well, well!—pay, pay.
HAFI.
Pay, pay—There stands your queen.
SALADIN(still walking about).
It boots not, she is useless.
SITTAH(low to Hafi).
Do say that I may send and fetch the gold.
HAFI.
Aye, aye, as usual—But although the queenBe useless, you are by no means check-mate.
SALADIN(dashes down the board).
I am. I will then—
HAFI.
So! small pains, small gains;As got, so spent.
SALADIN(to Sittah).
What is he muttering there?
SITTAH(to Saladin,winking meanwhile to Hafi).
You know him well, and his unyielding way.He chooses to be prayed to—maybe he’s envious—
SALADIN.
No, not of thee, not of my sister, surely.What do I hear, Al-Hafi, are you envious?
HAFI.
Perhaps. I’d rather have her head than mine,Or her heart either.
SITTAH.
Ne’ertheless, my brother,He pays me right, and will again to-day.Let him alone. There, go away, Al-Hafi;I’ll send and fetch my dinars.
HAFI.
No, I will not;I will not act this farce a moment longer:He shall, must know it.
SALADIN.
Who? what?
SITTAH.
O Al-Hafi,Is this thy promise, this thy keeping word?
HAFI.
How could I think it was to go so far?
SALADIN.
Well, what am I to know?
SITTAH.
I pray thee, Hafi,Be more discreet.
SALADIN.
That’s very singular.And what can Sittah then so earnestly,So warmly have to sue for from a stranger,A dervis, rather than from me, her brother?Al-Hafi, I command. Dervis, speak out.
SITTAH.
Let not a trifle, brother, touch you nearerThan is becoming. You know I have oftenWon the same sum of you at chess, and, asI have not just at present need of money,I’ve left the sum at rest in Hafi’s chest,Which is not over-full; and thus the stakesAre not yet taken out—but, never fear,It is not my intention to bestow themOn thee, or Hafi.
HAFI.
Were it only this—
SITTAH.
Some more such trifles are perhaps unclaimed;My own allowance, which you set apart,Has lain some months untouched.
HAFI.
Nor is that all—
SALADIN.
Nor yet—speak then!
HAFI.
Since we have been expectingThe treasure out of Egypt, she not only—
SITTAH.
Why listen to him?
HAFI.
Has not had an asper;—
SALADIN.
Good creature—but has been advancing to thee—
HAFI.
Has at her sole expense maintained thy state.
SALADIN(embracing her).
My sister—ah!
SITTAH.
And who but you, my brother,Could make me rich enough to have the power?
HAFI.
And in a little time again will leave theePoor as himself.
SALADIN.
I, poor—her brother, poor?When had I more, when less than at this instant?A cloak, a horse, a sabre, and a God!—What need I else? With them what can be wanting?And yet, Al-Hafi, I could quarrel with theeFor this.
SITTAH.
A truce to that, my brother. Were itAs easy to remove our father’s cares!
SALADIN.
Ah! now my joy thou hast at once abated:To me there is, there can be, nothing wanting;But—but to him—and, in him, to us all.What shall I do? From Egypt maybe nothingWill come this long time. Why—God only knows.We hear of no stir. To reduce, to spare,I am quite willing for myself to stoop to,Were it myself, and only I, should suffer—But what can that avail? A cloak, a horse,A sword I ne’er can want;—as to my God,He is not to be bought; He asks but little,Only my heart. I had relied, Al-Hafi,Upon a surplus in my chest.
HAFI.
A surplus?And tell me, would you not have had me impaled,Or hanged at least, if you had found me outIn hoarding up a surplus? Deficits—Those one may venture on.
SALADIN.
Well, but how next?Could you have found out no one where to borrowUnless of Sittah?
SITTAH.
And would I have borneTo see the preference given to another?I still lay claim to it. I am not as yetEntirely bare.
SALADIN.
Not yet entirely—ThisWas wanting still. Go, turn thyself about;Take where, and as, thou canst; be quick, Al-Hafi.Borrow on promise, contract, anyhow;But heed me—not of those I have enriched—To borrow there might seem to ask it back.Go to the covetous. They’ll gladliest lend—They know how well their money thrives with me—
HAFI.
I know none such.
SITTAH.
I recollect just nowI heard, Al-Hafi, of thy friend’s return.
HAFI(startled).
Friend—friend of mine—and who should that be?
SITTAH.
Who?Thy vaunted Jew!
HAFI.
A Jew, and praised by me?
SITTAH.
To whom his God (I think I still retainThy own expression used concerning him)To whom, of all the good things of this world,His God in full abundance has bestowedThe greatest and the least.
HAFI.
What could I meanWhen I said so?
SITTAH.
The least of good things, riches;The greatest, wisdom.
HAFI.
How—and of a JewCould I say that?
SITTAH.
