FRIAR.
Certainly.
NATHAN.
By natureAnd blood conferred.
FRIAR.
I mean so too.
NATHAN.
Then nameThe man allied to her as brother, uncle,Or otherwise akin, and I from himWill not withhold her—she who was createdAnd was brought up to be of any house,Of any faith, the glory—I, I hope,That of your master and his race you knewMore than myself.
FRIAR.
I hardly think that, Nathan;For I already told you that I passedA short time with him.
NATHAN.
Can you tell at leastThe mother’s family name? She was, I think,A Stauffen.
FRIAR.
May be—yes, in fact, you’re right.
NATHAN.
Conrade of Stauffen was her brother’s name—He was a templar.
FRIAR.
I am clear it was.But stay, I recollect I’ve yet a book,’Twas my dead lord’s—I drew it from his bosom,While we were burying him at Askalon.
NATHAN.
Well!
FRIAR.
There are prayers in’t, ’tis what we callA breviary. This, thought I, may yet serveSome Christian man—not me indeed, for ICan’t read.
NATHAN.
No matter, to the thing.
FRIAR.
This book is written at both ends quite full,And, as I’m told, contains, in his hand-writingAbout both him and her what’s most material.
NATHAN.
Go, run and fetch the book—’tis fortunate;I am ready with its weight in gold to pay it,And thousand thanks beside—Go, run.
FRIAR.
Most gladly;But ’tis in Arabic what he has written.
[Goes.
NATHAN.
No matter—that’s all one—do fetch it—Oh!If by its means I may retain the daughter,And purchase with it such a son-in-law;But that’s unlikely—well, chance as it may.Who now can have been with the patriarchTo tell this tale? That I must not forgetTo ask about. If ’t were of Daya’s?
NathanandDaya.
DAYA(anxiously breaks in).
Nathan!
NATHAN.
Well!
DAYA.
Only think, she was quite frightened at it,Poor child, a message—
NATHAN.
From the patriarch?
DAYA.
No—The sultan’s sister, princess Sittah, sends.
NATHAN.
And not the patriarch?
DAYA.
Can’t you hear? The princessHas sent to see your Recha.
NATHAN.
Sent for RechaHas Sittah sent for Recha? Well, if Sittah,And not the patriarch, sends.
DAYA.
Why think of him?
NATHAN.
Have you heard nothing from him lately—reallySeen nothing of him—whispered nothing to him?
DAYA.
How, I to him?
NATHAN.
Where are the messengers?
DAYA.
There, just before you.
NATHAN.
I will talk with themOut of precaution. If there’s nothing lurkingBeneath this message of the patriarch’s doing—
[Goes.
DAYA.
And I—I’ve other fears. The only daughter,As they suppose, of such a rich, rich Jew,Would for a Mussulman be no bad thing;I bet the templar will be choused, unlessI risk the second step, and to herselfDiscover who she is. Let me for thisEmploy the first short moments we’re alone;And that will be—oh, as I am going with her.A serious hint upon the road I thinkCan’t be amiss—yes, now or never—yes.
Saladin,and,soon after,severalMamalukes.
Saladin(as he comes in).
Here lies the money still, and no one findsThe dervis yet—he’s probably got somewhereOver a chess-board. Play would often makeThe man forget himself, and why not, me.Patience—Ha! what’s the matter.
SaladinandIbrahim.
IBRAHIM.
Happy news—Joy, sultan, joy, the caravan from CairoIs safe arrived and brings the seven years’ tributeOf the rich Nile.
SALADIN.
Bravo, my Ibrahim,Thou always wast a welcome messenger,And now at length—at length—accept my thanksFor the good tidings.
IBRAHIM(waiting).
Hither with them, sultan.
SALADIN.
What art thou waiting for? Go.
IBRAHIM.
Nothing furtherFor my glad news?
SALADIN.
What further?
IBRAHIM.
