Part 17
Of perishing? Who saidst thou? Recha? I had not heard of that. I should not then Have needed any house. What! on the point Of perishing? Nay, nay; perchance she's dead-- Is burnt alive. Speak, speak the dreadful truth. Kill me, but do not agonize me thus. Tell me at once she's dead.
DAJA.
And if she were Could you expect to hear it from these lips?
NATHAN.
Why then alarm me? Recha! O my Recha!
DAJA.
Your Recha? Yours?
NATHAN.
And can it ever be That I shall cease to call this child my own?
DAJA.
Is all you have yours by an equal title?
NATHAN.
Nought by a better. What I else enjoy Are Fortune's gifts, or Nature's. This alone-- This treasure do I owe to virtue.
DAJA.
Nathan! How dearly must I pay for all your goodness! If goodness practised for an end like yours Deserves the name.
NATHAN.
An end like mine! What mean you?
DAJA.
My conscience----
NATHAN.
Daja, let me tell you first----
DAJA.
I say my conscience----
NATHAN.
Oh, the gorgeous robe That I have bought for you in Babylon! Costly it is and rare. For Recha's self I have not bought a richer.
DAJA.
What of that? My conscience can be silent now no more.
NATHAN.
I long to witness your delight, to see The bracelets, earrings, and the golden chain Which I selected at Damascus for you.
DAJA.
'Tis always so, you surfeit me with gifts.
NATHAN.
Accept them freely, as they are bestowed, And silence!
DAJA.
Silence! Yes. But who can doubt That you are generosity itself? And yet----
NATHAN.
I'm but a Jew! Daja, confess That I have guessed your thought.
DAJA.
You know my thoughts Far better.
NATHAN.
Well, be silent!
DAJA.
I am dumb. And henceforth all the evil that may spring From this, which I cannot avert, nor change, Fall on your head.
NATHAN.
Let it all fall on me! But where is Recha? What detains her thus? Are you deceiving me? Can she have heard That I am here?
DAJA.
Yourself must answer that. Terror still palpitates through every nerve, And fancy mingles fire with all her thoughts. In sleep her soul's awake; but when awake, Is wrapt in slumber. Less than mortal now, And now far more than angel, she appears.
NATHAN.
Poor child! how frail a thing is human nature!
DAJA.
She lay this morning with her eyelids closed-- One would have thought her dead--when suddenly She started from her couch, and cried, "Hark, hark! Here come my father's camels, and I hear His own sweet voice again!" With that, her eyes Once more she opened, and her arms' support Withdrawn, her head droop'd softly on her pillow. Quickly I hastened forth, and now behold, I find you here. But marvel not at this. Has not her every thought been long engrossed With dreams of you and him?
NATHAN.
Of him! What him?
DAJA.
Of him who from the flames preserved her life.
NATHAN.
And who was he? Where is he? Name the man Who saved my Recha?
DAJA.
A young Templar he! Brought hither captive lately, and restored To freedom by the Sultan.
NATHAN.
How? A Templar? A captive, too, and pardoned by the Sultan? Could not my Recha's life have been preserved By some less wondrous miracle? O God!
DAJA.
But for this stranger's help, who risked afresh The life so unexpectedly restored, Recha had surely perished.
NATHAN.
Where is he? Where is this noble youth? Where is he, Daja? Oh, lead me to his feet! But you already Have surely lavished on him all the wealth That I had left behind; have given him all-- And promised more, much more.
DAJA.
How could we, Nathan?
NATHAN.
Why not?
DAJA.
He came we know not whence, he went We know not whither. To the house a stranger, And guided by his ear alone, he rushed With fearless daring through the smoke and flame, His mantle spread before him, till he reached The spot whence issued piercing screams for help. We thought him lost; when, bursting through the fire, He stood before us, bearing in his arms Her almost lifeless form. Unmoved and cold, Deaf to our cries of thanks, he left his prize, Passed through the wondering crowd, and disappeared.
NATHAN.
But not for ever, Daja, I would hope.
DAJA.
For some days after, 'neath yon spreading palms, Which wave above our blest Redeemer's grave, We saw him pacing thoughtful to and fro. With transport I approached to speak my thanks. I pleaded, begged, entreated that for once, Once only, he would see the grateful maid, Who longed to shed at her preserver's feet Her tears of gratitude.
NATHAN.
Well?
DAJA.
All in vain!
