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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Dramatic Works of G. E. Lessing, by 
+Gotthold Ephraim Lessing
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Dramatic Works of G. E. Lessing
+       Miss Sara Sampson, Philotas, Emilia Galotti, Nathan the Wise
+
+Author: Gotthold Ephraim Lessing
+
+Contributor: Helen Zimmern
+
+Translator: Ernest Bell
+
+Release Date: August 15, 2010 [EBook #33435]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DRAMATIC WORKS OF LESSING ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books
+
+
+
+
+
+Transcriber's Note:
+1. Page scan source:
+   http://books.google.com/books?id=BPQIAAAAQAAJ&pg
+
+
+
+
+
+[Illustration: Lessing.]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                           THE DRAMATIC WORKS
+
+                                   OF
+
+                             G. E. LESSING.
+
+
+                      Translated from the German.
+
+
+
+                               EDITED BY
+                           ERNEST BELL, M.A.,
+                      TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
+
+
+
+                 WITH A SHORT MEMOIR BY HELEN ZIMMERN.
+
+
+
+           _MISS SARA SAMPSON_, _PHILOTAS_, _EMILIA GALOTTI_,
+                           _NATHAN THE WISE_.
+
+
+
+
+                                LONDON:
+                   GEORGE BELL AND SONS, YORK STREET,
+                             COVENT GARDEN.
+                                 1878.
+
+
+
+
+
+                                LONDON:
+                  PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES ANB SONS,
+                   STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
+
+
+
+
+                                PREFACE.
+
+
+A Translation of some of Lessing's works has long been contemplated for
+'Bonn's Standard Library,' and the publishers are glad to be able to
+bring it out at a time when an increased appreciation of this writer
+has become manifest in this country.
+
+The publication of Mr. Sime's work on Lessing, and the almost
+simultaneous appearance of Miss Helen Zimmern's shorter but probably
+more popular biographical study, will, without doubt, tend to spread
+amongst English-speaking people a knowledge of a writer who is held in
+peculiar reverence by his own countrymen; and there is little, if
+anything, of what he wrote that does not appeal in some way or other to
+the sympathies of Englishmen.
+
+In this translation it is purposed to include the most popular of his
+works--the first two volumes comprising all the finished dramatic
+pieces, whilst the third will contain the famous 'Laokoon,' and a large
+portion of the 'Hamburg Dramaturgy' (here called 'Dramatic Notes'), and
+some other smaller pieces.
+
+The arrangement of the plays is as follows:--The first volume contains
+the three tragedies and the "dramatic poem," 'Nathan the Wise.' This
+last piece and 'Emilia Galotti' are translated by Mr. R. Dillon Boylan,
+whose English versions of Schiller's 'Don Carlos,' Goethe's 'Wilhelm
+Meister,' &c., had previously distinguished him in this path of
+literature.
+
+The second volume will be found to consist entirely of comedies,
+arranged according to the date of composition; and as it happens that
+all these comedies, with the exception of the last and best, 'Minna von
+Barnhelm,' were written before he published any more serious dramatic
+composition, we have, by reversing the order of the first two volumes,
+an almost exactly chronological view of Lessing's dramatic work. The
+later section of it has been placed at the commencement of the series,
+simply because it was more convenient to include in it the introductory
+notice which Miss Zimmern kindly consented to write.
+
+York Street, Covent Garden.
+      _June_ 1878.
+
+
+
+
+                               CONTENTS.
+
+
+      Memoir
+
+      Miss Sara Sampson
+
+      Philotas
+
+      Emilia Galotti
+
+      Nathan The Wise
+
+
+
+
+                                LESSING.
+
+
+Since Luther, Germany has produced no greater or better man than
+Gotthold Ephraim Lessing; these two are Germany's pride and joy.
+
+This is the witness of Heine, and with Goethe in memory, none would
+pronounce the statement too bold. Luther and Lessing are Germany's
+representative men; each inaugurates an epoch the very existence of
+which would not have been possible without him. Nor is this the only
+point of analogy. Lessing was the Luther of the eighteenth century.
+Like Luther, Lessing is distinguished by earnestness, ardour, true
+manliness, fierce hatred of dissimulation, largeness of mind, breadth,
+and profundity of thought. Like Luther, he stands in history a massive
+presence whereon the weak may lean. Like Luther, he led the vanguard of
+reform in every department of human learning into which he penetrated.
+Like Luther, he was true to every conviction, and did not shrink from
+its expression. Like Luther, he could have said, "I was born to fight
+with devils and storms, and hence it is that my writings are so
+boisterous and stormy." Like Luther, he became the founder of a new
+religion and of a new German literature. And again, like Luther, his
+life labours were not for Germany alone, but spread over all Europe;
+and few of us know how much of our present culture we owe directly or
+indirectly to Lessing's influence.
+
+In this country he has not been sufficiently known. Up to the present,
+his name has been familiar to Englishmen only as the author of the
+'Laokoon,' 'Nathan the Wise,' and, possibly also, of 'Minna von
+Barnhelm.' In knowing these, we certainly know the names of some of his
+masterpieces, but we cannot thence deduce the entire cause of the man's
+far-spreading influence.
+
+Fully to understand Lessing's influence, and fully to understand the
+bearing of his works, some slight previous acquaintance with German
+literature is absolutely requisite. For unless we comprehend the source
+whence an author's inspirations have sprung, we may often misconceive
+his views. And Lessing's writings, above all, essentially sprang from
+the needs of his time. The subject is a large one, and can only be
+briefly indicated here; but we venture to remark, for those whose
+interest may be aroused in the subject of this volume, that the fuller
+their knowledge of the man and the motive force that evoked his works,
+the keener will be their enjoyment of these works themselves.
+
+In naming Lessing, Goethe, and Schiller, we utter the three greatest
+names that German literature can boast. And between the three runs a
+connecting link of endeavour; the efforts of none can be conceived
+without the efforts of the others; but Lessing was the leader. He was
+the mental pathfinder who smoothed the way for Goethe's genius, and
+prepared the popular understanding for Schiller, the poetical
+interpreter of Kant.
+
+Lessing was born in the early years of the eighteenth century, at a
+time therefore when Germany may be said practically to have had no
+literature. For the revival of learning, the interest in letters that
+arose with the Reformation, and had been fostered by the emancipating
+spirit of Protestantism, had been blighted and extinguished by the
+terrible wars that ravaged the country for thirty years, impoverishing
+the people, destroying the homesteads and farms, and utterly
+annihilating the mental repose needful to the growth and to the just
+appreciation of literature. Books were destroyed as relentlessly in
+those sad times as flourishing cornfields were down-trodden by the iron
+heel of the invader. It was a fearful period of anarchy and
+retrogression, under the baneful effects of which Germany still
+labours. Peace was at last restored in 1648 by the Treaty of
+Westphalia, but it found the nation broken in spirit and vigour, and
+where material needs entirely absorb the mental energies of a people
+the Muses cannot flourish. And not only was the spirit of the people
+broken by the war, their national feeling seemed totally extinct. The
+bold fine language wherewith Luther had endowed them was neglected and
+despised by the better classes, who deemed servile imitation of the
+foreigner the true and only criterion of good taste. It grew, at last,
+to be held quite a distinction for a German to be unable to speak his
+own language correctly, and it seems probable that but for the
+religious utterances of the hymn-writers, who thus provided the poor
+oppressed people with ideal consolations, the very essence of the
+language, in all its purity, might have perished. It is among these
+hymn-writers that we must seek and shall find the finest, truest, and
+most national expressions of that time. Shortly before Lessing's birth
+there had awakened a sense of this national degradation, and some
+princes and nobles formed themselves into a society to suppress the
+fashionable Gallicisms and reinstate the people's language. Their
+efforts met with some little success, but their powers were too
+limited, and their attempts too artificial and jejune to exert any
+considerable influence either in the direction of conservation or of
+reform. It needed something stronger, bolder, to dispel the apathy of a
+century. Still these associations, known as the two Silesian schools,
+bore their part in sowing the good seed, and though most of it fell on
+stony ground, because there was little other ground for it whereon to
+fall, still some fell on fruitful earth, and brought forth in due
+season. An excessive interest in French literature was opposed by an
+equal interest in English literature. The adherents of these two
+factions formed what was known as the Swiss and Leipzig schools. They
+waged a fierce paper warfare, that had the good effect of once more
+attracting popular attention to the claims of letters, as well as
+showing the people that in French manners, French language, and French
+literature, the Alpha and Omega of culture need not of necessity be
+sought. The leader of the Leipzig faction, who stood by the French, was
+Gottsched, a German professor of high pretensions and small merits, who
+put his opponents on their mettle by his pedantic and arrogant attacks.
+He had instituted himself a national dictator of good taste, and for a
+long time it seemed probable that he and his party would triumph. His
+ultimate defeat was accomplished by Lessing, whose early boyhood was
+contemporaneous with the fiercest encounters of these antagonists. It
+was he who gave the death-blow to their factious disputes, and referred
+the nation back to itself and its own national glory and power. He
+found Germany without original literature, and, before his short life
+was ended, the splendid genius of Goethe shed its light over the land.
+Who and what was the man who effected so much?
+
+Gotthold Ephraim Lessing was born on the twenty-second of January,
+1729, at Camentz, a small town in Saxony, of which his father was head
+pastor. For several generations Lessing's ancestors had been
+distinguished for their learning, and with few exceptions they had all
+held ecclesiastical preferment. The father of Gotthold Ephraim was a
+man of no inconsiderable talents and acquirements. His upright
+principles, breadth of vision and scholarly attainments, made him a
+venerated example to his son, with whom he maintained through life the
+most cordial relationship, though the son's yet more enlightened
+standpoint came to transcend the comprehension of the father. Their
+first divergence occurred on the choice of a profession. It had been
+traditional among the Lessings that the eldest son should take orders,
+and accordingly Gotthold Ephraim was silently assumed to be training
+for the ministry. He was sent for this end, first to the Grammar-school
+of his native town, then to a public school at Meissen, and finally to
+the University of Leipzig. At Meissen he distinguished himself in
+classical studies, and attempted some original German verses. He
+outstripped his compeers, and before he had accomplished his
+curriculum, the rector recommended his removal, inasmuch as he had
+exhausted the resources of the school. At Leipzig he appeared to turn
+his back on study. He deserted the class-rooms of the theologians and
+was the more constant attendant instead at the theatre, at that time
+the _bête noire_ of all who affected respectability, and decried loudly
+by the clergy as a very hotbed of vice. News of their son's haunts
+reached the dismayed parents. They urged him to abandon his courses,
+that could only end in mental and moral destruction. In vain the son
+represented to them that he had lived in retirement too long, that he
+now wished to become acquainted with the world and men, and that he
+held the theatre to be a popular educator. In vain he represented that
+he did attend the philosophical courses of Professors Kaestner,
+Ernesti, and Christ. He was a playgoer, and what was still worse, he
+was a play-writer, for the directress of the Leipzig Theatre, Frau
+Neuber, a woman, of great taste and intelligence, had put on the stage
+Lessing's juvenile effort, 'The Young Scholar.' Nay more, he associated
+with a notorious freethinker, Mylius, and in concert with him had
+contributed to various journals and periodicals. And meanwhile the
+magistracy of Camentz was allowing Lessing a stipend on condition of
+studying theology. It was too much. His son was neglecting the _dic cur
+hic_, and to obviate this the father recalled him home by a stratagem,
+informing him that his mother was dying and desired once more to see
+her son. The _ruse_, intended also as a test of Lessing's filial
+obedience, succeeded in so far as to prove that this was at least
+unshaken; but his parents urged in vain that he should abandon his evil
+ways. He once more expressed with great decision his disinclination
+towards a theological career. But he was also firmly resolved to be no
+longer a burden to his parents, whose large family was a great drain on
+their resources. He determined to follow Mylius, who had gone to Berlin
+in the capacity of editor, convinced that a good brain and steadfast
+will would force their own way in the world.
+
+Accordingly Lessing settled in Berlin in 1748, a youth of barely twenty
+years, prepared to fight a hand-to-hand struggle for existence.
+Frederick the Great at that time ruled in Prussia, and his capital was
+in ill repute as a hotbed of frivolity and atheism. If anything could
+be worse in the parents' eyes than their son's attendance at the
+theatre, it was his presence at Berlin. They urged his return home. He
+refused respectfully but decidedly. He had found employment that
+remunerated him. Voss's _Gazette_ had appointed him literary editor, he
+wrote its critical feuilletons, and here he had the first opportunity
+of attacking the Swiss and Leipzig factions, and of exposing the
+absurdities of both schools. He was able to teach himself Spanish and
+Italian, he translated for the booksellers, he catalogued a library;
+and while thus earning his livelihood _tant bien que mal_, he
+indirectly prosecuted his studies and enlarged his knowledge of
+literature and life. For at Berlin he was not forced to associate only
+with books, he also came in contact with intellectual men, his views
+expanded, his judgment became sure. A volume of minor poems that he
+published in 1751 excited attention.
+
+The essays he contributed to Voss's _Gazette_ gave him notoriety on
+account of their independent spirit, their pregnant flashes of
+originality and truth. This unknown youth ventured alone and
+unsupported to attack Gottsched's meretricious writings, and so
+successfully that even the vain dictator trembled, and the rival
+schools asked each other who was this Daniel that had come to judgment?
+With pitiless subtlety he exposed the crudity, the inflation of
+Klopstock's 'Messiah,' which at that time one half the world extolled,
+the other half abused, while he alone could truly distinguish in what
+respects the poem fell short of its pretensions to be a national epic,
+and where its national importance and merit really lay.
+
+For two years Lessing remained at Berlin; busy years, in which he
+scattered these treatises teeming with discernment and genius. Then at
+the end of that time he felt himself exhausted, he craved seclusion, in
+which he could once more live for himself and garner up fresh stores of
+knowledge. The city and his numerous friends were too distracting. So
+one day he stole away without previous warning and installed himself in
+the quiet university town of Wittenberg. At Wittenberg he spent a year
+of quiet study. The University library was freely opened to him, and he
+could boast that it did not contain a book he had not held in his
+hands. Wittenberg: being chiefly a theological university, Lessing's
+attention was principally attracted to that subject, and he here laid
+the foundations of the accurate knowledge that was in after years to
+stand him in great stead. When he had exhausted all that Wittenberg
+could offer, he one day (1752) reappeared at Berlin as unexpectedly as
+he had quitted it, and quickly resumed his old relations there, which
+proved as busy and significant as before. Lessing again maintained
+himself by authorship, but this time his productions were riper. He
+published several volumes of his writings. They contained treatises
+composed at Wittenberg, Rehabilitations (_Rettungen_) of distinguished
+men, whom he held the world had maligned, as well as several plays,
+among which were the 'Jews,' 'The Woman-hater,' 'The Freethinker,' 'The
+Treasure,' as well as the fragmentary play 'Samuel Henzi,' a novel
+attempt to treat of modern historical incidents on the stage. A
+somewhat savage attack, entitled 'Vade mecum,' in which he criticised
+unsparingly a certain Pastor Lange's rendering of 'Horace,' drew upon
+Lessing the attention of the learned world, and since he was in the
+right in his strictures, they regarded him with mingled fear and
+admiration. His renewed criticisms in Voss's _Gazette_ further
+maintained his reputation as a redoubtable critic.
+
+These were happy, hopeful years in Lessing's life; he enjoyed his work,
+and it brought him success. He had, moreover, formed some of the
+warmest friendships of his life with the bookseller Nicolai and the
+philosopher Moses Mendelssohn. With the former he discoursed on English
+literature, with the latter, on æsthetic and metaphysical themes. Their
+frequent reunions were sources of mental refreshment and invigoration
+to all three. What cared Lessing that his resources were meagre, he
+could live, and his father was growing more reconciled now that men of
+established repute lauded his son's works. Together with Mendelssohn,
+Lessing wrote an essay on a theme propounded by the Berlin Academy,
+'Pope a Metaphysician!' that did not obtain the prize, as it ridiculed
+the learned body which had proposed a ridiculous theme, but it
+attracted notice.
+
+In the year 1755 Lessing wrote 'Miss Sara Sampson,' a play that marks
+an epoch in his life and in German literature. It was the first German
+attempt at domestic drama, and was, moreover, written in prose instead
+of in the fashionable Alexandrines. The play was acted that same year
+at Frankfurt-on-the-Oder, and Lessing went to superintend in person.
+Its success was immense, and revived Lessing's love for the stage,
+which had rather flagged at Berlin from want of a theatre there. He
+accordingly resolved on this account to remove to Leipzig again, and
+disappeared from Berlin without announcing his intention to his
+friends.
+
+At Leipzig he once more lived among the comedians, and carried on a
+lively correspondence with Mendelssohn on the philosophical theories of
+the drama in general, with especial reference to Aristotle. A proposal
+to act as travelling companion to a rich Leipzig merchant interrupted
+this life. The pair started early in the year 1756, intending a long
+absence that should include a visit to England. The trip, however, did
+not extend beyond Holland, as the Seven Years' War broke out. Prussian
+troops were stationed at Leipzig, and this caused Lessing's companion
+to desire return. Return they accordingly did, Lessing waiting all the
+winter for the resumption of their interrupted project. But as the
+prospects of peace grew more distant, their contract was annulled, much
+to Lessing's regret, and also to his severe pecuniary loss. He found
+himself at Leipzig penniless, the theatre closed by the war, and
+interest in letters deadened from the same cause. He contrived,
+however, to maintain himself by hack-work for the booksellers; but it
+was a dismal time, not devoid, however, of some redeeming lights. The
+poet Von Kleist was then stationed at Leipzig, and with him Lessing
+formed a friendship that proved one of his warmest and tenderest. On
+the removal of Kleist to active service, Lessing determined to quit
+Leipzig, which had grown distasteful to him in its military hubbub. In
+May 1758 he once more appeared at Berlin, and fell into his former
+niche. He worked at his 'Fables,' wrote a play on the Greek models,
+'Philotas,' began a life of Sophocles, and edited and translated
+several works of minor importance. But the chief labour of the period
+was the establishment of a journal dealing with contemporary
+literature. It was to be written tersely, as was suited to a time of
+war and general excitement; and to connect it with the war, it was
+couched in the form of letters purporting to be addressed to an officer
+in the field, who wished to be kept acquainted with current literature.
+Kleist was certainly in Lessing's mind when he began. The letters were
+to be written by Mendelssohn, Nicolai, and Lessing, but nearly all the
+earlier ones are from Lessing's pen. The papers made a great mark, from
+their bold strictures and independence. They did not belong to either
+of the recognised coteries, plainly placing themselves on a footing
+outside and above them. Though they were issued anonymously, Lessing
+was now sufficiently known, and it was not long before they were
+universally attributed to him. Their peculiar merit was that they did
+not merely condemn the contemporary productions, but showed the way to
+their improvement. They are throughout written with dialectic
+brilliancy, vigour, and lively wit, so that they are classics to this
+day, although their immediate themes are long removed from our
+interests From these 'Letters Concerning Contemporary Literature' our
+modern science of criticism may be said to date. After this, works were
+no longer merely judged by ancient standards, but by their application
+to the demands of the age in which they were written.
+
+The news of Kleist's death affected Lessing severely, and so broke down
+his energies that he felt the imperative need of a change of scene. He
+therefore accepted an offer to act as secretary to General Tauentzien,
+who had been appointed Governor of Breslau. He followed him to that
+city in 1760, hoping to find renewed energies in a fixed employment
+that gave him good emolument and left him free time for self-culture.
+
+Lessing remained at this post for nearly five years, until the
+conclusion of the Seven Years' War, and though his letters of that
+period are very scanty, and though he gained evil repute at Breslau as
+a gambler and a tavern haunter, they were really the busiest and most
+studious years of his life. Here he read Spinoza and the Church
+Fathers, studied æsthetics and Winckelmann's newly issued 'History of
+Art,' wrote his 'Minna von Barnhelm,' and the 'Laokoon.' Their
+publication did not occur till his return to Berlin after the peace of
+Hubertsburg, when Lessing threw up his appointment, greatly to the
+dismay of his family, who had reckoned on it as a permanent resource.
+But Lessing had had enough of soldiers and military life, he had
+exhausted all they could teach him, and he craved to resume his
+studious and independent existence. He did not like it on resumption so
+well as he had thought he should at a distance. Restlessness seized
+him. He wanted to travel; to see Italy. His friends desired an
+appointment for him as royal librarian. He applied for the post, and
+was kept for some time in uncertainty. He failed, however, owing to
+Frederick's dislike to German learned men, and it was in vain that
+Lessing's friends pleaded that he was anything but the typical German
+pedant, uncouth, unkempt, who was Frederick's _bête noire_. To prove
+his efficiency for the post, Lessing had published his 'Laokoon.' He
+published it as a fragment, and, like too many of Lessing's works, it
+never grew beyond that stage.
+
+But _torso_ as it is, its influence has been far spreading. The science
+of æsthetics was in its infancy when Lessing wrote. Pedantic and
+conventional rules were laid down regarding beauty, and the greatest
+confusion of ideas existed concerning the provinces and limits of the
+respective arts. Poetry and painting were treated as arts identical in
+purpose and scope; indeed each was advised to borrow aid from the
+resources of the other. Simonides' dictum that "Painting is silent
+poetry, and poetry eloquent painting," was regarded as an
+incontrovertible axiom. Winckelmann's lately published 'History of Art'
+had supported this view of the matter; a point of view that encouraged
+allegorical painting and didactic poetry. The 'Laokoon' strove to
+expose the radical error of this idea, as its second title, 'or the
+boundaries of Poetry and Painting,' proves. The conclusions established
+by the 'Laokoon' have become to-day the very groundwork of cultured art
+criticism, and though the somewhat narrow scope of its æsthetic theory
+has been extended, the basis remains untouched and unshaken. The book
+is of as much value now as upon its first appearance. Its luminous
+distinctions, its suggestive utterances, point the way to exact truth,
+even where they do not define it. Like the celebrated Torso of the
+Vatican, it can be made an object of constant study, and every fresh
+investigation will reveal new beauties, new subtle traits of artistic
+comprehension hitherto overlooked.
+
+This work, so grand and ultimately fruitful, fell, nevertheless, very
+flat on its first issue, and only gradually assumed the position that
+was its due. It had indeed to educate its public, so new were the
+principles it enunciated. Three years after its publication, Lessing
+told a friend that hardly any one seemed to know at what goal he had
+aimed in his 'Laokoon.' Critics arose in plenty, but their criticism
+was of such a character that Lessing, usually so combative, did not
+hold them worthy of a reply. Little wonder, therefore, that even the
+discerning Frederick did not recognise the value of its author, and
+finally decided against Lessing's appointment as royal librarian.
+
+In November 1766 Lessing describes himself as standing idly in the
+market-place waiting for hire. He was discontented with his
+surroundings, eager to find himself in a wider and more congenial
+mental atmosphere than that of Berlin, uncertain whither to turn, and
+hampered by money difficulties, private debts and family demands. At
+this juncture an invitation from Hamburg reached him, which at the
+first aspect seemed to open out a future peculiarly suited to Lessing's
+tastes and idiosyncrasies. An association of rich burghers had
+conceived the idea of founding a national theatre, which, liberally
+endowed, and thus removed from the region of pecuniary speculation,
+could devote itself exclusively to the cultivation of high art, and
+thus raise the national standard of taste. A dramatic critic and
+adviser was to belong to the establishment, and this post was offered
+to Lessing with a salary of 800 thalers. He accepted with alacrity, and
+repaired to Hamburg in the confidence of having at last found a niche
+well suited to his capacity. At the worst, he had nothing to lose and
+everything to gain by this step, and he gladly turned his back on
+Berlin, now distasteful to him. He hoped to throw himself once more
+into dramatic labours, and to find himself in contact with the living
+stage. Only too speedily his hopes were destined to disappointment. He
+had not been long at Hamburg before, notwithstanding all his power of
+illusion, he could not disguise from himself the fact that the project
+that sounded so noble and disinterested really rested on no higher
+basis than that of miserable stage cabals.
+
+Before issuing the first number of his paper, the 'Hamburger
+Dramaturgie,' a critical journal, which was to accompany the art of the
+author and actor throughout the representations, he already knew that
+the project begun with such high hopes must end in a miserable
+_fiasco_. Still he set to work upon his journal undauntedly, determined
+that it should, as far as it lay in his power, serve the purposes of
+the drama and instruct the populace as to the full import and aim of
+this noble art. The paper was a weekly one, the criticisms, therefore,
+had the merit of being thoroughly thought out and digested, not written
+like our modern theatrical criticisms under the very glare of the
+foot-lights. Lessing analysed the plays and their performance; he
+pointed out not only where, but why actors had erred; his sure
+perception and accurate knowledge of stage routine made him an
+invaluable guide to the performers. His criticisms, had they been
+continued, would have laid the basis of a science of histrionics, but
+unhappily for the world, the wretched vanity of the _artistes_, some of
+whom he had ventured gently to condemn, caused him to desist from this
+portion of his criticism. He confined himself solely to the play
+performed. After a while, however, even this did not suffice; bad
+management, stage cabals, private jealousy, and clerical intrigues, had
+undermined the slender popularity of the theatre. Before the end of its
+first year, the house saw itself forced to close its doors, thanks to
+creditors and to the rival and superior attractions of a company of
+French comedians. It is true the German troupe returned in the spring
+to make a final effort, but this also proved a failure; the debts were
+only increased, and the throng of creditors who besieged the box-office
+was so great that the public could not have entered if it had tried. In
+November (1768) the theatre finally closed its doors.
+
+_Transeat cum cæteris erroribus_, was Lessing's comment on the event.
+He was the poorer by another hope, and not only poorer in spirit but in
+fact. The promised salary had not been paid, the sale of his rich
+library would not suffice for his debts and needs, and he had moreover
+hampered himself with a printing-press that only helped yet more to
+cripple his means. His position was a sorry one. Literary work was once
+more his only resource. It happened that he had from the first been in
+arrears with his journal, first advisedly, then from a tendency to
+procrastination that befell him whenever the first white heat of
+interest had been expended. He now determined to continue it, employing
+it as a vehicle for his own opinions under the cover of criticisms of
+the national theatre, which he still hoped against hope might not be
+utterly defunct.
+
+The 'Dramaturgy' is the permanent result of this shipwrecked
+undertaking, itself a fragment--for after a while Lessing wearied of
+it, and piratical reprints robbed him of the slender profit--but a
+fragment like the 'Laokoon,' full of suggestive truths and flashes of
+elucidation. As an entire work it is not as homogeneous in design as
+the 'Laokoon'; no connected or definite thread of reasoning pervades
+it, its perusal requires more independent thought from the reader, who
+must form his own conclusions, they are not worked out before him as in
+the 'Laokoon.' But in its ultimate results it is no less valuable, and
+has been no less effective. It freed the German stage from bondage to
+French pseudo-classicisms by its scornful exposure of the perversions
+practised by the Gallic authors under the cloak of Aristotelian laws.
+Lessing showed the divergence between real and absolute, and fanciful
+and perverted rules. He pointed out how the three unities insisted on
+by the French had been often violated by them in the spirit if not in
+the letter. He demonstrated the real meaning of Aristotle; and enabled,
+by his exact classical knowledge, to place himself on the actual
+stand-point of the ancients, he exposed the meretricious imitations of
+the French, that had been too long passed off as genuine. He referred
+the Germans to Shakespeare as a far truer follower of Sophocles than
+Voltaire or Corneille, and he illustrated his conclusions by excerpts
+and digressions remote from the subject presumed to be under treatment,
+and which had first started this train of thought. Until now the French
+had prescribed the sole standard of good taste. Lessing wished to
+destroy this unthinking veneration, and lead his nation back to the
+true sources of inspiration, and he fought with an iconoclastic zeal
+against all distortions, and all confusions of æsthetic boundaries. In
+a measure, indeed, the 'Dramaturgy' supplements the 'Laokoon', for in
+the latter work Lessing had distinctly referred to the drama as the
+highest expression of poetry, and he had placed poetry above the arts
+of design in its results and capacities. Once more he displays his
+subtlety in discriminating between the various constituents of the
+complex feelings produced by art, and his rare faculty of combining
+æsthetic sensibility with logical criticism constitutes one of his
+grand claims to originality. The 'Dramaturgy' must be regarded rather
+as a collection of [Greek: epea pteroenta], than a systematic book.
+This remark applies, indeed, to all Lessing's prose writings.
+
+The 'Dramaturgy' was not the only work that occupied Lessing at
+Hamburg. A certain Professor Klotz had been for some time past
+attacking Lessing's writings, and had done this in a spirit of arrogant
+superiority that roused his ire. A remark that Lessing had been guilty
+of "an unpardonable fault," in an archaeological matter, wherein Klotz
+himself was plainly in error, brought matters to a crisis, and drew
+down on Klotz a series of 'Letters treating of Antiquarian Subjects,'
+that utterly demolished both the man and his conclusions. A private
+feud gave occasion to this publication, but, like all that Lessing
+wrote, it is full of matter of permanent worth. Cameos and engraved
+gems form the ground-work of the controversy that was waged fast and
+furiously for some months, until at last Lessing silenced his
+adversary. The archaeological studies that it necessitated had awakened
+afresh Lessing's artistic interests and provoked the charming little
+essay, 'How the Ancients represented Death,' that starting as a polemic
+against Klotz, ended in becoming a finished and exquisite whole.
+
+About this time (1772) Lessing received encouragement from Vienna to
+settle in the Austrian dominions, but as the offers concerned the
+theatre he declined compliance, still feeling sore from his late
+experiences. The old desire to visit Italy was once more uppermost, his
+restless activity had exhausted the slender intellectual resources of
+Hamburg. But he was once more hampered by money difficulties. He
+vacillated for a while between remaining and leaving, and finally
+accepted an appointment at the Brunswick Court as librarian of the
+Wolfenbüttel Library, with the proviso that this appointment should not
+permanently interfere with his projected Italian journey. His salary
+was to be 600 thalers, with an official residence; his duties were
+undefined. The Duke, who recognised Lessing's eminence, wished to
+attach him to his Court, and desired that Lessing should use the
+library for his personal convenience rather than as its custodian. The
+post promised well, though Lessing entered on it with reluctance; his
+love of freedom causing him at any time to shrink from any definite
+appointment. He loved, as he himself expressed it, to be like the
+sparrow on the housetops, but considerations hitherto unknown
+contributed to induce him to seek a settled post and establish his
+affairs on a more permanent basis than heretofore. The wish to marry
+had become awakened in him at the mature age of forty; he had made the
+acquaintance in Hamburg of a Madame Koenig, a widow, the first woman
+who had seriously roused his interest. Business complications of her
+late husband's and the charge of a family made union impossible for
+some little time, but Lessing had not been long at Wolfenbüttel before
+a formal engagement was entered upon whose ultimate fulfilment it was
+confidently expected would not be too long deferred. It was deferred,
+however, for the space of six years--years that were the weariest and
+saddest in Lessing's life, and mark the only time when his healthful
+optimism, his sanguine cheerfulness broke into complaint and yielded to
+depression of mind. Physical causes were at work as well as mental.
+Wolfenbüttel was an old deserted capital, devoid of society, and
+Lessing, who loved to mingle with his fellow-creatures, saw himself
+banished from any intelligent human intercourse, unless he undertook
+the somewhat expensive journey to Brunswick. At Hamburg he had lived in
+an active and intellectual circle; here he found himself thrown back
+upon himself and books. His heart and thoughts were with Madame Koenig,
+her business affairs went badly; their rare meetings only further
+strengthened his desire to claim as his own this the only woman who
+understood him and felt with him. The promised leave of absence, too,
+for Italy, was constantly deferred under futile pretexts, and thus
+depressed, dispirited, Lessing could not feel within himself the
+capability of original production. At the same time he did not feel it
+right or wise to neglect the resources placed within his reach by the
+excellent library of which he was custodian; he ransacked its
+manuscript treasures, and published some of them. He also in a brief
+period of renewed happiness and mental vigour, that followed a visit to
+Hamburg and a meeting with Madame Koenig, wrote his famous tragedy
+'Emilia Galotti.'
+
+This drama is an illustration of the principles enunciated by Lessing
+in his 'Dramaturgy;' its condensation is a protest against the
+verbosity of the French, its form an approach to Shakespeare; while its
+tendency is a stricture on the abuses practised at petty Courts. The
+latter was a bold innovation, considering that at the time Lessing
+wrote and produced this play he was himself the servant of a Court,
+enlightened and liberal it is true, but libertine and despotic; and
+that parallels could not fail to be drawn by the malevolent between
+Brunswick and Guastalla. The story is a modernised version of that of
+Virginia, but the catastrophe is not equally harmonious, because not so
+absolutely necessitated by the conditions of modern society as by those
+of the ancient world. Still the play is in many respects inimitable;
+the manner in which the story is developed and unravelled renders it a
+model to young dramatists; nothing superfluous, nothing obscure, no
+needless retrogressions, no violent transitions. Lessing's
+contemporaries were not slow to recognise that he had presented them
+with a master-piece. He himself after its completion had sunk back into
+his former mood of irritated depression, and he would not even be
+present at the first representation. This mood was in great part
+physical, but was also the result of circumstances. He was anxious and
+uneasy. The hereditary prince had held out hopes to him, but their
+fulfilment was too long deferred; Madame Koenig's affairs grew more and
+more involved, the solitude of Wolfenbüttel more and more arid.
+
+At last his restless spirit could brook this position no longer.
+Heedless of Madame Koenig's warning prayers not to bring matters to an
+abrupt crisis, to have patience with the Court whose financial position
+at the time was truly a sorry one, Lessing one day broke away from
+Wolfenbüttel and appeared at Berlin, whence he applied for an extended
+leave of absence to Vienna, where Madame Koenig's business had lately
+required her presence. He reassures her that he has not burnt his ships
+behind him, and this was true, but he wished to ascertain for himself
+how matters stood with her, and also if there was, any opening for him
+in that capital. He arrived at Vienna in March 1775, and found Madame
+Koenig's affairs so far advanced towards settlement as to justify him
+in entertaining hopes of a speedy union.
+
+But the evil fortune that seemed to run like a fatal thread through
+Lessing's life whenever he found himself near the fulfilment of an
+ardent desire again asserted itself. He had not been ten days in Vienna
+before one of the younger princes of the house of Brunswick arrived
+there also on his way to Italy. He wished to have Lessing as his
+travelling companion. Thus a long cherished desire was to be realised
+at the moment when a far stronger one had usurped its place. Lessing
+debated for some time what he should do, but on consideration with
+Madame Koenig, it was decided to be unwise to offend the prince whose
+earnest wish for Lessing's companionship was supported by the Empress
+Maria Theresa, and moreover the projected journey was only to extend
+over eight weeks; consequently the parting and delay would be brief,
+while the ultimate consequences of having obliged the ducal house at
+personal inconvenience might be incalculable. The journey extended to
+nine months, and was a period of misery to Lessing. He never received a
+line from Madame Koenig all this time, her letters having all
+miscarried, thanks to the officious zeal of her Vienna acquaintances,
+and he tortured himself with fears lest she were ill or dead. Neither
+did he write to her, nor keep a diary, beyond the very briefest records
+of some discoveries in libraries. Not a word about the art, the scenery
+of the land he had so craved to see. He perceived quickly enough that
+it could offer all, and more than he had anticipated, but, added to his
+private anxieties, this travelling in the suite of a prince was not
+propitious to the proper enjoyment of Italy. Receptions, formal
+dinners, deputations, at all of which Lessing had to be present,
+engrossed the precious time that should have been devoted to more
+intellectual pursuits.
+
+_Transeat cum cæteris erroribus_, Lessing might again have written when
+he returned to Germany in December. He hastened to Vienna to learn news
+of his beloved, and there a whole packet of her letters were put into
+his hands--those letters the want of which had preyed upon his heart.
+He was now more fully determined than ever to bring matters to a
+crisis; if the Brunswick Court would not improve his position he would
+seek employment elsewhere; at the very worst he could not fare worse
+than he was at present faring. His resolution triumphed, his salary was
+raised, his position improved, and on the 8th of October, 1776, he was
+at last united to the woman of his choice.
+
+Then followed a very heyday of happiness to Lessing; he was at last
+content, at peace; his wife understood him and felt with him; she was
+his stay, his pride, his joy. But once more the evil fate was at work,
+and could not permit of ease to this poor victim she pursued so
+relentlessly. Early in January (1778) Lessing saw his wife and baby boy
+laid in the grave. The brief sunshine which had illumined his path had
+vanished for ever.
+
+The letters written by him at the time are more pathetic in their stoic
+brevity than folios of lamentations. There were no further hopes of
+happiness for him on earth; he must just resign himself and work on at
+his appointed labour until he too should be laid to rest. He turned
+with an ardour that was almost furious to encounter the assailants of
+his last literary publication. Since his appointment as Wolfenbüttel
+librarian Lessing had from time to time published some of its
+manuscript treasures, and among these he had inserted portions of a
+work that had been intrusted to him, and which he deemed ought not to
+be withheld from the light of day. These were the famous Wolfenbüttel
+Fragments issued anonymously by Lessing, but really the work of a
+deceased Hamburger, Professor Reimarus. Their publication drew down
+upon Lessing a fury of rancorous abuse, and involved him in a vortex of
+controversy that lasted till his death. The chief and most vehement of
+his opponents was Pastor J. M. Goeze, whose insulting polemic reached
+him by the bedside of his dying wife. Its malignant and unjustified
+attacks roused Lessing's energy. He assailed Goeze with all the
+strength of his grief, for which he was thankful to find a safety-valve
+in controversy. The work of Reimarus had advocated rationalism; Lessing
+had distinctly placed himself in position of editor, and pronounced
+that he did not of necessity subscribe to the opinions therein
+enunciated, but he found in their reasoning much food for thought, and
+with his almost romantic passion for truth he deemed that such matter
+should not be withheld from the world. Goeze chose to consider that
+Lessing was sailing under false colours, that the fragments were his
+own composition, and that he was undermining the national faith.
+Lessing replied to Goeze's insults by a series of fourteen letters,
+entitled 'Anti-Goeze,' which actually silenced his opponent, who had
+never been known before to allow an adversary the last word. They are
+written in a serio-comic tone, and for sparkling wit, trenchant
+sarcasm, and dramatic dialectics surpass anything ever penned by
+Lessing. No less admirable is his accurate theological knowledge and
+his large-minded comprehension of the purposes of religion.
+
+The same noble spirit pervades his 'Nathan the Wise,' which he wrote
+about this time as a relief to his controversial discussions, and as
+another protest against the narrow-minded assumptions of the
+professional theologians. Lessing had ever contended that the stage
+might prove as useful a pulpit as the church, and in 'Nathan' he strove
+to preach the universal brotherhood of mankind; its hero is a Jew of
+ideal and pure morality. The whole purpose of the drama was a stricture
+on class prejudices and an enunciation of the innate truth that
+underlies all forms of creeds. The play is too well known even in this
+country to require much comment; it is a noble monument of toleration
+and large-mindedness, and the fact that he could produce it under the
+load of a crushing sorrow speaks volumes for the true earnest religious
+faith that dwelt in Lessing's nature. At the time its pure tendencies
+were not understood. Lessing had progressed beyond the comprehension of
+his age, and the inevitable consequences ensued,--misconstruction and
+mental loneliness. He began to be regarded with suspicion as a
+dangerous innovator; even old friends held aloof in doubt. Meanwhile
+his only comfort remained in his home, in the step-children, whom his
+wife had brought thither. His step-daughter was his tender and
+attentive companion, for since his wife's death Lessing's health had
+declined, and he required care. Though no trace of impaired vigour
+appears in his writings of the period, which indeed are animated by an
+exhilarating vitality, yet too evident traces of impaired vigour
+appeared in himself. He grew languid, an excessive inclination to sleep
+overpowered him; he suffered from attacks of vertigo. Yet as long as he
+could hold a pen he should write, he told his brother,--write in the
+cause of what he firmly held to be the truth.
