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-tim’d message, Nathan
Had brought him in.
RECHA. And when this moment comes,
And when this warmest inmost of my wishes
Shall be fulfill’d, 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 fulfill’d—
My wish to see thee plac’d 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 effac’d,
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 destin’d 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 scatter’d 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 sow’d unmix’d,
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 odor,
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 behooves not. Latterly thy angel
Had made me half a fool. I am asham’d,
Whene’er I see my father, of the folly.
DAYA. As if here only wisdom were at home—
Folly—if I dar’d 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 bestow’d
My admiration, to their sufferings yielded
The tribute...