Errand boysEarn hire—and when their message smiles i’ the telling,The sender’s hire by the receiver’s bountyIs oft outweighed. Am I to be the firstWhom Saladin at length has learnt to payIn words? The first about whose recompenseThe sultan higgled?
SALADIN.
Go, pick up a purse.
IBRAHIM.
No, not now—you might give them all away
SALADIN.
All—hold, man. Here, come hither, take these two—And is he really going—shall he conquerMe then in generosity? for surely’Tis harder for this fellow to refuseThan ’tis for me to give. Here, Ibrahim—Shall I be tempted, just before my exit,To be a different man—small SaladinNot die like Saladin, then wherefore live so?
AbdallahandSaladin.
ABDALLAH.
Hail, Sultan!
SALADIN.
If thou comest to inform meThat the whole convoy is arrived from Egypt,I know it already.
ABDALLAH.
Do I come too late?
SALADIN.
Too late, and why too late? There for thy tidingsPick up a purse or two.
ABDALLAH.
Does that make three?
SALADIN.
So thou wouldst reckon—well, well, take them, take them.
ABDALLAH.
A third will yet be here if he be able.
SALADIN.
How so?
ABDALLAH.
He may perhaps have broke his neck.We three, as soon as certain of the comingOf the rich caravan, each crossed our horses,And galloped hitherward. The foremost fell,Then I was foremost, and continued soInto the city, but sly Ibrahim,Who knows the streets—
SALADIN.
But he that fell, go, seek him.
ABDALLAH.
That will I quickly—if he lives, the halfOf what I’ve got is his.
[Goes.
SALADIN.
What a fine fellow!And who can boast such mamalukes as these;And is it not allowed me to imagineThat my example helped to form them. HenceWith the vile thought at last to turn another.
A thirdCourier.
Sultan—
SALADIN.
Was’t thou who fell?
COURIER.
No, I’ve to tell theeThat Emir Mansor, who conducts the convoy,Alights.
SALADIN.
O bring him to me—Ah, he’s there—Be welcome, Emir. What has happened to thee?For we have long expected thee.
SaladinandEmir.
EMIR(after the wont obeisance).
This letterWill show, that, in Thebais, discontentsRequired thy Abulkassem’s sabred hand,Ere we could march. Since that, our progress, sultan,My zeal has sped most anxiously.
SALADIN.
I trust thee—But my good Mansor take without delay—Thou art not loth to go further—fresh protection,And with the treasure on to Libanon;The greater part at least I have to lodgeWith my old father.
EMIR.
O, most willingly.
SALADIN.
And take not a slight escort. LibanonIs far from quiet, as thou wilt have heard;The templars stir afresh, be therefore cautious.Come, I must see thy troop, and give the orders.
[To a slave.
Say I shall be with Sittah when I’ve finished.
TheTemplarwalking to and fro.
TEMPLAR.
Into this house I go not—sure at lastHe’ll show himself—once, once they used to see meSo instantly, so gladly—time will comeWhen he’ll send out most civilly to beg meNot to pace up and down before his door.Psha—and yet I’m a little nettled too;And what has thus embittered me against him?He answered yes. He has refused me nothingAs yet. And Saladin has undertakenTo bring him round. And does the Christian nestleDeeper in me than the Jew lurks in him?Who, who can justly estimate himself?How comes it else that I should grudge him soThe little booty that he took such painsTo rob the Christians of? A theft, no lessThan such a creature tho’—but whose, whose creature?Sure not the slave’s who floated the mere blockOn to life’s barren strand, and then ran off;But his the artist’s, whose fine fancy mouldedUpon the unowned block a godlike form,Whose chisel graved it there. Recha’s true father,Spite of the Christian who begot her, is,Must ever be, the Jew. Alas, were ITo fancy her a simple Christian wench,And without all that which the Jew has given,Which only such a Jew could have bestowed—Speak out my heart, what had she that would please thee?No, nothing! Little! For her very smileShrinks to a pretty twisting of the muscles—Be that, which makes her smile, supposed unworthyOf all the charms in ambush on her lips?No, not her very smile—I’ve seen sweet smilesSpent on conceit, on foppery, on slander,On flatterers, on wicked wooers spent,And did they charm me then? then wake the wishTo flutter out a life beneath their sunshine?Indeed not—Yet I’m angry with the manWho alone gave this higher value to her.How this, and why? Do I deserve the tauntWith which I was dismissed by Saladin?’Tis bad enough that Saladin should think so;How little, how contemptible must IThen have appeared to him—all for a girl.Conrade, this will not do—back, back—And ifDaya to boot had prated matter to meNot easy to be proved—At last he’s coming,Engaged in earnest converse—and with whom?My friar in Nathan’s house! then he knows all—Perhaps has to the patriarch been betrayed.O Conrade, what vile mischiefs thou hast broodedOut of thy cross-grained head, that thus one sparkOf that same passion, love, can set so muchO’ th’ brain in flame? Quick, then, determine, wretch,What shalt thou say or do? Step back a momentAnd see if this good friar will please to quit him.