+
+A small pamphlet, consisting of a hundred propositions, entitled 'The
+Education of the Human Race,' was his next production, a work pregnant
+with thought that opens out wide vistas of knowledge and progress to
+mankind. Lessing indeed was the first man of his century to formulate
+the modern doctrine of progress; he preached a true millennium of
+toleration, love, and knowledge; he distinctly proclaimed his faith in
+the immortality of the soul. 'The Education of the Human Race' is a
+splendid disavowal of his enemies' calumnious assertions. It was a
+glorious swan-song, wherewith he lulled himself into eternal peace.
+
+On one of his official visits to Brunswick, Lessing was overtaken by a
+paralytic stroke. On the 15th of February, 1781, he passed away. He
+died as he lived, nobly, in a reverent assurance that he had fought a
+good fight on earth in the cause of truth and enlightenment, progress
+and humanity.
+
+Time, the true criterion of human fame, has not only left his glory
+undiminished, but has augmented it, as popular intelligence has
+gradually arisen to the comprehension of its many-sided significance.
+It will be long before we have outgrown Lessing, if indeed that time
+can ever come. And even if some things in his writings may seem narrow
+or antiquated to our vision, we may readily pass them over to arrive at
+matters eternally true, exalted, sublime. Truth was the main purpose of
+all he wrote, and truth is for all ages and all time. Lessing was one
+of the truly great ones of this earth, and petty cavillers should lay
+to heart the words of another wise man, the author of 'The Imitation:'
+
+"All perfection in this world has some imperfection coupled with it,
+and none of our investigations are without some obscurity."
+
+                                                     Helen Zimmern.
+
+
+
+
+                           MISS SARA SAMPSON.
+
+                        A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.
+
+
+Miss Sara Sampson, the first of Lessing's tragedies, was completed in
+the year 1755, while Lessing was at Potsdam. In the same year it was
+represented at Frankfort-on-the-Oder, and was very well received. It
+was afterwards translated and acted in France, where it also met with
+success.
+
+The present is the first English translation which has appeared.
+
+
+
+
+                           DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
+
+      Sir William Sampson.
+      Miss Sara Sampson, _his daughter_.
+      Mellefont.
+      Marwood, _formerly_ Mellefont's _mistress_.
+      Arabella, _a child, daughter of_ Marwood.
+      Waitwell, _an old servant of_ Sir William.
+      Norton, _servant of_ Mellefont.
+      Betty, Sara's _maid_.
+      Hannah, Marwood's _maid_.
+      _The_ Innkeeper _and others_.
+
+
+
+
+
+                           MISS SARA SAMPSON.
+
+
+
+
+                                 ACT I.
+
+
+                     Scene I.--_A room in an inn_.
+
+                     Sir William Sampson, Waitwell.
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+   My daughter, here? Here in this wretched inn?
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+No doubt, Mellefont has purposely selected the most wretched one in the
+town. The wicked always seek the darkness, because they are wicked. But
+what would it help them, could they even hide themselves from the whole
+world? Conscience after all is more powerful than the accusations of a
+world. Ah, you are weeping again, again, Sir!--Sir!
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+Let me weep, my honest old servant! Or does she not, do you think,
+deserve my tears?
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Alas! She deserves them, were they tears of blood.
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+Well, let me weep!
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+The best, the loveliest, the most innocent child that ever lived
+beneath the sun, must thus be led astray! Oh, my Sara, my little Sara!
+I have watched thee grow; a hundred times have I carried thee as a
+child in these arms, have I admired thy smiles, thy lispings. From
+every childish look beamed forth the dawn of an intelligence, a
+kindliness, a----
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+Oh, be silent! Does not the present rend my heart enough? Will you make
+my tortures more infernal still by recalling past happiness? Change
+your tone, if you will do me a service. Reproach me, make of my
+tenderness a crime, magnify my daughter's fault; fill me with
+abhorrence of her, if you can; stir up anew my revenge against her
+cursed seducer; say, that Sara never was virtuous, since she so lightly
+ceased to be so; say that she never loved me, since she clandestinely
+forsook me!
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+If I said that, I should utter a lie, a shameless, wicked lie. It might
+come to me again on my death-bed, and I, old wretch, would die in
+despair. No, little Sara has loved her father; and doubtless, doubtless
+she loves him yet. If you will only be convinced of this, I shall see
+her again in your arms this very day.
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+Yes, Waitwell, of this alone I ask to be convinced. I cannot any longer
+live without her; she is the support of my age, and if she does not
+help to sweeten the sad remaining days of my life, who shall do it? If
+she loves me still, her error is forgotten. It was the error of a
+tender-hearted maiden, and her flight was the result of her remorse.
+Such errors are better than forced virtues. Yet I feel, Waitwell, I
+feel it, even were these errors real crimes, premeditated vices--even
+then I should forgive her. I would rather be loved by a wicked
+daughter, than by none at all.
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Dry your tears, dear sir! I hear some one. It will be the landlord
+coming to welcome us.
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+             _The_ Landlord, Sir William Sampson, Waitwell.
+
+                                LANDLORD.
+
+So early, gentlemen, so early? You are welcome; welcome, Waitwell! You
+have doubtless been travelling all night! Is that the gentleman, of
+whom you spoke to me yesterday?
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Yes, it is he, and I hope that in accordance with what we settled----
+
+                               LANDLORD.
+
+I am entirely at your service, my lord. What is it to me, whether I
+know or not, what cause has brought you hither, and why you wish to
+live in seclusion in my house? A landlord takes his money and lets his
+guests do as they think best. Waitwell, it is true, has told me that
+you wish to observe the stranger a little, who has been staying here
+for a few weeks with his young wife, but I hope that you will not cause
+him any annoyance. You would bring my house into ill repute and certain
+people would fear to stop here. Men like us must live on people of all
+kinds.
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+Do not fear; only conduct me to the room which Waitwell has ordered for
+me; I come here for an honourable purpose.
+
+                               LANDLORD.
+
+I have no wish to know your secrets, my lord! Curiosity is by no means
+a fault of mine. I might for instance have known long ago, who the
+stranger is, on whom you want to keep a watch, but I have no wish to
+know. This much however I have discovered, that he must have eloped
+with the young lady. The poor little wife--or whatever she may
+be!--remains the whole day long locked up in her room, and cries.
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+And cries?
+
+                               LANDLORD.
+
+Yes, and cries; but, my lord, why do your tears fall? The young lady
+must interest you deeply. Surely you are not----
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Do not detain him any longer!
+
+                               LANDLORD.
+
+Come, come! One wall only will separate you from the lady in whom you
+are so much interested, and who may be----
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+You mean then at any cost to know, who----
+
+                               LANDLORD.
+
+No, Waitwell! I have no wish to know anything.
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Make haste, then, and take us to our rooms, before the whole house
+begins to stir.
+
+                               LANDLORD.
+
+Will you please follow me, then, my lord? (_Exeunt_.)
+
+
+                    Scene III.--Mellefont's _room_.
+
+                           Mellefont, Norton.
+
+       MELLEFONT (_in dressing-gown, sitting in an easy chair_).
+
+Another night, which I could not have spent more cruelly on the
+rack!--(_calls_) Norton!--I must make haste to get sight of a face or
+two. If I remained alone with my thoughts any longer, they might carry
+me too far. Hey, Norton! He is still asleep. But is not it cruel of me,
+not to let the poor devil sleep? How happy he is! However, I do not
+wish any one about me to be happy! Norton!
+
+                            NORTON (coming).
+
+Sir!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Dress me!--Oh, no sour looks please! When I shall be able to sleep
+longer myself I will let you do the same. If you wish to do your duty,
+at least have pity on me.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Pity, sir! Pity on you? I know better where pity is due.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+And where then?
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Ah, let me dress you and don't ask.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Confound it! Are _your_ reproofs then to awaken together with my
+conscience? I understand you; I know on whom you expend your pity. But
+I will do justice to her and to myself. Quite right, do not have any
+pity on me! Curse me in your heart; but--curse yourself also!
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Myself also?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Yes, because you serve a miserable wretch, whom earth ought not to
+bear, and because you have made yourself a partaker in his crimes.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+I made myself a partaker in your crimes? In what way?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+By keeping silent about them.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Well, that is good! A word would have cost me my neck in the heat of
+your passions. And, besides, did I not find you already so bad, when I
+made your acquaintance, that all hope of amendment was vain? What a
+life I have seen you leading from the first moment! In the lowest
+society of gamblers and vagrants--I call them what they were without
+regard to their knightly titles and such like--in this society you
+squandered a fortune which might have made a way for you to an
+honourable position. And your culpable intercourse with all sorts of
+women, especially with the wicked Marwood----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Restore me--restore me to that life. It was virtue compared with the
+present one. I spent my fortune; well! The punishment follows, and I
+shall soon enough feel all the severity and humiliation of want. I
+associated with vicious women; that may be. I was myself seduced more
+often than I seduced others; and those whom I did seduce wished it.
+But--I still had no ruined virtue upon my conscience. I had carried off
+no Sara from the house of a beloved father and forced her to follow a
+scoundrel, who was no longer free. I had----who comes so early to me?
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+                       Betty, Mellefont, Norton.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+It is Betty.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Up already, Betty? How is your mistress?
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+How is she? (_sobbing_.) It was long after midnight before I could
+persuade her to go to bed. She slept a few moments; but God, what a
+sleep that must have been! She started suddenly, sprang up and fell
+into my arms, like one pursued by a murderer. She trembled, and a cold
+perspiration started on her pale face. I did all I could to calm her,
+but up to this morning she has only answered me with silent tears. At
+length she sent me several times to your door to listen whether you
+were up. She wishes to speak to you. You alone can comfort her. O do
+so, dearest sir, do so! My heart will break, if she continues to fret
+like this.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Go, Betty! Tell her, I shall be with her in a moment,
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+No, she wishes to come to you herself.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Well, tell her, then, that I am awaiting her----
+
+                                                    (_Exit_ Betty.)
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+                           Mellefont, Norton.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+O God, the poor young lady!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Whose feelings is this exclamation of yours meant to rouse? See, the
+first tear which I have shed since my childhood is running down my
+cheek. A bad preparation for receiving one who seeks comfort. But why
+does she seek it from me? Yet where else shall she seek it? I must
+collect myself (_drying his eyes_). Where is the old firmness with
+which I could see a beautiful eye in tears? Where is the gift of
+dissimulation gone by which I could be and could say whatsoever I
+wished? She will come now and weep tears that brook no resistance.
+Confused and ashamed I shall stand before her; like a convicted
+criminal I shall stand before her. Counsel me, what shall I do? What
+shall I say?
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+You shall do what she asks of you!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I shall then perpetrate a fresh act of cruelty against her. She is
+wrong to blame me for delaying a ceremony which cannot be performed in
+this country without the greatest injury to us.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Well, leave it, then. Why do we delay? Why do you let one day after the
+other pass, and one week after the other? Just give me the order, and
+you will be safe on board to-morrow! Perhaps her grief will not follow
+her over the ocean; she may leave part of it behind, and in another
+land may----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I hope that myself. Silence! She is coming! How my heart throbs!
+
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+                        Sara, Mellefont, Norton.
+
+                  MELLEFONT (_advancing towards her_).
+
+You have had a restless night, dearest Sara.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Alas, Mellefont, if it were nothing but a restless night.
+
+                     MELLEFONT (_to his servant_).
+
+Leave us!
+
+                      NORTON (_aside, in going_).
+
+I would not stay if I was paid in gold for every moment.
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                            Sara, Mellefont.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You are faint, dearest Sara! You must sit down!
+
+                          SARA (_sits down_).
+
+I trouble you very early! Will you forgive me that with the morning I
+again begin my complaints?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Dearest Sara, you mean to say that you cannot forgive me, because
+another morning has dawned, and I have not yet put an end to your
+complaints?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What is there that I would not forgive you? You know what I have
+already forgiven you. But the ninth week, Mellefont! the ninth week
+begins to-day, and this miserable house still sees me in just the same
+position as on the first day.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You doubt my love?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I doubt your love? No, I feel my misery too much, too much to wish to
+deprive myself of this last and only solace.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+How, then, can you be uneasy about the delay of a ceremony?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Ah, Mellefont! Why is it that we think so differently about this
+ceremony! Yield a little to the woman's way of thinking! I imagine in
+it a more direct consent from Heaven. In vain did I try again, only
+yesterday, in the long tedious evening, to adopt your ideas, and to
+banish from my breast the doubt which just now--not for the first time,
+you have deemed the result of my distrust. I struggled with myself; I
+was clever enough to deafen my understanding; but my heart and my
+feeling quickly overthrew this toilsome structure of reason.
+Reproachful voices roused me from my sleep, and my imagination united
+with them to torment me. What pictures, what dreadful pictures hovered
+about me! I would willingly believe them to be dreams----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What? Could my sensible Sara believe them to be anything else? Dreams,
+my dearest, dreams!--How unhappy is man!--Did not his Creator find
+tortures enough for him in the realm of reality? Had he also to create
+in him the still more spacious realm of imagination in order to
+increase them?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Do not accuse Heaven! It has left the imagination in our power. She is
+guided by our acts; and when these are in accordance with our duties
+and with virtue the imagination serves only to increase our peace and
+happiness. A single act, Mellefont, a single blessing bestowed upon us
+by a messenger of peace, in the name of the Eternal One, can restore my
+shattered imagination again. Do you still hesitate to do a few days
+sooner for love of me, what in any case you mean to do at some future
+time? Have pity on me, and consider that, although by this you may be
+freeing me only from torments of the imagination, yet these imagined
+torments are torments, and are real torments for her who feels them.
+Ah! could I but tell you the terrors of the last night half as vividly
+as I have felt them. Wearied with crying and grieving--my only
+occupations--I sank down on my bed with half-closed eyes. Sly nature
+wished to recover itself a moment, to collect new tears. But hardly
+asleep yet, I suddenly saw myself on the steepest peak of a terrible
+rock. You went on before, and I followed with tottering, anxious steps,
+strengthened now and then by a glance which you threw back upon me.
+Suddenly I heard behind me a gentle call, which bade me stop. It was my
+father's voice--I unhappy one, can I forget nothing which is his? Alas
+if his memory renders him equally cruel service; if he too cannot
+forget me!--But he has forgotten me. Comfort! cruel comfort for his
+Sara!--But, listen, Mellefont! In turning round to this well-known
+voice, my foot slipped; I reeled, and was on the point of falling down
+the precipice, when just in time, I felt myself held back by one who
+resembled myself. I was just returning her my passionate thanks, when
+she drew a dagger from her bosom. "I saved you," she cried, "to ruin
+you!" She lifted her armed hand--and--! I awoke with the blow. Awake, I
+still felt all the pain which a mortal stab must give, without the
+pleasure which it brings--the hope for the end of grief in the end of
+life.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Ah! dearest Sara, I promise you the end of your grief, without the end
+of your life, which would certainly be the end of mine also. Forget the
+terrible tissue of a meaningless dream!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I look to you for the strength to be able to forget it. Be it love or
+seduction, happiness or unhappiness which threw me into your arms, I am
+yours in my heart and will remain so for ever. But I am not yet yours
+in the eyes of that Judge, who has threatened to punish the smallest
+transgressions of His law----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Then may all the punishment fall upon me alone!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What can fall upon you, without touching me too? But do not
+misinterpret my urgent request! Another woman, after having forfeited
+her honour by an error like mine, might perhaps only seek to regain a
+part of it by a legal union. I do not think of that, Mellefont, because
+I do not wish to know of any other honour in this world than that of
+loving you. I do not wish to be united to you for the world's sake but
+for my own. And I will willingly bear the shame of not appearing to be
+so, when I am united to you. You need not then, if you do not wish,
+acknowledge me to be your wife, you may call me what you will! I will
+not bear your name; you shall keep our union as secret as you think
+good, and may I always be unworthy of it, if I ever harbour the thought
+of drawing any other advantage from it than the appeasing of my
+conscience.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Stop, Sara, or I shall die before your eyes. How wretched I am, that I
+have not the courage to make you more wretched still! Consider that you
+have given yourself up to my guidance; consider that it is my duty to
+look to our future, and that I must at present be deaf to your
+complaints, if I will not hear you utter more grievous complaints
+throughout the rest of your life. Have you then forgotten what I have
+so often represented to you in justification of my conduct?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I have not forgotten it, Mellefont! You wish first to secure a certain
+bequest. You wish first to secure temporal goods, and you let me
+forfeit eternal ones, perhaps, through it.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Ah, Sara! If you were as certain of all temporal goods as your virtue
+is of the eternal ones----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+My virtue? Do not say that word! Once it sounded sweet to me, but now a
+terrible thunder rolls in it!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What? Must he who is to be virtuous, never have committed a trespass?
+Has a single error such fatal effect that it can annihilate a whole
+course of blameless years? If so, no one is virtuous; virtue is then a
+chimera, which disperses in the air, when one thinks that one grasps it
+most firmly; if so, there is no Wise Being who suits our duties to
+our strength; if so, there is----I am frightened at the terrible
+conclusions in which your despondency must involve you. No, Sara, you
+are still the virtuous Sara that you were before your unfortunate
+acquaintance with me. If you look upon yourself with such cruel eyes,
+with what eyes must you regard me!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+With the eyes of love, Mellefont!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I implore you, then, on my knees I implore you for the sake of this
+love, this generous love which overlooks all my unworthiness, to calm
+yourself! Have patience for a few days longer!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+A few days! How long even a single day is!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Cursed bequest! Cursed nonsense of a dying cousin, who would only leave
+me his fortune on the condition that I should give my hand to a
+relation who hates me as much as I hate her! To you, inhuman tyrants of
+our freedom, be imputed all the misfortune, all the sin, into which
+your compulsion forces us. Could I but dispense with this degrading
+inheritance. As long as my father's fortune sufficed for my
+maintenance, I always scorned it, and did not even think it worthy of
+mentioning. But now, now, when I should like to possess all the
+treasures of the world only to lay them at the feet of my Sara, now,
+when I must contrive at least to let her appear in the world as befits
+her station, now I must have recourse to it.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Which probably will not be successful after all.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You always forbode the worst. No, the lady whom this also concerns is
+not disinclined to enter into a sort of agreement with me. The fortune
+is to be divided, and as she cannot enjoy the whole with me, she is
+willing to let me buy my liberty with half of it. I am every hour
+expecting the final intelligence, the delay of which alone has so
+prolonged our sojourn here. As soon as I receive it, we shall not
+remain here one moment longer. We will immediately cross to France,
+dearest Sara, where you shall find new friends, who already look
+forward to the pleasure of seeing and loving you. And these new friends
+shall be the witnesses of our union----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+They shall be the witnesses of our union? Cruel man, our union, then,
+is not to be in my native land? I shall leave my country as a criminal?
+And as such, you think, I should have the courage to trust myself to
+the ocean. The heart of him must be calmer or more impious than mine,
+who, only for a moment, can see with indifference between himself and
+destruction, nothing but a quivering plank. Death would roar at me in
+every wave that struck against the vessel, every wind would howl its
+curses after me from my native shore, and the slightest storm would
+seem a sentence of death pronounced upon me. No, Mellefont, you cannot
+be so cruel to me! If I live to see the completion of this agreement,
+you must not grudge another day, to be spent here. This must be the
+day, on which you shall teach me to forget the tortures of all these
+tearful days. This must be the sacred day--alas! which day will it be?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+But do you consider, Sara, that our marriage here would lack those
+ceremonies which are due to it?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+A sacred act does not acquire more force through ceremonies.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+But----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I am astonished. You surely will not insist on such a trivial pretext?
+O Mellefont, Mellefont! had I not made for myself an inviolable
+law, never to doubt the sincerity of your love, this circumstance
+might----But too much of this already, it might seem as if I had been
+doubting it even now.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+The first moment of your doubt would be the last moment of my life!
+Alas, Sara, what have I done, that you should remind me even of the
+possibility of it? It is true the confessions, which I have made to you
+without fear, of my early excesses cannot do me honour, but they should
+at least awaken confidence. A coquettish Marwood held me in her meshes,
+because I felt for her that which is so often taken for love which it
+so rarely is. I should still bear her shameful fetters, had not Heaven,
+which perhaps did not think my heart quite unworthy to bum with better
+flames, taken pity on me. To see you, dearest Sara, was to forget all
+Marwoods! But how dearly have you paid for taking me out of such hands!
+I had grown too familiar with vice, and you know it too little----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Let us think no more of it.
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+                        Norton, Mellefont, Sara.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What do you want?
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+While I was standing before the house, a servant gave me this letter.
+It is directed to you, sir!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+To me? Who knows my name here? (_looking at the letter_). Good heavens!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+You are startled.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+But without cause, Sara, as I now perceive. I was mistaken in the
+handwriting.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+May the contents be as agreeable to you as you can wish.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I suspect that they will be of very little importance.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+One is less constrained when one is alone, so allow me to retire to my
+room again.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You entertain suspicions, then, about it?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Not at all, Mellefont.
+
+      MELLEFONT (_going with her to the back of the stage_).
+
+I shall be with you in a moment, dearest Sara.
+
+
+                               Scene IX.
+
+                           Mellefont, Norton.
+
+               MELLEFONT (_still looking at the letter_).
+
+Just Heaven!
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Woe to you, if it is only just!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Is it possible? I see this cursed handwriting again and am not chilled
+with terror? Is it she? Is it not she? Why do I still doubt? It is she!
+Alas, friend, a letter from Marwood! What fury, what demon has betrayed
+my abode to her? What does she still want from me? Go, make
+preparations immediately that we may get away from here. Yet stop!
+Perhaps it is unnecessary; perhaps the contempt of my farewell letters
+has only caused Marwood to reply with equal contempt. There, open the
+letter; read it! I am afraid to do it myself.
+
+
+                           NORTON (_reads_).
+
+"If you will deign, Mellefont, to glance at the name which you will
+find at the bottom of the page, it will be to me as though I had
+written you the longest of letters."
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Curse the name! Would I had never heard it! Would it could be erased
+from the book of the living!
+
+                          NORTON (_reads on_).
+
+"The labour of finding you out has been sweetened by the love which
+helped me in my search."
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Love? Wanton creature! You profane the words which belong to virtue
+alone.
+
+                         NORTON (_continues_).
+
+"Love has done more still"----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I tremble----
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+"It has brought me to you"----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Traitor, what are you reading? (_snatches the letter from his hand and
+reads himself_). "I am here; and it rests with you, whether you will
+await a visit from me, or whether you will anticipate mine by one from
+you. Marwood." What a thunderbolt! She is here! Where is she? She
+shall atone for this audacity with her life!
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+With her life? One glance from her and you will be again at her feet.
+Take care what you do! You must not speak with her, or the misfortunes
+of your poor young lady will be complete.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+O, wretched man that I am! No, I must speak with her! She would go even
+into Sara's room in search of me, and would vent all her rage on the
+innocent girl.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+But, sir----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Not a word! Let me see (_looking at the letter_) whether she has given
+the address. Here it is! Come, show me the way! (_Exeunt_).
+
+
+
+
+                                ACT II.
+
+               Scene I.--Marwood's _room in another inn_.
+
+                    Marwood (_in negligée_), Hannah.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I hope Belfort has delivered the letter at the right address, Hannah?
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+He has.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+To him himself?
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+To his servant.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I am all impatience to see what effect it will have. Do I not seem a
+little uneasy to you, Hannah? And I am so. The traitor! But gently! I
+must not on any account give way to anger. Forbearance, love, entreaty
+are the only weapons which I can use against him, if I rightly
+understand his weak side.
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+But if he should harden himself against them?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+If he should harden himself against them? Then I shall not be angry. I
+shall rave! I feel it, Hannah, and I would rather do so to begin with.
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+Calm yourself! He may come at any moment.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I only hope he may come; I only hope he has not decided to await me on
+his own ground. But do you know, Hannah, on what I chiefly found my
+hopes of drawing away the faithless man from this new object of his
+love? On our Bella!
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+It is true, she is a little idol to him; and there could not have been
+a happier idea than that of bringing her with you.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Even if his heart should be deaf to an old love, the language of blood
+will at least be audible to him. He tore the child from my arms a short
+time ago under the pretext of wishing to give her an education such as
+she could not have with me. It is only by an artifice that I have been
+able to get her again from the lady who had charge of her. He had paid
+more than a year in advance, and had given strict orders the very day
+before his flight that they should by no means give admission to a
+certain Marwood, who would perhaps come and give herself out as mother
+of the child. From this order I see the distinction which he draws
+between us. He regards Arabella as a precious portion of himself, and
+me as an unfortunate creature, of whose charms he has grown weary.
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+What ingratitude!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Ah, Hannah! Nothing more infallibly draws down ingratitude, than
+favours for which no gratitude would be too great. Why have I shown him
+these fatal favours? Ought I not to have foreseen that they could not
+always retain their value with him; that their value rested on the
+difficulty in the way of their enjoyment, and that the latter must
+disappear with the charm of our looks which the hand of time
+imperceptibly but surely effaces?
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+You, Madam, have not anything to fear for a long time from this
+dangerous hand! To my mind your beauty is so far from having passed the
+point of its brightest bloom, that it is rather advancing towards it,
+and would enchain fresh hearts for you every day if you only would give
+it the permission.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Be silent, Hannah! You flatter me on an occasion which makes me
+suspicious of any flattery. It is nonsense to speak of new conquests,
+if one has not even sufficient power to retain possession of those
+which one has already made.
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+                      A Servant, Marwood, Hannah.
+
+                                SERVANT.
+
+Some one wishes to have the honour of speaking with you.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Who is it?
+
+                                SERVANT.
+
+I suppose it is the gentleman to whom the letter was addressed. At
+least the servant to whom I delivered it is with him.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Mellefont!--Quick, bring him up! (_Exit_ Servant.) Ah, Hannah! He is
+here now! How shall I receive him? What shall I say? What look shall I
+put on? Is this calm enough? Just see!
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+Anything but calm.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+This, then?
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+Throw a little sweetness into it.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+So, perhaps?
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+Too sad.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Would this smile do?
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+Perfectly--only less constrained--He is coming.
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+                      Mellefont, Marwood, Hannah.
+
+               MELLEFONT (_entering with wild gestures_).
+
+Ha! Marwood----
+
+      MARWOOD (_running to meet him smiling, and with open arms_).
+
+Ah, Mellefont!
+
+                          MELLEFONT (_aside_).
+
+The murderess! What a look!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I must embrace you, faithless, dear fugitive! Share my joy with me! Why
+do you tear yourself from my caresses!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I expected, Marwood, that you would receive me differently.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Why differently? With more love, perhaps? With more delight? Alas, how
+unhappy I am, that I cannot express all that I feel! Do you not see,
+Mellefont, do you not see that joy, too, has its tears? Here they fall,
+the offspring of sweetest delight! But alas, vain tears! His hand does
+not dry you!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Marwood, the time is gone, when such words would have charmed me. You
+must speak now with me in another tone. I come to hear your last
+reproaches and to answer them.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Reproaches? What reproaches should I have for you, Mellefont? None!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Then you might have spared yourself the journey, I should think.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Dearest, capricious heart. Why will you forcibly compel me to recall a
+trifle which I forgave you the same moment I heard of it? Does a
+passing infidelity which your gallantry, but not your heart, has
+caused, deserve these reproaches? Come, let us laugh at it!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You are mistaken; my heart is more concerned in it, than it ever was in
+all our love affairs, upon which I cannot now look back but with
+disgust.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Your heart, Mellefont, is a good little fool. It lets your imagination
+persuade it to whatever it will. Believe me, I know it better than you
+do yourself! Were it not the best, the most faithful of hearts, should
+I take such pains to keep it?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+To keep it? You have never possessed it, I tell you.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+And I tell you, that in reality I possess it still!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Marwood! if I knew that you still possessed one single fibre of it, I
+would tear it out of my breast here before your eyes.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+You would see that you were tearing mine out at the same time. And
+then, then these hearts would at last attain that union which they have
+sought so often upon our lips.
+
+                          MELLEFONT (_aside_).
+
+What a serpent! Flight will be the best thing here.--Just tell me
+briefly, Marwood, why you have followed me, and what you still desire
+of me! But tell it me without this smile, without this look, in which a
+whole' hell of seduction lurks and terrifies me.
+
+                       MARWOOD (_insinuatingly_).
+
+Just listen, my dear Mellefont! I see your position now. Your desires
+and your taste are at present your tyrants. Never mind, one must let
+them wear themselves out. It is folly to resist them. They are most
+safely lulled to sleep, and at last even conquered, by giving them free
+scope. They wear themselves away. Can you accuse me, my fickle friend,
+of ever having been jealous, when more powerful charms than mine
+estranged you from me for a time? I never grudged you the change, by
+which I always won more than I lost. You returned with new ardour, with
+new passion to my arms, in which with light bonds, and never with heavy
+fetters I encompassed you. Have I not often even been your confidante
+though you had nothing to confide but the favours which you stole from
+me, in order to lavish them on others. Why should you believe then,
+that I would now begin to display a capriciousness just when I am
+ceasing, or, perhaps have already ceased, to be justified in it. If
+your ardour for the pretty country girl has not yet cooled down, if you
+are still in the first fever of your love for her; if you cannot yet do
+without the enjoyment she gives you; who hinders you from devoting
+yourself to her, as long as you think good? But must you on that
+account make such rash projects, and purpose to fly from the country
+with her?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Marwood! You speak in perfect keeping with your character, the
+wickedness of which I never understood so well as I do now, since, in
+the society of a virtuous woman, I have learned to distinguish love
+from licentiousness.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Indeed! Your new mistress is then a girl of fine moral sentiments, I
+suppose? You men surely cannot know yourselves what you want. At one
+time you are pleased with the most wanton talk and the most unchaste
+jests from us, at another time we charm you, when we talk nothing but
+virtue, and seem to have all the seven sages on our lips. But the worst
+is, that you get tired of one as much as the other. We may be foolish
+or reasonable, worldly or spiritual; our efforts to make you constant
+are lost either way. The turn will come to your beautiful saint soon
+enough. Shall I give you a little sketch? Just at present you are in
+the most passionate paroxysm over her. I allow this two or at the most
+three days more. To this will succeed a tolerably calm love; for this I
+allow a week. The next week you will only think occasionally of this
+love. In the third week, you will have to be reminded of it; and when
+you have got tired of being thus reminded, you will so quickly see
+yourself reduced to the most utter indifference, that I can hardly
+allow the fourth week for this final change. This would be about a
+month altogether. And this month, Mellefont, I will overlook with the
+greatest pleasure; but you will allow that I must not lose sight of
+you.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You try all the weapons in vain which you remember to have used
+successfully with me in bygone days. A virtuous resolution secures me
+against both your tenderness and your wit. However, I will not expose
+myself longer to either. I go, and have nothing more to tell you but
+that in a few days you shall know that I am bound in such a manner as
+will utterly destroy all your hope of my ever returning into your
+sinful slavery. You will have learned my justification sufficiently
+from the letter which I sent to you before my departure.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+It is well that you mention this letter. Tell me, who did you get to
+write it?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Did not I write it myself?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Impossible! The beginning of it, in which you reckoned up--I do not
+know what sums--which you say you have wasted with me, must have been
+written by an innkeeper, and the theological part at the end by a
+Quaker. I will now give you a serious reply to it. As to the principal
+point, you well know that all the presents which you have made are
+still in existence. I have never considered your cheques or your jewels
+as my property, and I have brought them all with me to return them into
+the hands which entrusted them to me.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Keep them all, Marwood!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I will not keep any of them. What right have I to them without you
+yourself? Although you do not love me any more, you must at least do me
+justice and not take me for one of those venal females, to whom it is a
+matter of indifference by whose booty they enrich themselves. Come,
+Mellefont, you shall this moment be as rich again as you perhaps might
+still be if you had not known me; and perhaps, too, might _not_ be.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What demon intent upon my destruction speaks through you now!
+Voluptuous Marwood does not think so nobly.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Do you call that noble? I call it only just. No, Sir, no, I do not ask
+that you shall account the return of your gifts as anything remarkable.
+It costs me nothing, and I should even consider the slightest
+expression of thanks on your part as an insult, which could have no
+other meaning than this: "Marwood, I thought you a base deceiver; I am
+thankful that you have not wished to be so towards me at least."
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Enough, Madam, enough! I fly, since my unlucky destiny threatens to
+involve me in a contest of generosity, in which I should be most
+unwilling to succumb.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Fly, then! But take everything with you that could remind me of you.
+Poor, despised, without honour, and without friends, I will then
+venture again to awaken your pity. I will show you in the unfortunate
+Marwood only a miserable woman, who has sacrificed to you her person,
+her honour, her virtue, and her conscience. I will remind you of the
+first day, when you saw and loved me; of the first, stammering, bashful
+confession of your love, which you made me at my feet; of the first
+assurance of my return of your love, which you forced from me; of the
+tender looks, of the passionate embraces, which followed, of the
+eloquent silence, when each with busy mind divined the other's most
+secret feelings, and read the most hidden thoughts of the soul in the
+languishing eye; of the trembling expectation of approaching
+gratification; of the intoxication of its joys; of the sweet relaxation
+after the fulness of enjoyment, in which the exhausted spirits regained
+strength for fresh delights. I shall remind you of all this, and then
+embrace your knees, and entreat without ceasing for the only gift,
+which you cannot deny me, and which I can accept without blushing--for
+death from your hand.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Cruel one! I would still give even my life for you. Ask it, ask it,
+only do not any longer claim my love. I must leave you, Marwood, or
+make myself an object of loathing to the whole world. I am culpable
+already in that I only stand here and listen to you. Farewell,
+farewell!
+
+                     MARWOOD (_holding him back_).
+
+You must leave me? And what, then, do you wish, shall become of me? As
+I am now, I am your creature; do, then, what becomes a creator; he may
+not withdraw his hand from the work until he wishes to destroy it
+utterly. Alas, Hannah, I see now, my entreaties alone are too feeble.
+Go, bring my intercessor, who will now, perhaps, return to me more than
+she ever received from me. (_Exit_ Hannah).
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What intercessor, Marwood?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Ah, an intercessor of whom you would only too willingly have deprived
+me. Nature will take a shorter road to your heart with her grievances.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You alarm me. Surely you have not----
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+                 Arabella, Hannah, Mellefont, Marwood.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What do I see? It is she! Marwood, how could you dare to----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Am I not her mother? Come, my Bella, see, here is your protector again,
+your friend, your .... Ah! his heart may tell him what more he can be
+to you than a protector and a friend.
+
+                  MELLEFONT (_turning away his face_).
+
+God, what shall I have to suffer here?
+
+              ARABELLA (_advancing timidly towards him_).
+
+Ah, Sir! Is it you? Are you our Mellefont? No, Madam, surely, surely it
+is not he! Would he not look at me, if it were? Would he not hold me in
+his arms? He used to do so. What an unhappy child I am! How have I
+grieved him, this dear, dear man, who let me call him my father?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+You are silent, Mellefont? You grudge the innocent child a single look?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Ah!
+
+                               ARABELLA.
+
+Why, he sighs, Madam! What is the matter with him? Cannot we help him?
+Cannot I? Nor you? Then let us sigh with him! Ah, now he looks at me!
+No, he looks away again! He looks up to Heaven! What does he want? What
+does he ask from Heaven? Would that Heaven would grant him everything,
+even if it refused me everything for it!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Go, my child, go, fall at his feet! He wants to leave us, to leave us
+for ever.
+
+             ARABELLA (_falling on her knees before him_).
+
+Here I am already. You will leave us? You will leave us for ever? Have
+not we already been without you for a little "for ever." Shall we have
+to lose you again? You have said so often that you loved us. Does one
+leave the people whom one loves? I cannot love you then, I suppose, for
+I should wish never to leave you. Never, and I never will leave you
+either.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I will help you in your entreaties, my child! And you must help me too!
+Now, Mellefont, you see me too at your feet....
+
+     MELLEFONT (_stopping her, as she throws herself at his feet_).
+
+Marwood, dangerous Marwood! And you, too, my dearest Bella (_raising
+her up_), you too are the enemy of your Mellefont?
+
+                               ARABELLA.
+
+I your enemy?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+What is your resolve?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What it ought not to be, Marwood; what it ought not to be.
+
+                       MARWOOD (_embracing him_).
+
+Ah, I know that the honesty of your heart has always overcome the
+obstinacy of your desires.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Do not importune me any longer! I am already what you wish to make me;
+a perjurer, a seducer, a robber, a murderer!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+You will be so in imagination for a few days, and after that you will
+see that I have prevented you from becoming so in reality. You will
+return with us, won't you?
+
+                      ARABELLA (_insinuatingly_).
+
+Oh yes, do!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Return with you! How can I?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Nothing is easier, if you only wish it.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+And my Sara----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+And your Sara may look to herself.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Ha! cruel Marwood, these words reveal the very bottom of your heart to
+me. And yet I, wretch, do not repent?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+If you had seen the bottom of my heart, you would have discovered that
+it has more true pity for your Sara than you yourself have. I say true
+pity; for your pity is egotistic and weak. You have carried this
+love-affair much too far. We might let it pass, that you as a man, who
+by long intercourse with our sex has become master in the art of seducing,
+used your superiority in dissimulation and experience against such a
+young maiden, and did not rest until you had gained your end. You can
+plead the impetuosity of your passion as your excuse. But, Mellefont,
+you cannot justify yourself for having robbed an old father of his only
+child, for having rendered to an honourable old man his few remaining
+steps to the grave harder and more bitter, for having broken the
+strongest ties of nature for the sake of your desires. Repair your
+error, then, as far as it is possible to repair it. Give the old man
+his support again, and send a credulous daughter back to her home,
+which you need not render desolate also, because you have dishonoured
+it.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+This only was still wanting--that you should call in my conscience
+against me also. But even supposing what you say were just, must I not
+be brazenfaced if I should propose it myself to the unhappy girl?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Well, I will confess to you, that I have anticipated this difficulty,
+and considered how to spare you it. As soon as I learned your address,
+I informed her old father privately of it. He was beside himself with
+joy, and wanted to start directly. I wonder he has not yet arrived.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What do you say?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Just await his arrival quietly, and do not let the girl notice
+anything. I myself will not detain you any longer. Go to her again; she
+might grow suspicious. But I trust that I shall see you again to-day.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Oh, Marwood! With what feelings did I come to you, and with what must I
+leave you! A kiss, my dear Bella.
+
+                               ARABELLA.
+
+That was for you, now one for me! But come back again soon, do!
+
+                                               (_Exit_ Mellefont).
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+                       Marwood, Arabella, Hannah.
+
+                   MARWOOD (_drawing a deep breath_).
+
+Victory, Hannah! but a hard victory! Give me a chair, I feel quite
+exhausted (_sitting down_). He surrendered only just in time, if he had
+hesitated another moment, I should have shown him quite a different
+Marwood.
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+Ah, Madam, what a woman you are! I should like to Bee the man who could
+resist you.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+He has resisted me already too long. And assuredly, assuredly, I will
+not forgive him that he almost let me go down on my knees to him.
+
+                               ARABELLA.
+
+No, no! You must forgive him everything. He is so good, so good----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Be silent, little silly!
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+I do not know on what side you did not attack him! But nothing, I
+think, touched him more, than the disinterestedness with which you
+offered to return all his presents to him.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I believe so too. Ha! ha! ha! (_contemptuously_).
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+Why do you laugh, Madam? You really risked a great deal, if you were
+not in earnest about it. Suppose he had taken you at your word?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Oh, nonsense, one knows with whom one has to deal.
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+I quite admit that! But you too, my pretty Bella, did your part
+excellently, excellently!
+
+                               ARABELLA.
+
+How so? Could I do it, then, any other way? I had not seen him for such
+a long time. I hope you are not angry, Madam, that I love him so? I
+love you as much as him, just as much.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Very well, I will pardon you this time that you do not love me better
+than him.
+
+                         ARABELLA (_sobbing_).
+
+This time?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Why, you are crying actually? What is it about?
+
+                               ARABELLA.
+
+Ah, no! I am not crying. Do not get angry! I will love you both so
+much, so much, that it will be impossible to love either of you more.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Very well.
+
+                               ARABELLA.
+
+I am so unhappy.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Now be quiet----but what is that?
