[Goes.
Nathan,and soon after,Daya.
NATHAN.
“The searching eye will oft discover moreThan it desires,” ’tis as he read my soul.That too may chance to me. ’Tis not aloneLeonard’s walk, stature, but his very voice.Leonard so wore his head, was even wontJust so to brush his eyebrows with his hand,As if to mask the fire that fills his look.Those deeply graven images at timesHow they will slumber in us, seem forgotten,When all at once a word a tone, a gesture,Retraces all. Of Stauffen? Ay right—right—Filnek and Stauffen—I will soon know more—But first to Saladin—Ha, Daya there?Why on the watch? Come nearer. By this time,I’ll answer for’t, you’ve something more at heartThan to know what the sultan wants with me.
DAYA.
And do you take it ill in part of her?You were beginning to converse with himMore confidentially, just as the message,Sent by the sultan, tore us from the window.
NATHAN.
Go tell her that she may expect his visitAt every instant.
DAYA.
What indeed—indeed?
NATHAN.
I think I can rely upon thee, Daya:Be on thy guard, I beg. Thou’lt not repent it.Be but discreet. Thy conscience too will surelyFind its account in ’t. Do not mar my plansBut leave them to themselves. Relate and questionWith modesty, with backwardness.
DAYA.
Oh fear not.How come you to preach up all this to me?I go—go too. The sultan sends for youA second time, and by your friend Al-Hafi.
NathanandHafi.
HAFI.
Ha! art thou here? I was now seeking for thee.
NATHAN.
Why in such haste? What wants he then with me?
HAFI.
Who?
NATHAN.
Saladin. I’m coming—I am coming.
HAFI.
Where, to the sultan’s?
NATHAN.
Was ’t not he who sent thee?
HAFI.
Me? No. And has he sent already?
NATHAN.
Yes.
HAFI.
Then ’tis all right.
NATHAN.
What’s right?
HAFI.
That I’m unguilty.God knows I am not guilty, knows I said—What said I not of thee—belied thee—slandered—To ward it off.
NATHAN.
To ward off what—be plain.
HAFI.
That them art now become his defterdar.I pity thee. Behold it I will not.I go this very hour—my road I told thee.Now—hast thou orders by the way—command,And then, adieu. Indeed they must not beSuch business as a naked man can’t carry.Quick, what’s thy pleasure?
NATHAN.
Recollect yourself.As yet all this is quite a riddle to me.I know of nothing.
HAFI.
Where are then thy bags?
NATHAN.
Bags?
HAFI.
Bags of money: bring the weightiest forth:The money thou’rt to lend the sultan, Nathan.
NATHAN.
And is that all?
HAFI.
Novice, thou’st yet to learnHow he day after day will scoop and scoop,Till nothing but an hollow empty paring,A husk as light as film, is left behind.Thou’st yet to learn how prodigalityFrom prudent bounty’s never-empty coffersBorrows and borrows, till there’s not a purseLeft to keep rats from starving. Thou mayst fancyThat he who wants thy gold will heed thy counsel;But when has he yet listened to advice?Imagine now what just befell me with him.
NATHAN.
Well—
HAFI.
I went in and found him with his sister,Engaged, or rather rising up from chess.Sittah plays—not amiss. Upon the boardThe game, that Saladin supposed was lostAnd had given up, yet stood. When I drew nigh,And had examined it, I soon discoveredIt was not gone by any means.
NATHAN.
For youA blest discovery, a treasure-trove.
HAFI.
He only needed to remove his kingBehind the tower t’ have got him out of check.Could I but make you sensible—
NATHAN.
I’ll trust thee.
HAFI.
Then with the knight still left.—I would have shown himAnd called him to the board.—He must have won;But what d’ye think he did?
NATHAN.
Dared doubt your insight?
HAFI.
He would not listen; but with scorn o’erthrewThe standing pieces.
NATHAN.
Is that possible?
HAFI.
And said, he chose to be check-mate—he chose it—Is that to play the game?
