Part 4

“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.

DAYA.

So that ’tis not Yet satisfied—the more impatient craving.

RECHA.

Now I shall see the palm-trees once again, Not him alone amid them.

DAYA.

This cold fit Is but the harbinger of other fevers.

RECHA.

Cold—cold—I am not cold; but I observe not Less willingly what I behold with calmness.

SCENE.—An Audience Room in the Sultan’s Palace.

SITTAH: SALADIN _giving directions at the door_.

SALADIN.

Here, introduce the Jew, whene’er he comes— He seems in no great haste.

SITTAH.

May be at first He was not in the way.

SALADIN.

Ah, sister, sister!

SITTAH.

You seem as if a combat were impending.

SALADIN.

With weapons that I have not learnt to wield. Must I disguise myself? I use precautions? I lay a snare? When, where gained I that knowledge? And this, for what? To fish for money—money— For money from a Jew—and to such arts Must Saladin descend at last to come at The least of little things?

SITTAH.

Each little thing Despised too much finds methods of revenge.

SALADIN.

’Tis but too true. And if this Jew should prove The fair good man, as once the dervis painted—

SITTAH.

Then difficulties cease. A snare concerns The avaricious, cautious, fearful Jew; And not the good wise man: for he is ours Without a snare. Then the delight of hearing How such a man speaks out; with what stern strength He tears the net, or with what prudent foresight He one by one undoes the tangled meshes; That will be all to boot—

SALADIN.

That I shall joy in.

SITTAH.

What then should trouble thee? For if he be One of the many only, a mere Jew, You will not blush to such a one to seem A man, as he thinks all mankind to be. One, that to him should bear a better aspect, Would seem a fool—a dupe.

SALADIN.

So that I must Act badly, lest the bad think badly of me.

SITTAH.

Yes, if you call it acting badly, brother, To use a thing after its kind.

SALADIN.

There’s nothing That woman’s wit invents it can’t embellish.

SITTAH.

Embellish—

SALADIN.

But their fine-wrought filligree In my rude hand would break. It is for those That can contrive them to employ such weapons: They ask a practised wrist. But chance what may, Well as I can—

SITTAH.

Trust not yourself too little. I answer for you, if you have the will. Such men as you would willingly persuade us It was their swords, their swords alone that raised them. The lion’s apt to be ashamed of hunting In fellowship of the fox—’tis of his fellow Not of the cunning that he is ashamed.

SALADIN.

You women would so gladly level man Down to yourselves. Go, I have got my lesson.

SITTAH.

What—_must_ I go?

SALADIN.

Had you the thought of staying?

SITTAH.

In your immediate presence not indeed, But in the by-room.

SALADIN.

You could like to listen. Not that, my sister, if I may insist. Away! the curtain rustles—he is come. Beware of staying—I’ll be on the watch.

[_While Sittah retires through one door_, _Nathan enters at another_, _and Saladin seats himself_.

SALADIN _and_ NATHAN.

SALADIN.

Draw nearer, Jew, yet nearer; here, quite by me, Without all fear.

NATHAN.

Remain that for thy foes!

SALADIN.

Your name is Nathan?

NATHAN.

Yes.

SALADIN.

Nathan the wise?

NATHAN.

No.

SALADIN.

If not thou, the people calls thee so.

NATHAN.

May be, the people.

SALADIN.

Fancy not that I Think of the people’s voice contemptuously; I have been wishing much to know the man Whom it has named the wise.

NATHAN.

And if it named Him so in scorn. If wise meant only prudent. And prudent, one who knows his interest well.

SALADIN.

Who knows his real interest, thou must mean.

NATHAN.

Then were the interested the most prudent, Then wise and prudent were the same.

SALADIN.

I hear You proving what your speeches contradict. You know man’s real interests, which the people Knows not—at least have studied how to know them. That alone makes the sage.

NATHAN.

Which each imagines Himself to be.

SALADIN.

Of modesty enough! Ever to meet it, where one seeks to hear Dry truth, is vexing. Let us to the purpose— But, Jew, sincere and open—

NATHAN.

I will serve thee So as to merit, prince, thy further notice.

SALADIN.

Serve me—how?

NATHAN.

Thou shalt have the best I bring. Shalt have them cheap.

SALADIN.

What speak you of?—your wares? My sister shall be called to bargain with you For them (so much for the sly listener), I Have nothing to transact now with the merchant.

NATHAN.

Doubtless then you would learn, what, on my journey, I noticed of the motions of the foe, Who stirs anew. If unreserved I may—

SALADIN.

Neither was that the object of my sending: I know what I have need to know already. In short I willed your presence—

NATHAN.

Sultan, order.

SALADIN.

To gain instruction quite on other points. Since you are a man so wise, tell me which law, Which faith appears to you the better?

NATHAN.

Sultan, I am a Jew.

SALADIN.

And I a Mussulman: The Christian stands between us. Of these three Religions only one came be the true. A man, like you, remains not just where birth Has chanced to cast him, or, if he remains there, Does it from insight, choice, from grounds of preference. Share then with me your insight—let me hear The grounds of preference, which I have wanted The leisure to examine—learn the choice, These grounds have motived, that it may be mine. In confidence I ask it. How you startle, And weigh me with your eye! It may well be I’m the first sultan to whom this caprice, Methinks not quite unworthy of a sultan, Has yet occurred. Am I not? Speak then—Speak. Or do you, to collect yourself, desire Some moments of delay—I give them you— (Whether she’s listening?—I must know of her If I’ve done right.) Reflect—I’ll soon return—

[_Saladin steps into the room to which Sittah had retired_.

NATHAN.

Strange! how is this? what wills the sultan of me? I came prepared with cash—he asks truth. Truth? As if truth too were cash—a coin disused That goes by weight—indeed ’tis some such thing— But a new coin, known by the stamp at once, To be flung down and told upon the counter, It is not that. Like gold in bags tied up, So truth lies hoarded in the wise man’s head To be brought out.—Which now in this transaction Which of us plays the Jew; he asks for truth, Is truth what he requires, his aim, his end? That this is but the glue to lime a snare Ought not to be suspected, ’twere too little, Yet what is found too little for the great— In fact, through hedge and pale to stalk at once Into one’s field beseems not—friends look round, Seek for the path, ask leave to pass the gate— I must be cautious. Yet to damp him back, And be the stubborn Jew is not the thing; And wholly to throw off the Jew, still less. For if no Jew he might with right inquire— Why not a Mussulman—Yes—that may serve me. Not children only can be quieted With stories. Ha! he comes—well, let him come.

SALADIN (_returning_).

So, there, the field is clear, I’m not too quick, Thou hast bethought thyself as much as need is, Speak, no one hears.

NATHAN.

Might the whole world but hear us.

SALADIN.

Is Nathan of his cause so confident? Yes, that I call the sage—to veil no truth, For truth to hazard all things, life and goods.

NATHAN.

Aye, when ’tis necessary and when useful.

SALADIN.

Henceforth I hope I shall with reason bear One of my titles—“Betterer of the world And of the law.”

NATHAN.