+
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+                 Mellefont, Marwood, Arabella, Hannah.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Why do you come back again so soon, Mellefont? (_rising_).
+
+                      MELLEFONT (_passionately_).
+
+Because I needed but a few moments to recover my senses.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Well?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I was stunned, Marwood, but not moved! You have had all your trouble in
+vain. Another atmosphere than this infectious one of your room has
+given me back my courage and my strength, to withdraw my foot in time
+from this dangerous snare. Were the tricks of a Marwood not
+sufficiently familiar to me, unworthy wretch that I am?
+
+                        MARWOOD (_impatiently_).
+
+What language is that?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+The language of truth and anger.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Gently, Mellefont! or I too shall speak in the same language.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I return only in order not to leave you one moment longer under a
+delusion with regard to me, which must make me despicable even in your
+eyes.
+
+                          ARABELLA (_timidly_).
+
+Oh, Hannah!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Look at me as madly as you like. The more madly the better! Was it
+possible that I could hesitate only for one moment between a Marwood
+and a Sara, and that I had well nigh decided for the former?
+
+                               ARABELLA.
+
+Oh, Mellefont!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Do not tremble, Bella! For your sake too I came back. Give me your
+hand, and follow me without fear!
+
+                       MARWOOD (_stopping them_).
+
+Whom shall she follow, traitor?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Her father!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Go, pitiable wretch, and learn first to know her mother.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I know her. She is a disgrace to her sex.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Take her away, Hannah!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Remain here, Bella (_attempting to stop her_).
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+No force, Mellefont, or----
+
+                                  (_Exeunt_ Hannah _and_ Arabella).
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                          Mellefont, Marwood.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Now we are alone! Say now once more, whether you are determined to
+sacrifice me for a foolish girl?
+
+                        MELLEFONT (_bitterly_).
+
+Sacrifice you? You recall to my mind that impure animals were also
+sacrificed to the ancient gods.
+
+                         MARWOOD (_mockingly_).
+
+Express yourself without these learned allusions.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I tell you, then, that I am firmly resolved never to think of you
+again, but with the most fearful of curses. Who are you? And who is
+Sara? You are a voluptuous, egoistic, shameful strumpet, who certainly
+can scarcely remember any longer that she ever was innocent. I have
+nothing to reproach myself with but that I have enjoyed with you that
+which otherwise you would perhaps have let the whole world enjoy. You
+have sought me, not I you, and if I now know who Marwood is, I have
+paid for this knowledge dearly enough. It has cost me my fortune, my
+honour, my happiness----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+And I would that it might also cost you your eternal happiness.
+Monster! Is the devil worse than you, when he lures feeble mortals into
+crimes and himself accuses them afterwards for these crimes which are
+his own work! What is my innocence to you? What does it matter to you
+when and how I lost it. If I could not sacrifice my virtue, I have at
+least staked my good name for you. The former is no more valuable than
+the latter. What do I say? More valuable? Without it the former is a
+silly fancy, which brings one neither happiness nor guilt. The good
+name alone gives it some value, and can exist quite well without it.
+What did it matter what I was before I knew you, you wretch! It is
+enough that in the eyes of the world I was a woman without reproach.
+Through you only it has learned that I am not so; solely through my
+readiness to accept your heart, as I then thought, without your hand.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+This very readiness condemns you, vile woman!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+But do you remember to what base tricks you owed it? Was I not
+persuaded by you, that you could not be publicly united to me without
+forfeiting an inheritance which you wished to share with me only? Is it
+time now to renounce it? And to renounce it, not for me but for
+another!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+It is a real delight to me to be able to tell you that this difficulty
+will soon be removed. Content yourself therefore with having deprived
+me of my father's inheritance, and let me enjoy a far smaller one with
+a more worthy wife.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Ha! Now I see what it is that makes you so perverse. Well, I will lose
+no more words. Be it so! Be assured I shall do everything to forget
+you. And the first thing that I will do to this end, shall be this. You
+will understand me! Tremble for your Bella! Her life shall not carry
+the memory of my despised love down to posterity; my cruelty shall do
+it. Behold in me a new Medea!
+
+                       MELLEFONT (_frightened_).
+
+Marwood!----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Or, if you know a more cruel mother still, behold her cruelty doubled
+in me! Poison and dagger shall avenge me. But no, poison and dagger are
+tools too merciful for me! They would kill your child and mine too
+soon. I will not see it dead. I will see it dying! I will see each
+feature of the face which she has from you disfigured, distorted, and
+obliterated by slow torture. With eager hand will I part limb from
+limb, vein from vein, nerve from nerve, and will not cease to cut and
+burn the very smallest of them, even when there is nothing remaining
+but a senseless carcass! I--I shall at least feel in it--how sweet is
+revenge!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You are raving, Marwood----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+You remind me that my ravings are not directed against the right
+person. The father must go first! He must already be in yonder world,
+when, through a thousand woes the spirit of his daughter follows him
+(_she advances towards him with a dagger which she draws from her
+bosom_). So die, traitor!
+
+   MELLEFONT (_seizing her arm, and snatching the dagger from her_).
+
+Insane woman! What hinders me now from turning the steel against you?
+But live, and your punishment shall be left for a hand void of honour.
+
+                    MARWOOD (_wringing her hands_).
+
+Heaven, what have I done? Mellefont----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Your grief shall not deceive me. I know well why you are sorry--not
+that you wished to stab me, but that you failed to do so.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Give me back the erring steel! Give it me back, and you shall see for
+whom it was sharpened! For this breast alone, which for long has been
+too narrow for a heart which will rather renounce life than your love.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Hannah!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+What are you doing, Mellefont?
+
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+               Hannah (_in terror_), Marwood, Mellefont.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Did you hear, Hannah, how madly your mistress was behaving? Remember
+that I shall hold you responsible for Arabella!
+
+                                HANNAH.
+
+Madam, how agitated you are!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I will place the innocent child in safety immediately. Justice will
+doubtless be able to bind the murderous hands of her cruel mother
+(_going_).
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Whither, Mellefont? Is it astonishing that the violence of my grief
+deprived me of my reason? Who forces me to such unnatural excess? Is it
+not you yourself? Where can Bella be safer than with me? My lips may
+rave, but my heart still remains the heart of a mother. Oh, Mellefont,
+forget my madness, and to excuse it think only of its cause.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+There is only one thing which can induce me to forget it.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+And that is?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+That you return immediately to London! I will send Arabella there under
+another escort. You must by no means have anything further to do with
+her.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Very well! I submit to everything; but grant me one single request
+more. Let me see your Sara once.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+And what for?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+To read in her eyes my future fate. I will judge for myself whether she
+is worthy of such a breach of faith as you commit against me; and
+whether I may cherish the hope of receiving again, some day at any
+rate, a portion of your love.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Vain hope!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Who is so cruel as to grudge even hope to the unhappy? I will not show
+myself to her as Marwood, but as a relation of yours. Announce me to
+her as such; you shall be present when I call upon her, and I promise
+you, by all that is sacred, to say nothing that is in any way
+displeasing to her. Do not refuse my request, for otherwise I might
+perhaps do all that is in my power to show myself to her in my true
+character.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Marwood! This request----(_after a moment's reflection_) might be
+granted.--But will you then be sure to quit this spot?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Certainly; yes I promise you. Even more, I will spare you the visit
+from her father, if that is still possible.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+There is no need of that! I hope that he will include me too in the
+pardon which he grants to his daughter. But if he will not pardon her,
+I too shall know how to deal with him. I will go and announce you to my
+Sara. Only keep your promise, Marwood. (_Exit_.)
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Alas, Hannah, that our powers are not as great as our courage. Come,
+help me to dress. I do not despair of my scheme. If I could only make
+sure of him first. Come!
+
+
+
+
+                                ACT III.
+
+                 Scene I. (_A room in the first inn_.)
+
+                     Sir William Sampson, Waitwell.
+
+                          SIR WILLIAM SAMPSON.
+
+There, Waitwell, take this letter to her! It is the letter of an
+affectionate father, who complains of nothing but her absence. Tell her
+that I have sent you on before with it, and that I only await her
+answer, to come myself and fold her again in my arms.
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+I think you do well to prepare them for your arrival in this way.
+
+                          SIR WILLIAM SAMPSON.
+
+I make sure of her intentions by this means, and give her the
+opportunity of freeing herself from any shame or sorrow which
+repentance might cause her, before she speaks verbally with me. In a
+letter it will cost her less embarrassment, and me, perhaps, fewer
+tears.
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+But may I ask, Sir, what you have resolved upon with regard to
+Mellefont?
+
+                          SIR WILLIAM SAMPSON.
+
+Ah, Waitwell, if I could separate him from my daughter's lover, I
+should make some very harsh resolve. But as this cannot be, you see, he
+is saved from my anger. I myself am most to blame in this misfortune.
+But for me Sara would never have made the acquaintance of this
+dangerous man. I admitted him freely into my house on account of an
+obligation under which I believed myself to be to him. It was natural
+that the attention which in gratitude I paid him, should win for him
+the esteem of my daughter. And it was just as natural, that a man of
+his disposition should suffer himself to be tempted by this esteem to
+something more. He had been clever enough to transform it into love
+before I noticed anything at all, and before I had time to inquire into
+his former life. The evil was done, and I should have done well, if I
+had forgiven them everything immediately. I wished to be inexorable
+towards him, and did not consider that I could not be so towards him
+alone. If I had spared my severity, which came too late, I would at
+least have prevented their flight. But here I am now, Waitwell! I must
+fetch them back myself and consider myself happy if only I can make a
+son of a seducer. For who knows whether he will give up his Marwoods
+and his other creatures for the sake of a girl who has left nothing for
+his desires to wish for and who understands so little the bewitching
+arts of a coquette?
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Well, Sir, it cannot be possible, that a man could be so wicked----
+
+                          SIR WILLIAM SAMPSON.
+
+This doubt, good Waitwell, does honour to your virtue. But why, at the
+same time, is it true that the limits of human wickedness extend much
+further still? Go now, and do as I told you! Notice every look as she
+reads my letter. In this short deviation from virtue she cannot yet
+have learned the art of dissimulation, to the masks of which only
+deep-rooted vice can have recourse. You will read her whole soul in her
+face. Do not let a look escape you which might perhaps indicate
+indifference to me--disregard of her father. For if you should
+unhappily discover this, and if she loves me no more, I hope that I
+shall be able to conquer myself and abandon her to her fate. I hope so,
+Waitwell. Alas! would that there were no heart here, to contradict this
+hope.                          (_Exeunt on different sides_.)
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+                         Miss Sara, Mellefont.
+
+                            (Sara's _room_.)
+
+                                MELLEFONT.
+
+I have done wrong, dearest Sara, to leave you in uneasiness about the
+letter which came just now.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Oh dear, no, Mellefont! I have not been in the least uneasy about it.
+Could you not love me even though you still had secrets from me?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You think, then, that it was a secret?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+But not one which concerns me. And that must suffice for me.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You are only too good. Let me nevertheless reveal my secret to you. The
+letter contained a few lines from a relative of mine, who has heard of
+my being here. She passes through here on her way to London, and would
+like to see me. She has begged at the same time to be allowed the
+honour of paying you a visit.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+It will always be a pleasure to me to make the acquaintance of the
+respected members of your family. But consider for yourself, whether I
+can yet appear before one of them without blushing.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Without blushing? And for what? For your love to me? It is true, Sara,
+you could have given your love to a nobler or a richer man. You must be
+ashamed that you were content to give your heart for another heart
+only, and that in this exchange you lost sight of your happiness.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+You must know yourself how wrongly you interpret my words.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Pardon me, Sara; if my interpretation is wrong, they can have no
+meaning at all.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What is the name of your relation?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+She is--Lady Solmes. You will have heard me mention the name before.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I don't remember.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+May I beg you to see her?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Beg me? You can command me to do so.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What a word! No, Sara, she shall not have the happiness of seeing you.
+She will regret it, but she must submit to it. Sara has her reasons,
+which I respect without knowing them.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+How hasty you are, Mellefont! I shall expect Lady Solmes, and do my
+best to show myself worthy of the honour of her visit. Are you content?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Ah, Sara! let me confess my ambition. I should like to show you to the
+whole world! And were I not proud of the possession of such a being, I
+should reproach myself with not being able to appreciate her value. I
+will go and bring her to you at once. (_Exit_.)
+
+                            SARA (_alone_).
+
+I hope she will not be one of those proud women, who are so full of
+their own virtue that they believe themselves above all failings. With
+one single look of contempt they condemn us, and an equivocal shrug of
+the shoulders is all the pity we seem to deserve in their eyes.
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+                            Waitwell, Sara.
+
+                      BETTY (_behind the scenes_).
+
+Just come in here, if you must speak to her yourself!
+
+                        SARA (_looking round_).
+
+Who must speak to me? Whom do I see? Is it possible? You, Waitwell?
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+How happy I am to see our young lady again!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Good God, what do you bring me? I hear already, I hear already; you
+bring me the news of my father's death! He is gone, the excellent man,
+the best of fathers! He is gone, and I--I am the miserable creature who
+has hastened his death.
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Ah, Miss----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Tell me, quick! tell me, that his last moments were not embittered by
+the thought of me; that he had forgotten me; that he died as peacefully
+as he used to hope to die in my arms; that he did not remember me even
+in his last prayer----
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Pray do not torment yourself with such false notions! Your father is
+still alive! He is still alive, honest Sir William!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Is he still alive? Is it true? Is he still alive? May he live a long
+while yet, and live happily! Oh, would that God would add the half of
+my years to his life! Half! How ungrateful should I be, if I were not
+willing to buy even a few moments for him with all the years, that may
+yet be mine! But tell me at least, Waitwell, that it is not hard for
+him to live without me; that it was easy to him to renounce a daughter
+who could so easily renounce her virtue, that he is angry with me for
+my flight, but not grieved; that he curses me, but does not mourn for
+me.
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Ah! Sir William is still the same fond father, as his Sara is still the
+same fond daughter that she was.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What do you say? You are a messenger of evil, of the most dreadful of
+all the evils which my imagination has ever pictured to me! He is still
+the same fond father? Then he loves me still? And he must mourn for me,
+then! No no, he does not do so; he cannot do so? Do you not see how
+infinitely each sigh which he wasted on me would magnify my crime?
+Would not the justice of heaven have to charge me with every tear which
+I forced from him, as if with each one I repeated my vice and my
+ingratitude? I grow chill at the thought. I cause him tears? Tears? And
+they are other tears than tears of joy? Contradict me, Waitwell! At
+most he has felt some slight stirring of the blood on my account; some
+transitory emotion, calmed by a slight effort of reason. He did not go
+so far as to shed tears, surely not to shed tears, Waitwell?
+
+                     WAITWELL (_wiping his eyes_).
+
+No, Miss, he did not go so far as that.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Alas! your lips say no, and your eyes say yes.
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Take this letter Miss, it is from him himself----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+From whom? From my father? To me?
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Yes, take it! You can learn more from it, than I am able to say. He
+ought to have given this to another to do, not to me. I promised myself
+pleasure from it; but you turn my joy into sadness.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Give it me, honest Waitwell! But no! I will not take it before you tell
+me what it contains.
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+What can it contain? Love and forgiveness.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Love? Forgiveness?
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+And perhaps a real regret, that he used the rights of a father's power
+against a child, who should only have the privileges of a father's
+kindness.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Then keep your cruel letter.
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Cruel? Have no fear. Full liberty is granted you over your heart and
+hand.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+And it is just this which I fear. To grieve a father such as he, this I
+have had the courage to do. But to see him forced by this very grief-by
+his love which I have forfeited, to look with leniency on all the wrong
+into which an unfortunate passion has led me; this, Waitwell, I could
+not bear. If his letter contained all the hard and angry words which an
+exasperated father can utter in such a case, I should read it--with a
+shudder it is true--but still I should be able to read it. I should be
+able to produce a shadow of defence against his wrath, to make him by
+this defence if possible more angry still. My consolation then would be
+this-that melancholy grief could have no place with violent wrath and
+that the latter would transform itself finally into bitter contempt.
+And we grieve no more for one whom we despise. My father would have
+grown calm again, and I would not have to reproach myself with having
+made him unhappy for ever.
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Alas, Miss! You will have to reproach yourself still less for this if
+you now accept his love again, which wishes only to forget everything.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+You are mistaken, Waitwell! His yearning for me misleads him, perhaps,
+to give his consent to everything. But no sooner would this desire be
+appeased a little, than he would feel ashamed before himself of his
+weakness. Sullen anger would take possession of him, and he would never
+be able to look at me without silently accusing me of all that I had
+dared to exact from him. Yes, if it were in my power to spare him his
+bitterest grief, when on my account he is laying the greatest restraint
+upon himself; if at a moment when he would grant me everything I could
+sacrifice all to him; then it would be quite a different matter. I
+would take the letter from your hands with pleasure, would admire in it
+the strength of the fatherly love, and, not to abuse this love, I would
+throw myself at his feet a repentant and obedient daughter. But can I
+do that? I shall be obliged to make use of his permission, regardless
+of the price this permission has cost him. And then, when I feel most
+happy, it will suddenly occur to me that he only outwardly appears to
+share my happiness and that inwardly he is sighing--in short, that he
+has made me happy by the renunciation of his own happiness. And to wish
+to be happy in this way,--do you expect that of me, Waitwell?
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+I truly do not know what answer to give to that.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+There is no answer to it. So take your letter back! If my father must
+be unhappy through me, I will myself remain unhappy also. To be quite
+alone in unhappiness is that for which I now pray Heaven every hour,
+but to be quite alone in my happiness--of that I will not hear.
+
+                          WAITWELL (_aside_).
+
+I really think I shall have to employ deception with this good child to
+get her to read the letter.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What are you saying to yourself?
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+I was saying to myself that the idea I had hit on to get you to read
+this letter all the quicker was a very clumsy one.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+How so?
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+I could not look far enough. Of course you see more deeply into things
+than such as I. I did not wish to frighten you; the letter is perhaps
+only too hard; and when I said that it contained nothing but love and
+forgiveness, I ought to have said that I wished it might not contain
+anything else.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Is that true? Give it me then! I will read it. If one has been
+unfortunate enough to deserve the anger of one's father, one should at
+least have enough respect for it to submit to the expression of it on
+his part. To try to frustrate it means to heap contempt on insult. I
+shall feel his anger in all its strength. You see I tremble already.
+But I must tremble; and I will rather tremble than weep (_opens the
+letter_). Now it is opened! I sink! But what do I see? (_she reads_)
+"My only, dearest daughter"--ah, you old deceiver, is that the language
+of an angry father? Go, I shall read no more----
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Ah, Miss! You will pardon an old servant! Yes, truly, I believe it is
+the first time in my life that I have intentionally deceived any one.
+He who deceives once, Miss, and deceives for so good a purpose, is
+surely no old deceiver on that account. That touches me deeply, Miss! I
+know well that the good intention does not always excuse one; but what
+else could I do? To return his letter unread to such a good father?
+That certainly I cannot do! Sooner will I walk as far as my old legs
+will carry me, and never again come into his presence.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What? You too will leave him?
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Shall I not be obliged to do so if you do not read the letter? Read it,
+pray! Do not grudge a good result to the first deceit with which I have
+to reproach myself. You will forget it the sooner, and I shall the
+sooner be able to forgive myself. I am a common, simple man, who must
+not question the reasons why you cannot and will not read the letter.
+Whether they are true, I know not, but at any rate they do not appear
+to me to be natural. I should think thus, Miss: a father, I should
+think, is after all a father; and a child may err for once, and remain
+a good child in spite of it. If the father pardons the error, the child
+may behave again in such a manner that the father may not even think of
+it any more. For who likes to remember what he would rather had never
+happened? It seems, Miss, as if you thought only of your error, and
+believed you atoned sufficiently in exaggerating it in your imagination
+and tormenting yourself with these exaggerated ideas. But, I should
+think, you ought also to consider how you could make up for what has
+happened. And how will you make up for it, if you deprive yourself of
+every opportunity of doing so. Can it be hard for you to take the
+second step, when such a good father has already taken the first?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What daggers pierce my heart in your simple words! That he has to take
+the first step is just what I cannot bear. And, besides, is it only the
+first step which he takes? He must do all! I cannot take a single one
+to meet him. As far as I have gone from him, so far must he descend to
+me. If he pardons me, he must pardon the whole crime, and in addition
+must bear the consequences of it continually before his eyes. Can one
+demand that from a father?
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+I do not know, Miss, whether I understand this quite right. But it
+seems to me, you mean to say that he would have to forgive you too
+much, and as this could not but be very difficult to him, you make a
+scruple of accepting his forgiveness. If you mean that, tell me, pray,
+is not forgiving a great happiness to a kind heart? I have not been so
+fortunate in my life as to have felt this happiness often. But I still
+remember with pleasure the few instances when I have felt it. I felt
+something so sweet, something so tranquillising, something so divine,
+that I could not help thinking of the great insurpassable blessedness
+of God, whose preservation of miserable mankind is a perpetual
+forgiveness. I wished that I could be forgiving continually, and was
+ashamed that I had only such trifles to pardon. To forgive real painful
+insults, deadly offences, I said to myself, must be a bliss in which
+the whole soul melts. And now, Miss, will you grudge your father such
+bliss?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Ah! Go on, Waitwell, go on!
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+I know well there are people who accept nothing less willingly than
+forgiveness, and that because they have never learned to grant it. They
+are proud, unbending people, who will on no account confess that they
+have done wrong. But you do not belong to this kind, Miss! You have the
+most loving and tender of hearts that the best of your sex can have.
+You confess your fault too. Where then is the difficulty? But pardon
+me, Miss! I am an old chatterer, and ought to have seen at once that
+your refusal is only a praiseworthy solicitude, only a virtuous
+timidity. People who can accept a great benefit immediately without any
+hesitation are seldom worthy of it. Those who deserve it most have
+always the greatest mistrust of themselves. Yet mistrust must not be
+pushed beyond limits!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Dear old father! I believe you have persuaded me.
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+If I have been so fortunate as that it must have been a good spirit
+that has helped me to plead. But no, Miss, my words have done no more
+than given you time to reflect and to recover from the bewilderment of
+joy. You will read the letter now, will you not? Oh, read it at once!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I will do so, Waitwell! What regrets, what pain shall I feel!
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Pain, Miss! but pleasant pain.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Be silent! (_begins reading to herself_).
+
+                          WAITWELL (_aside_).
+
+Oh! If he could see her himself!
+
+                 SARA (_after reading a few moments_).
+
+Ah, Waitwell, what a father! He calls my flight "an absence." How much
+more culpable it becomes through this gentle word! (_continues reading
+and interrupts herself again_). Listen! he flatters himself I shall
+love him still. He flatters himself! He begs me--he begs me? A father
+begs his daughter? his culpable daughter? And what does he beg then? He
+begs me to forget his over-hasty severity, and not to punish him any
+longer with my absence. Over-hasty severity! To punish! More still! Now
+he thanks me even, and thanks me that I have given him an opportunity
+of learning the whole extent of paternal love. Unhappy opportunity!
+Would that he also said it had shown him at the same time the extent of
+filial disobedience. No, he does not say it! He does not mention my
+crime with one single word. (_Continues reading_.) He will come himself
+and fetch his children. His children, Waitwell! that surpasses
+everything! Have I read it rightly? (_reads again to herself_) I am
+overcome! He says, that he without whom he could not possess a daughter
+deserves but too well to be his son. Oh that he had never had this
+unfortunate daughter! Go, Waitwell, leave me alone! He wants an answer,
+and I will write it at once. Come again in an hour! I thank you
+meanwhile for your trouble. You are an honest man. Few servants are the
+friends of their masters!
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Do not make me blush, Miss! If all masters were like Sir William,
+servants would be monsters, if they would not give their lives for
+them. (_Exit_.)
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+                      SARA (_sits down to write_).
+
+If they had told me a year ago that I should have to answer such a
+letter! And under such circumstances! Yes, I have the pen in my hand.
+But do I know yet what I shall write? What I think; what I feel. And
+what then does one think when a thousand thoughts cross each other in
+one moment? And what does one feel, when the heart is in a stupor from
+a thousand feelings. But I must write! I do not guide the pen for the
+first time. After assisting me in so many a little act of politeness
+and friendship, should its help fail me at the most important office?
+(_She pauses, and then writes a few lines_.) It shall commence so? A
+very cold beginning! And shall I then begin with his love? I must begin
+with my crime. (_She scratches it out and writes again_.) I must be on
+my guard not to express myself too leniently. Shame may be in its place
+anywhere else, but not in the confession of our faults. I need not fear
+falling into exaggeration, even though I employ the most dreadful
+terms. Ah, am I to be interrupted now?
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+                       Marwood, Mellefont, Sara.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Dearest Sara, I have the honour of introducing Lady Solmes to you; she
+is one of the members of my family to whom I feel myself most indebted.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I must beg your pardon, Madam, for taking the liberty of convincing
+myself with my own eyes of the happiness of a cousin, for whom I should
+wish the most perfect of women if the first moment had not at once
+convinced me, that he has found her already in you.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Your ladyship does me too much honour! Such a compliment would have
+made me blush at any time, but now I would almost take it as concealed
+reproach, if I did not think that Lady Solmes is much too generous to
+let her superiority in virtue and wisdom be felt by an unhappy girl.
+
+                          MARWOOD (_coldly_).
+
+I should be inconsolable if you attributed to me any but the most
+friendly feelings towards you. (_Aside_.) She is good-looking.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Would it be possible Madam, to remain indifferent to such beauty, such
+modesty? People say, it is true, that one charming woman rarely does
+another one justice, but this is to be taken only of those who are
+over-vain of their superiority, and on the other hand of those who are
+not conscious of possessing any superiority. How far are you both
+removed from this. (_To_ Marwood, _who stands in deep thought_.) Is it
+not true, Madam, that my love has been anything but partial? Is it not
+true, that though I have said much to you in praise of my Sara, I have
+not said nearly so much as you yourself see? But why so thoughtful.
+(_Aside to her_.) You forget whom you represent.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+May I say it? The admiration of your dear young lady led me to the
+contemplation of her fate. It touched me, that she should not enjoy the
+fruits of her love in her native land. I recollected that she had to
+leave a father, and a very affectionate father as I have been told, in
+order to become yours; and I could not but wish for her reconciliation
+with him.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Ah, Madam! how much am I indebted to you for this wish. It encourages
+me to tell you the whole of my happiness. You cannot yet know,
+Mellefont, that this wish was granted before Lady Solmes had the
+kindness to wish it.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+How do you mean, Sara?
+
+                           MARWOOD (_aside_).
+
+How am I to interpret that?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I have just received a letter from my father. Waitwell brought it to
+me. Ah, Mellefont, such a letter!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Quick, relieve me from my uncertainty. What have I to fear? What have I
+to hope? Is he still the father from whom we fled? And if he is, will
+Sara be the daughter who loves me so tenderly as to fly again? Alas,
+had I but done as you wished, dearest Sara, we should now be united by
+a bond which no caprice could dissolve. I feel now all the misfortune
+which the discovery of our abode may bring upon me.--He will come and
+tear you out of my arms. How I hate the contemptible being who has
+betrayed us to him (_with an angry glance at_ Marwood).
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Dearest Mellefont, how flattering to me is this uneasiness I And how
+happy are we both in that it is unnecessary. Read his letter! (_To_
+Marwood, _whilst_ Mellefont _reads the letter_.) He will be astonished
+at the love of my father. Of my father? Ah, he is _his_ now too.
+
+                         MARWOOD (_perplexed_).
+
+Is it possible?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Yes, Madam, you have good cause to be surprised at this change. He
+forgives us everything; we shall now love each other before his eyes;
+he allows it, he commands it. How has this kindness gone to my very
+soul! Well, Mellefont? (_who returns the letter to her_). You are
+silent? Oh no, this tear which steals from your eye says far more than
+your lips could say.
+
+                           MARWOOD (_aside_).
+
+How I have injured my own cause. Imprudent woman that I was!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Oh, let me kiss this tear from your cheek.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Ah, Sara, why was it our fate to grieve such a godlike man? Yes, a
+godlike man, for what is more godlike than to forgive? Could we only
+have imagined such a happy issue possible, we should not now owe it to
+such violent means, we should owe it to our entreaties alone. What
+happiness is in store for me! But how painful also will be the
+conviction, that I am so unworthy of this happiness!
+
+                           MARWOOD (_aside_).
+
+And I must be present to hear this.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+How perfectly you justify my love by such thoughts.
+
+                           MARWOOD (_aside_.)
+
+What restraint must I put on myself!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+You too, Madam, must read my father's letter. You seem to take too
+great an interest in our fate to be indifferent to its contents.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Indifferent? (_takes the letter_).
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+But, Madam, you still seem very thoughtful, very sad----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Thoughtful, but not sad!
+
+                          MELLEFONT (_aside_).
+
+Heavens! If she should betray herself!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+And why then thoughtful?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I tremble for you both. Could not this unforeseen kindness of your
+father be a dissimulation? An artifice?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Assuredly not, Madam, assuredly not. Only read and you will admit it
+yourself. Dissimulation is always cold, it is not capable of such
+tender words. (Marwood _reads_.) Do not grow suspicious, Mellefont, I
+beg. I pledge myself that my father cannot condescend to an artifice.
+He says nothing which he does not think, falseness is a vice unknown to
+him.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Oh, of that I am thoroughly convinced, dearest Sara! You must pardon
+Lady Solmes for this suspicion, since she does not know the man whom it
+concerns.
+
+          SARA (_whilst_ Marwood _returns the letter to her_).
+
+What do I see, my lady? You are pale! You tremble! What is the matter
+with you?
+
+                          MELLEFONT (_aside_).
+
+What anxiety I suffer? Why did I bring her here?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+It is nothing but a slight dizziness, which will pass over. The night
+air on my journey must have disagreed with me.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You frighten me! Would you not like to go into the air? You will
+recover sooner than in a close room.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+If you think so, give me your arm!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I will accompany your ladyship!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I beg you will not trouble to do so! My faintness will pass over
+immediately.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I hope then, to see you again soon.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+If you permit me (Mellefont _conducts her out_).
+
+                            SARA (_alone_).
+
+Poor thing! She does not seem exactly the most friendly of people; but
+yet she does not appear to be either proud or ill-tempered. I am alone
+again. Can I employ the few moments, while I remain so, better than by
+finishing my answer? (_Is about to sit down to write_.)
+
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+                              Betty, Sara.
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+That was indeed a very short visit.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Yes, Betty! It was Lady Solmes, a relation of my Mellefont. She was
+suddenly taken faint. Where is she now?
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+Mellefont has accompanied her to the door.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+She is gone again, then?
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+I suppose so. But the more I look at you--you must forgive my freedom,
+Miss--the more you seem to me to be altered. There is something calm,
+something contented in your looks. Either Lady Solmes must have been a
+very pleasant visitor, or the old man a very pleasant messenger.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+The latter, Betty, the latter! He came from my father. What a tender
+letter I have for you to read! Your kind heart has often wept with me,
+now it shall rejoice with me, too. I shall be happy again, and be able
+to reward you for your good services.
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+What services could I render you in nine short weeks?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+You could not have done more for me in all the rest of my life, than in
+these nine weeks. They are over! But come now with me, Betty. As
+Mellefont is probably alone again, I must speak to him. It just occurs
+to me that it would be well if he wrote at the same time to my father,
+to whom an expression of gratitude from him could hardly come
+unexpectedly. Come!                               (_Exeunt_.)
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                     Sir William Sampson, Waitwell.
+
+                         (_The drawing-room_.)
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+What balm you have poured on my wounded heart with your words,
+Waitwell! I live again, and the prospect of her return seems to carry
+me as far back to my youth as her flight had brought me nearer to my
+grave. She loves me still? What more do I wish! Go back to her soon,
+Waitwell? I am impatient for the moment when I shall fold her again in
+these arms, which I had stretched out so longingly to death! How
+welcome would it have been to me in the moments of my grief! And how
+terrible will it be to me in my new happiness! An old man, no doubt, is
+to be blamed for drawing the bonds so tight again which still unite him
+to the world. The final separation becomes the more painful. But God
+who shows Himself so merciful to me now, will also help me to go
+through this. Would He, I ask, grant me a mercy in order to let it
+become ray ruin in the end? Would He give me back a daughter, that I
+should have to murmur when He calls me from life? No, no! He gives her
+back to me that in my last hour I may be anxious about myself alone.
+Thanks to Thee, Eternal Father! How feeble is the gratitude of mortal
+lips? But soon, soon I shall be able to thank Him more worthily in an
+eternity devoted to Him alone!
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+How it delights me, Sir, to know you happy again before my death!
+Believe me, I have suffered almost as much in your grief as you
+yourself. Almost as much, for the grief of a father in such a case must
+be inexpressible.
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+Do not regard yourself as my servant any longer, my good Waitwell. You
+have long deserved to enjoy a more seemly old age. I will give it you,
+and you shall not be worse off than I am while I am still in this world.
+I will abolish all difference between us; in yonder world, you well know,
+it will be done. For this once be the old servant still, on whom I never
+relied in vain. Go, and be sure to bring me her answer, as soon as it
+is ready.
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+I go, Sir! But such an errand is not a service. It is a reward which
+you grant me for my services. Yes, truly it is so! (_Exeunt on
+different sides of the stage_.)
+
+
+
+
+                                ACT IV.
+
+
+                      Scene I.--Mellefont's _room_.
+
+                            Mellefont, Sara.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Yes, dearest Sara, yes! That I will do! That I must do.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+How happy you make me!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+It is I who must take the whole crime upon myself. I alone am guilty; I
+alone must ask for forgiveness.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+No, Mellefont, do not take from me the greater share which I have in
+our error! It is dear to me, however wrong it is, for it must have
+convinced you that I love my Mellefont above everything in this world.
+But is it, then, really true, that I may henceforth combine this love
+with the love of my father? Or am I in a pleasant dream? How I fear it
+will pass and I shall awaken in my old misery! But no! I am not merely
+dreaming, I am really happier than I ever dared hope to become; happier
+than this short life may perhaps allow. But perhaps this beam of
+happiness appears in the distance, and delusively seems to approach
+only in order to melt away again into thick darkness, and to leave me
+suddenly in a night whose whole terror has only become perceptible to
+me through this short illumination. What forebodings torment me! Are
+they really forebodings, Mellefont, or are they common feelings, which
+are inseparable from the expectation of an undeserved happiness, and
+the fear of losing it? How fast my heart beats, and how wildly it
+beats. How loud now, how quick! And now how weak, how anxious, how
+quivering! Now it hurries again, as if these were its last throbbings,
+which it would fain beat out rapidly. Poor heart!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+The tumult of your blood, which a sudden surprise cannot fail to cause,
+will abate, Sara, and your heart will continue its work more calmly.
+None of its throbs point to aught that is in the future, and we are to
+blame--forgive me, dearest Sara!--if we make the mechanic pressure of
+our blood into a prophet of evil. But I will not leave anything undone
+which you yourself think good to appease this little storm within your
+breast. I will write at once, and I hope that Sir William will be
+satisfied with the assurances of my repentance, with the expressions of
+my stricken heart, and my vows of affectionate obedience.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Sir William? Ah, Mellefont, you must begin now to accustom yourself to
+a far more tender name. My father, your father, Mellefont----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Very well, Sara, our kind, our dear father! I was very young when I
+last used this sweet name; very young, when I had to unlearn the
+equally sweet name of mother.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+You had to unlearn it, and I--I was never so happy, as to be able to
+pronounce it at all. My life was her death! O God, I was a guiltless
+matricide! And how much was wanting--how little, how almost nothing was
+wanting to my becoming a parricide too! Not a guiltless, but a
+voluntary parricide. And who knows, whether I am not so already? The
+years, the days, the moments by which he is nearer to his end than he
+would have been without the grief I have caused him--of those I have
+robbed him. However old and weary he may be when Fate shall permit him
+to depart, my conscience will yet be unable to escape the reproach that
+but for me he might have lived yet longer. A sad reproach with which I
+doubtless should not need to charge myself, if a loving mother had
+guided me in my youth. Through her teaching and her example my heart
+would--you look tenderly on me, Mellefont? You are right; a mother
+would perhaps have been a tyrant for very love, and I should not now
+belong to Mellefont. Why do I wish then for that, which a wiser Fate
+denied me out of kindness? Its dispensations are always best. Let us
+only make proper use of that which it gives us; a father who never yet
+let me sigh for a mother; a father who will also teach you to forget
+the parents you lost so soon. What a flattering thought. I fall in love
+with it, and forget almost, that in my innermost heart there is still
+something which refuses to put faith in it. What is this rebellious
+something?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+This something, dearest Sara, as you have already said yourself, is the
+natural, timid incapability to realize a great happiness. Ah, your
+heart hesitated less to believe itself unhappy than now, to its own
+torment, it hesitates to believe in its own happiness! But as to one
+who has become dizzy with quick movement, the external objects still
+appear to move round when again he is sitting still, so the heart which
+has been violently agitated cannot suddenly become calm again; there
+remains often for a long time, a quivering palpitation which we must
+suffer to exhaust itself.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I believe it, Mellefont, I believe it, because you say it, because I
+wish it. But do not let us detain each other any longer! I will go and
+finish my letter. And you will let me read yours, will you not, after I
+have shown you mine?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Each word shall be submitted to your judgment; except what I must say
+in your defence, for I know you do not think yourself so innocent as
+you are. (_Accompanies Sara to the back of the stage_.)
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+   MELLEFONT (_after walking up and down several times in thought_).
+
+What a riddle I am to myself! What shall I think myself? A fool? Or a
+knave? Heart, what a villain thou art! I love the angel, however much
+of a devil I may be. I love her! Yes, certainly! certainly I love her.
+I feel I would sacrifice a thousand lives for her, for her who
+sacrificed her virtue for me; I would do so,--this very moment without
+hesitation would I do so. And yet, yet--I am afraid to say it to
+myself--and yet--how shall I explain it? And yet I fear the moment
+which will make her mine for ever before the world. It cannot be
+avoided now, for her father is reconciled. Nor shall I be able to put
+it off for long. The delay has already drawn down painful reproaches
+enough upon me. But painful as they were, they were still more
+supportable to me than the melancholy thought of being fettered for
+life. But am I not so already? Certainly,--and with pleasure! Certainly
+I am already her prisoner. What is it I want, then? At present I am a
+prisoner, who is allowed to go about on parole; that is flattering! Why
+cannot the matter rest there? Why must I be put in chains and thus lack
+even the pitiable shadow of freedom? In chains? Quite so! Sara Sampson,
+my beloved! What bliss lies in these words! Sara Sampson, my wife! The
+half of the bliss is gone! and the other half--will go! Monster that I
+am! And with such thoughts shall I write to her father? Yet these are
+not my real thoughts, they are fancies! Cursed fancies, which have
+become natural to me through my dissolute life! I will free myself from
+them, or live no more.
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+                           Norton, Mellefont.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You disturb me, Norton!
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+I beg your pardon, Sir (_withdrawing again_).
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+No, no! Stay! It is just as well that you should disturb me. What do
+you want?
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+I have heard some very good news from Betty, and have come to wish you
+happiness.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+On the reconciliation with her father, I suppose you mean? I thank you.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+So Heaven still means to make you happy.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+If it means to do so,--you see, Norton, I am just towards myself--it
+certainly does not mean it for my sake.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+No, no; if you feel that, then it will be for your sake also.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+For my Sara's sake alone. If its vengeance, already armed, could spare
+the whole of a sinful city for the sake of a few just men, surely it
+can also bear with a sinner, when a soul in which it finds delight, is
+the sharer of his fate.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+You speak with earnestness and feeling. But does not joy express itself
+differently from this?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Joy, Norton? (_Looking sharply at him_.) For me it is gone now for
+ever.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+May I speak candidly?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You may.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+The reproach which I had to hear this morning of having made myself a
+participator in your crimes, because I had been silent about them, may
+excuse me, if I am less silent henceforth.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Only do not forget who you are!
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+I will not forget that I am a servant, and a servant, alas, who might
+be something better, if he had lived for it. I am your servant, it is
+true, but not so far as to wish to be damned along with you.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+With me? And why do you say that now?