Didst thou not—of thy Nathan?
HAFI.
Hi ho! of him—of Nathan? At that momentHe did not come across me. But, in fact,He is at length come home; and, I suppose,Is not ill off. His people used to call himThe wise—also the rich.
SITTAH.
The rich he’s namedNow more than ever. The whole town resoundsWith news of jewels, costly stuffs, and stores,That he brings back.
HAFI.
Is he the rich again—He’ll be, no fear of it, once more the wise.
SITTAH.
What thinkst thou, Hafi, of a call on him?
HAFI.
On him—sure not to borrow—why, you know him—He lend? Therein his very wisdom lies,That he lends no one.
SITTAH.
Formerly thon gav’stA very different picture of this Nathan.
HAFI.
In case of need he’ll lend you merchandise,But money, money, never. He’s a Jew,There are but few such! he has understanding,Knows life, plays chess; but is in bad notoriousAbove his brethren, as he is in good.On him rely not. To the poor indeedHe vies perhaps with Saladin in giving:Though he distributes less, he gives as freely,As silently, as nobly, to Jew, Christian,Mahometan, or Parsee—’tis all one.
SITTAH.
And such a man should be—
SALADIN.
How comes it thenI never heard of him?
SITTAH.
Should be unwillingTo lend to Saladin, who wants for others,Not for himself.
HAFI.
Aye, there peeps out the Jew,The ordinary Jew. Believe me, prince,He’s jealous, really envious of your giving.To earn God’s favour seems his very business.He lends not that he may always have to give.The law commandeth mercy, not compliance:And thus for mercy’s sake he’s uncomplying.’Tis true, I am not now on the best termsWith Nathan, but I must entreat you, think notThat therefore I would do injustice to him.He’s good in everything, but not in that—Only in that. I’ll knock at other doors.I just have recollected an old Moor,Who’s rich and covetous—I go—I go.
SITTAH.
Why in such hurry, Hafi?
SALADIN.
Let him go.
SaladinandSittah.
SITTAH.
He hastens like a man who would escape me;Why so? Was he indeed deceived in Nathan,Or does he play upon us?
SALADIN.
Can I guess?I scarcely know of whom you have been talking,And hear to-day, for the first time, of Nathan.
SITTAH.
Is’t possible the man were hid from thee,Of whom ’tis said, he has found out the tombsOf Solomon and David, knows the wordThat lifts their marble lids, and thence obtainsThe golden oil that feeds his shining pomp?
SALADIN.
Were this man’s wealth by miracle created,’Tis not at David’s tomb, or Solomon’s,That ’twould be wrought. Not virtuous men lie there.
SITTAH.
His source of opulence is more productiveAnd more exhaustless than a cave of Mammon.
SALADIN.
He trades, I hear.
SITTAH.
His ships fill every harbour;His caravans through every desert toil.This has Al-Hafi told me long ago:With transport adding then—how nobly NathanBestows what he esteems it not a meannessBy prudent industry to have justly earned—How free from prejudice his lofty soul—His heart to every virtue how unlocked—With every lovely feeling how familiar.
SALADIN.
Yet Hafi spake just now so coldly of him.
SITTAH.
Not coldly; but with awkwardness, confusion,As if he thought it dangerous to praise him,And yet knew not to blame him undeserving,Or can it really be that e’en the bestAmong a people cannot quite escapeThe tinges of the tribe; and that, in fact,Al-Hafi has in this to blush for Nathan?Be that as’t may—be he the Jew or no—Is he but rich—that is enough for us.
SALADIN.
You would not, sister, take his wealth by force.
SITTAH.
What do you mean by force—fire, sword? Oh no!What force is necessary with the weakBut their own weakness? Come awhile with meInto my harem: I have bought a songstress,You have not heard her, she came yesterday:Meanwhile I’ll think somewhat about a projectI have upon this Nathan. Follow, brother.
Nathan,attired,comes out withRecha.
RECHA.
You have been so very slow, my dearest father,You now will hardly be in time to find him.
NATHAN.
Well, if not here beneath the palms; yet, surely,Elsewhere. My child, be satisfied. See, see,Is not that Daya making towards us?
RECHA.
She certainly has lost him then.
NATHAN.
Why so?
RECHA.
Else she’d walk quicker.
NATHAN.
She may not have seen us.
RECHA.
There, now she sees us.
NATHAN.
And her speed redoubles,Be calm, my Recha.
RECHA.
Would you have your daughterBe cool and unconcerned who ’twas that saved her,Heed not to whom is due the life she prizesChiefly because she owed it first to thee?
NATHAN.
I would not wish thee other than thou art,E’en if I knew that in thy secret soulA very different emotion throbs.
RECHA.
Why—what my father?
NATHAN.
