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Scene.—The Place of Palms, close to Nathan’s House

Nathan, attired, comes out with Recha

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 daughter
Be cool and unconcerned who ’twas that saved her,
Heed not to whom is due the life she prizes
Chiefly 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 soul
A 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 speak
A plainer language, thou wilt not conceal
A single of thy wishes from my fondness.

RECHA

Oh the mere possibility of wishing
Rather to veil and hide them makes me shudder.

NATHAN

Let this be spoken once for all. Well, Daya—

Nathan, Recha, and Daya

DAYA

He still is here beneath the palms, and soon
Will reach yon wall. See, there he comes.

RECHA

And seems
Irresolute 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, almost
Shrink back from his rough virtue. That one man
Should ever make another man feel awkward!
And yet—He’s coming—ha!—by God, the youth
Looks like a man. I love his daring eye,
His open gait. May be the shell is bitter;
But not the kernel surely. I have seen
Some such, methinks. Forgive me, noble Frank.

Nathan and Templar

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 by
A 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 maid
Your 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 told
She was your daughter? ’Tis a templar’s duty
To rush to the assistance of the first
Poor wight that needs him; and my life just then
Was quite a burden. I was mighty glad
To risk it for another; tho’ it were
That of a Jewess.

NATHAN

Noble, and yet shocking!
The turn might be expected. Modest greatness
Wears willingly the mask of what is shocking
To 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 captive
I 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 seemed
The bettor Jew.

NATHAN

Is that a reason why
You 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 yet
At the last gasp, but tight and strong and good,
Save this poor corner, where an ugly spot
You see is singed upon it. It got singed
As I bore off your daughter from the fire.

NATHAN (taking hold of the mantle)

’Tis singular that such an ugly spot
Bears better testimony to the man
Than his own mouth. This brand—Oh I could kiss it!
Your pardon—that I meant not.

TEMPLAR

What?

NATHAN

A tear
Fell 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 name
You said was Nathan—Nathan, you can join
Your 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-attendant
All 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 only ought to think—and all because
The rules and vows enjoin it to the order—
I know how good men think—know that all lands
Produce 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 serve
To 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 pretend
Not 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 Christian
Bequeathed, 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 rage
To own the better god—on the whole world
To 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 speeches
And leave me.

NATHAN

Ah! indeed you do not know
How 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 whom
It is enough to be a man?

TEMPLAR

That hast thou.
Nathan, by God, thou hast. Thy hand. I blush
To have mistaken thee a single instant.

NATHAN

And I am proud of it. Only common souls
We seldom err in.

TEMPLAR

And uncommon ones
Seldom forget. Yes, Nathan, yes we must,
We will be friends.

NATHAN

We are so. And my Recha—
She will rejoice. How sweet the wider prospect
That dawns upon me! Do but know her—once.

TEMPLAR

I am impatient for it. Who is that
Bursts from your house, methinks it is your Daya.

NATHAN

Ay—but so anxiously—

TEMPLAR

Sure, to our Recha
Nothing has happened.

Nathan, Templar, and Daya

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 sultan
Could have in view.

NATHAN

That I shall soon discover.

Nathan and Templar

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 voice
Speaks 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 me
For ever to his service: and I scarcely
Like to defer inquiring for his wishes.
For everything I am ready; and am ready
To 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 came
Quickly, and so has vanished. Now perhaps
He recollects me not, who knows? Once more
At least, he must recall me to his mind,
Fully to fix my doom. ’Tis not enough
That by his order I am yet in being,
By his permission live, I have to learn
According to whose will I must exist.

NATHAN

Therefore I shall the more avoid delay.
Perchance some word may furnish me occasion
To 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—is
Conrade 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 eye
Finds often more than it desires to see.
I fear it, Nathan. Fare thee well. Let time,
Not curiosity make us acquainted.

[Goes.

Nathan, and soon after, Daya

NATHAN

“The searching eye will oft discover more
Than it desires,” ’tis as he read my soul.
That too may chance to me. ’Tis not alone
Leonard’s walk, stature, but his very voice.
Leonard so wore his head, was even wont
Just so to brush his eyebrows with his hand,
As if to mask the fire that fills his look.
Those deeply graven images at times
How 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 heart
Than 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 him
More confidentially, just as the message,
Sent by the sultan, tore us from the window.

NATHAN

Go tell her that she may expect his visit
At 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 surely
Find its account in ’t. Do not mar my plans
But leave them to themselves. Relate and question
With 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 you
A second time, and by your friend Al-Hafi.

Nathan and Hafi

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 be
Such 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 learn
How 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 prodigality
From prudent bounty’s never-empty coffers
Borrows and borrows, till there’s not a purse
Left to keep rats from starving. Thou mayst fancy
That 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 board
The game, that Saladin supposed was lost
And had given up, yet stood. When I drew nigh,
And had examined it, I soon discovered
It was not gone by any means.