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Because I am not a little astonished to find you different from what I
+expected.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Will you not inform me what you expected?
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+To find you all delight.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+It is only the common herd who are beside themselves immediately when
+luck smiles on them for once.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Perhaps, because the common herd still have the feelings which among
+greater people are corrupted and weakened by a thousand unnatural
+notions. But there is something besides moderation to be read in your
+face--coldness, irresolution, disinclination.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+And if so? Have you forgotten who is here besides Sara? The presence of
+Marwood----
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Could make you anxious, I daresay, but not despondent. Something else
+troubles you. And I shall be glad to be mistaken in thinking you would
+rather that the father were not yet reconciled. The prospect of a
+position which so little suits your way of thinking----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Norton, Norton! Either you must have been, or still must be, a dreadful
+villain, that you can thus guess my thoughts. Since you have hit the
+nail upon the head, I will not deny it. It is true--so certain as it is
+that I shall love my Sara for ever so little does it please me, that I
+_must_--_must_ love her for ever! But do not fear; I shall conquer this
+foolish fancy. Or do you think that it is no fancy? Who bids me look at
+marriage as compulsion? I certainly do not wish to be freer than she
+will permit me to be.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+These reflections are all very well. But Marwood will come to the aid
+of your old prejudices, and I fear, I fear----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+That which will never happen! You shall see her go back this very
+evening to London. And as I have confessed my most secret--folly we
+will call it for the present--I must not conceal from you either, that
+I have put Marwood into such a fright that she will obey the slightest
+hint from me.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+That sounds incredible to me.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Look! I snatched this murderous steel from her hand (_showing the
+dagger which he had taken from_ Marwood) when in a fearful rage she was
+on the point of stabbing me to the heart with it. Will you believe now,
+that I offered her a stout resistance? At first she well nigh succeeded
+in throwing her noose around my neck again. The traitoress!--She has
+Arabella with her.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Arabella?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I have not yet been able to fathom by what cunning she got the child
+back into her hands again. Enough, the result did not fall out as she
+no doubt had expected.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Allow me to rejoice at your firmness, and to consider your reformation
+half assured. Yet,--as you wish me to know all--what business had she
+here under the name of Lady Solmes?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+She wanted of all things to see her rival. I granted her wish partly
+from kindness, partly from rashness, partly from the desire to
+humiliate her by the sight of the best of her sex. You shake your head,
+Norton?
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+I should not have risked that.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Risked? I did not risk anything more, after all, than what I should
+have had to risk if I had refused her. She would have tried to obtain
+admittance as Marwood; and the worst that can be expected from her
+incognito visit is not worse than that.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Thank Heaven that it went off so quietly.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+It is not quite over yet, Norton. A slight indisposition came over her
+and compelled her to go away without taking leave. She wants to come
+again. Let her do so! The wasp which has lost its sting (_pointing to
+the dagger_) can do nothing worse than buzz. But buzzing too shall cost
+her dear, if she grows too troublesome with it. Do I not hear somebody
+coming? Leave me if it should be she. It is she. Go! (_Exit_ Norton.)
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+                          Mellefont, Marwood.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+No doubt you are little pleased to see me again.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I am very pleased, Marwood, to see that your indisposition has had no
+further consequences. You are better, I hope?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+So, so.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You have not done well, then, to trouble to come here again.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I thank you, Mellefont, if you say this out of kindness to me; and I do
+not take it amiss, if you have another meaning in it.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I am pleased to see you so calm.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+The storm is over. Forget it, I beg you once more.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Only remember your promise, Marwood, and I will forget everything with
+pleasure. But if I knew that you would not consider it an offence, I
+should like to ask----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Ask on, Mellefont! You cannot offend me any more. What were you going
+to ask?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+How you liked my Sara?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+The question is natural. My answer will not seem so natural, but it is
+none the less true for that. I liked her very much.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Such impartiality delights me. But would it be possible for him who
+knew how to appreciate the charms of a Marwood to make a bad choice?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+You ought to have spared me this flattery, Mellefont, if it is
+flattery. It is not in accordance with our intention to forget each
+other.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You surely do not wish me to facilitate this intention by rudeness? Do
+not let our separation be of an ordinary nature. Let us break with each
+other as people of reason who yield to necessity; without bitterness,
+without anger, and with the preservation of a certain degree of
+respect, as behoves our former intimacy.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Former intimacy! I do not wish to be reminded of it. No more of it.
+What must be, must, and it matters little how. But one word more about
+Arabella. You will not let me have her?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+No, Marwood!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+It is cruel, since you can no longer be her father, to take her mother
+also from her.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I can still be her father, and will be so.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Prove it, then, now!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+How?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Permit Arabella to have the riches which I have in keeping for you, as
+her father's inheritance. As to her mother's inheritance I wish I could
+leave her a better one than the shame of having been borne by me.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Do not speak so! I shall provide for Arabella without embarrassing her
+mother's property. If she wishes to forget me, she must begin by
+forgetting that she possesses anything from me. I have obligations
+towards her, and I shall never forget that really--though against her
+will--she has promoted my happiness. Yes, Marwood, in all seriousness I
+thank you for betraying our retreat to a father whose ignorance of it
+alone prevented him from receiving us again.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Do not torture me with gratitude which I never wished to deserve. Sir
+William is too good an old fool; he must think differently from what I
+should have thought in his place. I should have forgiven my daughter,
+but as to her seducer I should have----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Marwood!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+True; you yourself are the seducer! I am silent. Shall I be presently
+allowed to pay my farewell visit to Miss Sampson?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Sara could not be offended, even if you left without seeing her again.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Mellefont, I do not like playing my part by halves, and I have no wish
+to be taken, even under an assumed name, for a woman without breeding.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+If you care for your own peace of mind you ought to avoid seeing a
+person again who must awaken certain thoughts in you which----
+
+                   MARWOOD (_smiling disdainfully_).
+
+You have a better opinion of yourself than of me. But even if you
+believed that I should be inconsolable on your account, you ought at
+least to believe it in silence.--Miss Sampson would awaken certain
+thoughts in me? Certain thoughts! Oh yes; but none more certain than
+this--that the best girl can often love the most worthless man.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Charming, Marwood, perfectly charming. Now you are as I have long
+wished to see you; although I could almost have wished, as I told you
+before, that we could have retained some respect for each other. But
+this may perhaps come still when once your fermenting heart has cooled
+down. Excuse me for a moment. I will fetch Miss Sampson to see you.
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+                       MARWOOD (_looking round_).
+
+Am I alone? Can I take breath again unobserved, and let the muscles of
+my face relax into their natural position? I must just for a moment be
+the true Marwood in all my features to be able again to bear the
+restraint of dissimulation! How I hate thee, base dissimulation! Not
+because I love sincerity, but because thou art the most pitiable refuge
+of powerless revenge. I certainly would not condescend to thee, if a
+tyrant would lend me his power or Heaven its thunderbolt.--Yet, if thou
+only servest my end! The beginning is promising, and Mellefont seems
+disposed to grow more confident. If my device succeeds and I can speak
+alone with his Sara; then-yes, then, it is still very uncertain whether
+it will be of any use to me. The truths about Mellefont will perhaps be
+no novelty to her; the calumnies she will perhaps not believe, and the
+threats, perhaps, despise. But yet she shall hear truths, calumnies and
+threats. It would be bad, if they did not leave any sting at all in her
+mind. Silence; they are coming. I am no longer Marwood, I am a
+worthless outcast, who tries by little artful tricks to turn aside her
+shame,--a bruised worm, which turns and fain would wound at least the
+heel of him who trod upon it.
+
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+                       Sara, Mellefont, Marwood.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I am happy, Madam, that my uneasiness on your account has been
+unnecessary.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I thank you! The attack was so insignificant that it need not have made
+you uneasy.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Lady Solmes wishes to take leave of you, dearest Sara!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+So soon, Madam?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I cannot go soon enough for those who desire my presence in London.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You surely are not going to leave to-day?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+To-morrow morning, first thing.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+To-morrow morning, first thing? I thought to-day.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Our acquaintance, Madam, commences hurriedly. I hope to be honoured
+with a more intimate intercourse with you at some future time.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I solicit your friendship, Miss Sampson.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I pledge myself, dearest Sara, that this desire of Lady Solmes is
+sincere, although I must tell you beforehand that you will certainly
+not see each other again for a long time. Lady Solmes will very rarely
+be able to live where we are.
+
+                           MARWOOD (_aside_).
+
+How subtle!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+That is to deprive me of a very pleasant anticipation, Mellefont!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I shall be the greatest loser!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+But in reality, Madam, do you not start before tomorrow morning?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+It may be sooner! (_Aside_.) No one comes.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+We do not wish to remain much longer here either. It will be well, will
+it not, Sara, to follow our answer without delay? Sir William cannot be
+displeased with our haste.
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                    Betty, Mellefont, Sara, Marwood.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What is it, Betty?
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+Somebody wishes to speak with you immediately.
+
+                           MARWOOD (_aside_).
+
+Ha! now all depends on whether----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Me? Immediately? I will come at once. Madam, is it agreeable to you to
+shorten your visit?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Why so, Mellefont? Lady Solmes will be so kind as to wait for your
+return.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Pardon me; I know my cousin Mellefont, and prefer to depart with him.
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+The stranger, sir--he wishes only to say a word to you. He says, that
+he has not a moment to lose.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Go, please! I will be with him directly. I expect it will be some news
+at last about the agreement which I mentioned to you. (_Exit_ Betty.)
+
+                           MARWOOD (_aside_).
+
+A good conjecture!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+But still, Madam----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+If you order it, then, I must bid you----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Oh no, Mellefont; I am sure you will not grudge me the pleasure of
+entertaining Lady Solmes during your absence?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You wish it, Sara?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Do not stay now, dearest Mellefont, but come back again soon! And come
+with a more joyful face, I will wish! You doubtless expect an
+unpleasant answer. Don't let this disturb you. I am more desirous to
+see whether after all you can gracefully prefer me to an inheritance,
+than I am to know that you are in the possession of one.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I obey. (_In a warning tone_.) I shall be sure to come back in a
+moment, Madam.
+
+                           MARWOOD (_aside_).
+
+Lucky so far.                                  (_Exit_ Mellefont.)
+
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+                             Sara, Marwood.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+My good Mellefont sometimes gives his polite phrases quite a wrong
+accent. Do not you think so too, Madam?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I am no doubt too much accustomed to his way already to notice anything
+of that sort.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Will you not take a seat, Madam?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+If you desire it. (_Aside, whilst they are seating themselves_.) I must
+not let this moment slip by unused.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Tell me! Shall I not be the most enviable of women with my Mellefont?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+If Mellefont knows how to appreciate his happiness, Miss Sampson will
+make him the most enviable of men. But----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+A "but," and then a pause, Madam----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I am frank, Miss Sampson.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+And for this reason infinitely more to be esteemed.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Frank--not seldom imprudently so. My "but" is a proof of it. A very
+imprudent "but."
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I do not think that my Lady Solmes can wish through this evasion to
+make me more uneasy. It must be a cruel mercy that only rouses
+suspicions of an evil which it might disclose.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Not at all, Miss Sampson! You attach far too much importance to my
+"but." Mellefont is a relation of mine----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Then all the more important is the slightest charge which you have to
+make against him.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+But even were Mellefont my brother, I must tell you, that I should
+unhesitatingly side with one of my own sex against him, if I perceived
+that he did not act quite honestly towards her. We women ought properly
+to consider every insult shown to one of us as an insult to the whole
+sex, and to make it a common affair, in which even the sister and
+mother of the guilty one ought not to hesitate to share.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+This remark----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Has already been my guide now and then in doubtful cases.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+And promises me--I tremble.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+No, Miss Sampson, if you mean to tremble, let us speak of something
+else----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Cruel woman!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I am sorry to be misunderstood. I at least, if I place myself in
+imagination in Miss Sampson's position, would regard as a favour any
+more exact information which one might give me about the man with whose
+fate I was about to unite my own for ever.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What do you wish, Madam? Do I not know my Mellefont already? Believe me
+I know him, as I do my own soul. I know that he loves me----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+And others----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+_Has_ loved others. That I know also. Was he to love me, before he knew
+anything about me? Can I ask to be the only one who has had charm
+enough to attract him? Must I not confess it to myself, that I have
+striven to please him? Is he not so lovable, that he must have awakened
+this endeavour in many a breast? And isn't it but natural, if several
+have been successful in their endeavour?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+You defend him with just the same ardour and almost the same words with
+which I have often defended him already. It is no crime to have loved;
+much less still is it a crime to have been loved. But fickleness is a
+crime.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Not always; for often, I believe, it is rendered excusable by the
+objects of one's love, which seldom deserve to be loved for ever.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Miss Sampson's doctrine of morals does not seem to be of the strictest.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+It is true; the one by which I judge those who themselves confess that
+they have taken to bad ways is not of the strictest. Nor should it be
+so. For here it is not a question of fixing the limits which virtue
+marks out for love, but merely of excusing the human weakness that has
+not remained within those limits and of judging the consequences
+arising therefrom by the rules of wisdom. If, for example, a Mellefont
+loves a Marwood and eventually abandons her; this abandonment is very
+praiseworthy in comparison with the love itself. It would be a
+misfortune if he had to love a vicious person for ever because he once
+had loved her.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+But do you know this Marwood, whom you so confidently call a vicious
+person?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I know her from Mellefont's description.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Mellefont's? Has it never occurred to you then that Mellefont must be a
+very invalid witness in his own affairs?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I see now, Madam, that you wish to put me to the test. Mellefont will
+smile, when you repeat to him how earnestly I have defended him.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I beg your pardon, Miss Sampson, Mellefont must not hear anything about
+this conversation. You are of too noble a mind to wish out of gratitude
+for a well-meant warning to estrange from him a relation, who speaks
+against him only because she looks upon his unworthy behaviour towards
+more than one of the most amiable of her sex as if she herself had
+suffered from it.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I do not wish to estrange anyone, and would that others wished it as
+little as I do.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Shall I tell you the story of Marwood in a few words?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I do not know. But still--yes, Madam! but under the condition that you
+stop as soon as Mellefont returns. He might think that I had inquired
+about it myself; and I should not like him to think me capable of a
+curiosity so prejudicial to him.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+I should have asked the same caution of Miss Sampson, if she had not
+anticipated me. He must not even be able to suspect that Marwood has
+been our topic; and you will be so cautious as to act in accordance
+with this. Hear now! Marwood is of good family. She was a young widow,
+when Mellefont made her acquaintance at the house of one of her
+friends. They say, that she lacked neither beauty, nor the grace
+without which beauty would be nothing. Her good name was spotless.
+One single thing was wanting. Money. Everything that she had
+possessed,--and she is said to have had considerable wealth,--she had
+sacrificed for the deliverance of a husband from whom she thought it
+right to withhold nothing, after she had willed to give him heart and
+hand.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Truly a noble trait of character, which I wish could sparkle in a
+better setting!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+In spite of her want of fortune she was sought by persons, who wished
+nothing more than to make her happy. Mellefont appeared amongst her
+rich and distinguished admirers. His offer was serious, and the
+abundance in which he promised to place Marwood was the least on which
+he relied. He knew, in their earliest intimacy, that he had not to deal
+with an egoist, but with a woman of refined feelings, who would have
+preferred to live in a hut with one she loved, than in a palace with
+one for whom she did not care.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Another trait which I grudge Miss Marwood. Do not flatter her any more,
+pray, Madam, or I might be led to pity her at last.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Mellefont was just about to unite himself with her with due solemnity,
+when he received the news of the death of a cousin who left him his
+entire fortune on the condition that he should marry a distant
+relation. As Marwood had refused richer unions for his sake, he would
+not now yield to her in generosity. He intended to tell her nothing of
+this inheritance, until he had forfeited it through her. That was
+generously planned, was it not?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Oh, Madam, who knows better than I, that Mellefont possesses the most
+generous of hearts?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+But what did Marwood do? She heard late one evening, through some
+friends, of Mellefont's resolution. Mellefont came in the morning to
+see her, and Marwood was gone.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Whereto? Why?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+He found nothing but a letter from her, in which she told him that he
+must not expect ever to see her again. She did not deny, though, that
+she loved him; but for this very reason she could not bring herself to
+be the cause of an act, of which he must necessarily repent some day.
+She released him from his promise, and begged him by the consummation
+of the union, demanded by the will, to enter without further delay into
+the possession of a fortune, which an honourable man could employ for a
+better purpose than the thoughtless flattery of a woman.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+But, Madam, why do you attribute such noble sentiments to Marwood? Lady
+Solmes may be capable of such, I daresay, but not Marwood. Certainly
+not Marwood.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+It is not surprising, that you are prejudiced against her. Mellefont
+was almost distracted at Marwood's resolution. He sent people in all
+directions to search for her, and at last found her.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+No doubly because she wished to be found!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+No bitter jests! They do not become a woman of such gentle disposition.
+I say, he found her; and found her inexorable. She would not accept his
+hand on any account; and the promise to return to London was all that
+he could get from her. They agreed to postpone their marriage until his
+relative, tired of the long delay, should be compelled to propose an
+arrangement. In the meantime Marwood could not well renounce the daily
+visits from Mellefont, which for a long time were nothing but the
+respectful visits of a suitor, who has been ordered back within the
+bounds of friendship. But how impossible is it for a passionate temper
+not to transgress these bounds. Mellefont possesses everything which
+can make a man dangerous to us. Nobody can be more convinced of this
+than you yourself, Miss Sampson.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Alas!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+You sigh! Marwood too has sighed more than once over her weakness, and
+sighs yet.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Enough, Madam, enough! These words I should think, are worse than the
+bitter jest which you were pleased to forbid me.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Its intention was not to offend you, but only to show you the unhappy
+Marwood in a light, in which you could most correctly judge her. To be
+brief--love gave Mellefont the rights of a husband; and Mellefont did
+not any longer consider it necessary to have them made valid by the
+law. How happy would Marwood be, if she, Mellefont, and Heaven alone
+knew of her shame! How happy if a pitiable daughter did not reveal to
+the whole world that which she would fain be able to hide from herself.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What do you say? A daughter----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Yes, through the intervention of Sara Sampson, an unhappy daughter
+loses all hope of ever being able to name her parents without
+abhorrence.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Terrible words! And Mellefont has concealed this from me? Am I to
+believe it, Madam?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+You may assuredly believe that Mellefont has perhaps concealed still
+more from you.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Still more? What more could he have concealed from me?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+This,--that he still loves Marwood.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+You will kill me!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+It is incredible that a love which has lasted more than ten years can
+die away so quickly. It may certainly suffer a short eclipse, but
+nothing but a short one, from which it breaks forth again with renewed
+brightness. I could name to you a Miss Oclaff, a Miss Dorcas, a Miss
+Moore, and several others, who one after another threatened to alienate
+from Marwood the man by whom they eventually saw themselves most
+cruelly deceived. There is a certain point beyond which he cannot go,
+and as soon as he gets face to face with it he draws suddenly back. But
+suppose, Miss Sampson, you were the one fortunate woman in whose case
+all circumstances declared themselves against him; suppose you
+succeeded in compelling him to conquer the disgust of a formal yoke
+which has now become innate to him; do you then expect to make sure of
+his heart in this way?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Miserable girl that I am! What must I hear?
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Nothing less than that! He would then hurry back all the more into the
+arms of her who had not been so jealous of his liberty. You would be
+called his wife and she would be it.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Do not torment me longer with such dreadful pictures! Advise me rather,
+Madam, I pray you, advise me what to do. You must know him! You must
+know by what means it may still be possible to reconcile him with a
+bond without which even the most sincere love remains an unholy
+passion.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+That one can catch a bird, I well know; but that one can render its
+cage more pleasant than the open field, I do not know. My advice,
+therefore, would be that one should rather not catch it, and should
+spare oneself the vexation of the profitless trouble. Content yourself,
+young lady, with the pleasure of having seen him very near your net;
+and as you can foresee, that he would certainly tear it if you tempted
+him in altogether, spare your net and do not tempt him in.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I do not know whether I rightly understand your playful parable----
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+If you are vexed with it, you have understood it. In one word. Your own
+interest as well as that of another--wisdom as well as justice, can,
+and must induce Miss Sampson to renounce her claims to a man to whom
+Marwood has the first and strongest claim. You are still in such a
+position with regard to him that you can withdraw, I will not say with
+much honour, but still without public disgrace. A short disappearance
+with a lover is a stain, it is true; but still a stain which time
+effaces. In some years all will be forgotten, and for a rich heiress
+there are always men to be found, who are not so scrupulous. If Marwood
+were in such a position, and she needed no husband for her fading
+charms nor father for her helpless daughter, I am sure she would act
+more generously towards Miss Sampson than Miss Sampson acts towards her
+when raising these dishonourable difficulties.
+
+                        SARA (_rising angrily_).
+
+This is too much! Is that the language of a relative of Mellefont's?
+How shamefully you are betrayed, Mellefont! Now I perceive, Madam, why
+he was so unwilling to leave you alone with me. He knows already, I
+daresay, how much one has to fear from your tongue. A poisoned tongue!
+I speak boldly--for your unseemly talk has continued long enough. How
+has Marwood been able to enlist such a mediator; a mediator who summons
+all her ingenuity to force upon me a dazzling romance about her; und
+employs every art to rouse my suspicion against the loyalty of a man,
+who is a man but not a monster? Was it only for this that I was told
+that Marwood boasted of a daughter from him; only for this that I was
+told of this and that forsaken girl--in order that you might be enabled
+to hint to me in cruel fashion that I should do well if I gave place to
+a hardened strumpet!
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+Not so passionate, if you please, young lady! A hardened strumpet? You
+are surely using words whose full meaning you have not considered.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Does she not appear such, even from Lady Solmes's description? Well,
+Madam, you are her friend, perhaps her intimate friend. I do not say
+this as a reproach, for it may well be that it is hardly possible in
+this world to have virtuous friends only. Yet why should I be so
+humiliated for the sake of this friendship of yours? If I had had
+Marwood's experience, I should certainly not have committed the error
+which places me on such a humiliating level with her. But if I had
+committed it, I should certainly not have continued in it for ten
+years. It is one thing to fall into vice from ignorance; and another to
+grow intimate with it when you know it. Alas, Madam, if you knew what
+regret, what remorse, what anxiety my error has cost me! My error, I
+say, for why shall I be so cruel to myself any longer, and look upon it
+as a crime? Heaven itself ceases to consider it such; it withdraws my
+punishment, and gives me back my father.--But I am frightened, Madam;
+how your features are suddenly transformed! They glow-rage speaks from
+the fixed eye, and the quivering movement of the mouth. Ah, if I have
+vexed you, Madam, I beg for pardon! I am a foolish, sensitive creature;
+what you have said was doubtless not meant so badly. Forget my
+rashness! How can I pacify you? How can I also gain a friend in you as
+Marwood has done? Let me, let me entreat you on my knees (_falling down
+upon her knees_) for your friendship, and if I cannot have this, at
+least for the justice not to place me and Marwood in one and the same
+rank.
+
+    MARWOOD (_proudly stepping back and leaving Sara on her knees_).
+
+This position of Sara Sampson is too charming for Marwood to triumph in
+it unrecognised. In me, Miss Sampson, behold the Marwood with whom on
+your knees you beg--Marwood herself--not to compare you.
+
+           SARA (_springing up and drawing back in terror_).
+
+You Marwood? Ha! Now I recognise her--now I recognise the murderous
+deliverer, to whose dagger a warning dream exposed me. It is she! Away,
+unhappy Sara! Save me, Mellefont; save your beloved! And thou, sweet
+voice of my beloved father, call! Where does it call? Whither shall I
+hasten to it?--here?--there?--Help, Mellefont! Help, Betty! Now she
+approaches me with murderous hand! Help! (_Exit_.)
+
+
+                               Scene IX.
+
+                                MARWOOD.
+
+What does the excitable girl mean? Would that she spake the truth, and
+that I approached her with murderous hand! I ought to have spared the
+dagger until now, fool that I was! What delight to be able to stab a
+rival at one's feet in her voluntary humiliation! What now? I am
+detected. Mellefont may be here this minute. Shall I fly from him?
+Shall I await him? I will wait, but not in idleness. Perhaps the
+cunning of my servant will detain him long enough? I see I am feared.
+Why do I not follow her then? Why do I not try the last expedient which
+I can use against her? Threats are pitiable weapons; but despair
+despises no weapons, however pitiable they may be. A timid girl, who
+flies stupid and terror-stricken from my mere name, can easily take
+dreadful words for dreadful deeds. But Mellefont! Mellefont will give
+her fresh courage, and teach her to scorn my threats. He will! Perhaps
+he will not! Few things would have been undertaken in this world, if
+men had always looked to the end. And am I not prepared for the most
+fatal end? The dagger was for others, the drug is for me! The drug
+for me! Long carried by me near my heart, it here awaits its sad
+service; here, where in better times I hid the written flatteries of my
+lovers,--poison for us equally sure if slower. Would it were not
+destined to rage in my veins only! Would that a faithless one--why do I
+waste my time in wishing? Away! I must not recover my reason nor she
+hers. He will dare nothing, who wishes to dare in cold blood!
+
+
+
+
+                                 ACT V.
+
+
+                                Scene I.
+
+                             Sara's _room_.
+
+               Sara (_reclining in an armchair_), Betty.
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+Do you feel a little better, Miss?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Better--I wish only that Mellefont would return! You have sent for him,
+have you not?
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+Norton and the landlord have gone for him.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Norton is a good fellow, but he is rash. I do not want him by any means
+to be rude to his master on my account. According to his story,
+Mellefont is innocent of all this. She follows him; what can he do? She
+storms, she raves, she tries to murder him. Do you see, Betty, I have
+exposed him to this danger? Who else but me? And the wicked Marwood at
+last insisted on seeing me or she would not return to London. Could he
+refuse her this trifling request? Have not I too often been curious to
+see Marwood. Mellefont knows well that we are curious creatures. And if
+I had not insisted myself that she should remain with me until his
+return, he would have taken her away with him. I should have seen her
+under a false name, without knowing that I had seen her. And I should
+perhaps have been pleased with this little deception at some future
+time. In short, it is all my fault. Well, well, I was frightened;
+nothing more! The swoon was nothing. You know, Betty, I am subject to
+such fits.
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+But I had never seen you in so deep a swoon before.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Do not tell me so, please! I must have caused you a great deal of
+trouble, my good girl.
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+Marwood herself seemed moved by your danger. In spite of all I could do
+she would not leave the room, until you had opened your eyes a little
+and I could give you the medicine.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+After all I must consider it fortunate that I swooned. For who knows
+what more I should have had to hear from her! She certainly can hardly
+have followed me into my room without a purpose! You cannot imagine how
+terrified I was. The dreadful dream I had last night recurred to me
+suddenly, and I fled, like an insane woman who does not know why and
+whither she flies. But Mellefont does not come. Ah!
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+What a sigh, Miss! What convulsions!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+God! what sensation was this----
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+What was that?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Nothing, Betty! A pain! Not one pain, a thousand burning pains in one!
+But do not be uneasy; it is over now!
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+                          Norton, Sara, Betty.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Mellefont will be here in a moment.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+That is well, Norton! But where did you find him?
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+A stranger had enticed him beyond the town gate, where he said a
+gentleman waited for him, to speak with him about matters of the
+greatest importance. After taking him from place to place for a long
+time, the swindler slunk away from him. It will be bad for him if he
+lets himself be caught; Mellefont is furious.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Did you tell him what has happened?
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+All.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+But in such a way!----
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+I could not think about the way. Enough! He knows what anxiety his
+imprudence has again caused you.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Not so, Norton; I have caused it myself.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Why may Mellefont never be in the wrong? Come in, sir; love has already
+excused you.
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+                    Mellefont, Norton, Sara, Betty.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Ah, Sara! If this love of yours were not----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Then I should certainly be the unhappier of the two. If nothing more
+vexatious has happened to you in your absence than to me, I am happy.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I have not deserved to be so kindly received.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Let my weakness be my excuse, that I do not receive you more tenderly.
+If only for your sake, I would that I was well again.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Ha! Marwood! this treachery too! The scoundrel who led me with a
+mysterious air from one street to another can assuredly have been a
+messenger of her only! See, dearest Sara, she employed this artifice to
+get me away from you. A clumsy artifice certainly, but just from its
+very clumsiness, I was far from taking it for one. She shall have her
+reward for this treachery! Quick, Norton, go to her lodgings; do not
+lose sight of her, and detain her until I come!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What for, Mellefont? I intercede for Marwood.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Go!                                               (_Exit_ Norton.)
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+                        Sara, Mellefont, Betty.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Pray let the wearied enemy who has ventured the last fruitless assault
+retire in peace! Without Marwood I should be ignorant of much----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Much? What is the "much?"
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What you would not have told me, Mellefont! You start! Well, I will
+forget it again, since you do not wish me to know it.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I hope that you will not believe any ill of me which has no better
+foundation than the jealousy of an angry slanderer.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+More of this another time! But why do you not tell me first of all
+about the danger in which your precious life was placed? I, Mellefont,
+I should have been the one who had sharpened the sword, with which
+Marwood had stabbed you.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+The danger was not so great. Marwood was driven by blind passion, and I
+was cool, so her attack could not but fail. I only wish that she may
+not have been more successful with another attack--upon Sara's good
+opinion of her Mellefont! I must almost fear it. No, dearest Sara, do
+not conceal from me any longer what you have learned from her.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Well! If I had still had the least doubt of your love, Mellefont,
+Marwood in her anger would have removed it. She surely must feel that
+through me she has lost that which is of the greatest value to her; for
+an uncertain loss would have let her act more cautiously.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+I shall soon learn to set some store by her bloodthirsty jealousy, her
+impetuous insolence, her treacherous cunning! But Sara! You wish again
+to evade my question and not to reveal to me----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I will; and what I said was indeed a step towards it. That Mellefont
+loves me, then, is undeniably certain. If only I had not discovered
+that his love lacked a certain confidence, which would be as flattering
+to me as his love itself. In short, dearest Mellefont--Why does a
+sudden anxiety make it so difficult for me to speak?--Well, I suppose I
+shall have to tell it without seeking for the most prudent form in
+which to say it. Marwood mentioned a pledge of love; and the talkative
+Norton--forgive him, pray--told me a name--a name, Mellefont, which
+must rouse in you another tenderness than that which you feel for me.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Is it possible? Has the shameless woman confessed her own disgrace?
+Alas, Sara, have pity on my confusion! Since you already know all, why
+do you wish to hear it again from my lips? She shall never come into
+your sight,--the unhappy child, who has no other fault than that of
+having such a mother.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+You love her, then, in spite of all?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Too much, Sara, too much for me to deny it.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Ah, Mellefont! How I too love you, for this very love's sake! You would
+have offended me deeply, if you had denied the sympathy of your blood
+for any scruples on my account. You have hurt me already in that you
+have threatened me never to let her come into my sight. No, Mellefont!
+That you will never forsake Arabella must be one of the promises which
+you vow to me in presence of the Almighty! In the hands of her mother
+she is in danger of becoming unworthy of her father. Use your authority
+over both, and let me take the place of Marwood. Do not refuse me the
+happiness of bringing up for myself a friend who owes her life to
+you--a Mellefont of my own sex. Happy days, when my father, when you,
+when Arabella will vie in your calls on my filial respect, my confiding
+love, my watchful friendship. Happy days! But, alas! They are still far
+distant in the future. And perhaps even the future knows nothing of
+them, perhaps they exist only in my own desire for happiness!
+Sensations, Mellefont, sensations which I never before experienced,
+turn my eyes to another prospect. A dark prospect, with awful shadows!
+What sensations are these? (_puts her hand before her face_.)
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What sudden change from exultation to terror! Hasten, Betty! Bring
+help! What ails you, generous Sara! Divine soul! Why does this jealous
+hand (_moving it away_) hide these sweet looks from me? Ah, they are
+looks which unwillingly betray cruel pain. And yet this hand is jealous
+to hide these looks from me. Shall I not share your pain with you?
+Unhappy man, that I can only share it--that I may not feel it alone!
+Hasten, Betty!
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+Whither shall I hasten?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You see, and yet ask? For help!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Stay. It passes over. I will not frighten you again, Mellefont.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What has happened to her, Betty? These are not merely the results of a
+swoon.
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+                    Norton, Mellefont, Sara, Betty.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You are back again already, Norton? That is well! You will be of more
+use here.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Marwood is gone----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+And my curses follow her! She is gone? Whither? May misfortune and
+death, and, were it possible, a whole hell lie in her path! May Heaven
+thunder a consuming fire upon her, may the earth burst open under her,
+and swallow the greatest of female monsters!
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+As soon as she returned to her lodgings, she threw herself into her
+carriage, together with Arabella and her maid, and hurried away, at
+full gallop. This sealed note was left behind for you.
+
+                     MELLEFONT (_taking the note_).
+
+It is addressed to me. Shall I read it, Sara?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+When you are calmer, Mellefont.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Calmer? Can I be calmer, before I have revenged myself on her, and
+before I know that you are out of danger, dearest Sara?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Let me not hear of revenge! Revenge is not ours.--But you open the
+letter? Alas, Mellefont! Why are we less prone to certain virtues with
+a healthy body, which feels its strength, than with a sick and wearied
+one? How hard are gentleness and moderation to you, and how unnatural
+to me appears the impatient heat of passion! Keep the contents for
+yourself alone.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What spirit is it that seems to compel me to disobey you? I opened it
+against my will, and against my will I must read it!
+
+             SARA (_whilst_ Mellefont _reads to himself_).
+
+How cunningly man can disunite his nature, and make of his passions
+another being than himself, on whom he can lay the blame for that which
+in cold blood he disapproves.--The water, Betty! I fear another shock,
+and shall need it. Do you see what effect the unlucky note has on him?
+Mellefont! You lose your senses, Mellefont! God! he is stunned! Here,
+Betty. Hand him the water! He needs it more than I.
+
+                  MELLEFONT (_pushing_ Betty _back_).
+
+Back, unhappy girl! Your medicines are poison!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What do you say? Recover yourself! You do not recognise her.
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+I am Betty,--take it!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Wish rather, unhappy girl, that you were not she! Quick! Fly, before in
+default of the guiltier one you become the guilty victim of my rage.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What words! Mellefont, dearest Mellefont----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+The last "dearest Mellefont" from these divine lips, and then no more
+for ever! At your feet, Sara----(_throwing himself down_). But why at
+your feet? (_springing up again_). Disclose it? I disclose it to you?
+Yes! I will tell you, that you will hate me, that you must hate me! You
+shall not hear the contents, no, not from me. But you will hear them.
+You will----Why do you all stand here, stock still, doing nothing?
+Run, Norton, bring all the doctors? Seek help, Betty! Let your help be
+as effective as your error! No, stop here! I will go myself----
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Whither, Mellefont? Help for what? Of what error do you speak?
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Divine help, Sara! or inhuman revenge! You are lost, dearest Sara! I
+too am lost! Would the world were lost with us!
+
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+                          Sara, Norton, Betty.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+He is gone! I am lost? What does he mean? Do you understand him,
+Norton? I am ill, very ill; but suppose the worst, that I must die, am
+I therefore lost? And why does he blame you, poor Betty? You wring your
+hands? Do not grieve; you cannot have offended him; he will bethink
+himself; Had he only done as I wished, and not read the note! He could
+have known that it must contain the last poisoned words from Marwood.
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+What terrible suspicion! No, it cannot be. I do not believe it!
+
+         NORTON (_who has gone towards the back of the stage_).
+
+Your father's old servant, Miss.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Let him come in, Norton.
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                     Waitwell, Sara, Betty, Norton.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I suppose you are anxious for my answer, dear Waitwell. It is ready
+except a few lines. But why so alarmed? They must have told you that I
+am ill.
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+And more still.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Dangerously ill? I conclude so from Mellefont's passionate anxiety
+more than from my own feelings. Suppose, Waitwell, you should have
+to go with an unfinished letter from your unhappy Sara to her still
+more unhappy father! Let us hope for the best! Will you wait until
+to-morrow? Perhaps I shall find a few good moments to finish off the
+letter to your satisfaction. At present, I cannot do so. This hand
+hangs as if dead by my benumbed side. If the whole body dies away as
+easily as these limbs----you are an old man, Waitwell, and cannot be
+far from the last scene. Believe me, if that which I feel is the
+approach of death, then the approach of death is not so bitter. Ah! Do
+not mind this sigh! Wholly without unpleasant sensation it cannot be.
+Man could not be void of feeling; he must not be impatient. But, Betty,
+why are you so inconsolable?
+
+                                 BETTY.
+
+Permit me, Miss, permit me to leave you.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Go; I well know it is not every one who can bear to be with the dying.
+Waitwell shall remain with me! And you, Norton, will do me a favour, if
+you go and look for your master. I long for his presence.
+
+                            BETTY (_going_).
+
+Alas, Norton, I took the medicine from Marwood's hands!
+
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+                            Waitwell, Sara.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Waitwell, if you will do me the kindness to remain with me, you must
+not let me see such a melancholy face. You are mute! Speak, I pray! And
+if I may ask it, speak of my father! Repeat all the comforting words
+which you said to me a few hours ago. Repeat them to me, and tell me
+too, that the Eternal Heavenly Father cannot be less merciful. I can
+die with that assurance, can I not? Had this befallen me before your
+arrival, how would I have fared? I should have despaired, Waitwell. To
+leave this world burdened with the hatred of him, who belies his
+nature when he is forced to hate--what a thought! Tell him that I died
+with the feelings of the deepest remorse, gratitude and love. Tell
+him--alas, that I shall not tell him myself--how full my heart is of
+all the benefits I owe to him. My life was the smallest amongst them.
+Would that I could yield up at his feet the ebbing portion yet
+remaining!
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Do you really wish to see him, Miss?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+At length you speak--to doubt my deepest, my last desire!
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Where shall I find the words which I have so long been vainly seeking?
+A sudden joy is as dangerous as a sudden terror. I fear only that the
+effect of his unexpected appearance might be too violent for so tender
+a heart!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+What do you mean? The unexpected appearance of whom?
+
+                               WAITWELL.
+
+Of the wished-for one! Compose yourself!
+
+
+                               Scene IX.
+
+                  Sir William Sampson, Sara, Waitwell.
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+You stay too long, Waitwell! I must see her!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Whose voice----
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+Oh, my daughter!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Oh, my father! Help me to rise, Waitwell, help me to rise that I may
+throw myself at his feet, (_she endeavours to rise and falls back again
+into the arm-chair_). Is it he, or is it an apparition sent from heaven
+like the angel who came to strengthen the Strong One? Bless me, whoever
+thou art, whether a messenger from the Highest in my father's form or
+my father himself!
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+God bless thee, my daughter! Keep quiet (_she tries again to throw
+herself at his feet_). Another time, when you have regained your
+strength, I shall not be displeased to see you clasp my faltering
+knees.
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Now, my father, or never! Soon I shall be no more! I shall be only too
+happy if I still have a few moments to reveal my heart to you. But not
+moments--whole days--another life, would be necessary to tell all that
+a guilty, chastened and repentant daughter can say to an injured but
+generous and loving father. My offence, and your forgiveness----
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+Do not reproach yourself for your weakness, nor give me credit for that
+which is only my duty. When you remind me of my pardon, you remind me
+also of my hesitation in granting it. Why did I not forgive you at
+once? Why did I reduce you to the necessity of flying from me. And this
+very day, when I had already forgiven you, what was it that forced me
+to wait first for an answer from you? I could already have enjoyed a
+whole day with you if I had hastened at once to your arms. Some latent
+spleen must still have lain in the innermost recesses of my
+disappointed heart, that I wished first to be assured of the
+continuance of your love before I gave you mine again. Ought a father
+to act so selfishly? Ought we only to love those who love us? Chide me,
+dearest Sara! Chide me! I thought more of my own joy in you than of you
+yourself. And if I were now to lose this joy? But who, then, says that
+I must lose it? You will live; you will still live long. Banish all
+these black thoughts! Mellefont magnifies the danger. He put the whole
+house in an uproar, and hurried away himself to fetch the doctors, whom
+he probably will not find in this miserable place. I saw his passionate
+anxiety, his hopeless sorrow, without being seen by him. Now I know
+that he loves you sincerely; now I do not grudge him you any longer. I
+will wait here for him and lay your hand in his. What I would otherwise
+have done only by compulsion, I now do willingly, since I see how dear
+you are to him. Is it true that it was Marwood herself who caused you
+this terror? I could understand this much from your Betty's
+lamentations, but nothing more. But why do I inquire into the causes of
+your illness, when I ought only to be thinking how to remedy it. I see
+you growing fainter every moment, I see it and stand helplessly here.