Nathanand theFriarcome together out of Nathan’s house.
NATHAN.
Once more, good brother, thanks.
FRIAR.
The like to you.
NATHAN.
To me, and why; because I’m obstinate—Would force upon you what you have no use for?
FRIAR.
The book besides was none of mine. IndeedIt must at any rate belong to th’ daughter;It is her whole, her only patrimony—Save she has you. God grant you ne’er have reasonTo sorrow for the much you’ve done for her.
NATHAN.
How should I? that can never be; fear nothing.
FRIAR.
Patriarchs and templars—
NATHAN.
Have not in their powerEvil enough to make me e’er repent.And then—But are you really well assuredIt is a templar who eggs on your patriarch?
FRIAR.
It scarcely can be other, for a templarTalked with him just before, and what I heardAgreed with this.
NATHAN.
But there is only oneNow in Jerusalem; and him I know;He is my friend, a noble open youth.
FRIAR.
The same. But what one is at heart, and whatOne gets to be in active life, mayn’t alwaysSquare well together.
NATHAN.
No, alas, they do not.Therefore unangered I let others doTheir best or worst. O brother, with your bookI set all at defiance, and am goingStraight with it to the Sultan.
FRIAR.
God be with you!Here I shall take my leave.
NATHAN.
And have not seen her—Come soon, come often to us. If to-dayThe patriarch make out nothing—but no matter,Tell him it all to-day, or when you will.
FRIAR.
Not I—farewell!
NATHAN.
Do not forget us, brotherMy God, why may I not beneath thy skyHere drop upon my knees; now the twined knot,Which has so often made my thinkings anxious,Untangles of itself—God, how I am eased,Now that I’ve nothing in the world remainingThat I need hide—now that I can as freelyWalk before man as before thee, who onlyNeed’st not to judge a creature by his deeds—Deeds which so seldom are his own—O God!
NathanandTemplar.
TEMPLAR(coming forward).
Hoa, Nathan, take me with you.
NATHAN.
Ha! Who calls?Is it you, knight? And whither have you beenThat you could not be met with at the Sultan’s?
TEMPLAR.
We missed each other—take it not amiss.
NATHAN.
I, no, but Saladin.
TEMPLAR.
You was just gone.
NATHAN.
O, then you spoke with him; I’m satisfied.
TEMPLAR.
Yes—but he wants to talk with us together.
NATHAN.
So much the better. Come with me, my stepWas eitherwise bent thither.
TEMPLAR.
May I ask,Nathan, who ’twas now left you?
NATHAN.
Did you know him?
TEMPLAR.
Was’t that good-hearted creature the lay-brother,Whom the hoar patriarch has a knack of usingTo feel his way out?
NATHAN.
That may be. In factHe’s at the patriarch’s.
TEMPLAR.
’Tis no awkward hitTo make simplicity the harbingerOf craft.
NATHAN.
If the simplicity of dunces,But if of honest piety?
TEMPLAR.
This lastNo patriarch can believe in.
NATHAN.
