Г. Э. Лессинг Nathan the Wise; a dramatic poem in five acts
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.
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.