+What shall I do, Waitwell? Whither shall I run? What shall I give her?
+My fortune? My life? Speak!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Dearest father! all help would be in vain! The dearest help, purchased
+with your life, would be of no avail.
+
+
+                                Scene X.
+
+                Mellefont, Sara, Sir William, Waitwell.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Do I dare to set my foot again in this room? Is she still alive?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Step nearer, Mellefont!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Am I to see your face again? No, Sara; I return without consolation,
+without help. Despair alone brings me back. But whom do I see? You,
+Sir? Unhappy father! You have come to a dreadful scene! Why did you not
+come sooner? You are too late to save your daughter! But, be comforted!
+You shall not have come too late to see yourself revenged.
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+Do not remember in this moment, Mellefont, that we have ever been at
+enmity! We are so no more, and we shall never be so again. Only keep my
+daughter for me, and you shall keep a wife for yourself.
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Make me a god, and then repeat your prayer! I have brought so many
+misfortunes to you already, Sara, that I need not hesitate to announce
+the last one. You must die! And do you know by whose hand you die?
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+I do not wish to know it--that I can suspect it is already too much----
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+You must know it, for who could be assured that you did not suspect
+wrongly? Marwood writes thus: (_he reads_) "When you read this letter,
+Mellefont, your infidelity will already be punished in its cause. I had
+made myself known to her and she had swooned with terror. Betty did her
+utmost to restore her to consciousness. I saw her taking out a
+soothing-powder, and the happy idea occurred to me of exchanging it for
+a poisonous one. I feigned to be moved, and anxious to help her, and
+prepared the draught myself. I saw it given to her, and went away
+triumphant. Revenge and rage have made me a murderess; but I will not
+be like a common murderess who does not venture to boast of her deed. I
+am on my way to Dover; you can pursue me, and let my own handwriting
+bear witness against me. If I reach the harbour unpursued I will leave
+Arabella behind unhurt. Till then I shall look upon her as a hostage,
+Marwood." Now you know all, Sara! Here, Sir, preserve this paper! You
+must bring the murderess to punishment, and for this it is
+indispensable.--How motionless he stands!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Give me this paper, Mellefont! I will convince myself with my own eyes
+(_he hands it to her and she looks at it for a moment_). Shall I still
+have sufficient strength? (_tears it_.)
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+What are you doing, Sara!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+Marwood will not escape her fate; but neither you nor my father shall
+be her accusers. I die, and forgive the hand through which God chastens
+me. Alas, my father, what gloomy grief has taken hold of you? I love
+you still, Mellefont, and if loving you is a crime, how guilty shall I
+enter yonder world! Would I might hope, dearest father, that you would
+receive a son in place of a daughter! And with him you will have a
+daughter too, if you will acknowledge Arabella as such. You must fetch
+her back, Mellefont; her mother may escape. Since my father loves me,
+why should I not be allowed to deal with this love as with a legacy? I
+bequeath this fatherly love to you and Arabella. Speak now and then to
+her of a friend from whose example she may learn to be on her guard
+against love. A last blessing, my father!--Who would venture to judge
+the ways of the Highest?--Console your master, Waitwell! But you too
+stand there in grief and despair, you who lose in me neither a lover
+nor a daughter?
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+We ought to be giving you courage, and your dying eyes are giving it to
+us. No more, my earthly daughter--half angel already; of what avail can
+the blessing of a mourning father be to a spirit upon whom all the
+blessings of heaven flow? Leave me a ray of the light which raises you
+so far above everything human. Or pray to God, who hears no prayer so
+surely as that of a pious and departing soul--pray to Him that this day
+may be the last of my life also!
+
+                                 SARA.
+
+God must let the virtue which has been tested remain long in this world
+as an example; only the weak virtue which would perhaps succumb to too
+many temptations is quickly raised above the dangerous confines of the
+earth. For whom do these tears flow, my father? They fall like fiery
+drops upon my heart; and yet--yet they are less terrible to me than
+mute despair. Conquer it, Mellefont!--My eyes grow dim.--That sigh was
+the last! But where is Betty?--Now I understand the wringing of her
+hands.--Poor girl!--Let no one reproach her with carelessness, it
+is excused by a heart without falsehood, and without suspicion of
+it.--The moment is come! Mellefont--my father--(_dies_).
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+She dies! Ah, let me kiss this cold hand once more (_throwing himself
+at her feet_). No! I will not venture to touch her. The old saying that
+the body of the slain bleeds at the touch of the murderer, frightens
+me. And who is her murderer? Am I not he, more than Marwood? (_rises_)
+She is dead now, Sir; she does not hear us any more. Curse me now. Vent
+your grief in well-deserved curses. May none of them miss their mark,
+and may the most terrible be fulfilled twofold! Why do you remain
+silent? She is dead! She is certainly dead. Now, again, I am nothing
+but Mellefont! I am no more the lover of a tender daughter, whom you
+would have reason to spare in him. What is that? I do not want your
+compassionate looks! This is your daughter! I am her seducer. Bethink
+yourself, Sir! In what way can I rouse your anger? This budding beauty,
+who was yours alone, became my prey! For my sake her innocent virtue
+was abandoned! For my sake she tore herself from the arms of a beloved
+father! For my sake she had to die! You make me impatient with your
+forbearance, Sir! Let me see that you are a father!
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+I am a father, Mellefont, and am too much a father not to respect the
+last wish of my daughter. Let me embrace you, my son, for whom I could
+not have paid a higher price!
+
+                               MELLEFONT.
+
+Not so, Sir! This angel enjoined more than human nature is capable of!
+You cannot be my father. Behold, Sir (_drawing the dagger from his
+bosom_), this is the dagger which Marwood drew upon me to-day. To my
+misfortune, I disarmed her. Had I fallen a guilty victim of her
+jealousy, Sara would still be living. You would have your daughter
+still, and have her without Mellefont. It is not for me to undo what is
+done--but to punish myself for it is still in my power! (_he stabs
+himself and sinks down at_ Sara's _side_.)
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+Hold him, Waitwell! What new blow upon my stricken head! Oh, would that
+my own might make the third dying heart here.
+
+                          MELLEFONT (_dying_).
+
+I feel it. I have not struck false. If now you will call me your son
+and press my hand as such, I shall die in peace. (Sir William _embraces
+him_.) You have heard of an Arabella, for whom Sara pleaded; I should
+also plead for her; but she is Marwood's child as well as mine. What
+strange feeling seizes me? Mercy--O Creator, mercy!
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+If the prayers of others are now of any avail, Waitwell, let us help
+him to pray for this mercy! He dies! Alas! He was more to pity than to
+blame.
+
+
+                               Scene XI.
+
+                          Norton, The Others.
+
+                                NORTON.
+
+Doctors, Sir!----
+
+                              SIR WILLIAM.
+
+If they can work miracles, they may come in! Let me no longer remain at
+this deadly spectacle! One grave shall enclose both. Come and make
+immediate preparations, and then let us think of Arabella. Be she who
+she may, she is a legacy of my daughter! (_Exeunt_.)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+                         A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT.
+
+
+Philotos was written at Berlin in the year 1759. It was never
+represented, and was probably not intended for the stage. It is here
+translated for the first time into English.
+
+
+
+
+                            DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
+
+      Aridäus, _the King_.
+      Strato, _a General of_ Aridäus.
+      Philotas, _a prisoner_.
+      Parmenio, _a soldier_.
+
+
+
+
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+
+                                Scene I.
+
+         _The scene is laid in a tent in the camp of_ Aridäus.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Am I really a prisoner? A prisoner? A worthy commencement this of my
+apprenticeship in war. O ye gods! O my father! How gladly would I
+persuade myself that all was but a dream! My earliest years have never
+dreamt of anything but arms and camps, battles and assaults. Could not
+the youth too be dreaming now of loss and defeat? Do not delude thyself
+thus, Philotas!--If I did not see, did not feel the wound through which
+the sword dropped from my palsied hand.--They have dressed it for me
+against my will! O cruel mercy of a cunning foe! "It is not mortal,"
+said the surgeon, and thought to console me. Wretch, it should be
+mortal! And one wound only, only one! Did I know that I should make it
+mortal by tearing it open and dressing it and tearing it open again.--I
+rave, unhappy wretch. And with what a scornful face--I now recall
+it--that aged warrior looked at me--who snatched me from my horse! He
+called me--child! His king, too, must take me for a child, a pampered
+child. To what a tent he has had me brought! Adorned and provided with
+comforts of every sort! It must belong to one of his mistresses! A
+disgusting place for a soldier! And instead of being guarded, I am
+served. O mocking civility!
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+                           Strato. Philotas.
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+Prince--
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Another visitor already? Old man, I like to be alone!
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+Prince! I come by order of the king.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+I understand you! It is true, I am the king's prisoner, and it rests
+with him how he will have me treated. But listen: if you are the man
+whose features you bear,--if you are an old and honest warrior, have
+pity on me, and beg the king to have me treated as a soldier, not as a
+woman.
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+He will be with you directly; I come to announce his approach.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+The king with me? And you come to announce him? I do not wish that he
+should spare me one of the humiliations to which a prisoner must
+submit. Come, lead me to him! After the disgrace of having been
+disarmed, nothing is disgraceful to me now.
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+Prince! Your countenance, so full of youthful graces, bespeaks a softer
+heart!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Mock not my countenance! Your visage, full of scars, is assuredly a
+more handsome face.
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+By the gods! A grand answer! I must admire and love you.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+I would not object if only you had feared me first.
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+More and more heroic! We have the most terrible of enemies before us,
+if there are many like Philotas amongst his youths.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Do not flatter me! To become terrible to you, they must combine greater
+deeds with my thoughts. May I know your name?
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+Strato.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Strato? The brave Strato, who defeated my father on the Lycus?
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+Do not recall that doubtful victory! And how bloodily did your father
+revenge himself in the plain of Methymna! Such a father must needs have
+such a son.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+To you, the worthiest of my father's enemies, I may bewail my fate! You
+only can fully understand me; you too, you too have been consumed in
+your youth by the ambition of the glory--the glory of bleeding for your
+native land. Would you otherwise be what you are? How have I not
+begged, implored, conjured him--my father these seven days--for only
+seven days has the manly toga covered me--conjured him seven times on
+each of these seven days upon my knees to grant me that I should not in
+vain have outgrown my childhood,--to let me go with his warriors who
+had long cost me many a tear of jealousy. Yesterday I prevailed on him,
+the best of fathers, for Aristodem assisted my entreaties. You know
+Aristodem; he is my father's Strato.--"Give me this youth, my king, to
+go with me to-morrow," spoke Aristodem, "I am going to scour the
+mountains, in order to keep open the way to Cäsena." "Would I could
+accompany you!" sighed my father. He still lies sick from his wounds.
+"But be it so!" and with these words he embraced me. Ah, what did his
+happy son feel in that embrace! And the night which followed! I did not
+close my eyes; and yet dreams of glory and victory kept me on my couch
+until the second watch. Then I sprang up, threw on my new armour,
+pushed the uncurled hair beneath the helmet, chose from amongst my
+father's swords the one which matched my strength, mounted my horse and
+had tired out one already before the silver trumpet awakened the chosen
+band. They came, and I spoke with each of my companions, and many a
+brave warrior there pressed me to his scarred breast. Only with my
+father I did not speak; for I feared he might retract his word, if he
+should see me again. Then we marched. By the side of the immortal gods
+one cannot feel happier than did I by the side of Aristodem. At every
+encouraging glance from him I would have attacked a host alone, and
+thrown myself on the certain death of the enemy's swords. In quiet
+determination I rejoiced at every hill, from which I hoped to discern
+the enemy in the plain below, at every bend of the valley behind which
+I flattered myself that we should come upon them. And when at last I
+saw them rushing down upon us from the woody height,--showed them to my
+companions with the point of my sword,--flew up the mountain towards
+them, recall, O renowned warrior, the happiest of your youthful
+ecstasies, you could never have been happier. But now, now behold me,
+Strato; behold me ignominiously fallen from the summit of my lofty
+expectations! O how I shudder to repeat this fall again in thought! I
+had rushed too far in advance; I was wounded, and--imprisoned!
+Poor youth, thou hadst prepared thyself only for wounds, only for
+death,--and thou art made a prisoner! Thus always do the gods, in their
+severity, send only unforeseen evils to stultify our self-complacency.
+I weep--I must weep, although I fear to be despised for it by you. But
+despise me not! You turn away?
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+I am vexed: you should not move me thus. I become a child with you.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+No; hear why I weep! It is no childish weeping which you deign to
+accompany with your manly tears. What I thought my greatest happiness,
+the tender love with which my father loves me, will now become my
+greatest misery. I fear, I fear he loves me more than he loves his
+empire! What will he not sacrifice, what will not your king exact from
+him, to rescue me from prison! Through me, wretched youth, will he lose
+in one day more than he has gained in three long toilsome years with
+the blood of his noble warriors, with his own blood. With what face
+shall I appear again before him? I, his worst enemy! And my father's
+subjects--mine at some future day, if I had made myself worthy to rule
+them. How will they be able to endure the ransomed prince amongst them
+without contemptuous scorn. And when I die for shame, and creep
+unmourned to the shades below, how gloomy and proud will pass by the
+souls of those heroes who for their king had to purchase with their
+lives those gains, which, as a father, he renounces for an unworthy
+son! Oh, that is more than a feeling heart can endure!
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+Be comforted, dear prince! It is the fault of youth always to think
+itself more happy or less than it really is. Your fate is not so cruel
+yet;--the king approaches, you will hear more consolation from his
+lips.
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+                    King Aridäus, Philotas, Strato.
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+The wars which kings are forced to wage together are no personal
+quarrels. Let me embrace you, prince! Ah what happy days your blooming
+youth recalls to me! Thus bloomed your father's youth! This was his
+open, speaking eye; these his earnest, honest features; this his noble
+bearing! Let me embrace you again; in you I embrace your younger
+father. Have you never heard from him, prince, what good friends we
+were at your age? That was the blessed age, when we could still abandon
+ourselves to our feelings without restraint. But soon we were both
+called to the throne, and the anxious king, the jealous neighbour,
+stifled, alas, the willing friend.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Pardon me, O king, if you find me too cold in my reply to such sweet
+words. My youth has been taught to think, but not to speak. What can it
+now aid me, that you and my father once were friends? Were! so you say
+yourself. The hatred which one grafts on an extinguished friendship
+bears the most deadly fruit of all; or I still know the human heart too
+little. Do not, therefore, O king, do not prolong my despair. You have
+spoken as the polished statesman: speak now as the monarch, who has the
+rival of his greatness completely in: his power.
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+O king, do not let him be tormented longer by the uncertainty of his
+fate!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+I thank you, Strato! Yes, let me hear at once, I beg you, how
+despicable you will render an unfortunate son in his father's eyes.
+With what disgraceful peace, with how many lands shall he redeem him?
+How small and contemptible shall he become, in order to regain his
+child? O my father!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+This early, manly language too, prince, was your father's! I like to
+hear you speak thus. And would that my son, no less worthy of me, spoke
+thus before your father now.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+What mean you by that?
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+The gods--I am convinced of it--watch over our virtue, as they watch
+over our lives. To preserve both as long as possible is their secret
+and eternal work. Where is the mortal who knows how wicked he is at
+heart,--how viciously he would act, if they allowed free scope to each
+treacherous inducement to disgrace himself by little deeds! Yes,
+prince! Perhaps I might be he, whom you think me; perhaps I might not
+have sufficient nobleness of thought to use with modesty the strange
+fortune of war, which delivered you into my hands; perhaps I might have
+tried through you to exact that for which I would no longer venture to
+contend by arms; perhaps--but fear nothing; a higher power has
+forestalled this. Perhaps. I cannot let your father redeem his son more
+dearly than by--mine.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+I am astounded! You give me to understand that----
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+That my son is your father's prisoner, as you are mine.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Your son my father's prisoner? Your Polytimet? Since when? How? Where?
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Fate willed it thus! From equal scales it took equal weights at the
+same time, and the scales are balanced still.
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+You wish to know more details. Polytimet led the very squadron, towards
+which you rushed too rashly; and when your soldiers saw that you were
+lost, rage and despair gave them superhuman strength. They broke
+through the lines and all assailed the one in whom they saw the
+compensation for their loss. The end you know! Now accept a word of
+advice from an old soldier: The assault is not a race; not he who
+first, but he who most surely meets the enemy, approaches victory. Note
+this, too ardent prince! otherwise the future hero may be stifled in
+his earliest bud.
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Strato, you vex the prince with your warning, though it be friendly.
+How gloomily he stands there!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Not so. But do not mind me. In deep adoration of Providence--
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+The best adoration, prince, is grateful joy! Cheer up! We fathers will
+not long withhold our sons from one another. My herald is now ready; he
+shall go and hasten the exchange. But you know that joyful tidings,
+heard from the enemy alone, have the appearance of snares. They might
+suspect that you, perchance, had died from your wound. It will be
+necessary, therefore, for you to send a trustworthy messenger to your
+father with the herald. Come with me! Choose among the prisoners one
+whom you hold worthy of your confidence.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+You wish, then, that I shall detest myself a hundredfold? In each of
+the prisoners I shall behold myself! Spare me this embarrassment!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+But----
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Parmenio must be among the prisoners. Send him to me! I will despatch
+him.
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Well, be it so! Come, Strato! Prince, we shall see each other soon
+again!
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+O God! the lightning could not have struck nearer without destroying me
+entirely. Wondrous gods! The flash returns! The vapour passes off, and
+I was only stunned. My whole misery then was seeing how miserable I
+might have become--how miserable my father through me!--Now I may
+appear again before you, my father! But still with eyes cast down;
+though shame alone will cast them down, and not the burning
+consciousness of having drawn you down with me to destruction. Now I
+need fear nothing from you but a smiling reprimand; no silent grief; no
+curses stifled by the stronger power of paternal love----
+
+But--yes, by Heavens! I am too indulgent towards myself. May I forgive
+myself all the errors which Providence seems to pardon me? Shall I not
+judge myself more severely than Providence and my father judge me? All
+too indulgent judges! All other sad results of my imprisonment the gods
+could annihilate; one only they could not--the disgrace! It is true
+they could wipe out that fleeting shame, which falls from the lips of
+the vulgar crowd: but not the true and lasting disgrace, which the
+inner judge, my impartial self, pronounces over me!
+
+And how easily I delude myself! Does my father then lose nothing
+through me?
+
+The weight which the capture of Polytimet must throw into the scale if
+I were not a prisoner--is that nothing? Only through me does it become
+nothing! Fortune would have declared for him for whom it should
+declare;--the right of my father would triumph, if Polytimet was
+prisoner and not Philotas and Polytimet!
+
+And now--but what was that which I thought just now? Nay, which a god
+thought within me--I must follow it up! Let me chain thee, fleeting
+thought! Now I have it again! How it spreads, farther and farther; and
+now it beams throughout my soul!
+
+What did the king say? Why did he wish that I myself should send a
+trustworthy messenger to my father? In order that my father should not
+suspect--yes, thus ran his own words--that I had already died,
+perchance, from my wounds. He thinks, then, that the affair would take
+a different aspect, if I had died already from my wound. Would it do
+so? A thousand thanks for this intelligence. A thousand thanks! Of
+course it is so. For my father would then have a prince as his
+prisoner, for whom he could make any claim; and the king, his enemy,
+would have the body of a captured prince, for which he could demand
+nothing; which he must have buried or burned, if it should not become
+an object of disgust to him.
+
+Good! I see that! Consequently, if I, I the wretched prisoner, will
+still turn the victory into my father's hands--on what does it depend?
+on death? On nothing more? O truly--the man is mightier than he thinks,
+the man who knows how to die!
+
+But I? I, the germ, the bud of a man, do I know how to die? Not the
+man, the grown man alone, knows how to die; the youth also, the boy
+also; or he knows nothing at all. He who has lived ten years has had
+ten years time to learn to die; and what one does not learn in ten
+years, one neither learns in twenty, in thirty, nor in more. All that
+which I might have been, I must show by what I already am. And what
+could I, what would I be? A hero! Who is a hero? O my excellent, my
+absent father, be now wholly present in my soul! Have you not taught me
+that a hero is a man who knows higher goods than life? A man who has
+devoted his life to the welfare of the state; himself, the single one,
+to the welfare of the many? A hero is a man--a man? Then not a youth,
+my father? Curious question! It is good that my father did not hear it.
+He would have to think that I should be pleased, if he answered "No" to
+it. How old must the pine-tree be which has to serve as a mast? How
+old?--It must be tall enough, and must be strong enough.
+
+Each thing, said the sage who taught me, is perfect if it can fulfil
+its end. I can fulfil my end, I can die for the welfare of the state; I
+am therefore perfect, I am a man. A man! although but a few days ago I
+was still a boy.
+
+What fire rages in my veins? What inspiration falls on me? The breast
+becomes too narrow for the heart! Patience, my heart! Soon will I give
+thee space! Soon will I release thee from thy monotonous and tedious
+task! Soon shalt thou rest, and rest for long!
+
+Who comes? It is Parmenio! Quick! I must decide! What must I say to
+him? What message must I send my father through him?--Right! that I
+must say, that message I must send.
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+                          Parmenio. Philotas.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Approach, Parmenio! Well? Why so shy--so full of shame? Of whom are you
+ashamed? Of yourself or of me?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+Of both of us, prince!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Speak always as you think! Truly, Parmenio, neither of us can be good
+for much, since we are here. Have you already heard my story?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+Alas!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+And when you heard it?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+I pitied you, I admired you, I cursed you; I do not know myself what I
+did.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Yes, yes! But now that you have also learned, as I suppose, that the
+misfortune is not so great since Polytimet immediately afterwards
+was----
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+Yes, now; now I could almost laugh! I find that Fate often stretches
+its arm to terrible length to deal a trifling blow. One might think it
+wished to crush us, and it has after all done nothing but killed a fly
+upon our forehead.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+To the point. I am to send you to my father with the king's herald.
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+Good! Your imprisonment will then plead for mine. Without the good news
+which I shall bring him from you, and which is well worth a friendly
+look, I should have had to promise myself rather a frosty one from him.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+No, honest Parmenio; in earnest now! My father knows that the enemy
+carried you from the battle-field bleeding and half dead. Let him boast
+who will. He whom approaching death has already disarmed is easily
+taken captive. How many wounds have you now, old warrior?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+O, I could cite a long list of them once. But now I have shortened it a
+good deal.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+How so?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+Ha! I do not any more count the limbs on which I am wounded; to save
+time and breath I count those which still are whole. Trifles after all!
+For what else has one bones, but that the enemy's iron should notch
+itself upon them?
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+That is bold! But now--what will you say to my father?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+What I see: that you are well. For your wound, if I have heard the
+truth----
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Is as good as none.
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+A sweet little keepsake. Such as an ardent maid nips in our cheek. Is
+it not, prince?
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+What do I know of that?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+Well, well, time brings experience! Further I will tell your father
+what I believe you wish----
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+And what is that?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+To be with him again as soon as possible. Your childlike longing, your
+anxious impatience----
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Why not home-sickness at once! Knave! Wait and I will teach you to
+think differently.
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+By Heavens you must not! My dear youthful hero, let me tell you, you
+are still a child! Do not let the rough soldier so soon stifle in you
+the loving child! Or else one might not put the best construction on
+your heart; one might take your valour for inborn ferocity. I also am a
+father, father of an only son, who is but a little older than you, who
+with equal ardour--But you know him!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+I know him. He promises everything that his father has accomplished.
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+But if I knew that the young rogue did not long for his father at every
+moment when service leaves him free, and did not long for him as the
+lamb longs for its dam, I should wish--you see--that I had not begotten
+him. At present he must love more than respect me. I shall soon enough
+have to content myself with the respect, when nature guides the stream
+of his affection in another channel; when he himself becomes a father.
+Do not grow angry, prince!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Who can grow angry with you? You are right! Tell my father everything
+which you think a loving son should say to him at such a time. Excuse
+my youthful rashness, which has almost brought him and his empire to
+destruction. Beg him to forgive my fault. Assure him that I shall never
+again remind him of it by a similar fault; that I will do everything
+that he too may be able to forget it. Entreat him----
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+Leave it to me! Such things we soldiers can say well. And better than a
+learned orator, for we say it more sincerely. Leave it to me! I know
+it all already. Farewell, prince! I hasten----
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Stop!
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+Well? What means this serious air which you suddenly assume?
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+The son has done with you, but not yet the prince. The one had to feel;
+the other has to think! How willingly would the son be again with his
+father,--his beloved father--this very moment--sooner than were
+possible; but the prince, the prince cannot.--Listen!
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+The prince cannot?
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+And will not!
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+Will not?
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Listen!
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+I am surprised!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+I say, you shall listen and not be surprised. Listen!
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+I am surprised, because I listen. It has lightened, and I expect the
+thunderbolt. Speak!--But, young prince, no second rashness!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+But, soldier, no subtilising! Listen! I have my reasons for wishing not
+to be redeemed before to-morrow. Not before to-morrow! Do you hear?
+Therefore tell our king that he shall not heed the haste of our enemy's
+herald! Tell him that a certain doubt, a certain plan compelled
+Philotas to this delay. Have you understood me?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+No!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Not? Traitor!
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+Softly, prince! A parrot does not understand, but he yet recollects
+what one says to him. Fear not! I will repeat everything to your father
+that I hear from you.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Ha! I forbade you to subtilise; and that puts you out of humour. But
+how is it that you are so spoiled? Do all your generals inform you of
+their reasons?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+All, prince!--Except the young ones.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Excellent! Parmenio, if I were so sensitive as you----
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+And yet he only to whom experience has given twofold sight can command
+my blind obedience.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Then I shall soon have to ask your pardon. Well, I ask your pardon,
+Parmenio! Do not grumble, old man! Be kind again, old father! You are
+indeed wiser than I am. But not the wisest only have the best ideas.
+Good ideas are gifts of fortune, and good fortune, as you well know,
+often gives to the youth rather than to the old man. For Fortune is
+blind. Blind, Parmenio! Stone blind to all merit. If it were not so,
+would you not have been a general long ago?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+How you know how to flatter, prince! But in confidence, beloved prince,
+do you not wish to bribe me--to bribe me with flatteries?
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+I flatter? And bribe you? You are the man indeed whom one could bribe!
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+If you continue thus, I may become so. Already I no longer thoroughly
+trust myself.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+What was it I was saying? One of those good ideas, which fortune often
+throws into the silliest brain, I too have seized--merely seized, not
+the slightest portion of it is my own. For if my reason,--my invention
+had some part in it, should I not wish to consult with you about it?
+But this I cannot do; it vanishes, if I impart it; so tender, so
+delicate is it, that I do not venture to clothe it in words. I conceive
+it only, as the philosopher has taught me to conceive God, and at the
+most I could only tell you what it is not. It is possible enough that
+it is in reality a childish thought; a thought which I consider happy,
+because I have not yet had a happier. But let that be; if it can do no
+good, it can at least do no harm. That I know for certain; it is the
+most harmless idea in the world; as harmless as--as a prayer! Would you
+cease to pray because you are not quite certain whether the prayer
+will be of use to you? Do not then spoil my pleasure, Parmenio,
+honest Parmenio! I beg you, I embrace you. If you love me but a very
+little--will you? Can I rely on you? Will you manage that I am not
+exchanged before to-morrow? Will you?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+Will? Must I not? Must I not? Listen, prince; when you shall one day be
+king, do not give commands. To command is an unsure means of being
+obeyed. If you have a heavy duty to impose on anyone, do with him
+as you have just now done with me; and if he then refuses his
+obedience--Impossible! He cannot refuse it to you. I too must know what
+a man can refuse.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+What obedience? What has the kindness which you show me to do with
+obedience? Will you, my friend----
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+Stop! Stop! You have won me quite already. Yes! I will do everything. I
+will, I will tell your father, that he shall not exchange you until
+to-morrow. But why only to-morrow? I do not know! That I need not know.
+That he need not know either. Enough that I know you wish it. And I
+wish everything that you wish. Do you wish nothing else? Is there
+nothing else that I shall do? Shall I run through the fire for you?
+Shall I cast myself from a rock for you? Command only, my dear young
+friend, command! I will do everything now for you. Even say a word and
+I will commit a crime, an act of villainy for you! My blood, it is
+true, curdles; but still, prince, if you wish, I will--I will----
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+O my best, my fiery friend! O how shall I call you? You creator of my
+future fame! I swear to you by everything that is sacred to me, by my
+father's honour, by the fortune of his arms, by the welfare of his
+land--I swear to you never in my life to forget this your readiness,
+your zeal! Would that I also could reward it sufficiently! Hear, ye
+gods, my oath! And now, Parmenio, swear too! Swear to keep your promise
+faithfully!
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+I swear? I am too old for swearing.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+And I too young to trust you without an oath. Swear to me! I have sworn
+to you by my father, swear you by your son. You love your son? You love
+him from your heart?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+From my heart, as I love you! You wish it, and I swear. I swear to you
+by my only son, by my blood which flows in his veins, by the blood
+which I would willingly have shed for your father's sake, and which he
+will also willingly shed some future day for yours--by this blood I
+swear to you to keep my word. And if I do not keep it, may my son fall
+in his first battle, and never live to see the glorious days of your
+reign! Hear, ye gods, my oath!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Hear him not yet, ye gods! You will make fun of me, old man! To fall in
+the first battle--not to live to see my reign; is that a misfortune? Is
+it a misfortune to die early?
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+I do not say that. Yet only to see you on the throne, to serve you, I
+should like--what otherwise I should not wish at all--to become young
+again. Your father is good; but you will be better than he.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+No praise that slights my father! Alter your oath! Come, alter it like
+this. If you do not keep your word, let your son become a coward, a
+scoundrel; in the choice between death and disgrace, let him choose the
+latter; let him live ninety years the laughing-stock of women, and even
+die unwillingly in his ninetieth year.
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+I shudder, but I swear. Let him do so. Hear the most terrible of oaths,
+ye gods!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Hear it! Well, you can go, Parmenio! We have detained each other long
+enough, and almost made too much ado about a trifle. For is it not a
+very trifle to tell my father--to persuade him not to exchange us until
+tomorrow? And if he should wish to know the reason--well, then invent a
+reason on your way!
+
+                               PARMENIO.
+
+That, too, I'll do. Yet I have never, though I am so old, devised a
+lie. But for your sake, prince--Leave it to me. Wickedness may still be
+learned even in old age. Farewell!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Embrace me! Go!
+
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+There are said to be so many rogues in the world, and yet deceiving is
+so hard, even when done with the best intentions. Had I not to turn and
+twist myself! Only see, good Parmenio, that my father does not exchange
+us before to-morrow, and he shall not need to exchange us at all. Now I
+have gained time enough! Time enough to strengthen myself in my
+purpose--time enough to choose the surest means. To strengthen myself
+in my purpose! Woe to me if I need that! Firmness of age, if thou art
+not mine, then obstinacy of youth, stand thou by me!
+
+Yes, it is resolved! It is firmly resolved! I feel that I grow calm--I
+am calm! Thou who standest there, Philotas (_surveying himself_)--Ha!
+It must be a glorious, a grand sight; a youth stretched on the ground,
+the sword in his breast! The sword? Gods! O unhappy wretch that I am.
+And now only do I become aware of it! I have no sword; I have not
+anything! It became the booty of the warrior who made me prisoner.
+Perhaps he would have left it me, but the hilt was of gold. Accursed
+gold! art thou then always the ruin of virtue?
+
+No sword? I no sword? Gods, merciful gods, grant me this one thing!
+Mighty gods, ye who have created heaven and earth, ye could not create
+a sword for me, if ye wished to do so? What is now my grand and
+glorious design? I become a bitter cause of laughter to myself.
+
+And there the king comes back already! Stop! Suppose I played the
+child? This idea is promising. Yes, perhaps I may succeed.
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                           Aridäus. Philotas.
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+The messengers have now gone, my prince! They have started on their
+swiftest horses, and your father's camp is so near at hand, that we can
+receive a reply in a few hours.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+You are then very impatient, king, to embrace your son once more?
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Will your father be less so to press you to his heart again? But let me
+enjoy your company, dearest prince! The time will speed more quickly in
+it, and perhaps in other respects it may also have good results, if we
+become more intimately acquainted with each other. Often already have
+loving children been the mediators of their angry fathers. Follow me
+therefore to my tent, where the greatest of my generals await you! They
+burn with the desire to see you, and offer you their admiration.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Men must not admire a child, king! Leave me here, therefore, I pray!
+Shame and vexation would make me play a very foolish part. And as to
+your conversation with me, I do not see at all what good could come of
+it. I know nothing else, but that you and my father are involved in
+war; and the right--the right, I think, is on my father's side. This I
+believe, king! and will believe, even though you could prove the
+reverse indisputably. I am a son and a soldier, and have no other
+opinion than that of my father and my general.
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Prince! it shows a great intelligence thus to deny one's intelligence.
+Yet I am sorry that I shall not ever be able to justify myself before
+you. Accursed war!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Yes, truly, an accursed war! And woe to him who caused it.
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Prince! prince! remember that it was your father who first drew the
+sword. I do not wish to join in your curses. He was rash, he was too
+suspicious.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Well, my father drew the first sword. But does the conflagration only
+take its rise when the bright flame already breaks through the roof?
+Where is the patient, quiet creature, devoid of all feeling, which
+cannot be embittered through incessant irritations? Consider--for
+you compel me to speak of things of which I have no right to
+speak--consider what a proud and scornful answer you sent him when
+he--but you shall not compel me; I will not speak of it! Our guilt and
+our innocence are liable to endless misinterpretations, endless
+excuses. Only to the undeceived eye of the gods do we appear as we are;
+they alone can judge us. But the gods, you know it, king, speak their
+verdict through the sword of the bravest. Let us therefore wait to hear
+their bloody sentence. Why shall we turn in cowardice from this highest
+of judgments to a lower? Are our arms already so weary that the pliant
+tongue must take their place?
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+I hear with astonishment----
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Ah! a woman, too, may be listened to with astonishment.
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+With astonishment, prince, and not without grief. Fate has destined you
+for the throne! To you it will confide the welfare of a mighty and
+noble nation; to you! What dreadful future reveals itself to me! You
+will overwhelm your people with laurels,--and with misery. You will
+count more victories than happy subjects. Well for me, that my days
+will not reach into yours! But woe to my son, to my honest son! You
+will scarcely allow him to lay aside his armour----
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Comfort the father, O king! I shall allow your son far more!--far more!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Far more? Explain yourself.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Have I spoken a riddle? O do not ask, king, that a youth, such as I am,
+shall always speak with caution and design. I only wished to say the
+fruit is often very different from what the blossom promises. An
+effeminate prince, history has taught me, has often proved a warlike
+king. Could not the reverse occur with me? Or perhaps the meaning of
+what I said was that I had still a long and dangerous way to the
+throne. Who knows if the gods will allow me to accomplish it? And do
+not let me accomplish it, father of gods and men, if in the future thou
+seest in me a waster of the most precious gift which thou hast
+entrusted to me,--the blood of my subjects!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Yes, prince; what is a king, if he be not a father? What is a hero void
+of human love? Now I recognise this also in you, and am your friend
+again! But come, come; we must not remain alone here! We are too
+serious for one another. Follow me!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Pardon, king----
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Do not refuse!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Thus, as I am, shall I show myself to many eyes?
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Why not?
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+I cannot, king, I cannot!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+And the reason?
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+O, the reason! It would make you laugh.
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+So much the better,--let me hear it! I am a human being, and like to
+laugh and cry.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Well, laugh then! See, king, I have no sword, and should not like to
+appear amongst soldiers without this mark of the soldier.
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+My laughing turns to joy! I have thought of that beforehand, and your
+wish will be gratified at once. Strato has the order to get your sword
+again for you.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Let us then await him here!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+And then you will accompany me?
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Then I will follow you immediately.
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+As we willed it! There he comes! Well, Strato!
+
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+        Strato (_with a sword in his hand_), Aridäus, Philotas.
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+King! I came to the soldier who had taken the prince and demanded the
+prince's sword from him in your name. But hear how nobly the soldier
+refused! "The king," he said, "must not take the sword from me! It is a
+good sword, and I shall use it in his service. I must also keep a
+remembrance of this deed. By the gods, it was none of my least! The
+prince is a young demon. But perhaps you wish only the precious hilt!"
+And on this, before I could prevent it, his strong hand had broken off
+the hilt, and throwing it contemptuously before my feet--"There it is,"
+he continued, "what care I for your gold?"
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+O Strato, make good for me what this man has done!
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+I have done so. And here is one of your swords!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Give it me! Will you accept it, prince, instead of yours?
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Let me see! Ha! (_aside_.) Be thanked, ye gods! (_eyeing it long and
+earnestly_). A sword!
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+Have I not chosen well, prince?
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+What do you find in it so worthy of your deep attention?
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+That it is a sword!--(_recovering himself_.) And a beautiful sword! I
+shall not lose anything by this exchange. A sword!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+You tremble, prince!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+With joy! It seems, however, a trifle short for me. But why short? A
+step nearer to the enemy replaces what is wanting in the steel. Beloved
+sword! What a beautiful thing is a sword,--to play with and to use! I
+have never played with anything else.
+
+                         ARIDÄUS (_to_ Strato).
+
+O the wondrous combination of child and hero!
+
+                          PHILOTAS (_aside_).
+
+Beloved sword! Could I but be alone with thee! But, courage!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Now gird on the sword, prince, and follow me!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Directly! Yet one must not know one's friend and one's sword only
+outwardly (_he draws it, and_ Strato _steps between him and the king_).
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+I understand the steel better than the workmanship. Believe me, prince,
+the steel is good. The king has cleft more than one helmet with it
+since his youth.
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+I shall never grow so strong as that! But--Do not step so near, Strato!
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+Why not?
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+So! (_springing back and swinging the sword through the air_). It has
+the right swing.
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Prince, spare your wounded arm! You will excite yourself!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Of what do you remind me, king? Of my misfortune--no, of my shame! I
+was wounded and made prisoner. Yes, but I shall never be so again! By
+this my sword, I shall never be so again! No, my father, no! To-day a
+wonder spares you the shameful ransom of your son; his death may spare
+it you in the future!--His certain death, when he shall see himself
+surrounded again! Surrounded again? Horrible! I am so! I am surrounded!
+What now? Companions! Friends! Brothers! Where are you? All dead?
+Enemies everywhere! Through here, Philotas! Ha! That is for you, rash
+fellow!--And that for you!--And that for you! (_striking around him_.)
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+Prince! what ails you? Calm yourself (_approaches him_.)
+
+                  PHILOTAS (_stepping away from him_).
+
+You too, Strato? You too? O, foe, be generous! Kill me! Do not make me
+captive! No, I do not deliver myself up! Were you all, who surround me,
+Stratos, yet I will defend myself against you all--against a world will
+I defend myself! Do your best, my foes! But you will not? You will not
+kill me, cruel men? You only wish to have me alive? I laugh at you! To
+take me prisoner alive? Me? Sooner shall this sword--this sword--shall
+pierce this breast--sooner--before--(_he stabs himself_.)
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+God! Strato!
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+King!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+I wished it thus! (_sinking back_.)
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Hold him, Strato! Help! help for the prince! Prince, what raving
+anguish----
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Forgive me, king! I have dealt you a more deadly blow than myself! I
+die, and soon will peaceful lands enjoy the fruit of my death. Your
+son, king, is a prisoner, and the son of my father is free!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+What do I hear?