I’ll be bound for’tThis last belongs to him who quitted me.He’ll not assist his patriarch to accomplishA vile or cruel purpose.
TEMPLAR.
Such, at least,He would appear—but has he told you thenSomething of me?
NATHAN.
Of you? No—not by name,He can’t well be acquainted with your name.
TEMPLAR.
No, that not.
NATHAN.
He indeed spoke of a templar,Who—
TEMPLAR.
What?
NATHAN.
But by this templar could not meanTo point out you.
TEMPLAR.
Stay, stay, who knows? Let’s hear.
NATHAN.
Who has accused me to his patriarch.
TEMPLAR.
Accused thee, no, that by his leave is false.Nathan do hear me—I am not the manWho would deny a single of his actions;What I have done, I did. Nor am I oneWho would defend all he has done as right—Why be ashamed of failing? Am I notFirmly resolved on better future conduct?And am I not aware how much the manThat’s willing can improve? O, hear me, Nathan—I am the templar your lay-brother talked of—Who has accused—You know what made me angry,What set the blood in all my veins on fire,The mad-cap that I was—I had drawn nighTo fling myself with soul and body wholeInto your arms—and you received me, Nathan—How cold, how lukewarm, for that’s worse than cold.—How with words weighed and measured, you took careTo put me off; and with what questioningAbout my parentage, and God knows what,You seemed to answer me—I must not think on’tIf I would keep my temper—Hear me, Nathan—While in this ferment—Daya steps behind me,Bolts out a secret in my ear, which seemedAt once to lend a clue to your behaviour.
NATHAN.
How so?
TEMPLAR.
Do hear me to the end. I fanciedThat what you from the Christians had purloinedYou wasn’t content to let a Christian have;And so the project struck me short and good,To hold the knife to your throat till—
NATHAN.
Short and good;And good—but where’s the good?
TEMPLAR.
Yet hear me, Nathan,I own I did not right—you are unguilty,No doubt. The prating Daya does not knowWhat she reported—has a grudge against you—Seeks to involve you in an ugly business—May be, may be, and I’m a crazy looby,A credulous enthusiast—both ways mad—Doing ever much too much, or much too little—That too may be—forgive me, Nathan.
NATHAN.
IfSuch be the light in which you view—
TEMPLAR.
In shortI to the patriarch went. I named you not.That, as I said, was false. I only statedIn general terms, the case, to learn his notion,That too might have been let alone—assuredly.For knew I not the patriarch then to beA knave? And might I not have talked with you?And ought I to have exposed the poor girl—ha!To part with such a father? Now what happens?The patriarch’s villainy consistent everRestored me to myself—O, hear me out—Suppose he was to ferret out your name,What then? What then? He cannot seize the maid,Unless she still belong to none but you.’Tis from your house alone that he could drag herInto a convent; therefore grant her me—Grant her to me, and let him come. By God—Sever my wife from me—he’ll not be rashEnough to think about it. Give her to me,Be she or no thy daughter, Christian, Jewess,Or neither, ’tis all one, all one—I’ll neverIn my whole life ask of thee which she is,Be’t as it may.
NATHAN.
You may perhaps imagineThat I’ve an interest to conceal the truth.
TEMPLAR.
Be’t as it may.
NATHAN.
I neither have to youNor any one, whom it behooved to know it,Denied that she’s a Christian, and no moreThan my adopted daughter. Why, to herI have not yet betrayed it—I am boundTo justify only to her.
TEMPLAR.
Of thatShall be no need. Indulge, indulge her withNever beholding you with other eyes—Spare, spare her the discovery. As yetYou have her to yourself, and may bestow her;Give her to me—oh, I beseech thee, Nathan,Give her to me, I, only I can save herA second time, and will.
NATHAN.
Yes, could have saved her.But ’tis all over now—it is too late.
TEMPLAR.
How so, too late.
NATHAN.
Thanks to the patriarch.
TEMPLAR.
HowThanks to the patriarch, and for what? Can heEarn thanks of us. For what?