NATHAN.
Most surely not:’Tis to play with the game.
HAFI.
And yet the stakeWas not a nut-shell.
NATHAN.
Money here or thereMatters but little. Not to listen to thee,And on a point of such importance, Hafi,There lies the rub. Not even to admireThine eagle eye—thy comprehensive glance—That calls for vengeance:—does it not, Al-Hafi?
HAFI.
I only tell it to thee that thou mayst seeHow his brain’s formed. I bear with him no longer.Here I’ve been running to each dirty Moor,Inquiring who will lend him. I, who ne’erWent for myself a begging, go a borrowing,And that for others. Borrowing’s much the sameAs begging; just as lending upon usuryIs much the same as thieving—decencyMakes not of lewdness virtue. On the Ganges,Among my ghebers, I have need of neither:Nor need I be the tool or pimp of either—Upon the Ganges only there are men.Here, thou alone art somehow almost worthyTo have lived upon the Ganges. Wilt thou with me?And leave him with the captive cloak alone,The booty that he wants to strip thee of.Little by little he will flay thee clean.Thins thou’lt be quit at once, without the teaseOf being sliced to death. Come wilt thou with me?I’ll find thee with a staff.
NATHAN.
I should have thought,Come what come may, that thy resource remained:But I’ll consider of it. Stay.
HAFI.
Consider—No; such things must not be considered.
NATHAN.
Stay:Till I have seen the sultan—till you’ve had—
HAFI.
He, who considers, looks about for motivesTo forbear daring. He, who can’t resolveIn storm and sunshine to himself to live,Must live the slave of others all his life.But as you please; farewell! ’tis you who choose.My path lies yonder—and yours there—
NATHAN.
Al-Hafi,Stay then; at least you’ll set things right—not leave themAt sixes and at sevens—
HAFI.
Farce! Parade!The balance in the chest will need no telling.And my account—Sittah, or you, will vouch.Farewell.
[Goes.
NATHAN.
Yes I will vouch it. Honest, wild—How shall I call you—Ah! the real beggarIs, after all, the only real monarch.
RechaandDaya.
RECHA.
What, Daya, did my father really sayI 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, NathanHad brought him in.
RECHA.
And when this moment comes,And when this warmest inmost of my wishesShall be fulfilled, what then? what then?
DAYA.
What then?Why then I hope the warmest of my wishesWill have its turn, and happen.
RECHA.
’Stead of this,What wish shall take possession of my bosom,Which now without some ruling wish of wishesKnows 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 EuropeIn hands well worthy of thee.
RECHA.
No, thou errest—The very thing that makes thee form this wishPrevents 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 armHis God, for whom he fights, intends to lead theeInto the land, which thou wast born for—
RECHA.
Daya,What art thou prating of? My dearest Daya,Indeed thou hast some strange unseemly notions.“HisGod—forwhom he fights”—what is a GodBelonging to a man—needing anotherTo fight his battles? And can we pronounceForwhich among the scattered clods of earthYou, I was born; unless it be for thatOnwhich we were produced. If Nathan heard thee—What has my father done to thee, that thouHast ever sought to paint my happinessAs lying far remote from him and his.What has he done to thee that thus, amongThe seeds of reason, which he sowed unmixed,Pure in my soul, thou ever must be seekingTo plant the weeds, or flowers, of thy own land.He wills not of these pranking gaudy blossomsUpon this soil. And I too must acknowledgeI 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 blameThose stronger nerves that can support it. Mine—Mine it behoves not. Latterly thy angelHad 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 beganstTo talk about the heroes of thy faith?Have I not freely on their deeds bestowedMy admiration, to their sufferings yieldedThe tribute of my tears? Their faith indeedHas never seemed their most heroic sideTo me: yet, therefore, have I only learntTo find more consolation in the thought,That our devotion to the God of allDepends 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 restlessTo undermine what you built up together?This is not the most fit discussion, Daya,To usher in our friend to; tho’ indeedI should not disincline to it—for to meIt is of infinite importance ifHe 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,andRecha.