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+Then it was your purpose, prince? But as our prisoner, you had no right
+over yourself!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Do not say that, Strato! Should a man be able to fetter another's
+liberty to die, the liberty which the gods have left in all
+vicissitudes of life?
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+O king! Terror has paralyzed him! King!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Who calls me?
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+King!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Be silent!
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+The war is over, king!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Over? You lie, Strato! The war is not over, prince! Die! yes, die! But
+carry with you this tormenting thought! You believed, as a true
+ignorant boy, that fathers were all of one and the same mould,--all of
+the soft, effeminate nature of your father. They are not all like him!
+I am not so! What do I care about my son? And do you think that he
+cannot die as well for his father as you did for yours? Let him die!
+Let his death too spare me the disgraceful ransom! Strato, I am bereft
+now, I poor man! You have a son;--he shall be mine. For a son one must
+have! Happy Strato!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+Your son too lives still, king! And will live! I hear it!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Does he live still? Then I must have him back. But you--die! I will
+have him back, let what will come of it. And in exchange for you! Or I
+will have such disgrace and dishonour shown to your body--I will have
+it----
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+The dead body!--If you will revenge yourself, king, awaken it again!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Ah! What do I say?
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+I pity you! Farewell, Strato! There, where all virtuous friends and all
+brave men are members of one blessed state--in Elysium we shall meet
+again! We also, king, shall meet again.
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+And reconciled! Prince!
+
+                               PHILOTAS.
+
+O then, ye gods, receive my triumphant soul; and thou, goddess of
+peace, thy offering!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Hear me, prince!
+
+                                STRATO.
+
+He dies! Am I traitor, king, if I weep over your enemy? I cannot
+restrain myself. A wondrous youth!
+
+                                ARIDÄUS.
+
+Weep over him, weep! And I too! Come! I must have my son again. But do
+not oppose me, if I pay too high a ransom for him! In vain have we shed
+our streams of blood, in vain have we conquered lands. There he departs
+with our booty, the greater victor!--Come! Get me my son! And when I
+have him, I will no more be king. Do ye believe, ye men, that one does
+not grow weary of it? (_Exeunt_.)
+
+
+
+
+
+                            EMILIA GALOTTI.
+
+                        A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.
+
+                  (_Translated by B. Dillon Boylan_.)
+
+
+'Emilia Galotti' was commenced in 1757, when Lessing was at Leipzig,
+but was thrown aside for some years, until in 1767, when at Hamburg, he
+again took it up, intending to have it represented on the Hamburg
+stage. But on the failure of the theatrical enterprise with which he
+was connected, he once more abandoned it until 1771, when he again
+turned his attention to it, and completed it in February of the
+following year. It was immediately represented on the Brunswick stage.
+
+
+
+
+
+                           DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
+
+      Emilia Galotti.
+      Odoardo _and_     \
+                         > _parents of_ Emilia.
+      Claudia Galotti,  /
+      Hettore Gonzaga, _Prince of Guastalla_.
+      Marinelli, _the Prince's Chamberlain_.
+      Camillo Rota, _one of the Prince's Councillors_.
+      Conti, _an artist_.
+      Count Appiani.
+      Angelo, _a bandit_.
+      Pirro _and sundry servants_.
+
+
+
+
+
+                            EMILIA GALOTTI.
+
+
+
+
+                                 ACT I.
+
+
+                   Scene I.--_The Prince's Cabinet_.
+
+    _The_ Prince, _seated at a desk, which is covered with papers_.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Complaints; nothing but complaints! Petitions; nothing but petitions!
+Wretched employment! And yet we are envied! To be sure, if we could
+relieve every one, we might indeed be envied. Emilia? (_opening a
+petition, and looking at the signature_.) An Emilia? Yes--but an Emilia
+Bruneschi--not Galotti. Not Emilia Galotti. What does she want, this
+Emilia Bruneschi? (_Reads_) She asks much--too much. But her name is
+Emilia. It is granted (_signs the paper, and rings_).
+
+                           _Enter a_ Servant.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Are any of the Councillors in the antechamber?
+
+                                SERVANT.
+
+No, your Highness.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+I have begun the day too early. The morning is so beautiful, I will
+take a drive. The Marquis Marinelli shall accompany me. Let him be
+called. (_Exit_ Servant.) I can attend to nothing more. I was so
+happy--delightful thought! so happy--when all at once this wretched
+Bruneschi must be named Emilia. Now all my peace is fled.
+
+               _Re-enter the_ Servant, _bringing a note_.
+
+                                SERVANT.
+
+The Marquis has been sent for; and here is a letter from the Countess
+Orsina.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+The Countess Orsina? Put it down.
+
+                                SERVANT.
+
+Her courier waits.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+I will send an answer if necessary. Where is she, in town, or at her
+villa?
+
+                                SERVANT.
+
+She arrived in town yesterday.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+So much the worse--the better, I mean. There is less reason for the
+messenger to wait. (_Exit_ Servant.) My dear Countess! (_with sarcasm,
+as he takes up the letter_) as good as read (_throwing it down again_).
+Well, well, I fancied I loved her--one may fancy anything. It may be
+that I really did love her. But--I did.
+
+                          _Re-enter_ Servant.
+
+                                SERVANT.
+
+The painter Conti requests the honour----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Conti? Good! admit him. That will change the current of my thoughts
+(_rising_).
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+                          Conti, _The_ Prince.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Good morning, Conti. How goes it with you? How does art thrive?
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+Art is starving, Prince.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+That must not--shall not be, within the limits of my small dominions.
+But the artist must be willing to work.
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+Work! that is his happiness. But too much work may rain his claim to
+the title of artist.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+I do not mean that his works should be many, but his labour much: a
+little, but well done. But you do not come empty-handed, Conti?
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+I have brought the portrait which your Highness ordered; and another
+which you did not order; but as it is worthy of inspection----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+That one, is it? And yet I do not well remember----
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+The Countess Orsina.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+True. The commission, however, was given rather long ago.
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+Our beauties are not every day at the artist's command. In three
+months, the Countess could only make up her mind to sit once.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Where are the pictures?
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+In the antechamber. I will fetch them (_exit_).
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Her portrait! Let it come; it is not herself. But perhaps I may see in
+the picture what I can no longer find in her person. But I have no wish
+to make such a discovery. The importunate painter! I almost believe
+that she has bribed him. But even were it so, if another picture which
+is pourtrayed in brighter colours and on a different canvas, could be
+obliterated to make room for her once more in my heart, I really think
+that I should be content. When I loved the Countess, I was ever gay,
+sprightly, and cheerful; now I am the reverse. But no, no, no; happy or
+unhappy, it is better as it is.
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+_The_ Prince, Conti, _with the portraits; he places one with the face
+reversed against a chair, and prepares to show the other_.
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+I beg your Highness will bear in mind the limits of our art; much of
+the highest perfection of beauty lies altogether beyond its limits.
+Look at it in this position.
+
+                  PRINCE (_after a brief inspection_).
+
+Excellent! Conti, most excellent! It does credit to your taste,--to
+your skill. But flattered, Conti--quite, infinitely flattered!
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+The original did not seem to be of your opinion. But, in truth, she is
+not more flattered than art is bound to flatter. It is the province of
+art to paint as plastic nature--if there is such a thing--intended her
+original design, without the defects which the unmanageable materials
+render inevitable, and free from the ravages which result from a
+conflict with time.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+The intelligent artist has therefore double merit. But the original,
+you say, notwithstanding all this----
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+Pardon me, Prince! The original is a person who commands my respect. I
+did not intend to insinuate anything to her disadvantage.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+As much as you please. But what said the original?
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+"I am satisfied," said the Countess, "if I am not plainer."
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Not plainer! The original herself!
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+And she uttered this with an expression of which the portrait affords
+no trace, no idea.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+That is just what I meant; therein lies your infinite flattery. Oh! I
+know well her proud, contemptuous look, which would disfigure the face
+of one of the Graces. I do not deny that a handsome mouth set off with
+a slight curl of scorn, sometimes acquires thereby additional beauty.
+But, observe, it must be only slight; the look must not amount to
+grimace, as it does with this Countess. The eyes, too, must keep
+control over the disdainful charmer; eyes which the worthy Countess
+decidedly does not possess. You do not even give them to her in the
+picture.
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+Your Highness, I am perfectly amazed.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+And wherefore? All that could be achieved by the resources of art out
+of the great prominent staring Medusa eyes of the Countess, you have
+honourably accomplished. Honourably, I say, but less honourably would
+have been more honest; for tell me yourself, Conti, is the character of
+the individual expressed by this picture? yet it should be. You have
+converted pride into dignity, disdain into a smile, and the gloom of
+discontent into soft melancholy.
+
+                       CONTI (_somewhat vexed_).
+
+Ah! Prince, we painters expect that a portrait when finished will find
+the lover as warm as when he ordered it. We paint with eyes of love,
+and the eyes of love alone must judge our works.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+'Tis true, Conti; but why did you not bring it a month sooner? Lay it
+aside. What is the other?
+
+         CONTI (_taking it up and holding it still reversed_).
+
+It is also a female portrait.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Then I had almost rather not see it; for the ideal depicted here
+(_pointing to his forehead_), or rather here (_laying his hand upon his
+heart_), it cannot equal. I should like, Conti, to admire your art in
+other subjects.
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+There may be more admirable examples of art, but a more admirable
+subject than this cannot exist.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Then I'll lay a wager, Conti, that it is the portrait of the artist's
+own mistress. (Conti _turns the picture_.) What do I see? Your work,
+Conti, or the work of my fancy? Emilia Galotti!
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+How, Prince! do you know this angel?
+
+     PRINCE (_endeavouring to compose himself, but unable to remove
+                      his eyes from the picture_).
+
+A little; just enough to recognise her. A few weeks ago I met her with
+her mother at an assembly; since then I have only seen her in sacred
+places, where staring is unseemly. I know her father also; he is not my
+friend. He it was who most violently opposed my pretensions to
+Sabionetta. He is a veteran, proud and unpolished, but upright and
+brave.
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+You speak of the father, this is the daughter.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+By Heavens! you must have stolen the resemblance from her mirror (_with
+his eyes still rivetted on the picture_). Oh, you well know, Conti,
+that we praise the artist most when we forget his merits in his works.
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+Yet I am extremely dissatisfied with this portrait, and nevertheless I
+am satisfied with being dissatisfied with myself. Alas! that we cannot
+paint directly with our eyes! On the long journey from the eye through
+the arm to the pencil, how much is lost! But, as I have already said,
+though I know what is lost, and how and why it is lost, I am as proud
+and prouder of this loss than of what I have preserved. For by the
+former I perceive more than by the latter, that I am a good painter,
+though my hand is not always so. Or do you hold, Prince, that Raffaelle
+would not have been the greatest of all artists even had he
+unfortunately been born without hands?
+
+         PRINCE (_turning his eyes a moment from the picture_).
+
+What do you say, Conti? What was your enquiry?
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+Oh, nothing--nothing; mere idle observations! Your soul, I observe, was
+wholly in your eyes. I like such souls and such eyes.
+
+                     PRINCE (_affecting coldness_).
+
+And so, Conti, you really consider Emilia Galotti amongst the first
+beauties of our city.
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+Amongst them? Amongst the first? The first of our city? You jest,
+Prince, or your eyesight must have been all this time as insensible as
+your hearing.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Dear Conti (_again fixing his eyes on the picture_), how can we
+uninitiated trust our eyes? In fact, none but an artist can judge of
+beauty.
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+And must the feeling of every person wait for the decision of a
+painter? To a cloister with him who would learn from us what is
+beautiful! But this much I must own to you, as a painter, Prince. It is
+one of the greatest delights of my life that Emilia Galotti has sat to
+me. This head, this countenance, this forehead, these eyes, this nose,
+this mouth, this chin, this neck, this bosom, this shape, this whole
+form, are from the present time forward my only model of female beauty.
+The original picture for which she sat, is in the possession of her
+absent father. But this copy----
+
+                   PRINCE (_turning to him quickly_).
+
+Well, Conti--is not surely bespoke already?
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+Is for you, Prince, if it affords you any pleasure.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Pleasure! (_smiling_.) How can I do better than make your model of
+female beauty my own? There, take back that other portrait, and order a
+frame for it.
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+Good.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+As rich and splendid as the carver can possibly make it. It shall be
+placed in the gallery. But this must remain here. A study need not be
+treated with so much ceremony; one does not hang it up for display. It
+should always be at hand. I thank you, Conti, cordially. And as I said
+before, the arts shall never starve in my dominions, as long as I have
+bread. Send to my treasurer, Conti, and let him pay your own price for
+both pictures; as much as you please, Conti.
+
+                                 CONTI.
+
+I must begin to fear, Prince, that you mean to reward me for something
+else besides my art?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Oh the jealousy of an artist! No, no! But remember, Conti, as much as
+you please.                                         (_Exit_ Conti.)
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+                             _The_ Prince.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Yes, as much as he pleases. (_Turning to the picture_.) Thou art mine,
+too cheap at any price. Oh, thou enchanting work of art! Do I then
+possess thee? But who shall possess thyself, thou still more beautiful
+masterpiece of nature? Claim what you will, honest old mother; ask what
+you will, morose old father. Demand any price. Yet, dear enchantress, I
+should be far more happy to buy thee from thyself! This eye! how full
+of love and modesty! This mouth! when it speaks, when it smiles! This
+mouth!--Some one comes.--I am still too jealous of thee. (_Turning the
+picture to the wall_.) It is Marinelli. I wish I had not sent for him!
+What a morning might I have had!
+
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+                        Marinelli, _The_ Prince.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Your Highness will pardon me; I was not prepared for so early a
+summons.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+I felt an inclination to drive out, the morning was so fine. But now it
+is almost over, and my inclination has subsided. (_After a short
+pause_). Any news, Marinelli?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Nothing of importance that I know. The Countess Orsina arrived in town
+yesterday.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Yes, here lies her morning salutation (_pointing to the letter_), or
+whatever it may be. I am not inquisitive about it. Have you seen her?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Am I not unfortunately her confidant? But if ever I am so again with a
+lady who takes it into her head to love you desperately, Prince, may
+I----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+No rash vows, Marinelli.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Indeed, Prince! Is it possible? The Countess, then, is not so utterly
+mistaken.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Quite mistaken, certainly. My approaching union with the Princess of
+Massa compels me in the first place to break off all such connections.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+If that were all, the Countess would doubtless know as well how to
+submit to her fate, as the Prince to his.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+My fate is harder far than hers. My heart is sacrificed to a miserable
+political consideration. She has but to take back hers, and need not
+bestow it against her inclination.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Take it back! "Why take it back," asks the Countess, "for a wife, whom
+policy and not love attaches to the Prince?" With a wife of that kind
+the mistress may still hold her place. It is not, therefore, for a wife
+that she dreads being sacrificed, but----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Perhaps another mistress. What then? would you make a crime of that,
+Marinelli?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I, Prince? Oh, confound me not with the foolish woman whose cause I
+advocate--from pity! For yesterday I own she greatly moved me. She
+wished not to mention her attachment to you, and strove to appear cold
+and tranquil. But in the midst of the most indifferent topics, some
+expression, some allusion, escaped her, which betrayed her tortured
+heart. With the most cheerful demeanour she said the most melancholy
+things, and on the other hand uttered the most laughable jests with an
+air of deep distress. She has taken to books for refuge, which I fear
+will be her ruin.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Yes, for books gave the first blow to her poor understanding. And,
+Marinelli, you will scarcely employ for the purpose of renewing my
+attachment, that which was the chief cause of our separation. If love
+renders her foolish, she would sooner or later have become so, even
+without such influence. But enough of her! To something else. Is there
+nothing new in town?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Next to nothing; for that Count Appiani will be married to-day is
+little better than nothing.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Count Appiani! To whom? I have not heard that he is engaged.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The affair has been kept a profound secret. And indeed, there was not
+much to create a sensation. You will smile, Prince; but it ever happens
+so with sentimental youths! Love always plays the worst of tricks. A
+girl without fortune or rank has managed to catch him in her snares,
+without any trouble, but with a little display of virtue, sensibility,
+wit, and so forth.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+The man who can wholly resign himself to the impressions which
+innocence and beauty make upon him is, in my opinion, rather to be
+envied than derided. And what is the name of the happy fair one? For
+though I well know, Marinelli, that you and Appiani dislike each other,
+he is nevertheless a very worthy young man, a handsome man, a rich man,
+and an honourable man. I should like to be able to attach him to
+myself.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+If it be not too late; for, as far as I can learn, it is not his
+intention to seek his fortune at court. He will retire with his spouse
+to his native valleys of Piedmont, and indulge himself in hunting
+chamois or training marmots upon the Alps. What can he do better? Here
+his prospects are blighted by the connection he has formed. The first
+circles are closed against him.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+The first circles! What are they worth, mere resorts of ceremony,
+restraint, ennui, and poverty? But how call you the fair being who is
+the cause of all these wondrous sacrifices?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+A certain--Emilia Galotti?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+What! Marinelli! a certain----
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Emilia Calotti.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Emilia Galotti? Never!----
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Assuredly, your Highness.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+But no, I say. It is not, and it cannot be! You mistake the name. The
+family of Galotti is numerous. It may be a Galotti, but not Emilia
+Galotti!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Emilia--Emilia Galotti.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+There must be another who bears the same names. You said, however, a
+certain Emilia Galotti,--a certain one. Of the real Emilia, none but a
+fool could so speak.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Your Highness is excited. Do you know this Emilia?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+It is my place to question, not yours, Marinelli. Is she the daughter
+of Colonel Galotti, who resides at Sabionetta?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The same.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Who lives here in Guastalla with her mother.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The same.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Near the church of All-Saints.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The same.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+In a word (_turning hastily to the portrait, and giving it to_
+Marinelli)--there! is it this Emilia Galotti? Pronounce again those
+damning words, "the same," and plunge a dagger in my heart.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The same.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Traitor! This? this Emilia Galotti--will to-day be----
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The Countess Appiani. (_The_ Prince _seizes the portrait from the hands
+of_ Marinelli, _and flings it aside_.)--The marriage will be celebrated
+privately at her father's villa, in Sabionetta. About noon the mother
+and daughter, the Count, and perhaps a few friends, will leave town
+together.
+
+  PRINCE (_throwing himself in a state of desperation into a chair_).
+
+Then I am lost, and care no more for life.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+What thus affects your Highness?
+
+                 PRINCE (_starting towards him again_).
+
+Traitor! what affects me thus? Yes, in truth, I love her! I adore her!
+You may, perhaps, know it, may even long have known it; all of you who
+desire that I should wear for ever the ignominious fetters of the
+proud Orsina. That you, Marinelli, who have so often assured me
+of your sincere friendship--but a Prince has no friend, can have no
+friend--that you should act so treacherously, so deceitfully, as to
+conceal till this moment the peril which threatened my love.--Oh, if
+ever I forgive you this, let no sin of mine be pardoned!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I could scarcely find words, Prince, to express my astonishment--even
+if you gave me the opportunity. You love Emilia Galotti? Hear, then, my
+oath in reply to yours. If I have ever known or suspected this
+attachment in the slightest degree, may the angels and saints abandon
+me! I repeat the same imprecation for Orsina. Her suspicions were
+directed to a wholly different quarter.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Pardon me, then, Marinelli (_throwing himself into his arms_), and pity
+me.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Well, yes, Prince. There see the consequence of your reserve. "A prince
+has no friends." And why? Because he will have none. To-day you honour
+us with your confidence, entrust to us your most secret wishes, open
+your whole soul to us--and to-morrow we are as perfect strangers to
+you, as if you had never exchanged a word with us.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Alas, Marinelli, how could I entrust a secret to you which I would
+scarcely confess to myself?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+And, which you have, therefore, of course, not confessed to the author
+of your uneasiness?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+To her!--All my endeavours have been fruitless to speak with her a
+second time.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+And the first time----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+I spoke to her;--Oh, my brain is turned, and must I continue this
+conversation longer? You behold me at the mercy of the waves, and why
+inquire how all this has happened? Save me if you can, and then
+question me.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Save you! Is there much to save? What your Highness has not confessed
+to Emilia Galotti, you will confess to the Countess Appiani. Goods
+which cannot be obtained in their primitive perfection, must be bought
+at second hand, and are often, on that account, bought at a cheaper
+rate.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Be serious, Marinelli, or----
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+To be sure, such articles are generally so much the worse----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+For shame, Marinelli.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+And the Count intends to leave this country too. Well, we must devise
+some scheme----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+And what scheme? My best and dearest Marinelli, contrive something for
+me. What would you do, were you in my situation?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Above all things, I should regard a trifle as a trifle--and say to
+myself that I would not be what I am for nothing--your Highness!
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Delude me not with a power of which I can, on this occasion, make no
+use. To-day, said you?--This very day?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+To-day it is to take place;--but it is only things which have taken
+place that cannot be recalled. (_After a short pause_.) Prince, will
+you let me act as I please? Will you approve all I do?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Anything, Marinelli, which can avert this blow.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Then let us lose no time. You must not remain in town, but go to your
+palace at Dosalo. The road to Sabionetta passes it. Should I not
+succeed in removing the Count, I think--yes, yes, he will be caught in
+that snare without doubt. You wish to send an ambassador to Massa
+respecting your marriage. Let the Count be ambassador, and order him to
+depart this very day.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Excellent!--Bring him to my palace.--Haste, haste!--I will leave town
+instantly.                                 (_Exit_ Marinelli.)
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Instantly, instantly. Where is it? (_Turns to the portrait_) On the
+ground! That was too bad. (_Takes it up_) But look! And yet I will look
+at thee no more now. Why should I plunge the arrow deeper into the
+wound? (_Lays it on the table_). I have suffered and sighed long
+enough--longer than I ought, but done nothing, and my listless
+inactivity had nearly ruined all.--And may not all yet be lost? May not
+Marinelli fail? Why should I rely on him alone?--It occurs to me that
+at this hour (_looks at his watch_) at this very hour, the pious girl
+daily attends mass at the church of the Dominicans. How, if I attempted
+to address her there? But to-day--the day of her marriage--her heart
+will be occupied with other things than mass. Yet, who knows?--'tis but
+a step--(_rings, and whilst he hastily arranges the papers on the
+table_)--
+
+                            _Enter_ Servant.
+
+My carriage!--Have none of the council arrived?
+
+                                SERVANT.
+
+Camillo Rota waits without.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Admit him. (_Exit_ Servant). But he must not attempt to detain
+me long. Not now--another time, I will attend to his scrupulous
+investigations----There was a petition of one Emilia Bruneschi--here it
+is--but, good Bruneschi, if your intercessor----
+
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+                         _Enter_ Camillo Rota.
+
+Come, Rota, come. There lie the papers which I have opened this
+morning--not very consoling--you will see what is to be done. Take them
+with you.
+
+                                CAMILLO.
+
+I will attend to them.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Here is a petition from one Emilia Galot--I mean Bruneschi. I have
+already signed my consent to it--but yet the request is no trifle. You
+may defer the execution of it--or not--as you please.
+
+                                CAMILLO.
+
+Not as I please, your Highness.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+What more is there--anything to sign?
+
+                                CAMILLO.
+
+Sentence of death for your Highness's signature.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+With all my heart!--Where is it? Quick!
+
+              CAMILLO (_starts and gazes at the_ Prince).
+
+I said a death--warrant.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+I understood you plain enough. It might have been done by this. I am in
+haste.
+
+                   CAMILLO (_looking at his papers_).
+
+I really believe I have not brought it. I beg your Highness's
+forgiveness. It can be deferred till to-morrow.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Be it so. Just collect these papers together. I must away. The rest
+to-morrow, Rota.
+
+        CAMILLO (_shaking his head, as he collects the papers_).
+
+"With all my heart!"--A death-warrant, with all my heart! I would not
+have let him sign at such a moment, had the criminal murdered my own
+son.--"With all my heart!" "With all my heart"--The cruel words pierce
+my very soul.                                       (_Exit_.)
+
+
+
+
+                                ACT II.
+
+
+                Scene I.--_A room in_ Galotti's _house_.
+
+                        Claudia Galotti, Pirro.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Who dismounted just now in the court-yard? Pirro.
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+My master, madam.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+My husband? Is it possible?
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+Here he comes.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+So unexpectedly? (_hastens towards him_). My dearest lord!
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+                      Odoardo, _and the foregoing_.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Good morning, my love. Does not my arrival surprise you?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Most agreeably. But is it intended as no more than a surprise?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+No more. Be not alarmed. The happiness of to-day awakened me early. The
+morning was so fine, and the ride so short, I fancied you would be so
+busy here to-day, and thought you might perhaps forget something: in a
+word, I am come to see you, and shall return immediately. Where is
+Emilia? Occupied with her dress, I have no doubt?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+With her soul. She is gone to hear mass. "I have need," she said,
+"to-day more than at any other time to implore a blessing from above;"
+then leaving all else she took her veil, and disappeared.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Alone!
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+It is but a few steps----
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+One incautious step often leads to mischief.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Be not angry; but come in and rest a moment, and, if you please, take
+some refreshment.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Well, well, as you like. But she ought not to have gone alone.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Stay here, Pirro, in the antechamber, and excuse me to all visitors.
+(_Exeunt_ Odoardo _and_ Claudia.)
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+                    Pirro, _and afterwards_ Angelo.
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+All inquisitive visitors. How I have been questioned! Who comes here?
+(_Enter_ Angelo, _in a short mantle, with which he conceals his face_.)
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+Pirro! Pirro!
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+An acquaintance, it seems. (Angelo _throws back the mantle_). Heavens!
+Angelo. You!
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+Yes, Angelo, as you perceive. I have been wandering long enough round
+the house, in order to speak to you. One word with you----
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+And dare you again appear in public? Don't you know that, in
+consequence of your last murder, you are declared an outlaw, a price
+has been put upon your head?
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+You don't intend to claim it, I presume?
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+What do you want? I implore you not to involve me in misfortune.
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+In this way, you mean? (_Showing a purse_). Take it; it belongs to you.
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+To me?
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+Have you forgotten? The German gentleman, your last master----
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+Hush!
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+----Whom you led into our clutches on the road to Pisa----
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+If any one should overhear us!
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+----Had the kindness, you know, to bequeath us a valuable ring. Do you
+not remember? It was so valuable that we could not immediately convert
+it into money without suspicion. At length, however, I succeeded. I
+received a hundred pistoles for it, and this is your share. Take it.
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+No, no! You may keep it.
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+Well, with all my heart! If you don't care at what price you put your
+head in the market.
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+Give it me, then (_takes it_). And now, what do you want? for I suppose
+you did not come in search of me merely for that purpose.
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+It seems to you not very credible. Rascal! what do you think of us?
+That we are capable of withholding any man's earnings? That may be the
+way with honest people; but we don't follow their fashions. Farewell!
+(_Affects to be going, but turns at the door_). One question I must
+ask. Old Galotti has just come hurriedly into town quite alone. What
+does he want?
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+Nothing, merely a ride. His daughter is to be married this evening, at
+his country house, whence he has come to Count Appiani. He awaits the
+moment with impatience.
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+Then he will return soon?
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+So soon, that if you remain any longer he will discover you. But you
+surely have no thoughts of attacking him. Take care. He is a man----
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+Don't I know him? Have I not served under him in the army; but
+nevertheless if one could only get much from him! At what time do the
+young people follow him?
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+Towards noon.
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+With many attendants?
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+A single carriage will contain the party--the mother, the daughter, and
+the count. A few friends from Sabionetta attend as witnesses.
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+And the servants?
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+Only two besides myself. I shall ride before.
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+Good. Another question. Is the carriage Galotti's or the Count's?
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+The Count's.
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+That is unlucky. There is another outrider, besides a courageous
+driver. However----
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+I am amazed. What do you intend? The few ornaments which the bride has
+will scarcely reward your trouble.
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+Then the bride herself shall be the reward.
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+And you mean that I should be your accomplice in this crime?
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+You ride before! Then ride, ride, and take no trouble about the matter.
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+Never!
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+What?--I believe the fellow means to play the conscientious--you
+rascal! I think you know me. If you utter a syllable--if every
+circumstance be not as you have described it----
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+But, Angelo, for Heaven's sake----
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+Do what you cannot avoid. (_Exit_.)
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+Ha! let the devil hold thee by a single hair, and thou art his for
+ever! Wretch that I am!
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+                 Odoardo _and_ Claudia Galotti, Pirro.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+She stays too long.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+One moment more, Odoardo. It would distress her to miss seeing you.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+I must wait upon the Count, too. How eager am I to call this worthy man
+my son! His conduct enchants me, and, above everything, his resolution
+to pass his days in his native valleys.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+My heart almost breaks when I think of it. Must we so entirely lose our
+dear and only child!
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Can you think you have lost her, when you know she is in the arms of an
+affectionate husband? Does not her happiness make your delight? You
+almost make me again suspect that your motive for remaining with her in
+town, far from an affectionate husband and father, was the bustle and
+the dissipation of the world, and proximity of the court, rather than
+the necessity of giving our daughter a proper education.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+How unjust, Odoardo! But to-day, I may be allowed to speak somewhat in
+favour of town and court, though both are so hateful to your strict
+virtue; for here alone could love have united a couple formed for each
+other; here alone could the Count have found our Emilia, and he has
+found her.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+That I allow. But were you right, good Claudia, because the result has
+been fortunate? It is well that this court education has ended so
+happily. Let us not affect to be wise, when we have only been
+fortunate. It is well that it has ended so happily. They who were
+destined for each other have found each other. Now let them go where
+peace and innocence invite them. Why should the Count remain here? To
+cringe--to fawn--to flatter--to supplant the Marinellis--to make a
+fortune which he does not want--to obtain a dignity, which he does not
+value?--Pirro!
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+Sir!
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Lead my horse to the Count's door. I'll follow you anon, and mount it
+there. (_Exit_ Pirro).--Why should the Count serve here, when he may
+command elsewhere? Besides, you do not consider, Claudia, that, by his
+union with my daughter, he is utterly ruined with the Prince? The
+Prince hates me----
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Less, perhaps, than you fear.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Fear! Should I fear anything so contemptible?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Why, have I not already told you that the Prince has seen our daughter?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+The Prince! Where?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+At the last assembly of the Chancellor Grimaldi, which he honoured with
+his presence. He conducted himself so graciously towards her----
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Graciously?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Yes. He conversed with her for some time.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Conversed with her?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Appeared to be so delighted with her cheerfulness and good sense----
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Delighted?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Spoke of her elegance and beauty, in terms of such admiration----
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Admiration? And all this you relate to me in a tone of rapture. Oh,
+Claudia! vain, foolish mother!
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Why so?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Well, well. This, too, has ended happily.--Ha! when I think----That
+were exactly the point where a wound would be to me most deadly.--A
+libertine, who admires, and seduces----Claudia! Claudia! The very
+thought rouses my fury. You ought to have mentioned this to me
+immediately.--But to-day I would not willingly say anything to vex you.
+And I should (_as she takes him by the hand_), were I to stay longer.
+Therefore, let me begone. God be with you, Claudia; follow me in
+safety. (_Exit_.)
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+                           Claudia, Galotti.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+What a man! What rigid virtue--if virtue that should be called, to
+which everything seems suspicious and culpable. If this be a knowledge
+of mankind, who would not wish to remain in ignorance? Why does Emilia
+stay so long?----He dislikes the father--consequently, if he admire the
+daughter, he must mean to bring disgrace upon him!
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+                     Emilia _and_ Claudia Galotti.
+
+                  EMILIA (_rushing in, much alarmed_.)
+
+Heaven be praised! I am now in safety. Or has he even followed me
+hither? (_Throwing back her veil and espying her mother_). Has he, my
+mother, has he?--No, thank Heaven.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+What has happened to you, my daughter?
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Nothing--nothing.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+And yet you look wildly round, and tremble in every limb!
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+What have I had to hear?--And where have I been forced to hear it?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+I thought you were at church.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+I was. But what are churches and altars to the vicious?--Oh, my mother!
+(_Throws herself into_ Claudia's _arms_.)
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Speak, my daughter, and remove my fears. What evil can have happened to
+you in so holy a place?
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Never should my devotion have been more fervent and sincere than on
+this day. Never was it less what it ought to have been.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Emilia we are all human. The faculty of praying fervently is not always
+in our power; but, in the eye of Heaven, the wish to pray is accepted
+as prayer.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+And our wish to sin as sin.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+That my Emilia never wished.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+No, my mother. The grace of Heaven has preserved me from falling so
+low. But, alas! that the vice of others should render us accomplices in
+vice against our will!
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Compose yourself.--Collect your thoughts as well as you can. Tell me at
+once what has happened to you.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+I had just sunk upon my knees, further from the altar than usual--for I
+arrived too late. I had just begun to raise my thoughts towards
+Heaven--when some person placed himself behind me--so close behind me!
+I could neither move forwards nor aside, however much I desired it, in
+my fear lest the devotion of my neighbour might interrupt my prayers.
+Devotion was the worst thing which I suspected. But it was not long
+before I heard a deep sigh close to my ear, and not the name of a
+saint;--no--the name--do not be angry, dear mother--the name of your
+daughter.--My own name! Oh, that a peal of thunder had at that
+moment made me deaf to the rest. The voice spoke of beauty and of
+love--complained that this day, which crowned my happiness (if such
+should prove the case) sealed his misery for ever. He conjured me--all
+this I was obliged to hear, but I did not look round. I wished to seem
+as if I was not listening. What more could I do? Nothing but pray that
+my guardian angel would strike me with deafness--even with eternal
+deafness. This was my prayer--the only prayer which I could utter. At
+length it was time to rise; the service came to an end. I trembled at
+the idea of being obliged to turn round--trembled at the idea of
+beholding him whose impiety had so much shocked me--and when I
+turned--when I beheld him----
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Whom, my daughter?
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Guess, dear mother, guess: I thought I should have sunk into the earth.
+Himself!
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Whom do you mean?
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+The Prince!
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+The Prince! Blest be your father's impatience! He was here just now,
+and would not stay till you returned.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+My father here--and not stay till I returned!
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+If, in the midst of your confusion, you had told him too.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Well, dear mother--could he have found anything in my conduct deserving
+of censure?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+No--as little as in mine. And yet, yet--you do not know your father.
+When enraged, he would have mistaken the innocent for the guilty--in
+his anger he would have fancied me the cause of what I could neither
+prevent nor foresee. But proceed, my daughter, proceed. When you
+recognised the Prince, I trust that you were sufficiently composed to
+convince him by your looks, of the contempt which he deserved.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+That I was not. After the glance by which I recognised him, I had not
+courage to cast a second. I fled.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+And the Prince followed you?
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+I did not know it till I had reached the porch, where I felt my hand
+seized--by him. Shame compelled me to stop; as an effort to extricate
+myself would have attracted the attention of every one who was passing.
+This was the only reflection of which I was capable, or which I at
+present remember. He spoke, and I replied--but what he said, or what I
+replied, I know not.--Should I recollect it, my dear mother, you shall
+hear it. At present I remember nothing further. My senses had forsaken
+me.--In vain do I endeavour to recollect how I got away from him, and
+escaped from the porch. I found myself in the street--I heard his steps
+behind me--I heard him follow me into the house, and pursue me up the
+stairs----
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Fear has its peculiar faculty, my daughter. Never shall I forget the
+look with which you rushed into this room!--No. He dared not follow you
+so far.--Heavens! had your father known this!--How angry was he when I
+merely told him that the Prince had lately beheld you with admiration!
+Be at ease, however, my dear girl. Fancy what has happened to be a mere
+dream. The result will be less, even, than a dream. You will be assured
+to-day from all similar designs.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+No, mother! The Count must know it--to him I must relate it.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Not for the world. Wherefore? Why? Do you wish to make him uneasy
+without a cause? And granting that he may not become so at
+present--know, my child, the poison which does not operate immediately,
+is not on that account less dangerous. That which has no effect upon
+the lover, may produce a serious one upon the husband. The lover might
+even be flattered at winning the prize from so great a rival; but when
+he has won it--alas, my dear Emilia, the lover often becomes quite
+another being. Heaven preserve you from such experience!
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+You know, dear mother, how willingly I ever submit to your superior
+judgment. But should he learn from another that the Prince spoke
+to me to-day, would not my silence sooner or later increase his
+uneasiness?--I think it would be better not to conceal anything from
+him.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Weakness--a fond weakness. No, on no account, my daughter! Tell him
+nothing. Let him observe nothing.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+I submit. I have no will, dear mother, opposed to yours. Ah! (_sighing
+deeply_), I shall soon be well again. What a silly, timid thing I am!
+am I not, mother? I might have conducted myself otherwise, and should,
+perhaps, have compromised myself just a little.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+I would not say this, my daughter, till your own good sense had spoken,
+which I was sure would be as soon as your alarm was at an end. The
+Prince is a gallant. You are too little used to the unmeaning language
+of gallantry. In your mind a civility becomes an emotion--a compliment,
+a declaration--an idea, a wish--a wish, a design. A mere nothing, in
+this language, sounds like everything, while everything is in reality
+nothing.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Dear mother, my terror cannot but appear ridiculous to myself now. But
+my kind Appiani shall know nothing of it. He might, perhaps, think me
+more vain than virtuous----Ah! there he comes himself. That is his
+step.
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+_Enter_ Appiani, _in deep meditation. His eyes are cast down, and he
+approaches without observing_ Claudia _and_ Emilia, _till the latter
+runs towards him_.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Ha! My dearest! I did not expect to find you in the ante-room.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+I wish you to be cheerful, even where you do not expect to see me. Why
+so grave and solemn? Should not this day inspire joyful emotions?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+It is of greater value to me than my whole life; but it teems with so
+much bliss for me--perhaps it is this very bliss which makes me so
+grave--so solemn, as you express it (_espies_ Claudia). Ha! You too
+here, dear madam. This day I hope to address you by a more familiar
+name.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Which will be my greatest pride.--How happy you are, Emilia! Why would
+not your father share our delight?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+But a few minutes have elapsed since I tore myself from his arms--or
+rather he from mine.--What a man your father is, my Emilia! A pattern
+of every manly virtue! With what sentiments does his presence inspire
+my soul! Never is my resolution to continue just and good, so firm as
+when I see or think of him. And by what, but by fulfilling this
+resolution, can I make myself worthy of the honour to be called his
+son--to become your husband, dear Emilia?
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+And he would not wait for me!
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Because, in my opinion, this brief interview with his Emilia would have
+distressed him too much, too deeply affected his soul.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+He expected to find you busy with your bridal ornaments, and heard----
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+What I have learnt from him with the tenderest admiration. Right, my
+Emilia. I shall be blessed with a pious wife--and one who is not proud
+of her piety.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+But let us not, whilst we attend to one subject, forget another. It is
+high time, Emilia. Go!
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Go! Why?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Surely, my lord, you would not lead her to the altar in her present
+attire.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+In truth, I was not, till you spoke, aware of that. Who can behold
+Emilia, and take heed of her dress? Yet why should I not lead her to
+the altar thus?
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+No, dear Count, not exactly thus; yet in a dress not much more gay. In
+a moment I shall be ready. I do not mean to wear those costly jewels,
+which were the last present of your prodigal generosity, no, nor
+anything suited to such jewels. Oh, I could quarrel with those jewels
+were they not your present--for thrice I've dreamt----
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Indeed! I know nothing of that.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+That while I wore them, every diamond changed suddenly to a pearl--and
+pearls, you know, dear mother, signify tears.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Child, the interpretation is more visionary than the dream. Were you
+not always more fond of pearls than diamonds?
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+I assuredly, dear mother--assuredly----
+
+                 APPIANI (_thoughtful and melancholy_).
+
+Signify tears!
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+How! Does that affect you? You?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+It does, though I ought to be ashamed that such is the case; yet when
+the fancy is once disposed to sad impressions----
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+But why should yours be so? Guess the subject of my thoughts. What did
+I wear, and how did I look when I first attracted your attention? Do
+you remember?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Remember! I never see you in idea but in that dress, and I see you so,
+even when you are not thus attired.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+I mean to wear one of the same colour and form--flowing and loose.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Excellent!