NATHAN.
That now we knowTo whom she is related—to whose handsShe may with confidence be now delivered.
TEMPLAR.
He thank him who has more to thank him for.
NATHAN.
From theirs you now have to obtain her, notFrom mine.
TEMPLAR.
Poor Recha—what befalls thee? Oh,Poor Recha—what had been to other orphansA blessing, is to thee a curse. But, Nathan,Where are they, these new kinsmen?
NATHAN.
Where they are?
TEMPLAR.
Who are they?
NATHAN.
Who—a brother is found outTo whom you must address yourself.
TEMPLAR.
A brother!And what is he, a soldier or a priest?Let’s hear what I’ve to hope.
NATHAN.
As I believeHe’s neither of the two—or both. Just nowI cannot say exactly.
TEMPLAR.
And besidesHe’s—
NATHAN.
A brave fellow, and with whom my RechaWill not be badly placed.
TEMPLAR.
But he’s a Christian.At times I know not what to make of you—Take it not ill of me, good Nathan. Will sheNot have to play the Christian among Christians;And when she has been long enough the actressNot turn so? Will the tares in time not stifleThe pure wheat of your setting—and does thatAffect you not a whit—you yet declareShe’ll not be badly placed.
NATHAN.
I think, I hope so.And should she there have need of any thingHas she not you and me?
TEMPLAR.
Need at her brother’s—What should she need when there? Won’t he provideHis dear new sister with all sorts of dresses,With comfits and with toys and glittering jewels?And what needs any sister wish for else—Only a husband? And he comes in time.A brother will know how to furnish that,The Christianer the better. Nathan, Nathan,O what an angel you had formed, and howOthers will mar it now!
NATHAN.
Be not so downcast,Believe me he will ever keep himselfWorthy our love.
TEMPLAR.
No, say not that of mine.My love allows of no refusal—none.Were it the merest trifle—but a name.Hold there—has she as yet the least suspicionOf what is going forward?
NATHAN.
That may be,And yet I know not whence.
TEMPLAR.
It matters not,She shall, she must in either case from meFirst learn what fate is threatening. My fixed purposeTo see her not again, nor speak to her,Till I might call her mine, is gone. I hasten—
NATHAN.
Stay, whither would you go?
TEMPLAR.
To her, to learnIf this girl’s soul be masculine enoughTo form the only resolution worthyHerself.
NATHAN.
What resolution?
TEMPLAR.
This—to askNo more about her brother and her father,And—
NATHAN.
And—
TEMPLAR.
To follow me. E’en if she wereSo doing to become a Moslem’s wife.
NATHAN.
Stay, you’ll not find her—she is now with Sittah,The Sultan’s sister.
TEMPLAR.
How long since, and wherefore?
NATHAN.
And would you there behold her brother, comeThither with me.
TEMPLAR.
Her brother, whose then? Sittah’sOr Recha’s do you mean?
NATHAN.
Both, both, perchance.Come this way—I beseech you, come with me.
[Leads off the Templar with him.
SittahandRecha.
SITTAH.
How I am pleased with thee, sweet girl! But doShake off this perturbation, be not anxious,Be not alarmed, I want to hear thee talk—Be cheerful.
RECHA.
Princess!
SITTAH.
No, not princess, child.Call me thy friend, or Sittah, or thy sister,Or rather aunt, for I might well be thine;So young, so good, so prudent, so much knowledge,You must have read a great deal to be thus.
RECHA.
I read—you’re laughing, Sittah, at your sister,I scarce can read.
SITTAH.
Scarce can, you little fibber.
RECHA.
My father’s hand or so—I thought you spokeOf books.
SITTAH.
Aye, surely so I did, of books.
RECHA.
Well really now it puzzles me to read them.
SITTAH.
In earnest?
RECHA.
Yes, in earnest, for my fatherHates cold book-learning, which makes an impressionWith its dead letters only on the brain.
SITTAH.