Deaf to my warmest prayers, he poured on me Such bitter taunts----
NATHAN.
That you withdrew dismayed.
DAJA.
Far otherwise. I sought to meet him daily, And daily heard his harsh insulting words. Much have I borne, and would have borne still more; But lately he has ceased his lonely walk Beneath the spreading palms that shade the grave Of Him who rose from death; and no man knows Where he may now be found. You seem surprised.
NATHAN.
I was considering how such a scene Must work upon a mind like Recha's. Scorned By one whom she can never cease to prize; Repelled by one who still attracts her to him. Her head and heart at strife! And long, full long The contest may endure, without the power To say if anger or regret shall triumph. Should neither prove the victor, Fancy then May mingle in the fray, and turn her brain. Then Passion will assume fair Reason's garb, And Reason act like Passion. Fatal change! Such, doubtless, if I know my Recha well, Must be her fate; her mind is now unhinged.
DAJA.
But her illusions are so sweet and holy.
NATHAN.
But yet she raves!
DAJA.
The thought she clings to most, Is that the Templar was no earthly form, But her blest guardian angel, such as she From childhood fancied hovering o'er her path; Who from his veiling cloud, amid the fire Rushed to her aid in her preserver's form. You smile incredulous. Who knows the truth? Permit her to indulge the fond deceit, Which Christian, Jew, and Mussulman alike Agree to own. The illusion is so sweet!
NATHAN.
I love it too. But go, good Daja! go, See what she does--if I can speak with her. This guardian angel, wilful and untamed, I'll then seek out--and if he still is pleased To sojourn here a while with us--or still Is pleased to play the knight so boorishly, I'll doubtless find him out and bring him here.
DAJA.
You are too daring, Nathan.
NATHAN.
Trust me, Daja! If fond delusion yield to sweeter truth-- For human beings ever to their kind Are dearer after all than angels are-- You will not censure me, when you perceive Our lov'd enthusiast's mind again restored.
DAJA.
You are so good, and so discerning, Nathan! But see, behold! Yes, here she comes herself.
Scene II.
Recha, Nathan, _and_ Daja.
RECHA.
And is it you! your very self, my father? I thought you had but sent your voice before you, Where are you lingering still? What mountains, streams, Or deserts now divide us? Here we are Once more together, face to face, and yet You do not hasten to embrace your Recha! Poor Recha! she was almost burnt alive! Yet she escaped----But do not, do not shudder. It were a dreadful death to die by fire!
NATHAN.
My child! my darling child!
RECHA.
Your journey lay Across the Tigris, Jordan, and Euphrates, And many other rivers. 'Till that fire I trembled for your safety, but since then Methinks it were a blessed, happy thing To die by water. But you are not drowned, Nor am I burnt alive. We will rejoice, And thank our God, who bore you on the wings Of unseen angels o'er the treacherous streams, And bade my angel bear me visibly On his white pinion through the raging flames.
NATHAN (_aside_).
On his white pinion! Ha! I see; she means The broad white fluttering mantle of the Templar.
RECHA.
Yes, visibly he bore me through the flames, O'ershadowed by his wings. Thus, face to face, I have beheld an angel--my own angel.
NATHAN.
Recha were worthy of so blest a sight. And would not see in him a fairer form Than he would see in her.
RECHA (_smiling_).
Whom would you flatter-- The angel, dearest father, or yourself?
NATHAN.
And yet methinks, dear Recha, if a man-- Just such a man as Nature daily fashions-- Had rendered you this service, he had been A very angel to you.
RECHA.
But he was No angel of that stamp, but true and real. And have I not full often heard you say 'Tis possible that angels may exist? And how God still works miracles for those Who love Him? And I love Him dearly, father.
NATHAN.
And He loves you; and 'tis for such as you That He from all eternity has wrought Such ceaseless wonders daily.
RECHA.
How I love To hear you thus discourse!
NATHAN.
Well, though it sound A thing but natural and common-place That you should by a Templar have been saved, Is it the less a miracle for that? The greatest of all miracles seems this: That real wonders, genuine miracles, Can seem and grow so commonplace to us. Without this universal miracle, Those others would scarce strike a thinking man, Awaking wonder but in children's minds, Who love to stare at strange, unusual things, And hunt for novelty.
DAJA.
Why will you thus With airy subtleties perplex her mind, Already overheated?
NATHAN.