NATHAN

For you
A blest discovery, a treasure-trove.

HAFI

He only needed to remove his king
Behind 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 him
And 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’erthrew
The 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 stake
Was not a nut-shell.

NATHAN

Money here or there
Matters but little. Not to listen to thee,
And on a point of such importance, Hafi,
There lies the rub. Not even to admire
Thine eagle eye—thy comprehensive glance—
That calls for vengeance:—does it not, Al-Hafi?

HAFI

I only tell it to thee that thou mayst see
How 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’er
Went for myself a begging, go a borrowing,
And that for others. Borrowing’s much the same
As begging; just as lending upon usury
Is much the same as thieving—decency
Makes 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 worthy
To 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 tease
Of 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 motives
To forbear daring. He, who can’t resolve
In 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 them
At 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 beggar
Is, after all, the only real monarch.

ACT III

Scene.—A Room in Nathan’s House

Recha and Daya

RECHA

What, Daya, did my father really say
I might expect him, every instant, here?
That meant—now did it not? he would come soon.
And yet how many instants have rolled by!—
But who would think of those that are elapsed?—
To the next moment only I’m alive.—
At last the very one will come that brings him.

DAYA

But for the sultan’s ill-timed message, Nathan
Had brought him in.

RECHA

And when this moment comes,
And when this warmest inmost of my wishes
Shall be fulfilled, what then? what then?

DAYA

What then?
Why then I hope the warmest of my wishes
Will have its turn, and happen.

RECHA

’Stead of this,
What wish shall take possession of my bosom,
Which now without some ruling wish of wishes
Knows not to heave? Shall nothing? ah, I shudder.

DAYA

Yes: mine shall then supplant the one fulfilled—
My wish to see thee placed one day in Europe
In hands well worthy of thee.

RECHA

No, thou errest—
The very thing that makes thee form this wish
Prevents its being mine. The country draws thee,
And shall not mine retain me? Shall an image,
A fond remembrance of thy home, thy kindred,
Which years and distance have not yet effaced,
Be mightier o’er thy soul, than what I hear,
See, feel, and hold, of mine.

DAYA

’Tis vain to struggle—
The ways of heaven are the ways of heaven.
Is he the destined saviour, by whose arm
His God, for whom he fights, intends to lead thee
Into the land, which thou wast born for—

RECHA

Daya,
What art thou prating of? My dearest Daya,
Indeed thou hast some strange unseemly notions.
“His God—for whom he fights”—what is a God
Belonging to a man—needing another
To fight his battles? And can we pronounce
For which among the scattered clods of earth
You, I was born; unless it be for that
On which we were produced. If Nathan heard thee—
What has my father done to thee, that thou
Hast ever sought to paint my happiness
As lying far remote from him and his.
What has he done to thee that thus, among
The seeds of reason, which he sowed unmixed,
Pure in my soul, thou ever must be seeking
To plant the weeds, or flowers, of thy own land.
He wills not of these pranking gaudy blossoms
Upon this soil. And I too must acknowledge
I feel as if they had a sour-sweet odour,
That makes me giddy—that half suffocates.
Thy head is wont to bear it. I don’t blame
Those stronger nerves that can support it. Mine—
Mine it behoves not. Latterly thy angel
Had made me half a fool. I am ashamed,
Whene’er I see my father, of the folly.

DAYA

As if here only wisdom were at home—
Folly—if I dared speak.

RECHA

And dar’st thou not?
When was I not all ear, if thou beganst
To talk about the heroes of thy faith?
Have I not freely on their deeds bestowed
My admiration, to their sufferings yielded
The tribute of my tears? Their faith indeed
Has never seemed their most heroic side
To me: yet, therefore, have I only learnt
To find more consolation in the thought,
That our devotion to the God of all
Depends not on our notions about God.
My father has so often told us so—
Thou hast so often to this point consented—
How can it be that thou alone art restless
To undermine what you built up together?
This is not the most fit discussion, Daya,
To usher in our friend to; tho’ indeed
I should not disincline to it—for to me
It is of infinite importance if
He too—but hark—there’s some one at the door.
If it were he—stay—hush—

(A Slave who shows in the Templar.)

They are—here this way.

Templar, Daya, and Recha

RECHA

(starts—composes herself—then offers to fall at his feet)

’Tis he—my saviour! ah!

TEMPLAR

This to avoid
Have I alone deferred my call so long.

RECHA

Yes, at the feet of this proud man, I will
Thank—God alone. The man will have no thanks;
No more than will the bucket which was busy
In showering watery damps upon the flame.
That was filled, emptied—but to me, to thee
What boots it? So the man—he too, he too
Was thrust, he knew not how, and the fire.
I dropped, by chance, into his open arm.
By chance, remained there—like a fluttering spark
Upon his mantle—till—I know not what
Pushed us both from amid the conflagration.
What room is here for thanks? How oft in Europe
Wine urges men to very different deeds!
Templars must so behave; it is their office,
Like better taught or rather handier spaniels,
To fetch from out of fire, as out of water.