RECHA.
(starts—composes herself—then offers to fall at his feet)
’Tis he—my saviour! ah!
TEMPLAR.
This to avoidHave I alone deferred my call so long.
RECHA.
Yes, at the feet of this proud man, I willThank—God alone. The man will have no thanks;No more than will the bucket which was busyIn showering watery damps upon the flame.That was filled, emptied—but to me, to theeWhat boots it? So the man—he too, he tooWas thrust, he knew not how, and the fire.I dropped, by chance, into his open arm.By chance, remained there—like a fluttering sparkUpon his mantle—till—I know not whatPushed us both from amid the conflagration.What room is here for thanks? How oft in EuropeWine 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 momentsOf care and of chagrin, my unchecked temperBetrayed me into rudeness, why conveyTo 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 covetousOf 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 meYou 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 MosesStood before God; when first—
RECHA.
No, no, not that.Where’er he stood, ’twas before God. Of thisI know enough already. Is it true,I wish to learn from you that—that it is notBy far so troublesome to climb this mountainAs 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 perceiveYou smile at my simplicity—You smileThat I can think of nothing more importantTo 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 featuresTo read what I so plainly hear—what youSo 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 fatherSaid 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 meMost 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 involvedWith Saladin—you do not know the sultan—In some unpleasant—I must go, there’s dangerIf I forbear.
RECHA.
Danger—of what? of what?
TEMPLAR.
Danger for me, for thee, for him; unlessI go at once.
[Goes.
RechaandDaya.
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 becomeLike him incomprehensible to me.
DAYA.
Now you may give him back all that unrestHe once occasioned. Be not too severe,Nor too vindictive.
RECHA.
Daya, what you meanYou must know best.
DAYA.
And pray are you againSo calm.
RECHA.
I am—yes that I am.
DAYA.
At leastOwn—that this restlessness has given you pleasure,And that you have to thank his want of easeFor what of ease you now enjoy.
RECHA.
Of thatI am unconscious. All I could confessWere, that it does seem strange unto myself,How, in this bosom, such a pleasing calmCan suddenly succeed to such a tossing.
DAYA.
His countenance, his speech, his manner, hasBy 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 everRemain 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 windowWhich overlooks the palms.
DAYA.
So that ’tis notYet satisfied—the more impatient craving.
RECHA.
Now I shall see the palm-trees once again,Not him alone amid them.
DAYA.
This cold fitIs but the harbinger of other fevers.
RECHA.
Cold—cold—I am not cold; but I observe notLess willingly what I behold with calmness.
Sittah:Saladingiving directions at the door.
SALADIN.
Here, introduce the Jew, whene’er he comes—He seems in no great haste.
SITTAH.
May be at firstHe 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 artsMust Saladin descend at last to come atThe least of little things?
SITTAH.
Each little thingDespised too much finds methods of revenge.
SALADIN.
’Tis but too true. And if this Jew should proveThe fair good man, as once the dervis painted—
SITTAH.
Then difficulties cease. A snare concernsThe avaricious, cautious, fearful Jew;And not the good wise man: for he is oursWithout a snare. Then the delight of hearingHow such a man speaks out; with what stern strengthHe tears the net, or with what prudent foresightHe 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 beOne of the many only, a mere Jew,You will not blush to such a one to seemA 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 mustAct 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 nothingThat woman’s wit invents it can’t embellish.
SITTAH.
Embellish—
SALADIN.
But their fine-wrought filligreeIn my rude hand would break. It is for thoseThat 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 usIt was their swords, their swords alone that raised them.The lion’s apt to be ashamed of huntingIn fellowship of the fox—’tis of his fellowNot of the cunning that he is ashamed.
SALADIN.
You women would so gladly level manDown to yourselves. Go, I have got my lesson.
SITTAH.
What—mustI 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.
SaladinandNathan.
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 IThink of the people’s voice contemptuously;I have been wishing much to know the manWhom it has named the wise.
