Nathan the Wise; a dramatic poem in five acts

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.