Silence, Daja! And was it then no miracle that Recha Should be indebted for her life to one Whom no small miracle preserved himself? Who ever heard before, that Saladin Pardoned a Templar? that a Templar asked it-- Hoped it--or for his ransom offered more Than his own sword--belt, or at most his dagger?
RECHA.
That argues for me, father! All this proves That my preserver was no Templar knight, But only seemed so. If no captive Templar Has e'er come hither but to meet his death, And through Jerus'lem cannot wander free, How could I find one, in the night, to save me?
NATHAN.
Ingenious, truly! Daja, you must speak. Doubtless, you know still more about this knight; For 'twas from you I learnt he was a prisoner.
DAJA.
'Tis but report indeed, but it is said That Saladin gave freedom to the knight, Moved by the likeness which his features bore To a lost brother whom he dearly loved, Though since his disappearance twenty years Have now elapsed. He fell I know not where, And e'en his very name's a mystery. But the whole tale sounds so incredible, It may be mere invention, pure romance.
NATHAN.
And why incredible? Would you reject This story, Daja, as so oft is done, To fix on something more incredible, And credit that? Why should not Saladin, To whom his race are all so dear, have loved In early youth a brother now no more? Since when have features ceased to be alike? Is an impression lost because 'tis old? Will the same cause not work a like effect? What, then, is so incredible? My Daja, This can to you be no great miracle; Or does a wonder only claim belief When it proceeds from you?
DAJA.
You mock me, Nathan!
NATHAN.
Nay, 'tis the very tone you use yourself. And yet, dear Recha, your escape from death Remains no less a miracle Of Him who turns the proud resolves of kings To mockery, or guides them to their end By the most slender threads.
RECHA.
O father, father! My error is not wilful, if I err.
NATHAN.
No, I have ever found you glad to learn. See, then, a forehead vaulted thus or thus, A nose of such a shape, and brows that shade The eye with straighter or with sharper curve, A spot, a mole, a wrinkle, or a line-- A nothing--in an European's face, And you are saved in Asia from the flames! Is that no wonder, wonder-seeking folk? What need to summon angels to your aid?
DAJA.
But, Nathan, where's the harm,--if I may speak-- In thinking one was rescued by an angel Rather than by a man? Are we not brought Thus nearer to the first mysterious cause Of our life's preservation?
NATHAN.
Pride, rank pride! The iron pot would with a silver tongs Be lifted from the furnace, to believe Itself a silver vase! Well! where's the harm? And "where's the good?" I well may ask in turn. Your phrase, "It brings you nearer to the first Mysterious cause!" is nonsense--if 'tis not Rank blasphemy:--it works a certain harm. Attend to me. To him who saved your life, Whether he be an angel or a man, You both--and you especially--should pay Substantial services in just return. Is not this true? Now, what great services Have you the power to render to an angel! To sing his praise--to pour forth sighs and prayers-- Dissolve in transports of devotion o'er him-- Fast on his vigil, and distribute alms? Mere nothings! for 'tis clear your neighbour gains Far more than he by all this piety. Not by your abstinence will he grow fat, Nor by your alms will he be rendered rich; Nor by your transports is his glory raised, Nor by your faith in him his power increased. Say, is not all this true? But to a man----
DAJA.
No doubt a man had furnished us with more Occasions to be useful to himself; God knows how willingly we had seized them! But he who saved her life demanded nought; He needed nothing--in himself complete And self--sufficient--as the angels are;
RECHA.
And when at last he vanished----
NATHAN.
How was that? Did he then vanish? 'Neath yon spreading palms Has he not since been seen? Or have you sought Elsewhere to find him?
DAJA.
No, in truth we've not.
NATHAN.
Not sought him, Daja? Cold enthusiasts! See now the harm: suppose your angel stretched Upon a bed of sickness!
DAJA.
Sickness, what!
RECHA.
A chill creeps over me. I shudder, Daja! My forehead, which till now was warm, becomes As cold as very ice; come, feel it, Daja.
NATHAN.
He is a Frank, unused to this hot clime, Young and unpractised in his order's rules, In fastings and in watchings quite untrained.
RECHA.
Sick! sick!
DAJA.
Your father means 'twere possible.
NATHAN.
Friendless and penniless, he may be lying Without the means to purchase aid.
RECHA.
Alas!
NATHAN.
Without advice, or hope, or sympathy, May lie a prey to agony and death.
RECHA.
Where, where?
NATHAN.
And yet for one he never knew-- Enough for him it was a human being-- He plunged amid the flames and----
DAJA.