TEMPLAR

Oh Daya, Daya, if, in hasty moments
Of care and of chagrin, my unchecked temper
Betrayed me into rudeness, why convey
To her each idle word that left my tongue?
This is too piercing a revenge indeed;
Yet if henceforth thou wilt interpret better—

DAYA

I question if these barbed words, Sir Knight,
Alighted so, as to have much disserved you.

RECHA

How, you had cares, and were more covetous
Of them than of your life?

TEMPLAR

(who has been viewing her with wonder and perturbation)

Thou best of beings,
How is my soul ’twixt eye and ear divided!
No: ’twas not she I snatched from amid fire:
For who could know her and forbear to do it?—
Indeed—disguised by terror—

[Pause: during which he gazes on her as it were entranced.

RECHA

But to me
You still appear the same you then appeared.

[Another like pause—till she resumes, in order to interrupt him.

Now tell me, knight, where have you been so long?
It seems as might I ask—where are you now?

TEMPLAR

I am—where I perhaps ought not to be.

RECHA

Where have you been? where you perhaps ought not—
That is not well.

TEMPLAR

Up—how d’ye call the mountain?
Up Sinai.

RECHA

Oh, that’s very fortunate.
Now I shall learn for certain if ’tis true—

TEMPLAR

What! if the spot may yet be seen where Moses
Stood before God; when first—

RECHA

No, no, not that.
Where’er he stood, ’twas before God. Of this
I know enough already. Is it true,
I wish to learn from you that—that it is not
By far so troublesome to climb this mountain
As to get down—for on all mountains else,
That I have seen, quite the reverse obtains.
Well, knight, why will you turn away from me?
Not look at me?

TEMPLAR

Because I wish to hear you.

RECHA

Because you do not wish me to perceive
You smile at my simplicity—You smile
That I can think of nothing more important
To ask about the holy hill of hills:
Do you not?

TEMPLAR

Must I meet those eyes again?
And now you cast them down, and damp the smile—
Am I in doubtful motions of the features
To read what I so plainly hear—what you
So audibly declare; yet will conceal?—
How truly said thy father “Do but know her!”

RECHA

Who has—of whom—said so to thee?

TEMPLAR

Thy father
Said to me “Do but know her,” and of thee.

DAYA

And have not I too said so, times and oft.

TEMPLAR

But where is then your father—with the sultan?

RECHA

So I suppose.

TEMPLAR

Yet there? Oh, I forget,
He cannot be there still. He is waiting for me
Most certainly below there by the cloister.
’Twas so, I think, we had agreed, Forgive,
I go in quest of him.

DAYA

Knight, I’ll do that.
Wait here, I’ll bring him hither instantly.

TEMPLAR

Oh no—Oh no. He is expecting me.
Besides—you are not aware what may have happened.
’Tis not unlikely he may be involved
With Saladin—you do not know the sultan—
In some unpleasant—I must go, there’s danger
If I forbear.

RECHA

Danger—of what? of what?

TEMPLAR

Danger for me, for thee, for him; unless
I go at once.

[Goes.

Recha and Daya

RECHA

What is the matter, Daya?
So quick—what comes across him, drives him hence?

DAYA

Let him alone, I think it no bad sign.

RECHA

Sign—and of what?

DAYA

That something passes in him.
It boils—but it must not boil over. Leave him—
Now ’tis your turn.

RECHA

My turn? Thou dost become
Like him incomprehensible to me.

DAYA

Now you may give him back all that unrest
He once occasioned. Be not too severe,
Nor too vindictive.

RECHA

Daya, what you mean
You must know best.

DAYA

And pray are you again
So calm.

RECHA

I am—yes that I am.

DAYA

At least
Own—that this restlessness has given you pleasure,
And that you have to thank his want of ease
For what of ease you now enjoy.

RECHA

Of that
I am unconscious. All I could confess
Were, that it does seem strange unto myself,
How, in this bosom, such a pleasing calm
Can suddenly succeed to such a tossing.

DAYA

His countenance, his speech, his manner, has
By this the satiated thee.

RECHA

Satiated,
I will not say—not by a good deal yet.

DAYA

But satisfied the more impatient craving.

RECHA

Well, well, if you must have it so.

DAYA

I? no.

RECHA

To me he will be ever dear, will ever
Remain more dear than my own life; altho’
My pulse no longer flutters at his name,
My heart no longer, when I think about him,
Beats stronger, swifter. What have I been prating?
Come, Daya, let us once more to the window
Which overlooks the palms.