NATHAN.
And if it namedHim 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 hearYou proving what your speeches contradict.You know man’s real interests, which the peopleKnows not—at least have studied how to know them.That alone makes the sage.
NATHAN.
Which each imaginesHimself to be.
SALADIN.
Of modesty enough!Ever to meet it, where one seeks to hearDry truth, is vexing. Let us to the purpose—But, Jew, sincere and open—
NATHAN.
I will serve theeSo 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 youFor them (so much for the sly listener), IHave 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 threeReligions only one came be the true.A man, like you, remains not just where birthHas 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 hearThe grounds of preference, which I have wantedThe 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 beI’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, desireSome moments of delay—I give them you—(Whether she’s listening?—I must know of herIf 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 disusedThat 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 headTo be brought out.—Which now in this transactionWhich 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 snareOught 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 onceInto 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 quietedWith 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 bearOne of my titles—“Betterer of the worldAnd of the law.”
NATHAN.
In truth a noble title.But, sultan, e’er I quite unfold myselfAllow 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 manWho from a valued hand received a ringOf endless worth: the stone of it an opal,That shot an ever-changing tint: moreover,It had the hidden virtue him to renderOf God and man beloved, who in this view,And this persuasion, wore it. Was it strangeThe eastern man ne’er drew it off his finger,And studiously provided to secure itFor ever to his house. Thus—He bequeathed it;First, to themost belovedof his sons,Ordained that he again should leave the ringTo themost dearamong his children—andThat without heeding birth, thefavouriteson,In virtue of the ring alone, should alwaysRemain 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 receivedThe overflowings of his heart) most worthyTo heir the ring, which with good-natured weaknessHe privately to each in turn had promised.This went on for a while. But death approached,And the good father grew embarrassed. SoTo disappoint two sons, who trust his promise,He could not bear. What’s to be done. He sendsIn secret to a jeweller, of whom,Upon the model of the real ring,He might bespeak two others, and commandedTo 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 eyeCould not distinguish which had been the model.Quite overjoyed he summons all his sons,Takes leave of each apart, on each bestowsHis 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 ringAppears, 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 distinguishedThan now can—the true faith.
SALADIN.
How, how, is thatTo be the answer to my query?
NATHAN.
No,But it may serve as my apology;If I can’t venture to decide betweenRings, 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 thinkThat the religions which I named can beDistinguished, 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. HistoryMust be received on trust—is it not so?In whom now are we likeliest to put trust?In our own people surely, in those menWhose blood we are, in them, who from our childhoodHave given us proofs of love, who ne’er deceived us,Unless ’twere wholesomer to be deceived.How can I less believe in my forefathersThan thou in thine. How can I ask of theeTo own that thy forefathers falsifiedIn 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 judgeSwore from his father’s hand immediatelyTo 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 himNot have been false, rather than so suspectOf such a father, willing as he might beWith charity to judge his brethren, heOf treacherous forgery was bold t’ accuse them.
SALADIN.
Well, and the judge, I’m eager now to hearWhat thou wilt make him say. Go on, go on.
NATHAN.
The judge said, If ye summon not the fatherBefore my seat, I cannot give a sentence.Am I to guess enigmas? Or expect yeThat the true ring should here unseal its lips?But hold—you tell me that the real ringEnjoys the hidden power to make the wearerOf God and man beloved; let that decide.Which of you do two brothers love the best?You’re silent. Do these love-exciting ringsAct inward only, not without? Does eachLove but himself? Ye’re all deceived deceivers,None of your rings is true. The real ringPerhaps is gone. To hide or to supplyIts 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 upThe matter where it stands. If each of youHas had a ring presented by his father,Let each believe his own the real ring.’Tis possible the father chose no longerTo tolerate the one ring’s tyranny;And certainly, as he much loved you all,And loved you all alike, it could not please himBy favouring one to be of two the oppressor.Let each feel honoured by this free affection.Unwarped of prejudice; let each endeavourTo vie with both his brothers in displayingThe virtue of his ring; assist its mightWith gentleness, benevolence, forbearance,With inward resignation to the godhead,And if the virtues of the ring continueTo show themselves among your children’s children,After a thousand thousand years, appearBefore this judgment-seat—a greater oneThan 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 yetThe 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 opportunityTo lay a prayer before you.