Spare her, Nathan!
NATHAN.
He sought no more to know the being whom He rescued thus--he shunned her very thanks----
RECHA.
Oh, spare her!
NATHAN.
Did not wish to see her more, Unless to save her for the second time-- Enough for him that she was human!
DAJA.
Hold!
NATHAN.
He may have nothing to console him dying, Save the remembrance of his deed.
DAJA.
You kill her!
NATHAN.
And you kill him, or might have done at least. 'Tis med'cine that I give, not poison, Recha! But be of better cheer: he lives--perhaps He is not ill.
RECHA.
Indeed? not dead--not ill?
NATHAN.
Assuredly not dead--for God rewards Good deeds done here below--rewards them hero. Then go, but ne'er forget how easier far Devout enthusiasm is, than good deeds. How soon our indolence contents itself With pious raptures, ignorant, perhaps, Of their ulterior end, that we may be Exempted from the toil of doing good.
RECHA.
O father! leave your child no more alone.-- But may he not have only gone a journey?
NATHAN.
Perhaps. But who is yonder Mussulman, Numbering with curious eye my laden camels? Say, do you know him?
DAJA.
Surely your own Dervise.
NATHAN.
Who?
DAJA.
Your Dervise--your old chess companion.
NATHAN.
Al-Hafi do you mean? What!--that Al-Hafi?
DAJA.
No other: now the Sultan's treasurer.
NATHAN.
What, old Al-Hafi? Do you dream again? And yet 'tis he himself--he's coming hither. Quick, in with you! What am I now to hear?
Scene III.
Nathan _and the_ Dervise.
DERVISE.
Ay, lift your eyes and wonder.
NATHAN.
Is it you? A Dervise so magnificent!
DERVISE.
Why not? Can you make nothing of a Dervise, Nathan?
NATHAN.
Ay, surely, but I've still been wont to think A Dervise--I would say a thorough Dervise-- Will ne'er let anything be made of him.
DERVISE.
Well, by the Prophet! though it may be true That I'm no thorough Dervise, yet one must----
NATHAN.
_Must_, Hafi! You a Dervise! No man _must_---- And least of all a Dervise.
DERVISE.
Nay, he must, When he is much implored and deems it right.
NATHAN.
Well spoken, Hafi! Let us now embrace. You're still, I trust, my friend.
DERVISE.
Why not ask first What has been made of me?
NATHAN.
I take my chance, In spite of all that has been made of you.
DERVISE.
May I not be a servant of the state Whose friendship is no longer good for you?
NATHAN.
If you but still possess your Dervise heart I'll run the risk of that. The stately robe Is but your cloak.
DERVISE.
And yet it claims some honour. But, tell me truly, at a court of yours What had been Hafi's rank?
NATHAN.
A Dervise only-- Or, if aught else--perhaps my cook.
DERVISE.
Why yes! That I might thus unlearn my native trade, Your cook! why not your butler? But the Sultan-- He knows me better--I'm his treasurer.
NATHAN.
What, you?--his treasurer?
DERVISE.
Mistake me not, I only bear his lesser purse; his father Still manages the greater, and I am The treasurer of his house.
NATHAN.
His house is large!
DERVISE.
Far larger than you think--all needy men Are of his house.
NATHAN.
Yet Saladin is such A foe to beggars!
DERVISE.
That he'd root them out, Though he turned beggar in the enterprise.
NATHAN.
Bravo! I meant as much.
DERVISE.
He's one already. His treasury at sunset every day Is worse than empty; and although the tide Flowed high at morn, 'tis ebb before the noon.
NATHAN.
Because it flows through channels such as we Can neither stop nor fill.
DERVISE.
You hit the truth.
NATHAN.
I know it well.
DERVISE.
Ah! 'tis an evil case When kings are vultures amid carcases, But ten times worse when they're the carcases Amid the vultures.
NATHAN.
Dervise, 'tis not so.
DERVISE.
Is that your thought? But, come, what will you give If I resign my office in your favour?
NATHAN.
What are your profits?
DERVISE.
Mine? not much; but you Would soon grow rich; for when, as oft occurs, The Sultan's treasury is at an ebb, You might unlock your sluices, pour in gold, And take in form of interest what you please.
NATHAN.
And interest on the interest of the interest.
DERVISE.
Of course.
NATHAN.
Until my capital becomes All interest.
DERVISE.
