Part 8

I think, I hope so. And should she there have need of any thing Has she not you and me?

TEMPLAR.

Need at her brother’s— What should she need when there? Won’t he provide His 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 how Others will mar it now!

NATHAN.

Be not so downcast, Believe me he will ever keep himself Worthy 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 suspicion Of 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 me First learn what fate is threatening. My fixed purpose To 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 learn If this girl’s soul be masculine enough To form the only resolution worthy Herself.

NATHAN.

What resolution?

TEMPLAR.

This—to ask No more about her brother and her father, And—

NATHAN.

And—

TEMPLAR.

To follow me. E’en if she were So 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, come Thither with me.

TEMPLAR.

Her brother, whose then? Sittah’s Or Recha’s do you mean?

NATHAN.

Both, both, perchance. Come this way—I beseech you, come with me.

[_Leads off the Templar with him_.

SCENE.—The Sultan’s Palace. A Room in Sittah’s Apartment.

SITTAH _and_ RECHA.

SITTAH.

How I am pleased with thee, sweet girl! But do Shake 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 spoke Of 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 father Hates cold book-learning, which makes an impression With 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 it I 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 herself And books do seldom leave us so; my father Says.

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 father I 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 forgetful With whom I am. Tears, sobbing, and despair, Can not avail with Sittah. Cool calm reason Alone is over her omnipotent; Whose cause that pleads before her, he has conquered.

SITTAH.

Well, then!

RECHA.

My friend, my sister, suffer not Another 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 me To 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 must From love torment—is one of those enthusiasts Who think they only know the one true road To God.

SITTAH.

I comprehend thee.

RECHA.

And who feel Themselves in duty bound to point it out To every one who is not in this path, To lead, to drag them into it. And indeed They can’t do otherwise consistently; For if theirs really be the only road On which ’tis safe to travel—they cannot With comfort see their friends upon another Which leads to ruin, to eternal ruin: Else were it possible at the same instant To love and hate the same man. Nor is ’t this Which 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 thoughts Useful and good; and whom does it not flatter To be by whomsoever held so dear, So precious, that they cannot bear the thought Of 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 hitherward We 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 right Thro’ this old fane—she leads the way, I follow. My eyes with horror overran the dim And tottering ruin—all at once she stops By the sunk steps of a low Moorish altar.— O how I felt, when there, with streaming tears And wringing hands, prostrate before my feet She fell

SITTAH.

Good child—

RECHA.

And by the holy Virgin, Who there had hearkened many a prayer, and wrought Many 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 unfold What 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, _and_ RECHA.

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 upon The Sultan’s countenance—I’ll not admire The bright reflection of eternal justice And 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 tell What other wants to be my father. Who Can want it, care I not to inquire. Does blood Alone then make the father? blood alone?

SALADIN (_raising her_).

Who was so cruel in thy breast to shed This 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 gives The first right to endeavour at deserving The name of father. If there be two fathers At 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 methinks A better thought occurs, what hast thou need Of father upon father? They will die, So that ’tis better to look out by times For one that starts fair, and stakes life with life On 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, that The fair it must make charming—I have ordered Thy father Nathan hither, and another, Dost guess who ’tis? one other.—Sittah, you Will 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, _and_ TEMPLAR.

SALADIN.

Welcome, my dear good friends. Nathan, to you I’ve first to mention, you may send and fetch Your monies when you will.

NATHAN.

Sultan—

SALADIN.

And now I’m at your service.

NATHAN.

Sultan—

SALADIN.

For my treasures Are all arrived. The caravan is safe. I’m richer than I’ve been these many years. Now tell me what you wish for, to achieve Some splendid speculation—you in trade Like us, have never too much ready cash.

NATHAN (_going towards Recha_).

Why first about this trifle?—I behold An eye in tears, which ’tis far more important To 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 understood By one another; but be calm, be cheerful. If else thy heart be yet thy own—if else No threatened loss thy trembling bosom wring Thy father shall remain to thee.

RECHA.

None, none.

TEMPLAR.

None, none—then I’m deceived. What we don’t fear To lose, we never fancied, never wished Ourselves 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 awkward Not to be certain of thy cause.

TEMPLAR.

I now Do know my doom,

SALADIN.