SALADIN.
Is there needOf opportunity for that? Speak freely.
NATHAN.
I come from a long journey from collectingDebts, and I’ve almost of hard cash too much;The times look perilous—I know not whereTo 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 suspicionSpurs thee to make this offer of thyself.
NATHAN.
Suspicion—
SALADIN.
I deserve this offer. Pardon,For what avails concealment, I acknowledgeI 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 treasureArises 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 goldSupport my direst foes.
NATHAN.
I speak of himWhose 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 clemencyTo him has fallen on me. He at the riskOf his new-spared existence, from the flamesRescued 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 talkedTo 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 riseTo other blessings! Fetch him.
NATHAN.
In an instant.The rest remains as settled.
SALADIN.
O, I wishI had let my sister listen. Well, I’ll to her.How shall I make her privy to all this?
TheTemplarwalking and agitated.
TEMPLAR.
Here let the weary victim pant awhile.—Yet would I not have time to ascertainWhat passes in me; would not snuff beforehandThe coming storm. ’Tis sure I fled in vain;But more than fly I could not do, whateverComes of it. Ah! to ward it off—the blowWas given so suddenly. Long, much, I stroveTo 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 myselfBound to her, wove into her very being,Was one—remains one. Separate from herTo 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 holyAnd dear to me, I have already doffedSome prejudices.—Well—what says my vow?As templar I am dead, was dead to thatFrom the same hour which made me prisonerTo Saladin. But is the head he gave meMy old one? No. It knows no word of whatWas prated into yon, of what had bound it.It is a better; for its patrial skyFitter than yon. I feel—I’m conscious of it,With this I now begin to think, as hereMy father must have thought; if tales of himHave not been told untruly. Tales—why tales?They’re credible—more credible than ever—Now that I’m on the brink of stumbling, whereHe fell. He fell? I’d rather fall with men,Than stand with children. His example pledgesHis approbation, and whose approbationHave I else need of? Nathan’s? Surely of hisEncouragement, applause, I’ve little needTo doubt—O what a Jew is he! yet easyTo pass for the mere Jew. He’s coming—swiftly—And looks delighted—who leaves SaladinWith other looks? Hoa, Nathan!
NathanandTemplar.
NATHAN.
Are you there?
TEMPLAR.
Your visit to the sultan has been long.
NATHAN.
Not very long; my going was indeedToo much delayed. Troth, Conrade, this man’s fameOutstrips 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 promiseThat 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 ifThy daughter’s gratitude had in her bosomPrepared the way for love—not even ifBoth 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 mouthKnow it again? Do I surprise you?
NATHAN.
EreI know, which of the Stauffens was your father?
TEMPLAR.
What say you, Nathan?—And in such a momentIs curiosity your only feeling?
NATHAN.
For see, once I myself well knew a Stauffen,Whose name was Conrade.
TEMPLAR.
Well, and if my fatherWas bearer of that name?
NATHAN.
Indeed?
TEMPLAR.
My nameIs from my father’s, Conrade.
NATHAN.
Then thy fatherWas 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 thenTo 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 allAs far as Abraham back; and backwarderI 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 forborneTo 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 againTo 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 infiniteOf comprehension, yet at times will fillQuite full, and all at once, of a mere trifle—No matter what it teems with. Patience! Patience!The soul soon calms again, th’ upboiling stuffMakes itself room and brings back light and order.Is this then the first time I love? Or wasWhat by that name I knew before, not love—And this, this love alone that now I feel?
DayaandTemplar.
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 youA twofold secret. One I only know,The other only you. Let’s interchange,Intrust yours first to me, then I’ll tell mine.