What say you? Aye, he’s not unright in that.So then the greater part of what you know—
RECHA.
I know but from his mouth—of most of itI could relate to you, the how, the where,The why he taught it me.
SITTAH.
So it clings closer,And the whole soul drinks in th’ instruction.
RECHA.
Yes,And Sittah certainly has not read much.
SITTAH.
How so? Not that I’m vain of having read;But what can be thy reason? Speak out boldly,Thy reason for it.
RECHA.
She is so right down,Unartificial—only like herselfAnd books do seldom leave us so; my fatherSays.
SITTAH.
What a man thy father is, my Recha.
RECHA.
Is not he?
SITTAH.
How he always hits the mark.
RECHA.
Does not he? And this father—
SITTAH.
Love, what ails thee?
RECHA.
This father—
SITTAH.
God, thou’rt weeping
RECHA.
And this father—It must have vent, my heart wants room, wants room.
SITTAH.
Child, child, what ails you, Recha?
RECHA.
And this fatherI am to lose.
SITTAH.
Thou lose him, O no, never:Arise, be calm, how so? It must not be.
RECHA.
So shall thy offer not have been in vain,To be my friend, my sister.
SITTAH.
Maid, I am.Rise then, or I must call for help.
RECHA.
Forgive,My agony made me awhile forgetfulWith whom I am. Tears, sobbing, and despair,Can not avail with Sittah. Cool calm reasonAlone is over her omnipotent;Whose cause that pleads before her, he has conquered.
SITTAH.
Well, then!
RECHA.
My friend, my sister, suffer notAnother father to be forced upon me.
SITTAH.
Another father to be forced upon thee—Who can do that, or wish to do it, Recha?
RECHA.
Who? Why my good, my evil genius, Daya,She, she can wish it, will it—and can do it.You do not know this dear good evil Daya.God, God forgive it her—reward her for it;So much good she has done me, so much evil.
SITTAH.
Evil to thee—much goodness she can’t have.
RECHA.
O yes, she has indeed.
SITTAH.
Who is she?
RECHA.
Who?A Christian, who took care of all my childhood.You cannot think how little she allowed meTo miss a mother—God reward her for it—But then she has so teased, so tortured me.
SITTAH.
And about what? Why, how, when?
RECHA.
The poor woman,I tell thee, is a Christian—and she mustFrom love torment—is one of those enthusiastsWho think they only know the one true roadTo God.
SITTAH.
I comprehend thee.
RECHA.
And who feelThemselves in duty bound to point it outTo every one who is not in this path,To lead, to drag them into it. And indeedThey can’t do otherwise consistently;For if theirs really be the only roadOn which ’tis safe to travel—they cannotWith comfort see their friends upon anotherWhich leads to ruin, to eternal ruin:Else were it possible at the same instantTo love and hate the same man. Nor is ’t thisWhich forces me to be aloud complainant.Her groans, her prayers, her warnings, and her threats,I willingly should have abided longer—Most willingly—they always called up thoughtsUseful and good; and whom does it not flatterTo be by whomsoever held so dear,So precious, that they cannot bear the thoughtOf parting with us at some time for ever?
SITTAH.
Most true.
RECHA.
But—but—at last this goes too far;I’ve nothing to oppose to it, neither patience,Neither reflection—nothing.
SITTAH.
How, to what?
RECHA.
To what she has just now, as she will have it,Discovered to me.
SITTAH.
How discovered to thee?
RECHA.
Yes, just this instant. Coming hitherwardWe past a fallen temple of the Christians—She all at once stood still, seemed inly struggling,Turned her moist eyes to heaven, and then on me.Come, says she finally, let us to the rightThro’ this old fane—she leads the way, I follow.My eyes with horror overran the dimAnd tottering ruin—all at once she stopsBy the sunk steps of a low Moorish altar.—O how I felt, when there, with streaming tearsAnd wringing hands, prostrate before my feetShe fell
SITTAH.
Good child—
RECHA.