Well! is not the offer tempting? Farewell for ever to our friendship then, For I had counted on you.
NATHAN.
How so, Hafi?
DERVISE.
I thought you would have helped me to discharge My task with credit; that I should have found Your treasury ready. Ha! you shake your head.
NATHAN.
Let us explain. We must distinguish here. To you, Dervise Al-Hafi, all I have Is welcome; but to you, the Defterdar Of Saladin--to that Al-Hafi, who----
DERVISE.
I guessed as much. You ever are as good As you are wise and prudent. Only wait. The two Al-Hafis you distinguish thus Will soon be parted. See, this robe of honour, Which Saladin bestowed, before 'tis worn To rags, and suited to a Dervise back, Will in Jerusalem hang from a nail; Whilst I, upon the Ganges' scorching strand, Barefoot amid my teachers will be found.
NATHAN.
That's like yourself!
DERVISE.
Or playing chess with them.
NATHAN.
Your greatest bliss!
DERVISE.
What do you think seduced me? Hopes of escaping future penury, The pride of acting the rich man to beggars, Would this have metamorphosed all at once The richest beggar to a poor rich man?
NATHAN.
No.
DERVISE.
But I yielded to a sillier whim. For the first time I felt myself allured By Saladin's kind-hearted, flattering words.
NATHAN.
And what were they?
DERVISE.
He said a beggar's wants Are known but to the poor alone; that they Alone can tell how want should be relieved. "Thy predecessor was too cold," he said, "Too harsh, and when he gave, 'twas with a frown. He searched each case too strictly, not content To find out want, he would explore the cause, And thus he measured out his niggard alms. Not so wilt thou bestow, and Saladin Will not appear so harshly kind in thee. Thou art not like that choked-up conduit-pipe, Whence in unequal streams the water flows, Which it receives in pure and copious stores. Al-Hafi thinks, Al-Hafi feels like me." The fowler whistled, and at last the quail Ran to his net. Cheated, and by a cheat?
NATHAN.
Hush, Dervise, hush!
DERVISE.
What! is it not a cheat To grind mankind by hundred thousands thus! Oppress them, plunder, butcher, and torment, And singly play the philanthropic part? Not cheating, to pretend to imitate That heavenly bounty, which in even course Descends alike on desert and on plain, On good and bad, in sunshine and in shower, And not possess the never empty hand Of the Most High! Not cheating----
NATHAN.
Dervise, cease!
DERVISE.
Nay, let me speak of cheating of my own, How now? Were it not cheating to seek out The bright side of impostures such as these, That under colour of this brighter side I might take part in them? What say you now?
NATHAN.
Fly to your desert quickly. Amongst men I fear you'll soon unlearn to be a man.
DERVISE.
I fear so too. Farewell!
NATHAN.
What, so abrupt? Stay, stay, Al-Hafi! Has the desert wings? It will not fly away. Here, stay, Al-Hafi! He's gone; he's gone. I would that I had asked About that Templar; he must know the man.
Scene IV.
Daja (_rushing in_), Nathan.
DAJA.
O Nathan, Nathan!
NATHAN.
Well! what now?
DAJA.
He's there. He shows himself once more.
NATHAN.
Who, Daja--who?
DAJA.
He--he!
NATHAN.
Where cannot he be found? But _he_ You mean, is, I suppose, the only _He_. That should not be, were he an angel's self.
DAJA.
Beneath the palms he wanders up and down, And gathers dates.
NATHAN.
And eats them, I suppose, Just as a Templar would.
DAJA.
You mock me, sir! Her eager eye espied him long ago, When scarcely seen amid the distant trees. She watches him intently, and implores That you will go to him without delay. Then go, and from the window she will mark Which way his paces tend. Go, go; make haste!
NATHAN.
What! thus, as I alighted from my camel? Would that be seemly? But do you accost him; Tell him of my return. I do not doubt You'll find the honest man forbore our house Because the host was absent. He'll accept A father's invitation. Say I ask him, I heartily request him.
DAJA.
All in vain! In short, he will not visit any Jew.
NATHAN.
Then use your best endeavours to detain him, Or, with unerring eye, observe his steps, And mark him well. Go, I shall not be long.
(Nathan _enters the house_. Daja _retires_.)
Scene V.
_A Place of Palms. The_ Templar, _walking to and fro; a_ Friar, _following him at some distance, as if desirous of addressing him_.
TEMPLAR.