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+And my hair----
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+In its own dark beauty, in curls formed by the hand of nature.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Not forgetting the rose. Right! Have a little patience, and you shall
+see me thus.                                  (_Exit_.)
+
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+                    Count Appiani, Claudia Galotti.
+
+           APPIANI (_looks after her with a downcast mien_).
+
+"Pearls signify tears!"--a little patience! Yes! if we could but defy
+time! If a minute on the clock were not sometimes an age within us!
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Emilia's remark was no less just than quick, Count. You are to-day more
+grave than usual. And yet you are but a step from the object of your
+wishes. Do you repent that you have attained the wished-for goal?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+How could you, dear mother, suspect this of your son? But it is true. I
+am to-day unusually dejected and gloomy. All that I have seen, heard or
+dreamt, has preached since yesterday, and before yesterday this
+doctrine to me--to be but one step from the goal, and not to have
+attained it, is in reality the same. This one idea engrosses all my
+thoughts. What can it mean? I understand it not.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+You make me uneasy, Count.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+One thought succeeds another. I am vexed--angry with my friends and
+with myself.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Why so?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+My friends absolutely require, that, before I solemnize my marriage, I
+should acquaint the Prince with my intentions. They allow I am not
+bound to do this, but maintain that respect towards him demands it; and
+I have been weak enough to consent. I have already ordered my carriage
+for the purpose.
+
+                          CLAUDIA (_starts_).
+
+To wait upon the Prince!
+
+
+                               Scene IX.
+
+         Pirro, _afterwards_ Marinelli, Count Appiani, Claudia.
+
+                             _Enter_ Pirro.
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+My lady, the Marquis Marinelli is at the door, and inquires for the
+Count.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+For me!
+
+                                 PIRRO.
+
+Here his lordship comes. (_Opens the door and exit_.)
+
+                           _Enter_ Marinelli.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I ask pardon, madam. My lord Count, I called at your house, and was
+informed that I should find you here. I have important business with
+you. Once more pardon, madam. It will occupy but a few minutes.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+I will not impede it.                  (_Curtseys and exit_.)
+
+
+                                Scene X.
+
+                          Marinelli, Appiani.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Now, my lord?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I come from his Highness.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+What are his commands?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I am proud to be the bearer of this distinguished favour; and if Count
+Appiani will not wilfully misunderstand one of his most devoted
+friends----
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Proceed, I pray, without more ceremony.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I will. The Prince is obliged to send an ambassador immediately to the
+Duke of Massa respecting his marriage with the Princess his daughter.
+He was long undetermined whom to appoint, till his choice at last has
+fallen upon you, my lord.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Upon me?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Yes--and if friendship may be allowed to boast, I was instrumental----
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Truly I am at a loss for thanks. I had long renounced the hope of being
+noticed by the Prince.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I am sure he only waited for a proper opportunity, and if the present
+mission be not sufficiently worthy of Count Appiani, I own my
+friendship has been too precipitate.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Friendship, friendship! every third word. With whom am I speaking? The
+Marquis Marinelli's friendship I never dreamt of gaining.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I acknowledge my fault, Count Appiani, my unpardonable fault in wishing
+to be your friend without your permission. But what of that? The favour
+of his Highness, and the dignity he offers, remain the same. I do not
+doubt you will accept them with pleasure.
+
+                 APPIANI (_after some consideration_).
+
+Undoubtedly.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Come, then, with me.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Whither?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+To the Prince's palace at Dosalo. All is ready. You must depart to-day.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+What say you? To-day?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Yes. Rather now than an hour hence. The business presses.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Indeed! Then I am sorry I must decline the honour which the Prince
+intended to confer upon me.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+How?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+I cannot depart to-day,--nor to-morrow--nor the next day.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+You are jesting, Count.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+With you?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Incomparable! If with the Prince, the joke is so much the merrier.--You
+cannot?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+No, my lord, no--and I trust that the Prince himself will think my
+excuse sufficient.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I am eager to hear it.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Oh, it is a mere trifle. I mean to be married to-day.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Indeed!--and what then?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+And what then?--Your question shows a cursed simplicity!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+There are examples, Count, of marriages having been deferred. I do not
+mean to infer that the delay was pleasant to the bride and bridegroom.
+To them it was, no doubt, a trial, yet the sovereign's command----
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Sovereign's command? A sovereign of my own option, I am not so strictly
+bound to obey. I admit that you owe the Prince absolute obedience, but
+not I. I came to his court a volunteer. I wished to enjoy the honour of
+serving him, but not of being his slave. I am the vassal of a greater
+sovereign.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Greater or smaller, a monarch is a monarch.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Idle controversy! Enough! Tell the Prince what you have heard. Tell him
+I am sorry I cannot accept the honour, as I to-day intend to solemnize
+an union which will consummate my happiness.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Will you not at the same time inform him with whom?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+With Emilia Galotti.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The daughter of this family?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Yes.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Humph!
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+What do you mean?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I mean that there would be the less difficulty in deferring the
+ceremony till your return.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+The ceremony?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Yes. The worthy parents will not think much about it.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+The worthy parents?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+And Emilia will remain faithful to you, of course.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+_Of course_?----You are an impertinent ape, with your "of course."
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+This to me, Count?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Why not?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Heaven and hell! You shall hear from me.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Pshaw! The ape is malicious, but----
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Death and damnation!--Count, I demand satisfaction.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+You shall have it.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+----And would insist upon it instantly--but that I should not like to
+spoil the day for the loving bridegroom.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Good--natured creature!--(_seizes his arm_). I own an embassy to Massa
+does not suit me, but still I have time enough to take a walk with you.
+Come.
+
+       MARINELLI (_extricates himself from the_ Count's _grasp_).
+
+Patience, my lord, patience!                             (_Exit_.)
+
+
+                               Scene XI.
+
+                           Appiani, Claudia.
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Go, worthless wretch----Ha! that does me good. My blood
+circulates----I feel different and all the better.
+
+                    CLAUDIA (_hastily and alarmed_).
+
+Heavens! My lord--I overheard an angry altercation. Your cheek is
+flushed. What has happened?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Nothing, Madam, nothing. The chamberlain Marinelli has conferred a
+favour on me. He has saved me a visit to the Prince.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Indeed!
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+We can therefore leave town earlier. I go to give orders to my people,
+and shall return immediately. Emilia will, in the meantime, get ready.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+May I feel quite at ease, my lord?
+
+                                APPIANI.
+
+Perfectly so, dear Madam.                    (_Exeunt severally_.)
+
+
+
+
+                                ACT III.
+
+     Scene, _an apartment in the_ Prince's _country palace_.
+
+
+                                Scene I.
+
+                    _Enter_ Prince _and_ Marinelli.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+In vain. He refused the proffered honour with the greatest contempt.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+This ends all hope, then. Things take their course,
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+According to all appearances.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+I relied so firmly on your project--but who knows how ridiculously you
+acted? I ought to have recollected that though a blockhead's counsel
+may be good, it requires a clever man to execute it.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+A pretty reward, this!
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Why should you be rewarded?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+For having risked my life on the venture. Finding that neither raillery
+nor reason could induce the Count to sacrifice his love to honour, I
+tried to rouse his anger. I said things to him which made him
+forget himself. He used insulting expressions, and I demanded
+satisfaction--yes, satisfaction on the spot. One of us must fall,
+thought I. Should it be his fate, the field is ours--should it be
+mine--why, he must fly, and the Prince will at least gain time.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Did you act thus, Marinelli?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Yes; he, who is ready to sacrifice his life for princes, ought to learn
+beforehand how grateful they are likely to be.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+And the Count? Report says that he is not the man to wait till
+satisfaction is a second time demanded.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+No doubt, in ordinary cases. Who can blame him? He said that he had
+then something of greater consequence than a duel to occupy his
+thoughts, and put me off till a week after his marriage.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+With Emilia Galotti. The idea drives me to distraction----Thus, then,
+the affair ended, and now you come hither to boast that you risked your
+life in my behalf--sacrificed yourself for me.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+What more, my lord, would you have had me do?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+More? As if you had done anything!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+May I be allowed to ask what your Highness has done for yourself? You
+were so fortunate as to see her at church. What is the result of your
+conference?
+
+                        PRINCE (_with a sneer_).
+
+You have curiosity enough--but I will satisfy it. All happened as I
+wished. You need take no further trouble, my most serviceable friend.
+She met my proposal more than half way. I ought to have taken her with
+me instantly. (_In a cold and commanding tone_.) Now you have heard
+what you wished to know, and may depart.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+And may depart! Yes, yes. Thus the song ends, and so 'twould be were I
+to attempt the impossible. The impossible, did I say? No. Impossible it
+is not--only a daring attempt. Had we the girl in our power, I would
+answer for it that no marriage should take place.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Ay--you would answer for anything. I suppose, for instance, you would
+like to take a troop of my guards, lie in ambush by the highway, fall
+to the number of fifty upon one carriage, and bear the girl in triumph
+to me.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+A girl has been carried off before now by force, though there has been
+no appearance of force in the transaction.----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+If you were able to do this, you would not talk so much about it.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+----But I cannot be answerable for the consequences. Unforeseen
+accidents may happen.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Is it my custom to make people answerable for what they cannot help?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Therefore your Highness will--(_a pistol is fired at a distance_). Ha!
+What was that? Did not my ears deceive me? Did not your Highness also
+hear a shot. And hark! Another!
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+What means this? What is the matter?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+How if I were more active than you deemed me?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+More active! Explain, then----
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+In short, what I mentioned is now taking place.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Is it possible?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+But forget not, Prince, what you just now promised. You pledge your
+word that----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+The necessary precautions I hope have been taken.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Yes, as carefully as possible. The execution of my plan is entrusted to
+people on whom I can rely. The road, as you know, runs close by your
+park fence. There the carriage will be attacked by a party, apparently
+to rob the travellers. Another band (one of whom is my trusty servant)
+will rush from the park as if to assist those who are attacked. During
+the sham battle between the two parties, my servant will seize Emilia,
+as if to rescue her, and bring her through the park into the palace.
+This is the plan. What says your Highness now?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+You surprise me beyond measure. A fearful anxiety comes o'er me.
+(Marinelli _walks to the window_.) What are you looking at?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+That must be the scene of action--yes, and see, some one in a mask has
+just leapt over the fence--doubtless to acquaint me with the result.
+Withdraw awhile, your Highness.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Ah, Marinelli----
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Well--now, doubtless, I have done too much--as I before had done too
+little.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Not so--not so--yet I cannot perceive----
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Perceive?--It is best done at one blow. Withdraw quickly. You must not
+be seen here.
+
+                                                  (_Exit_ Prince.)
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+                   Marinelli _and presently_ Angelo.
+
+                MARINELLI (_goes again to the window_).
+
+The carriage is returning slowly to town. So slowly? and at each door a
+servant? These appearances do not please me; they show the plot has
+only half succeeded. They are driving some wounded person carefully,
+and he is not dead. The fellow in the mask comes nearer. 'Tis Angelo
+himself--foolhardy! But he knows the windings of this place. He beckons
+to me--he must know that he has succeeded.--Ha! ha! Count Appiani. You,
+who refused an embassy to Massa, have been obliged to go a longer
+journey. Who taught you to recognize apes so well? 'Tis true, they are
+malicious (_walks towards the door_). Well, Angelo?
+
+           _Enter_ Angelo, _with his mash in his hand_.
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+Be ready, my lord. She will be here directly.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+How did you succeed in other respects?
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+As you wished, I have no doubt.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+How is it with the Count?
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+So, so. But he must have had some suspicions, for he was not quite
+unprepared.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Quick, tell me--is he dead?
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+I am sorry for him, poor man.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+There! Take that for thy compassion (_gives him a purse_).
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+And our poor Nicolo too, he has shared the same luck.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+What! Loss on both sides?
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+Yes. I could cry for the honest lad's fate; though I come in for
+another quarter of this purse by it; for I am his heir, since I avenged
+him. This is a law among us, and as good a law, methinks, as ever was
+made for the support of friendship and fidelity. This Nicolo, my
+lord----
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+No more of your Nicolo! The Count----
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+Zounds! The Count finished him, and I finished the Count. He fell, and
+though he might be alive when they put him into the coach, I'll answer
+for it that he will never come alive out of it.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Were you but sure of this, Angelo----
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+I'll forfeit your custom, if it be not true. Have you any further
+commands? For I have a long journey. We must be across the frontier
+before sunset.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Go, then.
+
+                                ANGELO.
+
+Should anything else occur in my way, you know where to inquire for me.
+What any other can venture to do will be no magic for me, and my terms
+are lower than any other's.                              (_Exit_.)
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+'Tis well--yet not so well as it might have been. Shame on thee,
+Angelo, to be such a niggard! Surely the Count was worthy of a second
+shot. Now, he may die in agony; poor Count! Shame, Angelo! It was a
+cruel and bungling piece of work. The Prince must not know what has
+happened. He himself must discover how advantageous this death is to
+him. Death! What would I not give to be certain of it!
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+                         The Prince, Marinelli.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Here she comes up the avenue. She flies before the servants. Fear gives
+wings to her feet. She must not suspect our design. She thinks she is
+escaping from robbers. How long will her mistake last?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+At least we have her here.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+But will not her mother come in search of her? Will not the Count
+follow her? What can we do then? How can I keep her from them?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+To all this I confess I can make no reply. But we must see. Compose
+yourself, Prince. This first step was, at all events, necessary.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+How so, if we are obliged to recede?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+But perhaps we need not. There are a thousand things on which we may
+make further steps. Have you forgotten the chief one?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+How can I have forgotten that of which I never thought? What mean you
+by the chief one?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The art of pleasing and persuading--which in a prince who loves can
+never fail.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Can never fail! True, except when it is most needed. I have already
+made a poor attempt in this art to-day. All my flattery, all my
+entreaties could not extract one word from her. Mute, trembling, and
+abashed, she stood before me like a criminal who fears the judge's
+fatal sentence. Her terror was infectious. I trembled also and
+concluded by imploring her forgiveness. Scarcely dare I speak to her
+again--and, at all events, I dare not be present when she arrives. You,
+Marinelli, must receive her. I will listen to your conversation, and
+join you when I am more collected.
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+       Marinelli, _presently his servant_ Battista, _and_ Emilia.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+If she did not see him fall--and of course she could not, as she fled
+instantly But she comes, and I too do not wish to be the first to meet
+her eye (_withdraws to a corner of the apartment_).
+
+                     _Enter_ Battista _and_ Emilia.
+
+                               BATTISTA.
+
+This way--this way--dear lady.
+
+                       EMILIA (_out of breath_).
+
+Oh! I thank you, my friend--I thank you. But, Heavens! Where am I?
+Quite alone, too! Where are my mother, and the Count? They are surely
+coming? Are they not close behind me?
+
+                               BATTISTA.
+
+I suppose so.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+You suppose so? Are you not certain? Have you not seen them? Were not
+pistols fired behind us?
+
+                               BATTISTA.
+
+Pistols? Was it so?
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Surely. Oh, Heavens! and the Count or my mother is shot.
+
+                               BATTISTA.
+
+I'll go in search of them instantly.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Not without me! I'll go with you! I must go with you. Come, my friend.
+
+          MARINELLI (_approaches as if he had just entered_).
+
+Ha! fair lady! What misfortune, or rather what good fortune--what
+fortunate misfortune has procured us the honour----
+
+                         EMILIA (_astonished_).
+
+How!--You here, my lord!--This then is doubtless your house. Pardon my
+intrusion. We have been attacked by robbers. Some good people came to
+our assistance,--and this honest man took me out of the carriage and
+conducted me hither. But I am alarmed to find that I alone am rescued.
+My mother must be still in danger. I heard pistols fired behind us.
+Perhaps she is dead,--and yet I live. Pardon me. I must away, I must
+return to the place, which I ought not to have left.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Compose yourself, dear lady. All is well. The beloved persons, for whom
+you feel this tender anxiety, will soon be here.--Run, Battista; they
+may perhaps not know where the lady is. See whether you can find them
+in any of the lodges, and conduct them hither instantly.
+
+                                                (_Exit_ Battista.)
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Are you sure they are all safe? Has nothing happened to them?--Oh, what
+a day of terrors has this been to me! But I ought not to remain here; I
+should hasten to meet them.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Why so, dear lady? You are already breathless and exhausted. Compose
+yourself, and condescend to step into this room, where you will find
+better accommodation than here. I feel certain that the Prince has
+already found your gracious mother, and is escorting her hither.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Who do you say?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Our gracious Prince himself.
+
+                    EMILIA (_extremely terrified_).
+
+The Prince!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+He flew to your assistance at the first intelligence. He is highly
+incensed that such a crime should have been committed so near to his
+villa, nay, almost before his eyes. He has sent in search of the
+villains, and if they be seized, their punishment will be most severe.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+The Prince!--Where am I then?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+At Dosalo, the Prince's villa.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+How strange!--And you think he will soon arrive?--But with my mother
+too?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Here he is, already.
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+              _The_ Prince, Emilia, _and_ Marinelli.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Where is she? Where is she?--We have sought you everywhere, dear
+lady.--You are well, I hope? Now, all is well. The Count and your
+mother----
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Oh, your Highness! Where are they? Where is my mother?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Not far off, close at hand.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Heavens! In what a situation shall I perhaps find one or other of them!
+For your Highness conceals from me--I perceive----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+I conceal nothing, be assured. Lean on my arm, and accompany me to them
+without fear.
+
+                         EMILIA (_irresolute_).
+
+But--if they be not wounded--if my suspicions be not true--why are they
+not already here?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Hasten then, that all these sad apprehensions may at once be banished.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+What shall I do? (_wrings her hands_).
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+How, dear lady! Can you harbour any suspicion against me?
+
+                     EMILIA (_falls at his feet_).
+
+On my knees I entreat you----
+
+                        PRINCE (_raising her_).
+
+I am quite ashamed.--Yes, Emilia, I deserve this mute reproach. My
+conduct this morning cannot be justified, or even excused. Pardon my
+weakness: I ought not to have made you uneasy by an avowal, from which
+I could expect no advantage. I was amply punished by the speechless
+agitation with which you listened to it, or rather did not listen to
+it. And if I might be allowed to think this accident the signal
+of more favourable fortune--the most wondrous respite of my final
+sentence--this accident, which allows me to behold and speak to you
+again before my hopes for ever vanish--this accident, which gives
+me an opportunity of imploring your forgiveness--yet will I--do not
+tremble--yet will I rely only and entirely on your looks. Not a sigh,
+not a syllable shall offend you. Only wound me not with suspicions--do
+not for a moment doubt the unbounded influence which you possess over
+me--only imagine not that you need any protection against me. And now
+come--come where delights more in harmony with your feelings, await
+you. (_Leads her away, not without opposition_.) Follow us, Marinelli.
+
+                                   (_Exeunt_ Prince _and_ Emilia.)
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Follow us! That means of course--Follow us not. And why should I follow
+them? He will now find how far he can proceed with her, without
+witnesses. All that I have to do is to prevent intrusion. From the
+Count I no longer expect it--but from her mother. Wonderful, indeed,
+would it be, were she to have departed quietly, leaving her daughter
+unprotected. Well, Battista, what now?
+
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+                       Battista _and_ Marinelli.
+
+                         BATTISTA (_in haste_).
+
+The mother, my lord chamberlain----
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+As I suspected. Where is she?
+
+                               BATTISTA.
+
+She will be here immediately, unless you prevent it. When you ordered
+me to pretend to look for her, I felt little inclination to do so. But
+in the distance I heard her shrieks. She is in search of her daughter,
+and will discover the whole plot. All the people who inhabit this
+retired spot have gathered round her, and each vies with his neighbour
+to show her the way. Whether she has been told that you are here, or
+that the Prince is here, I know not. What is to be done?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Let us see (_considering_). Refuse her admittance when she knows that
+her daughter is here? That will not do. She will certainly open her
+eyes when she finds her lambkin in the clutches of the wolf. Eyes! They
+would be of little consequence; but Heaven have mercy on our ears!
+Well, well. A woman's lungs are not inexhaustible. She will be silent,
+when she can shriek no longer. Besides, the mother it is whom we should
+gain over to our side--and if I be a judge of mothers--to be a sort of
+prince's step--mother would flatter most of them. Let her come,
+Battista, let her come.
+
+                               BATTISTA.
+
+Hark, my lord!
+
+                          CLAUDIA (_within_).
+
+Emilia! Emilia! My child! Where are you?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Go, Battista, and use your endeavours to dismiss her inquisitive
+companions.
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                     Claudia, Battista, Marinelli.
+
+          _As_ Battista _is going_, Claudia _meets him_.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Ha! You took her out of the carriage. You led her away. I know you
+again. Where is she? Speak, wretch.
+
+                               BATTISTA.
+
+Are these your thanks?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Oh, if you merit thanks (_in a mild tone_), forgive me, worthy man.
+Where is she? Let me no longer be deprived of her. Where is she?
+
+                               BATTISTA.
+
+She could not be more safe, were she in heaven.--My master, here, will
+conduct you to her. (_Observes that some people are beginning to
+follow_ Claudia.) Back there! Begone! (_Exit, driving them away_.)
+
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+                          Claudia, Marinelli.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Your master? (_espies_ Marinelli, _and starts_). Ha! Is this your
+_master_? You here, Sir--and my daughter here--and you--you will
+conduct me to her?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+With great pleasure, madam.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Hold! It just occurs to me. It was you, I think, who visited Count
+Appiani this morning at my house,--whom I left alone with him,--and
+with whom he afterwards had a quarrel?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+A quarrel? That I did not know. We had a trifling dispute respecting
+affairs of state.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+And your name is Marinelli?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The Marquis Marinelli.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+True. Hear, then, Marquis Marinelli. Your name, accompanied with a
+curse----but no--I will not wrong the noble man--the curse was inferred
+by myself--your name was the last word uttered by the dying Count.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The dying Count? Count Appiani?----You hear, Madam, what most surprises
+me in this your strange address--the dying Count?--What else you mean
+to imply, I know not.
+
+          CLAUDIA (_with asperity, and in a deliberate tone_).
+
+Marinelli was the last word uttered by the dying Count.--Do you
+understand me now? I myself did not at first understand it, though it
+was spoken in a tone--a tone which I still hear. Where were my senses
+that I could not understand it instantly?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Well, Madam, I was always the Count's friend--his intimate friend. If,
+therefore, he pronounced my name at the hour of death----
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+In that tone!--I cannot imitate--I cannot describe it--but it
+signified----everything. What! Were we attacked by robbers? No--by
+assassins--by hired assassins: and Marinelli was the last word uttered
+by the dying Count, in such a tone----
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+In such a tone? Did any one ever hear that a tone of voice used in a
+moment of terror could be a ground of accusation against an honest man?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Oh that I could appear before a tribunal of justice, and imitate that
+tone? Yet, wretch that I am! I forget my daughter. Where is she--dead
+too? Was it my daughter's fault that Appiani was thy enemy?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I revere the mother's fears, and therefore pardon you.--Come, Madam.
+Your daughter is in an adjoining room, and I hope her alarms are by
+this time at an end. With the tenderest solicitude is the Prince
+himself employed in comforting her.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Who?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The Prince.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+The Prince! Do you really say the Prince--our Prince?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Who else should it be?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Wretched mother that I am!--And her father, her father! He will curse
+the day of her birth. He will curse me.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+For Heaven's sake, Madam, what possesses you?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+It is clear. To-day--at church--before the eyes of the All-pure--in the
+presence of the Eternal, this scheme of villainy began. (_To_
+Marinelli.) Murderer! Mean, cowardly murderer! Thou wast not bold
+enough to meet him face to face, but base enough to bribe assassins
+that another might be gratified. Thou scum of murderers! honourable
+murderers would not endure thee in their company. Why may I not spit
+all my gall, all my rancour into thy face, thou panderer?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+You rave, good woman. Moderate your voice, at any rate, and remember
+where you are.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Where I am! Remember where I am! What cares the lioness, when robbed of
+her young, in whose forest she roars?
+
+                           EMILIA (_within_).
+
+Ha! My mother! I hear my mother's voice.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+Her voice? 'Tis she! She has heard me. Where are you, my child?--I
+come, I come (_rushes into the room, followed by_ Marinelli).
+
+
+
+
+                                ACT IV.
+
+                         Scene I.--_The same_.
+
+                      The Prince _and_ Marinelli.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Come, Marinelli, I must collect myself--I look to you for explanation.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Oh! maternal anger! Ha! ha! ha!
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+You laugh?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Had you, Prince, but seen her frantic conduct in this room! You heard
+how she screamed; yet how tame she became as soon as she beheld you!
+Ha! ha! Yes--I never yet knew the mother who scratched a prince's eyes
+out, because he thought her daughter handsome.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+You are a poor observer. The daughter fell senseless into her mother's
+arms. This made the mother forget her rage. It was her daughter, not
+me, whom she spared, when, in a low voice, she uttered--what I myself
+had rather not have heard--had rather not have understood.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+What means your Highness?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Why this dissimulation? Answer me. Is it true or false?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+And if it were true!
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+If it were! It is, then--he is dead (_in a threatening tone_).
+Marinelli! Marinelli!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Well?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+By the God of justice I swear that I am innocent of this blood. Had you
+previously told me that the Count's life must be sacrificed--God is my
+witness I would as soon have consented to lose my own.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Had I previously told you! As if the Count's death was part of my plan!
+I charged Angelo that on his soul he should take care that no person
+suffered injury; and this, too, would have been the case, had not the
+Count begun the fray, and shot the first assailant on the spot.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Indeed! he ought to have understood the joke better.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+So that Angelo was enraged, and instantly avenged his comrade's
+death----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Well, that is certainly very natural.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I have reproved him for it.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Reproved him! How good--natured! Advise him never to appear again in my
+dominions; for my reproof might not be found so good-natured.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Just as I foresaw! I and Angelo.--Design and accident; all the
+same.--It was, however, agreed, and indeed promised, that I should not
+be answerable for any accidents which might happen.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+_Might_ happen, say you, or _must_?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Still better! Yet one word, your Highness, before you say in harsh
+phrase what you think of me. The Count's death was far from being a
+matter of indifference to me. I had challenged him. He left the world
+without giving me satisfaction, and my honour, consequently, remains
+tarnished. Allowing, therefore, what under other circumstances I
+deserved the suspicion you allude to, can I in this? (_with assumed
+anger_.) He who can so suspect me----
+
+                          PRINCE (_yielding_).
+
+Well, well!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Oh that he were still alive! I would give all that I possess--(_with
+bitterness_)--even the favour of my Prince--even that treasure,
+invaluable and never to be trifled with, would I give.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Well, well! I understand you. His death was accidental, merely
+accidental--you assure me that it was so, and I believe it. But will
+any one else believe it? Will Emilia--her mother--the world?
+
+                         MARINELLI (_coldly_).
+
+Scarcely.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+What, then, will they believe? You shrug your shoulders. They will
+suppose Angelo the tool and me the prime mover.
+
+                    MARINELLI (_still more coldly_).
+
+Probable enough!
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Me! me, myself!--or from this hour I must resign all hopes of Emilia.
+
+            MARINELLI (_in a tone of perfect indifference_).
+
+Which you must also have done, had the Count lived.
+
+                         PRINCE (_violently_).
+
+Marinelli!--(_checking his warmth_)--But you shall not rouse my anger.
+Be it so. It is so. You mean to imply that the Count's death is
+fortunate for me;--the best thing which could have happened--the only
+circumstance which could bring my passion to a happy issue--and,
+therefore, no matter how it happened. A Count more or less in the world
+is of little consequence. Am I right?--I am not alarmed at a little
+crime; but it must be a secret little crime, a serviceable little
+crime. But ours has not been either secret or serviceable. It has
+opened a passage only to close it again. Every one will lay it to our
+door. And, after all, we have not perpetrated it at all. This can only
+be the result of your wise and wonderful management.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+If your Highness have it so----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Why not?--I want an explanation----
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I am accused of more than I deserve.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+I want an explanation.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Well then, what error in my plans has attached such obvious suspicion
+to the Prince? The fault lies in the master-stroke which your Highness
+so graciously put to my plans----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+I?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Allow me to say that the step which you took at church this
+morning--with whatever circumspection it was done, or however
+inevitable it might be--was not part of my programme.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+How did that injure it?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Not indeed the whole plan, but its opportuneness.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Do I understand you?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+To speak more intelligibly. When I undertook the business, Emilia knew
+nothing of the Prince's attachment. Her mother just as little. How if I
+formed my foundation upon this circumstance, and in the meantime the
+Prince was undermining my edifice?
+
+                   PRINCE (_striking his forehead_).
+
+Damnation!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+How, if he himself betrayed his intentions?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Cursed interposition!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+For had he not so behaved himself I should like to know what part of my
+plan could have raised the least suspicion in the mind of the mother or
+the daughter?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+You are right.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+And therein I certainly am very wrong.--Pardon me.
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+                    Battista, The Prince, Marinelli.
+
+                     _Enter_ BATTISTA (_hastily_).
+
+The Countess is arrived.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+The Countess? What Countess?
+
+                               BATTISTA.
+
+Orsina!
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Orsina? Marinelli!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I am as much astonished as yourself.
+
+                        PRINCE (_to_ Battista).
+
+Go--run--Battista. She must not alight. I am not here--not here to her.
+She must return this instant. Go, go. (_Exit_ Battista). What does the
+silly woman want? How dares she take this liberty? How could she know
+that we were here? Is she come as a spy? Can she have heard anything?
+Oh, Marinelli, speak, answer me. Is the man offended, who vows he is my
+friend--offended by a paltry altercation? Shall I beg pardon?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Prince, as soon as you recover yourself, I am yours again, with my
+whole soul. The arrival of Orsina is as much an enigma to me as to you.
+But she will not be denied. What will you do?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+I will not speak to her. I will withdraw.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Right! Do so instantly; I will receive her.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+But merely to dismiss her. No more. We have other business to perform.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Not so, not so. Our other things are done. Summon up resolution and all
+deficiencies will be supplied. But do I not hear her? Hasten, Prince.
+In that room (_pointing to an adjoining apartment, to which the_ Prince
+_retires_)--you may, if you please, listen to our conversation. She
+comes, I fear, at an unpropitious moment for her.
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+                    The Countess Orsina, Marinelli.
+
+                ORSINA (_without perceiving_ Marinelli).
+
+What means this? No one comes to meet me, but a shameless servant, who
+endeavours to obstruct my entrance. Surely I am at Dosalo, where, on
+former occasions, an army of attendants rushed to receive me--where
+love and ecstasy awaited me. Yes. The place is the same, but----Ha! you
+here, Marinelli? I am glad the Prince has brought you with him. Yet,
+no. My business with his Highness must be transacted with himself only.
+Where is he?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The Prince, Countess?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Who else?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+You suppose that he is here, then,--or know it, perhaps. He, however,
+does not expect a visit from your ladyship.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Indeed! He has not then received my letter this morning.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Your letter? But--yes. I remember he mentioned that he had received
+one.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Well? Did I not in that letter request he would meet me here to-day? I
+own he did not think proper to return a written answer; but I learnt
+that an hour afterwards he drove from town to Dosalo. This I thought a
+sufficient answer, and therefore I have come.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+A strange accident!
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Accident! It was an agreement--at least as good as an agreement. On my
+part, the letter--on his, the deed. How you stand staring, Marquis!
+What surprises you?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+You seemed resolved yesterday never to appear before the Prince again.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Night is a good councillor. Where is he? Where is he? Doubtless in the
+chamber, whence sighs and sobs were issuing as I passed. I wished to
+enter, but the impertinent servant would not let me pass.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Dearest Countess----
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+I heard a woman's shriek. What means this, Marinelli? Tell me--if I be
+your dearest Countess--tell me. A curse on these court slaves! Their
+tales! their lies! But what matters it whether you choose to tell me or
+not? I will see for myself.
+
+                    MARINELLI (_holding her back_).
+
+Whither would you go?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Where I ought to have gone long since. Is it proper, think you,
+that I should waste any time in idle conversation with you in the
+ante-chamber, when the Prince expects me in the saloon?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+You are mistaken, Countess. The Prince does not expect you here. He
+cannot--will not see you.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+And yet is here, in consequence of my letter.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Not in consequence of your letter.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+He received it, you say.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Yes, but he did not read it.
+
+                         ORSINA (_violently_).
+
+Not read it! (_Less violently_.) Not read it! (_Sorrowfully, and wiping
+away a tear_.) Not even read it!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+From preoccupation, I am certain, not contempt.
+
+                         ORSINA (_with pride_).
+
+Contempt! Who thought of such a thing? To whom do you use the term?
+Marinelli, your comfort is impertinent. Contempt! Contempt! To me! (_In
+a milder tone_.) It is true that he no longer loves me. That is
+certain. And in place of love something else has filled his soul. It is
+natural. But why should this be contempt? Indifference would be enough.
+Would it not, Marinelli?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Certainly, certainly.
+
+                    ORSINA (_with a scornful look_).
+
+Certainly! What an oracle, who can be made to say what one pleases!
+Indifference in the place of love!--That means nothing in the place of
+something. For learn, thou mimicking court-parrot, learn from a woman,
+that indifference is but an empty word, a mere sound which means
+nothing. The mind can only be indifferent to objects of which it does
+not think; to things which for itself have no existence. Only
+indifferent for a thing that is nothing--that is as much as saying not
+indifferent. Is that meaning beyond thee, man?
+
+                          MARINELLI (_aside_).
+
+Alas! how prophetic were my fears?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+What do you mutter?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Mere admiration! Who does not know, Countess, that you are a
+philosopher?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Am I not? True; I am a philosopher. But have I now shown it; ah, shame!
+If I have shown it, and have often done so, it were no wonder if the
+Prince despised me. How can man love a creature which, in spite of him,
+will _think_? A woman who thinks is as silly as a man who uses paint.
+She ought to laugh--do nothing but laugh, that the mighty lords of the
+creation may be kept in good humour--What makes me laugh now,
+Marinelli? Why, the accidental circumstance that I should have written
+to the Prince to come hither--that he should not have read my letter
+and nevertheless have come. Ha! ha! ha! 'Tis an odd accident, very
+pleasant and amusing. Why don't you laugh, Marinelli? The mighty lords
+of the creation may laugh, though we poor creatures dare not think.
+(_In a serious and commanding tone_.) Then laugh, you!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Presently, Countess, presently.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Blockhead! while you speak the proper moment is for ever past. No. Do
+not laugh--for mark me, Marinelli, (_with emotion_) that which makes me
+laugh, has, like every thing in the world, its serious side. Accident!
+Could it be accidental that the Prince, who little thought that he
+would see me here, must see me?--Accident! Believe me, Marinelli, the
+word accident is blasphemy. Nothing under the sun is accidental, and
+least of all this, of which the purpose is so evident.--Almighty and
+all--bounteous Providence, pardon me that I joined this poor weak
+sinner in giving the name of accident to what so plainly is Thy
+work--yes, Thy immediate work. (_In a hasty tone to_ Marinelli.) Dare
+not again to lead me thus astray from truth.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+This is going too far (_aside_)--But, Countess----
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Peace with your _but_--that word demands reflection, and--my head, my
+head!--(_Puts her hand to her forehead_)--Contrive that I may speak to
+the Prince immediately, or I shall soon want strength to do so. You
+see, Marinelli, that I must speak to him--that I am resolved to speak
+to him.
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+                     The Prince, Orsina, Marinelli.
+
+                   PRINCE (_aside, as he advances_).
+
+I must come to his assistance.
+
+    ORSINA (_espies him, but remains irresolute whether to approach
+                             him or not_).
+
+Ha! There he is.
+
+       PRINCE (_walks straight across the room towards the other
+                             apartments_).
+
+Ha! The fair Countess, as I live. How sorry I am, Madam, that I can
+to-day so ill avail myself of the honour of your visit. I am engaged. I
+am not alone. Another time, dear Countess, another time. At present
+stay no longer--no longer, I beg. And you, Marinelli--I want you.
+(_Exit_.)
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+                           Orsina, Marinelli.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Your ladyship has now heard, from himself, what you would not believe
+from my lips, have you not?
+
+                      ORSINA (_as if petrified_).
+
+Have I? Have, I indeed?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Most certainly.
+
+                      ORSINA (_deeply affected_).
+
+"I am engaged, I am not alone." Is this all the excuse I am worth? For
+whose dismissal would not these words serve? For every importunate, for
+every beggar. Could he not frame one little falsehood for me? Engaged!
+With what? Not alone! Who can be with him? Marinelli, dear Marinelli,
+be compassionate--tell me a falsehood on your own account. What can a
+falsehood cost you? What has he to do? Who is with him? Tell me, tell
+me. Say anything which first occurs to you, and I will go.
+
+                          MARINELLI (_aside_).
+
+On this condition, I may tell her part of the truth.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Quick, Marinelli, and I will go. He said, "Another time, dear
+Countess!" Did he not? That he may keep his promise--that he may have
+no pretext to break it--quick, then, Marinelli,--tell me a falsehood,
+and I will go.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The Prince, dear Countess, is really not alone. There are persons with
+him, whom he cannot leave for a moment--persons, who have just escaped
+imminent danger. Count Appiani----
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Is with him! What a pity that I know this to be false! Quick, another!
+for Count Appiani, if you do not know it, has just been assassinated by
+robbers. I met the carriage, with his body in it, as I came from town.
+Or did I not? Was it a dream?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Alas, it was not a dream. But they who accompanied the Count were
+fortunately rescued, and are now in this palace; namely, a lady to whom
+he was betrothed, and whom, with her mother, he was conducting to
+Sabionetta, to celebrate his nuptials.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+They are with the Prince! A lady and her mother! Is the lady handsome?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The Prince is extremely sorry for her situation.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+That he would be, I hope, even if she were hideous--for her fate is
+dreadful. Poor girl! at the moment he was to become thine for ever, he
+was torn for ever from thee. Who is she? Do I know her? I have of late
+been so much out of town, that I am ignorant of every thing.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+It is Emilia Galotti.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+What? Emilia Galotti? Oh, Marinelli, let me not mistake this lie for
+truth.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Why?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Emilia Galotti?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Yes. Whom you can scarcely know.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+I do know her--though our acquaintance only began to-day. Emilia
+Galotti! Answer me seriously. Is Emilia Galotti the unfortunate lady
+whom the Prince is consoling?
+
+                          MARINELLI (_aside_).
+
+Can I have disclosed too much?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+And Count Appiani was her destined bridegroom--Count Appiani, who was
+shot to-day?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Exactly.
+
+                     ORSINA (_clapping her hands_).
+
+Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+What now?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+I could kiss the devil that tempted him to do it.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Whom? Tempted? To do what?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Yes, I could kiss--him--even wert thou that devil, Marinelli.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Countess!
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Come hither. Look at me--steadfastly--eye to eye.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Well?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Know you not my thoughts?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+How can I?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Have you no concern in it?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+In what?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Swear. No, do not swear, for that might be another crime. But
+yes--swear. One sin more or less is of no consequence to a man who is
+already damned. Have you no concern in it?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+You alarm me, Countess.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Indeed! Now, Marinelli--has your good heart no suspicion?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Suspicion? Of what?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+'Tis well. Then I will entrust you with a secret--a secret, which will
+make each hair upon your head stand on end. But here, so near the door,
+some one might overhear us. Come here--(_puts her finger to her
+mouth_)--mark me, it is a secret--a profound secret. (_Places her mouth
+to his ear, as if about to whisper, and shouts as loudly as she can_)
+The Prince is a murderer!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Countess! Countess! Have you lost your senses?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Senses? Ha! ha! ha! (_laughing loudly_). I have very seldom, if
+ever, been so satisfied with my understanding as I am at this moment.