And by the holy Virgin,Who there had hearkened many a prayer, and wroughtMany a wonder, she conjured, intreated,With looks of heartfelt sympathy and love,I would at length take pity of myself—At least forgive, if she must now unfoldWhat claims her church had on me.
SITTAH.
Ah! I guessed it.
RECHA.
That I am sprung of Christian blood—baptised—Not Nathan’s daughter—and he not my father.God, God, he not my father! Sittah, Sittah,See me once more low at thy feet.
SITTAH.
O Recha,Not so; arise, my brother’s coming, rise.
Saladin,Sittah,andRecha.
SALADIN(entering).
What is the matter, Sittah?
SITTAH.
She is swooned—God—
SALADIN.
Who?
SITTAH.
You know sure.
SALADIN.
What, our Nathan’s daughter?What ails her?
SITTAH.
Child, come to thyself, the sultan.
RECHA.
No, I’ll not rise, not rise, not look uponThe Sultan’s countenance—I’ll not admireThe bright reflection of eternal justiceAnd mercy on his brow, and in his eye,Before—
SALADIN.
Rise, rise.
RECHA.
Before he shall have promised—
SALADIN.
Come, come, I promise whatsoe’er thy prayer.
RECHA.
Nor more nor less than leave my father to me,And me to him. As yet I cannot tellWhat other wants to be my father. WhoCan want it, care I not to inquire. Does bloodAlone then make the father? blood alone?
SALADIN(raising her).
Who was so cruel in thy breast to shedThis wild suspicion? Is it proved, made clear?
RECHA.
It must, for Daya had it from my nurse,Whose dying lips intrusted it to her.
SALADIN.
Dying, perhaps delirious; if ’twere true,Blood only does not make by much the father,Scarcely the father of a brute, scarce givesThe first right to endeavour at deservingThe name of father. If there be two fathersAt strife for thee, quit both, and take a third,And take me for thy father.
SITTAH.
Do it, do it.
SALADIN.
I will be a kind father—but methinksA better thought occurs, what hast thou needOf father upon father? They will die,So that ’tis better to look out by timesFor one that starts fair, and stakes life with lifeOn equal terms. Knowst thou none such?
SITTAH.
My brother,Don’t make her blush.
SALADIN.
Why that was half my project.Blushing so well becomes the ugly, thatThe fair it must make charming—I have orderedThy father Nathan hither, and another,Dost guess who ’tis? one other.—Sittah, youWill not object?
SITTAH.
Brother—
SALADIN.
And when he comes,Sweet girl, then blush to crimson.
RECHA.
Before whom—Blush?
SALADIN.
Little hypocrite—or else grow pale,Just as thou willst and canst. Already there?
SITTAH(to a female slave who comes in).
Well, be they ushered in. Brother, ’tis they.
Saladin,Sittah,Recha,Nathan,andTemplar.
SALADIN.
Welcome, my dear good friends. Nathan, to youI’ve first to mention, you may send and fetchYour monies when you will.
NATHAN.
Sultan—
SALADIN.
And nowI’m at your service.
NATHAN.
Sultan—
SALADIN.
For my treasuresAre all arrived. The caravan is safe.I’m richer than I’ve been these many years.Now tell me what you wish for, to achieveSome splendid speculation—you in tradeLike us, have never too much ready cash.
NATHAN(going towards Recha).
Why first about this trifle?—I beholdAn eye in tears, which ’tis far more importantTo me to dry. My Recha thou hast wept,What hast thou lost? Thou art still, I trust, my daughter.
RECHA.
My father!
NATHAN.
That’s enough, we are understoodBy one another; but be calm, be cheerful.If else thy heart be yet thy own—if elseNo threatened loss thy trembling bosom wringThy father shall remain to thee.
RECHA.
None, none.
TEMPLAR.
None, none—then I’m deceived. What we don’t fearTo lose, we never fancied, never wishedOurselves possessed of. But ’tis well, ’tis well.Nathan, this changes all—all. Saladin,At thy command we came, but I misled thee,Trouble thyself no further.