Dost thou ask of me,So tremblingly of me, what passes in thee?Whatever ’tis, ’tis innocence and nature.Be not alarmed, it gives me no alarm;But promise me that, when thy heart shall speakA plainer language, thou wilt not concealA single of thy wishes from my fondness.
RECHA.
Oh the mere possibility of wishingRather to veil and hide them makes me shudder.
NATHAN.
Let this be spoken once for all. Well, Daya—
Nathan,Recha,andDaya.
DAYA.
He still is here beneath the palms, and soonWill reach yon wall. See, there he comes.
RECHA.
And seemsIrresolute where next; if left or right.
DAYA.
I know he mostly passes to the convent,And therefore comes this path. What will you lay me?
RECHA.
Oh yes he does. And did you speak to him?How did he seem to-day?
DAYA.
As heretofore.
NATHAN.
Don’t let him see you with me: further back;Or rather to the house.
RECHA.
Just one peep more.Now the hedge steals him from me.
DAYA.
Come away.Your father’s in the right—should he perceive us,’Tis very probable he’ll tack about.
RECHA.
But for the hedge—
NATHAN.
Now he emerges from it.He can’t but see you: hence—I ask it of you.
DAYA.
I know a window whence we yet may—
RECHA.
Ay.
[Goes in with Daya.
NATHAN.
I’m almost shy of this strange fellow, almostShrink back from his rough virtue. That one manShould ever make another man feel awkward!And yet—He’s coming—ha!—by God, the youthLooks like a man. I love his daring eye,His open gait. May be the shell is bitter;But not the kernel surely. I have seenSome such, methinks. Forgive me, noble Frank.
NathanandTemplar.
TEMPLAR.
What?
NATHAN.
Give me leave.
TEMPLAR.
Well, Jew, what wouldst thou have?
NATHAN.
The liberty of speaking to you!
TEMPLAR.
So—Can I prevent it? Quick then, what’s your business?
NATHAN.
Patience—nor hasten quite so proudly byA man, who has not merited contempt,And whom, for evermore, you’ve made your debtor.
TEMPLAR.
How so? Perhaps I guess—No—Are you then—
NATHAN.
My name is Nathan, father to the maidYour generous courage snatched from circling flames,And hasten—
TEMPLAR.
If with thanks, keep, keep them all.Those little things I’ve had to suffer much from:Too much already, far. And, after all,You owe me nothing. Was I ever toldShe was your daughter? ’Tis a templar’s dutyTo rush to the assistance of the firstPoor wight that needs him; and my life just thenWas quite a burden. I was mighty gladTo risk it for another; tho’ it wereThat of a Jewess.
NATHAN.
Noble, and yet shocking!The turn might be expected. Modest greatnessWears willingly the mask of what is shockingTo scare off admiration: but, altho’She may disdain the tribute, admiration,Is there no other tribute she can bear with?Knight, were you here not foreign, not a captiveI would not ask so freely. Speak, command,In what can I be useful?
TEMPLAR.
You—in nothing.
NATHAN.
I’m rich.
TEMPLAR.
To me the richer Jew ne’er seemedThe bettor Jew.
NATHAN.
Is that a reason whyYou should not use the better part of him,His wealth?
TEMPLAR.
Well, well, I’ll not refuse it wholly,For my poor mantle’s sake—when that is threadbare,And spite of darning will not hold together,I’ll come and borrow cloth, or money of thee,To make me up a new one. Don’t look solemn;The danger is not pressing; ’tis not yetAt the last gasp, but tight and strong and good,Save this poor corner, where an ugly spotYou see is singed upon it. It got singedAs I bore off your daughter from the fire.
NATHAN(taking hold of the mantle).
’Tis singular that such an ugly spotBears better testimony to the manThan his own mouth. This brand—Oh I could kiss it!Your pardon—that I meant not.
TEMPLAR.
What?
NATHAN.
A tearFell on the spot.
TEMPLAR.
You’ll find up more such tears—(This Jew methinks begins to work upon me).
NATHAN.
Would you send once this mantle to my daughter?
TEMPLAR.
Why?
NATHAN.
That her lips may cling to this dear speck;For at her benefactor’s feet to fall,I find, she hopes in vain.
TEMPLAR.
But, Jew, your nameYou said was Nathan—Nathan, you can joinYour words together cunningly—right well—I am confused—in fact—I would have been—
NATHAN.
Twist, writhe, disguise you, as you will, I know you,You were too honest, knight, to be more civil;A girl all feeling, and a she-attendantAll complaisance, a father at a distance—You valued her good name, and would not see her.You scorned to try her, lest you should be victor;For that I also thank you.
TEMPLAR.
I confess,You know how templars ought to think.
NATHAN.
Still templars—And onlyoughtto think—and all becauseThe rules and vows enjoin it to theorder—I know how good men think—know that all landsProduce good men.
TEMPLAR.
But not without distinction.