Pride in an act of service Revokes the benefit. What thou hast saved Is 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 had Paused, and not saved thee. Balance then the one Against 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 more By this thou do for him than he for thee— What, what in fact has he then done for thee But 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 step Is 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 belongs A vote to such a foster-father—and The first, if you require it. You perceive I 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 here I 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 past The lips of Assad. Go but on—

NATHAN.

Forgive him, I can forgive him readily. Who knows What 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 first Favoured 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, observe I do not tax you with a falsehood.

TEMPLAR.

No?

NATHAN.

May be you with propriety can wear Yon name as well.

TEMPLAR.

I think so too. (God—God Put 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 seek This land once more) was Conrade. He perhaps Adopted 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 Syria With the last reinforcement of our order, But—but what has all this long tale to do With 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 himself Leonard of Filnek, but he was no German.

TEMPLAR.

You know that too?

NATHAN.

He had espoused a German, And followed for a time your mother thither.

TEMPLAR.

No more I beg of you—But Recha’s brother—

NATHAN.

Art thou

TEMPLAR.

I, I her brother—

RECHA.

He, my brother?

SITTAH.

So near akin—

RECHA (_offers to clasp him_).

My brother!

TEMPLAR (_steps back_).

Brother to her—

RECHA (_turning to Nathan_).

It cannot be, his heart knows nothing of it. We are deceivers, God.

SALADIN (_to the templar_).

Deceivers, yes; All is deceit in thee, face, voice, walk, gesture, Nothing belongs to thee. How, not acknowledge A sister such as she? Go.

TEMPLAR (_modestly approaching him_).

Sultan, Sultan O do not misinterpret my amazement— Thou never saw’st in such a moment, prince, Thy Assad’s heart—mistake not him and me.

[_Hastening towards Nathan_.

O Nathan, you have taken, you have given, Both with full hands indeed; and now—yes—yes, You give me more than you have taken from me, Yes, infinitely more—my sister—sister.

[_Embraces Recha_.

NATHAN.

Blanda of Filnek.

TEMPLAR.

Blanda, ha! not Recha, Your Recha now no longer—you resign her, Give her her Christian name again, and then For my sake turn her off. Why Nathan, Nathan, Why must she suffer for it? she for me?

NATHAN.

What mean you? O my children, both my children— For sure my daughter’s brother is my child, So soon as he but will it!

[_While they embrace Nathan by turns_, _Saladin draws nigh to Sittah_.

SALADIN.

What sayst thou Sittah to this?

SITTAH.

I’m deeply moved.

SALADIN.

And I Half tremble at the thought of the emotion Still greater, still to come. Nathan, a word

[_While he converses with Nathan_, _Sittah goes to express her sympathy to the others_.

With thee apart. Wast thou not saying also That her own father was no German born? What was he then? Whence was he?

NATHAN.

He himself Never intrusted me with that. From him I knew it not.

SALADIN.

You say he was no Frank?

NATHAN.

No, that he owned: he loved to talk the Persian.

SALADIN.

The Persian—need I more? ’Tis he—’twas he!

NATHAN.

Who?

SALADIN.

Assad certainly, my brother Assad.

NATHAN.

If thou thyself perceive it, be assured; Look in this book—

[_Gives the breviary_.

SALADIN (_eagerly looking_.)

O ’tis his hand, his hand, I recollect it well.

NATHAN.

They know it not; It rests with thee what they shall learn of this.

SALADIN (_turning over the breviary_.)

I not acknowledge my own brother’s children, Not own my nephew—not my children—I Leave them to thee? Yes, Sittah, it is they,

[_Aloud_.

They are my brother’s and thy brother’s children.

[_Rushes to embrace them_.

SITTAH.

What do I hear? Could it be otherwise?

[_The like_.

SALADIN (_to the templar_).

Now, proud boy, thou shalt love me, thou must love me,

[_To Recha_.

And I am, what I offered to become, With or without thy leave.

SITTAH.

I too—I too.

SALADIN (_to the templar_.)

My son—my Assad—my lost Assad’s son.

TEMPLAR.

I of thy blood—then those were more than dreams With which they used to lull my infancy— Much more.

[_Falls at the Sultan’s feet_.

SALADIN (_raising him_.)

Now mark his malice. Something of it He knew, yet would have let me butcher him— Boy, boy!

[_During the silent continuance of reciprocal embraces the curtain falls_.