SALADIN.
Always headlong;Young man, must every will then bow to thine,Interpret all thy meanings?
TEMPLAR.
Thou hast heard,Sultan, hast seen.
SALADIN.
Aye, ’twas a little awkwardNot to be certain of thy cause.
TEMPLAR.
I nowDo know my doom,
SALADIN.
Pride in an act of serviceRevokes the benefit. What thou hast savedIs therefore not thy own, or else the robber,Urged by his avarice thro’ fire-crumbling halls,Were like thyself a hero. Come, sweet maid,
[Advances toward Recha in order to lead her up to the Templar.
Come, stickle not for niceties with him.Other—he were less warm and proud, and hadPaused, and not saved thee. Balance then the oneAgainst the other, and put him to the blush,Do what he should have done—own thou thy love—Make him thy offer, and if he refuse,Or o’er forgot how infinitely moreBy this thou do for him than he for thee—What, what in fact has he then done for theeBut make himself a little sooty? That(Else he has nothing of my Assad in him,But only wears his mask) that was mere sport,Come, lovely girl.
SITTAH.
Go, go, my love, this stepIs for thy gratitude too short, too trifling.
[They are each taking one of Recha’s hands when Nathan with a solemn gesture of prohibition says,
NATHAN.
Hold, Saladin—hold, Sittah.
SALADIN.
Ha! thou too?
NATHAN.
One other has to speak.
SALADIN.
Who denies that?Unquestionably, Nathan, there belongsA vote to such a foster-father—andThe first, if you require it. You perceiveI know how all the matter lies.
NATHAN.
Not all—I speak not of myself. There is another,A very different man, whom, Saladin,I must first talk with.
SALADIN.
Who?
NATHAN.
Her brother.
SALADIN.
Recha’s?
NATHAN.
Yes, her’s.
RECHA.
My brother—have I then a brother?
[The templar starts from his silent and sullen inattention.
TEMPLAR.
Where is this brother? Not yet here? ’Twas hereI was to find him.
NATHAN.
Patience yet a while.
TEMPLAR(very bitterly).
He has imposed a father on the girl,He’ll find her up a brother.
SALADIN.
That was wanting!Christian, this mean suspicion ne’er had pastThe lips of Assad. Go but on—
NATHAN.
Forgive him,I can forgive him readily. Who knowsWhat in his place, and at his time of life,We might have thought ourselves? Suspicion, knight,
[Approaching the templar in a friendly manner.
Succeeds soon to mistrust. Had you at firstFavoured me with your real name.
TEMPLAR.
How? what?
NATHAN.
You are no Stauffen.
TEMPLAR.
Who then am I? Speak.
NATHAN.
Conrade of Stauffen is no name of yours.
TEMPLAR.
What is my name then?
NATHAN.
Guy of Filnek.
TEMPLAR.
How?
NATHAN.
You startle—
TEMPLAR.
And with reason. Who says that?
NATHAN.
I, who can tell you more. Meanwhile, observeI do not tax you with a falsehood.
TEMPLAR.
No?
NATHAN.
May be you with propriety can wearYon name as well.
TEMPLAR.
I think so too. (God—GodPut that speech on his tongue.)
NATHAN.
In fact your mother—She was a Stauffen: and her brother’s name,(The uncle to whose care you were resigned,When by the rigour of the climate chased,Your parents quitted Germany to seekThis land once more) was Conrade. He perhapsAdopted you as his own son and heir.Is it long since you hither travelled with him?Is he alive yet?
TEMPLAR.
So in fact it stands.What shall I say? Yes, Nathan, ’tis all right:Tho’ he himself is dead. I came to SyriaWith the last reinforcement of our order,But—but what has all this long tale to doWith Recha’s brother, whom—
NATHAN.
Your father—
TEMPLAR.
Him,Him did you know?
NATHAN.
He was my friend.
TEMPLAR.
Your friend?And is that possible?
NATHAN.
He called himselfLeonard of Filnek, but he was no German.