NATHAN.
In colour, dress, and shape, perhaps, distinguished.
TEMPLAR.
Here more, there fewer sure?
NATHAN.
That boots not much,The great man everywhere has need of room.Too many set together only serveTo crush each others’ branches. Middling good,As we are, spring up everywhere in plenty.Only let one not scar and bruise the other;Let not the gnarl be angry with the stump;Let not the upper branch alone pretendNot to have started from the common earth.
TEMPLAR.
Well said: and yet, I trust, you know the nation,That first began to strike at fellow men,That first baptised itself the chosen people—How now if I were—not to hate this people,Yet for its pride could not forbear to scorn it,The pride which it to Mussulman and ChristianBequeathed, as were its God alone the true one,You start, that I, a Christian and a templar,Talk thus. Where, when, has e’er the pious rageTo own the better god—on the whole worldTo force this better, as the best of all—Shown itself more, and in a blacker form,Than here, than now? To him, whom, here and now,The film is not removing from his eye—But be he blind that wills! Forget my speechesAnd leave me.
NATHAN.
Ah! indeed you do not knowHow closer I shall cling to you henceforth.We must, we will be friends. Despise my nation—We did not choose a nation for ourselves.Are we our nations? What’s a nation then?Were Jews and Christians such, e’er they were men?And have I found in thee one more, to whomIt is enough to be a man?
TEMPLAR.
That hast thou.Nathan, by God, thou hast. Thy hand. I blushTo have mistaken thee a single instant.
NATHAN.
And I am proud of it. Only common soulsWe seldom err in.
TEMPLAR.
And uncommon onesSeldom forget. Yes, Nathan, yes we must,We will be friends.
NATHAN.
We are so. And my Recha—She will rejoice. How sweet the wider prospectThat dawns upon me! Do but know her—once.
TEMPLAR.
I am impatient for it. Who is thatBursts from your house, methinks it is your Daya.
NATHAN.
Ay—but so anxiously—
TEMPLAR.
Sure, to our RechaNothing has happened.
Nathan,Templar,andDaya.
DAYA.
Nathan, Nathan.
NATHAN.
Well.
DAYA.
Forgive me, knight, that I must interrupt you.
NATHAN.
What is the matter?
TEMPLAR.
What?
DAYA.
The sultan sends—The sultan wants to see you—in a hurry.Jesus! the sultan—
NATHAN.
Saladin wants me?He will be curious to see what wares,Precious, or new, I brought with me from Persia.Say there is nothing hardly yet unpacked.
DAYA.
No, no: ’tis not to look at anything.He wants to speak to you, to you in person,And orders you to come as soon as may be.
NATHAN.
I’ll go—return.
DAYA.
Knight, take it not amiss;But we were so alarmed for what the sultanCould have in view.
NATHAN.
That I shall soon discover.
NathanandTemplar.
TEMPLAR.
And don’t you know him yet, I mean his person?
NATHAN.
Whose, Saladin’s? Not yet. I’ve neither shunned,Nor sought to see him. And the general voiceSpeaks too well of him, for me not to wish,Rather to take its language upon trust,Than sift the truth out. Yet—if it be so—He, by the saving of your life, has now—
TEMPLAR.
Yes: it is so. The life I live he gave.
NATHAN.
And in it double treble life to me.This flings a bond about me, which shall tie meFor ever to his service: and I scarcelyLike to defer inquiring for his wishes.For everything I am ready; and am readyTo own that ’tis on your account I am so.
TEMPLAR.
As often as I’ve thrown me in his way,I have not found as yet the means to thank him.The impression that I made upon him cameQuickly, and so has vanished. Now perhapsHe recollects me not, who knows? Once moreAt least, he must recall me to his mind,Fully to fix my doom. ’Tis not enoughThat by his order I am yet in being,By his permission live, I have to learnAccording to whose will I must exist.
NATHAN.
Therefore I shall the more avoid delay.Perchance some word may furnish me occasionTo glance at you—perchance—Excuse me, knight,I am in haste. When shall we see you with us?
TEMPLAR.
Soon as I may.
NATHAN.
That is, whene’er you will.
TEMPLAR.
To-day, then.
NATHAN.
And your name?
TEMPLAR.
My name was—isConrade of Stauffen.
NATHAN.
Conrade of Stauffen! Stauffen!
TEMPLAR.
Why does that strike so forcibly upon you?
NATHAN.
There are more races of that name, no doubt.
TEMPLAR.
Yes, many of that name were here—rot here.My uncle even—I should say, my father.But wherefore is your look so sharpened on me?
NATHAN.
Nothing—how can I weary to behold you—
TEMPLAR.
Therefore I quit you first. The searching eyeFinds often more than it desires to see.I fear it, Nathan. Fare thee well. Let time,Not curiosity make us acquainted.