+Depend upon it, Marinelli--but it is between ourselves--(_in a low
+voice_)--the Prince is a murderer--the murderer of Count Appiani. The
+Count was assassinated, not by robbers, but by the Prince's myrmidons,
+by the Prince himself.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+How can so horrid a suspicion fall from your lips, or enter your
+imagination?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+How? Very naturally. This Emilia Galotti, who is now in the palace,
+and whose bridegroom--was thus trundled head over heels out of the
+world--this Emilia Galotti did the Prince to-day accost in the Church
+of the Dominicans, and held a lengthy conversation with her. That I
+know, for my spies not only saw it, but heard what he said. Now, sir,
+have I lost my senses? Methinks I connect the attendant circumstances
+very tolerably together. Or has all this happened, too, by accident? If
+so, Marinelli, you have as little idea of the wickedness of man as you
+have of prevision.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Countess, you would talk your life into danger----
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Were I to mention this to others? So much the better! So much the
+better! To-morrow I will repeat it aloud in the market-place--and, if
+any one contradict me--if any one contradict me, he was the murderer's
+accomplice. Farewell. (_As she is going, she meets_ Odoardo _entering
+hastily_.)
+
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+                      Odoardo, Orsina, Marinelli.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Pardon me, gracious lady----
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+I can grant no pardon here, for I can take no offence. You must apply
+to this gentleman (_pointing to_ Marinelli).
+
+                          MARINELLI (_aside_).
+
+The father! This completes the business.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Pardon a father, sir, who is in the greatest embarrassment, for
+entering unannounced.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Father!--(_turning round again_)--Of Emilia, no doubt! Ha! Thou art
+welcome.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+A servant came in haste to tell me that my family was in danger near
+here. I flew hither, he mentioned, and found that Count Appiani has
+been wounded--and carried back to town--and that my wife and daughter
+have found refuge in the palace. Where are they, sir, where are they?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Be calm, Colonel. Your wife and daughter have sustained no injury save
+from terror. They are both well. The Prince is with them. I will
+immediately announce you.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Why announce? merely _announce_ me?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+For reasons--on account of--on account of--you know, sir, that you are
+not upon the most friendly terms with the Prince. Gracious as may be
+his conduct towards your wife and daughter--they are ladies--will your
+unexpected appearance be welcome to him?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+You are right, my lord, you are right.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+But, Countess, may I not first have the honour of handing you to your
+carriage?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+By no means.
+
+       MARINELLI (_taking her hand, not in the most gentle way_).
+
+Allow me to perform my duty.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Softly!--I excuse you, Marquis. Why do such as you ever consider mere
+politeness a duty, and neglect as unimportant what is really an
+essential duty? To announce this worthy man immediately is your duty.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Have you forgotten what the Prince himself commanded?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Let him come, and repeat his commands. I shall expect him.
+
+                  MARINELLI (_draws_ Odoardo _aside_).
+
+I am obliged to leave you, Colonel, with a lady whose intellect--you
+understand me, I mention this that you may know in what way to treat
+her remarks, which are sometimes singular. It were better not to enter
+into conversation with her.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Very well. Only make haste, my lord.
+
+                                               (_Exit_ Marinelli.)
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                            Orsina, Odoardo.
+
+ORSINA (_after a pause, during which she has surveyed_ Odoardo _with a
+look of compassion, while he has cast towards her a glance of
+curiosity_).
+
+Alas! What did he say to you, unfortunate man?
+
+                        ODOARDO (_half aside_).
+
+Unfortunate!
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Truth it certainly was not--at least, not one of those sad truths which
+await you.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Which await me? Do I, then, not know enough? Madam--but proceed,
+proceed.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+You know nothing?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Nothing.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Worthy father! What would I give that you were my father! Pardon me.
+The unfortunate so willingly associate together. I would faithfully
+share your sorrows--and your anger.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Sorrows and anger? Madam--but I forget--go on.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Should she even be your only daughter--your only child--but it matters
+not. An unfortunate child is ever an only one.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Unfortunate?--Madam! But why do I attend to her? And yet, by Heaven, no
+lunatic speaks thus.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Lunatic? That, then, was the secret which he told you of me. Well,
+well. It is perhaps not one of his greatest falsehoods. I feel that I
+am something like one; and believe me, sir, they who, under certain
+circumstances, do not lose their intellect, have none to lose.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+What must I think?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Treat me not with contempt, old man. You possess strong sense. I know
+it by your resolute and reverend mien. You also possess sound judgment,
+yet I need but speak one word, and both these qualities are fled for
+ever.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Oh, Madam, they will have fled before you speak that word, unless you
+pronounce it soon. Speak, I conjure you; or it is not true that you are
+one of that good class of lunatics who claim our pity and respect; you
+are naught else than a common fool. You cannot have what you never
+possessed.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Mark my words, then. What do you know, who fancy that you know enough?
+That Appiani is wounded? Wounded only? He is dead.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Dead? Dead? Woman, you abide not by your promise. You said you would
+rob me of my reason, but you break my heart.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Thus much by the way. Now, let me proceed. The bridegroom is dead, and
+the bride, your daughter, worse than dead.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Worse? Worse than dead? Say that she too is dead--for I know but one
+thing worse.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+She is not dead; no, good father, she is alive, and will now just begin
+to live indeed; the finest, merriest fool's paradise of a life--as long
+as it lasts.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Say the word, Madam! The single word, which is to deprive me of my
+reason! Out with it! Distil not thus your poison drop by drop. That
+single word at once!
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+You yourself shall put the letters of it together. This morning the
+Prince spoke to your daughter at church; this afternoon he has her at
+his----his summer-palace.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Spoke to her at church? The Prince to my daughter?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+With such familiarity and such fervour. Their agreement was about no
+trifling matter; and if they did agree, all the better: all the better
+if your daughter made this her voluntary asylum. You understand--and in
+that case this is no forcible seduction, but only a trifling--trifling
+assassination.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Calumny! Infamous calumny! I know my daughter. If there be murder here,
+there is seduction also, (_Looks wildly round, stamping and foaming_.)
+Now, Claudia! Now, fond mother! Have we not lived to see a day of joy?
+Oh, the gracious Prince! Oh, the mighty honour!
+
+                           ORSINA (_aside_).
+
+Have I roused thee, old man?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Here I stand before the robber's cave. (_Throws his coat back on both
+sides, and perceives he has no weapon_.) 'Tis a marvel that, in my
+haste, I have not forgotten my hands too. (_Feeling in all his
+pockets_.) Nothing, nothing.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Ha! I understand, and can assist you. I have brought one. (_Produces a
+dagger_.) There! Take it, take it quickly, ere any one observes us. I
+have something else, too--poison--but that is for women, not for men.
+Take this (_forcing the dagger upon him_), take it.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+I thank thee. Dear child, whosoever again asserts thou art a lunatic,
+he shall answer it to me.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Conceal it, instantly. (Odoardo _hides the dagger_.) The opportunity
+for using it is denied to me. You will not fail to find one, and you
+will seize the first that comes, if you are a man. I am but a woman,
+yet I came hither resolute. We, old man, can trust each other, for we
+are both injured, and by the same seducer. Oh, if you knew how
+preposterously, how inexpressibly, how incomprehensibly, I have been
+injured by him, you would almost forget his conduct towards yourself.
+Do you know me? I am Orsina, the deluded, forsaken Orsina--perhaps
+forsaken only for your daughter. But how is she to blame? Soon she also
+will be forsaken; then another, another, and another. Ha! (_As if in
+rapture_) What a celestial thought! When all who have been victims of
+his arts shall form a band, and we shall be converted into Mænads, into
+furies; what transport will it be to tear him piecemeal, limb from
+limb, to wallow through his entrails, and wrench from its seat the
+traitor's heart--that heart which he promised to bestow on each, and
+gave to none. Ha! that indeed will be a glorious revelry!
+
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+                       Claudia, Odoardo, Orsina.
+
+                           _Enter_ Claudia.
+
+     CLAUDIA (_looks round, and as soon as she espies her husband,
+                          runs towards him_.)
+
+I was right. Our protector, our deliverer! Are you really here? Do I
+indeed behold you, Odoardo? From their whisper and their manner I knew
+it was the case. What shall I say to you, if you are still ignorant?
+What shall I say to you if you already know everything? But we are
+innocent. I am innocent. Your daughter is innocent. Innocent; wholly
+innocent.
+
+     ODOARDO (_who, on seeing his wife, has endeavoured to compose
+                               himself_).
+
+'Tis well. Be calm, and answer me.--(_To_ Orsina)--Not that I doubt
+your information, Madam. Is the Count dead?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+He is.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Is it true that the Prince spoke this morning to Emilia, at the church?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+It is; but if you knew how much she was alarmed--with what terror she
+rushed home.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Now, was my information false?
+
+                    ODOARDO (_with a bitter laugh_).
+
+I would not that it were! For worlds I would not that it were!
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Am I a lunatic?
+
+                ODOARDO (_wildly pacing the apartment_).
+
+Oh!--nor as yet am I.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+You commanded me to be calm, and I obeyed--My dear husband, may I--may
+I entreat----
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+What do you mean? Am I not calm? Who can be calmer than I? (_Putting
+restraint upon himself_.) Does Emilia know that Appiani is dead?
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+She cannot know it, but I fear that she suspects it, because he does
+not appear.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+And she weeps and sobs.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+No more. That is over, like her nature, which you know. She is the most
+timid, yet the most resolute of her sex; incapable of governing her
+first emotions, but upon the least reflection calm and prepared for
+all. She keeps the Prince at a distance--she speaks to him in a
+tone----Let us, dear Odoardo, depart immediately.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+I came on horseback hither. What is to be done? You, Madam, will
+probably return to town?
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+Immediately.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+May I request you to take my wife with you.
+
+                                ORSINA.
+
+With pleasure.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Claudia, this is the Countess Orsina, a lady of sound sense, my friend
+and benefactress. Accompany her to town, and send our carriage hither
+instantly. Emilia must not return to Guastalla. She shall go with me.
+
+                                CLAUDIA.
+
+But--if only--I am unwilling to part from the child.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Is not her father here? I shall be admitted at last. Do not delay!
+Come, my lady. (_Apart to her_.) You shall hear from me.--Come,
+Claudia. (_Exeunt_.)
+
+
+
+
+                                 ACT V.
+
+
+                         Scene I.--_As before_.
+
+                         The Prince, Marinelli.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+From this window your Highness may observe him. He is walking to and
+fro under the arcade. Now he turns this way. He comes; no, he turns
+again. He has not yet altogether made up his mind; but is much calmer,
+or at least appears so. To us this is unimportant. He will scarcely
+dare utter the suspicions which these women have expressed! Battista
+says that he desired his wife to send the carriage hither as soon as
+she should reach the town, for he came hither on horseback. Mark my
+words. When he appears before your Highness, he will humbly return
+thanks for the gracious protection which you were pleased to afford to
+his family, will recommend himself and his daughter to your further
+favour, quietly take her to town, and with perfect submission await the
+further interest which your Highness may think proper to take in the
+welfare of his child.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+But should he not be so resigned--and I scarcely think he will, I know
+him too well to expect it--he may, perhaps, conceal his suspicions, and
+suppress his indignation; but instead of conducting Emilia to town, he
+may take her away and keep her with himself, or place her in some
+cloister beyond my dominions. What then?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Love's fears are farsighted. But he will not.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+But, if he were to do it, what would the death of the unfortunate Count
+avail us?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Why this gloomy supposition? "Forward!" shouts the victor, and asks not
+who falls near him--friend or foe. Yet if the old churl should act as
+you fear, prince--(_After some consideration_) I have it. His wish
+shall prove the end of his success. I'll mar his plan. But we must not
+lose sight of him. (_Walks again to the window_.) He had almost
+surprised us. He comes. Let us withdraw awhile, and in the meanwhile,
+Prince, you shall hear how we can elude the evil you apprehend.
+
+                   PRINCE (_in a threatening tone_).
+
+But, Marinelli----
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The most innocent thing in the world.                  (_Exeunt_.)
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Still no one here? 'Tis well. They allow me time to get still cooler. A
+lucky chance. Nothing is more unseemly than a hoary-headed man
+transported with the rage of youth. So I have often thought, yet I have
+suffered myself to be aroused----by whom? By a woman whom jealousy had
+driven to distraction. What has injured virtue to do with the revenge
+of vice? I have but to save the former. And thy cause, my son--my
+son----I could never weep, and will not learn the lesson now. There is
+another, who will avenge thy cause. Sufficient for me that thy murderer
+shall not enjoy the fruit of his crime. May this torment him more than
+even the crime itself; and when at length loathsome satiety shall drive
+him from one excess to another, may the recollection of having failed
+in this poison the enjoyment of all! In every dream may the bride
+appear to him, led to his bedside by the murdered bridegroom; and when,
+in spite of this, he stretches forth his sinful arms to seize the
+prize, may he suddenly hear the derisive laughter of hell echo in his
+ears, and so awake.
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+                          Marinelli, Odoardo.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+We have been looking for you, Sir.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Has my daughter been here?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+No; the Prince.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+I beg his pardon. I have been conducting the Countess to her carriage.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Indeed.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+A good lady!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+And where is your lady?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+She accompanied the Countess that she might send my carriage hither. I
+would request the Prince to let me stay with my daughter till it
+arrives.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Why this ceremony? The Prince would have felt pleasure in conducting
+your daughter and her mother to town.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+My daughter at least would have been obliged to decline that honour.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Why so?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+She will not go to Guastalla again.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Indeed! Why not?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Count Appiani is dead.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+For that very reason----
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+She must go with me.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+With you?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+With me.--I tell you the Count is dead--though she may not know it.
+What therefore has she to do in Guastalla? She must go with me.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The future residence of the lady must certainly depend upon her
+father--but at present----
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Well? What?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+At present, sir, you will, I hope, allow her to be conveyed to
+Guastalla.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+My daughter, conveyed to Guastalla? Why so?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Why! Consider----
+
+                         ODOARDO (_incensed_).
+
+Consider! consider! consider that there is nothing to consider. She
+must and shall go with me.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+We need have no contention on the subject, sir. I may be mistaken. What
+I think necessary may not be so. The Prince is the best judge--he,
+therefore, will decide. I go to bring him to you.
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+                                Odoardo.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+How? Never! Prescribe to me whether she shall go! Withhold her from me!
+Who will do this?--Who dares attempt it?--He, who dares here do
+anything he pleases?----'Tis well, 'tis well. Then shall he see how
+much I, too, dare, and whether I have not already dared. Short-sighted
+voluptuary! I defy thee.--He who regards no law is as independent
+as he who is subject to no law. Knowest thou not this? Come on, come
+on----But what am I saying? My temper once more overpowers my reason.
+What do I want? I should first know why I rave. What will not a
+courtier assert? Better had I allowed him to proceed. I should have
+heard his pretext for conveying my daughter to Guastalla, and I could
+have prepared a proper reply. But can I need a reply!--Should one fail
+me--should----I hear footsteps. I will be calm.
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+                    The Prince, Marinelli, Odoardo.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+My dear worthy Galotti.--Was such an accident necessary to bring you to
+your Prince? Nothing less would have sufficed--but I do not mean to
+reproach you.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Your Highness, I have ever thought it unbecoming to press into the
+presence of my Prince. He will send for those whom he wants. Even now I
+ask your pardon----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Would that many, whom I know, possessed this modest pride!--But to the
+subject. You are, doubtless, anxious to see your daughter. She is again
+alarmed on account of her dear mother's sudden departure. And why
+should she have departed? I only waited till the terrors of the lovely
+Emilia were completely removed, and then I should have conveyed both
+the ladies in triumph to town. Your arrival has diminished by half the
+pleasure of this triumph; but I will not entirely resign it.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Your Highness honours me too much. Allow me to spare my unfortunate
+child the various mortifications, which friendship and enmity,
+compassion and malicious pleasure, prepare for her in town.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Of the sweet comforts, which the friendly and compassionate bestow, it
+would be cruelty to deprive her; but against all the mortifications of
+enmity and malice, believe me, I will guard her, dear Galotti.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Prince, paternal love is jealous of its duties. I think I know what
+alone suits my daughter in her present situation. Retirement from the
+world--a cloister as soon as possible.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+A cloister?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Till then, let her weep under the protection of her father.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Shall so much beauty wither in a cloister?----Should one disappointed
+hope embitter one against the world?--But as you please. No one has a
+right to dictate to a parent. Take your daughter wherever you think
+proper, Galotti.
+
+                       ODOARDO (_to_ Marinelli).
+
+Do you hear, my lord?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Nay, if you call upon me to speak----
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+By no means, by no means.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+What has happened between you two?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Nothing, your Highness, nothing. We were only settling which of us had
+been deceived in your Highness.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+How so?--Speak, Marinelli.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I am sorry to interfere with the condescension of my Prince, but
+friendship commands that I should make an appeal to him as judge.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+What friendship?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Your Highness knows how sincerely I was attached to Count Appiani--how
+our souls were interwoven----
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Does his Highness know that? Then you are indeed the only one who does
+know it.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Appointed his avenger by himself----
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+You?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Ask your wife. The name of Marinelli was the last word of the dying
+Count, and was uttered in such a tone----Oh may that dreadful tone
+sound in my ears for ever, if I do not strain every nerve to discover
+and to punish his murderers!
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Rely upon my utmost aid.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+And upon my most fervent wishes. All this is well. But what further?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+That I, too, want to know, Marinelli.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+It is suspected that the Count was not attacked by robbers----
+
+                       ODOARDO (_with a sneer_).
+
+Indeed!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+But that a rival hired assassins to despatch him.
+
+                          ODOARDO (_bitterly_).
+
+Indeed! A rival?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Exactly.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Well then--May damnation overtake the vile assassin!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+A rival--a favoured rival too.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+How? Favoured? What say you?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Nothing but what fame reports.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Favoured? favoured by my daughter?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+Certainly not. That cannot be. Were you to say it I would contradict
+it. But, on this account, your Highness, though no prejudice, however
+well-grounded, can be of any weight in the scale of justice, it will,
+nevertheless, be absolutely necessary that the unfortunate lady should
+be examined.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+True--undoubtedly.
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+And where can this be done but in Guastalla?
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+There you are right, Marinelli, there you are right.--This alters the
+affair, dear Galotti. Is it not so. You yourself must see----
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Yes! I see----what I see. O God! O God!
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+What now? What is the matter?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+I am only angry with myself for not having foreseen what I now
+perceive. Well, then--she shall return to Guastalla. I will take her to
+her mother, and till she has been acquitted, after the most rigid
+examination, I myself will not leave Guastalla. For who knows--(_with a
+bitter smile of irony_)--who knows whether the court of justice may not
+think it necessary to examine me?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+It is very possible. In such cases justice rather does too much than
+too little. I therefore even fear----
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+What? What do you fear?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+That the mother and daughter will not, at present, be suffered to
+confer together.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Not confer together?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+It will be necessary to keep mother and daughter apart.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+To keep mother and daughter apart?
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+The mother, the daughter, and the father. The forms of the court
+absolutely enjoin this caution; and I assure your Highness that it
+pains me that I must enforce the necessity of at least placing Emilia
+in strict security.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+In strict security!--Oh, Prince, Prince!--Butyes--right!--of course, of
+course! In strict security! Is it not so, Prince? Oh! justice! oh
+justice is a fine thing! Excellent! (_Hastily puts his hand into the
+pocket in which he had concealed the dagger_.)
+
+                     PRINCE (_in a soothing tone_).
+
+Compose yourself, dear Galotti.
+
+      ODOARDO (_aside, drawing his hand, without the dagger, from
+                             his pocket_).
+
+There spoke his guardian angel.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+You are mistaken. You do not understand him. You think, perhaps, by
+security is meant a prison and a dungeon.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Let me think so, and I shall be at ease.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Not a word of imprisonment, Marinelli. The rigour of the law may easily
+be combined with the respect due to unblemished virtue. If Emilia must
+be placed in proper custody, I know the most proper situation for
+her--my chancellor's house. No opposition, Marinelli. Thither I will
+myself convey her, and place her under the protection of one of the
+worthiest of ladies, who shall be answerable for her safety. You go too
+far, Marinelli, you go too far, if you require more. Of course,
+Galotti, you know my chancellor Grimaldi and his wife?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Undoubtedly I do. I also know the amiable daughters of this noble pair.
+Who does not know them? (_To_ Marinelli).--No, my lord--do not agree to
+this. If my daughter must be confined, she ought to be confined in the
+deepest dungeon. Insist upon it, I beseech you. Fool that I was to make
+any request. Yes, the good Sybil was right. "They, who under certain
+circumstances, do not lose their intellect, have none to lose."
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+I do not understand you. Dear Galotti, what can I do more? Be
+satisfied, I beseech you. She shall be conveyed to the chancellor's
+house. I myself will convey her thither; and if she be not there
+treated with the utmost respect, my word is of no value. But fear
+nothing; it is settled. You, Galotti, may do as you think proper. You
+may follow us to Guastalla, or return to Sabionetta, as you please. It
+would be ridiculous to dictate any conduct to you. And now, farewell
+for the present, dear Galotti.--Come, Marinelli. It grows late.
+
+         ODOARDO (_who has been standing in deep meditation_).
+
+--How! May I not even see my daughter, then? May I not even see her
+here? I submit to everything--I approve of everything. A chancellor's
+house is, of course, a sanctuary of virtue. Take my daughter thither, I
+beseech your Highness--nowhere but thither. Yet I would willingly have
+some previous conversation with her. She is still ignorant of the
+Count's death, and will be unable to understand why she is separated
+from her parents. That I may apprise her gently of the one, and console
+her for this parting----I must see her, Prince, I must see her.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Come, then, with us.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Surely the daughter can come to her father. Let us have a short
+conversation here, without witnesses. Send her hither, I beg your
+Highness.
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+That, too, shall be done. Oh, Galotti, if you would be my friend, my
+guide, my father!
+
+                                (_Exeunt_ Prince _and_ Marinelli).
+
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+                                Odoardo.
+
+ODOARDO (_after a pause, during which his eyes follow the_
+                                Prince).
+
+Why not? Most willingly. Ha! ha! ha! (_Looks wildly around_.) Who
+laughed? By Heaven I believe it was myself. 'Tis well. I will
+be merry. The game is near an end. Thus must it be, or thus.
+But--(_pauses_)--how if she were in league with him? How if this were
+the usual deception? How if she were not worthy of what I am about to
+do for her? (_Pauses again_.) And what am I about to do for her? Have I
+a heart to name it even to myself? A thought comes to me--a thought
+which can be but a thought. Horrible!--I will go. I will not wait until
+she comes. (_Raises his eyes towards Heaven_.) If she be innocent, let
+Him who plunged her into this abyss, extricate her from it. He needs
+not my hand. I will away. (_As he is going he espies_ Emilia.) Ha! 'Tis
+too late. My hand is required--He requires it.
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                            Emilia, Odoardo.
+
+                            _Enter_ Emilia.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+How! Ton here, my father? And you alone--without the Count--without my
+mother? So uneasy, too, my father?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+And you so much at ease, my daughter?
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Why should I not be so, my father? Either all is lost, or nothing. To
+be able to be at ease, and to be obliged to be at ease, do they not
+come to the same thing!
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+But what do you suppose to be the case?
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+That all is lost--therefore that we must be at ease, my father.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+And you are at ease, because necessity requires it? Who are you? A
+girl; my daughter? Then should the man and the father be ashamed
+of you. But let me hear. What mean you when you say that all is
+lost?--that Count Appiani is dead?
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+And why is he dead? Why? Ha! It is, then, true, my father--the horrible
+tale is true which I read in my mother's tearful and wild looks. Where
+is my mother? Where has she gone?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+She is gone before us--if we could but follow her.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Oh, the sooner the better. For if the Count be dead--if he was doomed
+to die on that account--Ha! Why do we stay here? Let us fly, my father.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Fly! Where is the necessity? You are in the hands of your ravisher, and
+will there remain.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+I remain in his hands?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+And alone--without your mother--without me.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+I remain alone in his hands? Never, my father--or you are not my
+father. I remain alone in his hands? 'Tis well. Leave me, leave me. I
+will see who can detain me--who can compel me. What human being can
+compel another?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+I thought, my child, you were tranquil.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+I am so. But what do you call tranquillity?--To lay my hands in my lap,
+and patiently bear what cannot be borne, and suffer what should be
+suffered.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Ha! If such be thy thoughts, come to my arms, my daughter. I have ever
+said, that Nature, when forming woman, wished to form her master-piece.
+She erred in that the clay she chose was too plastic. In every other
+respect man is inferior to woman. Ha! If this be thy composure, I
+recognize my daughter again. Come to my arms. Now, mark me. Under the
+pretence of legal examination, the Prince--tears thee (the hellish
+fool's play!) tears thee from our arms, and places thee under the
+protection of Grimaldi.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Tears me from your arms? Takes me--would tear me--take
+me--would--would----As if we ourselves had no will, father.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+So incensed was I, that I was on the point of drawing forth this dagger
+(_produces it_), and plunging it into the hearts of both the villains.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Heaven forbid it! my father. This life is all the wicked can enjoy.
+Give me, give me the dagger.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Child, it is no bodkin.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+If it were, it would serve as a dagger. 'Twere the same.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+What! Is it come to that? Not yet, not yet. Reflect. You have but one
+life to lose, Emilia.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+And but one innocence.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Which is proof against all force.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+But not against all seduction. Force! Force! What is that? Who may not
+defy force? What you call force is nothing. Seduction is the only real
+force. I have blood, my father, as youthful and as warm as that of
+others. I have senses too. I cannot pledge myself: I guarantee nothing.
+I know the house of Grimaldi. It is a house of revelry--a single hour
+spent in that society, under the protection of my mother, created such
+a tumult in my soul, that all the rigid exercises of religion could
+scarcely quell it in whole weeks. Religion! And what religion? To avoid
+no worse snares thousands have leapt into the waves, and now are
+saints. Give me the dagger, then, my father, give it to me.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+And didst thou but know who armed me with this dagger----
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+That matters not. An unknown friend is not the less a friend. Give me
+the dagger, father, I beseech you.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+And if I were to give it you?--what then? There! (_He presents it_)
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+And there! (_She seizes it with ardour, and is about to stab herself
+when_ Odoardo _wrests it from her_.)
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+See how rash----No; it is not for thy hand.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Tis true; then with this bodkin will I! (_she searches for one in her
+hair, and feels the rose in her head_). Art thou still there? Down,
+down! thou shouldst not deck the head of one, such as my father wishes
+me to be!
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Oh! my daughter!
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Oh, my father! if I understand you. But no, you will not do it, or why
+so long delayed. (_In a bitter tone, while she plucks the leaves of the
+rose_.) In former days there was a father, who, to save his daughter
+from disgrace plunged the first deadly weapon which he saw, into his
+daughter's heart--and thereby gave her life, a second time. But those
+were deeds of ancient times. Such fathers exist not now.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+They do, they do, my daughter (_stabs her_). God of heaven! What have I
+done? (_supports her in his arms as she sinks_.)
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Broken a rose before the storm had robbed it of its bloom. Oh, let me
+kiss this kind parental hand.
+
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+                The Prince, Marinelli, Odoardo, Emilia.
+
+                          PRINCE (_entering_).
+
+What means this? Is Emilia not well?
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Very well, very well.
+
+                      PRINCE (_approaching her_.)
+
+What do I see? Oh, horror!
+
+                               MARINELLI.
+
+I am lost!
+
+                                PRINCE.
+
+Cruel father, what hast thou done.
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Broken a rose before the storm had robbed it of its bloom. Said you not
+so, my daughter?
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Not you, my father. I, I myself----
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Not thou my daughter--not thou! Quit not this world with falsehood on
+thy lips. Not thou, my daughter--thy father, thy unfortunate father.
+
+                                EMILIA.
+
+Ah!--My father----(_Dies in his arms. He lays her gently on the
+floor_.)
+
+                                ODOARDO.
+
+Ascend on high! There, Prince! Does she still charm you? Does she still
+rouse your appetites?--here, weltering in her blood--which cries for
+vengeance against you. (_After a pause_.) Doubtless you wait to see the
+end of this. You expect, perhaps, that I shall turn the steel against
+myself, and finish the deed like some wretched tragedy. You are
+mistaken. There! (_Throws the dagger at his feet_.) There lies the
+blood-stained witness of my crime. I go to deliver myself into the
+hands of justice. I go to meet you as my judge: then I shall meet you
+in another world, before the Judge of all.               (_Exit_.)
+
+    PRINCE (_after a pause, during which he surveys the body with a
+           look of horror and despair, turns to_ Marinelli).
+
+Here! Raise her. How! Dost thou hesitate? Wretch! Villain! (_Tears the
+dagger from his grasp_.) No. Thy blood shall not be mixed with such as
+this. Go: hide thyself for ever. Begone, I say. Oh God! Oh God! Is it
+not enough for the misery of many that monarchs are men? Must devils in
+disguise become their friends?
+
+
+
+
+
+                            NATHAN THE WISE.
+
+                     A DRAMATIC POEM IN FIVE ACTS.
+
+                  (_Translated by R. Dillon Boylan_.)
+
+The well-known Goetze Controversy is to be thanked for the appearance
+of this, the longest, and in many respects the most important of
+Lessing's dramatic works. It was written in 1778-9, in reply to some of
+the theological censures of the Hamburg pastor. In 1783, it was first
+acted at Berlin, but it met with little success there or elsewhere,
+until in 1801, when it was introduced on the Weimar stage, by Schiller
+and Goethe.
+
+
+
+
+                            DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
+
+      Sultan Saladin.
+      Sittah, _his Sister_.
+      Nathan, _a rich Jew of Jerusalem_.
+      Recha, _his adopted Daughter_.
+      Daja, _a Christian woman living in the Jew's house as_ Recha's
+        _companion_.
+      _A young_ Knight Templar.
+      A Dervise.
+      _The_ Patriarch of Jerusalem.
+      A Friar.
+      _An_ Emir _and several of_ Saladin's Mamelukes.
+
+                      _The scene is in Jerusalem_.
+
+
+
+
+
+                            NATHAN THE WISE.
+
+                "Introite, nam et heic Dii sunt."
+
+                                                   _Apud_ Gellium.
+
+
+
+
+                                 ACT I.
+
+
+                 Scene I.--_A Hall in Nathan's House_.
+
+        Nathan, _returning from a journey_; Daja, _meeting him_.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   'Tis he! 'Tis Nathan! endless thanks to Heaven
+   That you at last are happily returned.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Yes, Daja! thanks to Heaven! But why at _last_?
+   Was it my purpose--was it in my power
+   To come back sooner? Babylon from here,
+   As I was forced to take my devious way,
+   Is a long journey of two hundred leagues;
+   And gathering in one's debts is not--at best,
+   A task that expedites a traveller's steps.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   O Nathan! what a dire calamity
+   Had, in your absence, nigh befallen us!
+   Your house----
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                      Took fire. I have already heard.
+   God grant I may have learnt the whole that chanced!
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Chance saved it, or it had been burnt to ashes.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Then, Daja! we had built another house,
+   And a far better----
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                   True--ay, true! but Recha
+   Was on the point of perishing amid
+   The flames----
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                       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.
+
+   It cannot be for pastime that this man
+   Follows me thus. See how he eyes my hands!
+   Good brother--or, perhaps I should say, father!
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   No, brother; a lay brother, at your service.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Well, brother, then, if I had anything--
+   But truly I have nothing----
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                    Thanks the same!
+   God will reward your purpose thousandfold.
+   The will and not the deed perfects the giver.
+   Nor was I sent to follow you for alms.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Sent?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+            From the convent.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                   Where I even now
+   Was hoping to partake a pilgrim's fare.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   'Tis meal--time now, the tables all are full;
+   But if it please you, we will turn together.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   No matter, though I have not tasted meat
+   For many days; these dates, you see, are ripe.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Be sparing of that fruit, sir, for too much
+   Is hurtful, sours the blood, and makes one sad.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   And what if sadness suits me? Though, methinks,
+   'Twas not to give this warning that you came.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Oh, no! my mission was to question you--
+   To feel your pulse a little.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                   And you tell
+   This tale yourself?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                        Why not?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                 An artful soul! (_aside_).
+   And has the convent many more like you?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   I know not. Mere obedience is my duty.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   And you obey without much questioning.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Could it be rightly termed obedience else?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   The simple mind is ever in the right.--(_aside_).
+   But will you not inform me who it is
+   That wishes to know more of me? Not you,
+   I dare be sworn.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                        Would such a wish become
+   Or profit me?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                       Whom would it then become
+   Or profit to be thus inquisitive?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Perhaps the Patriarch--'twas he that sent.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   The Patriarch? and does he know my badge
+   So ill?--The red cross on the snow-white robe.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Why? I know that.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                  Well, brother, hear me out.
+   I am a Templar--and a prisoner now.
+   Made captive with some others at Tebnin,
+   Whose fortress we had almost ta'en by storm
+   Just as the truce expired. Our hopes had been
+   To threaten Sidon next. Of twenty knights
+   Made prisoners there together, I alone
+   Was pardoned by command of Saladin.
+   The Patriarch now knows what he requires,
+   And more than he requires.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                     And yet no more
+   Than he had learned already. He would ask
+   Why you, of all the captives doomed to die,
+   Alone were spared?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                       Can I myself tell that?
+   Already with bare neck I had knelt down
+   Upon my mantle, to await the stroke,
+   When Saladin with steadfast eye surveys me.
+   Nearer he draws--he makes a sign--they raise me--
+   I am unbound--I would express my thanks--
+   I mark the tear-drop glisten in his eye--
+   We both stand mute--he turns and leaves the spot--
+   I stay. And now, how all this hangs together,
+   The Patriarch must explain.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                     The Patriarch thinks
+   That Heaven preserved you for some mighty deed.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Some mighty deed? To rescue from the flames
+   A Jewish maid! To lead to Sinai's mount
+   Bands of inquiring pilgrims--and the like!
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   The time may come for more important tasks:
+   Perhaps the Patriarch has already planned
+   Some mighty business for you.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                       Think you so?
+   Has he already given you a hint?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Yes--but my task is first to sift a little,
+   To see if you are one to undertake----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Well--sift away? (We'll see how this man sifts).
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   The better course will be to name at once
+   What is the Patriarch's desire.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                          It is----?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   To make you bearer of a letter.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                       Me?
+   I am no carrier. Is that the office
+   More meritorious than to save from death
+   A Jewish maid?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                    So, truly, it would seem.
+   The Patriarch says that this little note
+   Involves the general weal of Christendom,
+   And that to bear it to its destined hand,
+   Safely, will merit a peculiar crown
+   From Heaven--and of that crown, the Patriarch
+   Says none can worthier be than you.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                    Than I!
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   You have your liberty--can look around;
+   You understand how cities may be stormed,
+   And how defended, says the Patriarch;
+   You know the strength and weakness of the towers,
+   And of the inner rampart lately reared
+   By Saladin, and you could point out all
+   To the Lord's champions fully.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                      May I know
+   Exactly the contents of this same letter?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Of that I am not quite informed myself.
+   'Tis to King Philip; and our Patriarch--
+   I often wonder how that holy man,
+   Whose every thought would seem absorbed by Heaven,
+   Can stoop to earthly things, and how his mind
+   Can be so deeply skilled in human lore----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Well, then, your Patriarch----
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                          Exactly knows
+   From secret sources, how, and with what force,
+   And in what quarter, should the war break out,
+   The foe and Saladin will take the field.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Knows he so much?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                        Ay, truly! and he longs
+   To send the urgent tidings to King Philip,
+   That he may better calculate if now
+   The danger be so great, as to demand
+   At every hazard that he should renew
+   The truce so boldly broken by the Templars.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   The noble Patriarch! He seeks in me
+   No common herald, but the meanest spy.
+   Therefore, good brother, tell your Patriarch,
+   That I am not--as far as you can sift--
+   The man to suit his ends. I hold myself
+   A captive still. I know a Templar's duty:
+   Ready to die, not live to play the spy.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   I thought as much. Nor can I censure you
+   For your resolve. The best has still to come.
+   Our Patriarch has learnt the very fort,
+   Its name, its strength, its site on Lebanon,
+   Wherein those countless treasures are concealed,
+   Wherewith the Sultan's prudent father pays
+   His troops, and all the heavy costs of war.
+   He knows that Saladin, from time to time,
+   Visits this fortress, by some secret way,
+   With but a few attendants.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                       Well! what then?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   'Twould be an easy task, methinks, to seize
+   The Sultan thus defenceless--and to end him.
+   You shudder, knight! Two monks who fear the Lord,
+   Are ready now to undertake the task,
+   And wait a leader.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                           And the Patriarch
+   Has pitched on me to do this noble deed?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   He thinks King Philip might from Ptolemais
+   Give aid in the design.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                           Has pitched on me!
+   On me!--Say, brother, have you never heard
+   The boundless debt I owe to Saladin?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Truly I have.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                        And yet----
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                          The Patriarch
+   Says that is very well; but yet your order,
+   And vows to God----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                 Change nothing; they command
+   No villainy.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+               No. But the Patriarch
+   Says what seems villainy to human eyes,
+   May not appear so in the sight of God.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Brother, I owe my life to Saladin,
+   And his shall my hand take?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                    Oh, no!--But yet
+   The Patriarch maintains that Saladin,
+   Who is the common foe of Christendom,
+   Can never have a claim to be your friend.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   My friend? forsooth! because I will not be
+   A thankless wretch to him!
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                    'Tis so!--But yet
+   The Patriarch thinks gratitude is not
+   Before the eyes of God or man, a debt,
+   Unless, for our own sakes, some benefit
+   Has been conferred; and, says the Patriarch,
+   It is affirmed the Sultan spared your life
+   Merely because your voice, your look, your air,
+   Awoke a recollection of his brother----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   He knows all this, and yet?----Ah, were it true!
+   And, Saladin, could Nature form in me
+   A single feature in thy brother's likeness,
+   With nothing in my soul to answer it?
+   Or what does correspond, shall I belie
+   To please a Patriarch? No, surely Nature
+   Could never lie so basely! Nor, kind God,
+   Couldst thou so contradict Thyself! Go, brother,
+   And do not rouse my anger.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                         I withdraw
+   More gladly than I came. And, pardon me:
+   A monk's first duty, sir, is to obey.
+
+
+                  Scene VI.--_The_ Templar _and_ Daja.
+
+      (_She has been watching him from afar and now approaches_.)
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Methinks the monk left him in no good mood,
+   But, spite of that, I must my errand risk.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   This hits exactly. As the proverb goes,
+   Women and monks are ever Satan's tools,
+   And I to-day am subject to them both.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Whom do I see? Thank God, our noble knight.
+   Where have you been so long? Not ill, I hope?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   No.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+      In good health?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                             Yes.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                   We have all been grieved
+   Lest something should have ailed you. Have you been
+   Upon a journey?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                        Fairly guessed.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                          Since when
+   Have you returned to us?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                  Since yesterday.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Our Recha's father, too, is just returned,
+   And now may Recha hope at last.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                         For what?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   For what she has so often asked in vain.
+   Her father pressingly invites you too.
+   He lately has arrived from Babylon
+   With twenty camels, bearing precious stones,
+   And stuffs and fragrant spices, which he sought
+   In India, Persia, Syria, and China.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   I am no merchant.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                        He is much esteemed
+   By all his nation--honoured as a prince--
+   And yet to hear how he is named by all
+   Nathan _the Wise_, and not _the Rich_, seems strange.
+   It often makes me wonder.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                  But to them
+   It may be, _wise_ and rich--both mean the same.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   It seems to me he should be called _the Good_,
+   So rich a store of goodness dwells in him.
+   Since he has learned the weighty debt he owes
+   For service done to Recha there is nought
+   He would withhold from you.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                       Well?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                                Try him, sir!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   What then? A moment passes soon away.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   I had not dwelt with him so many years
+   Were he less kind. I know a Christian's worth,
+   And it was never o'er my cradle sung
+   That I to Palestine should wend my way,
+   Following a husband's steps, to educate
+   A Jewish maid. My husband was a page,
+   A noble page, in Emperor Frederick's court----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   By birth a Swiss, who earned the sorry fame
+   Of drowning in one river with his lord.
+   Woman! how often have you told this tale?
+   When will you cease to persecute me thus?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   To persecute you!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                    Ay, to persecute!
+   Now mark me. I will never see you more,
+   Hear you, nor be reminded of a deed
+   Performed at random. When I think of it,
+   I wonder somewhat, though I ne'er repent.
+   But hear me still. Should such a fatal chance
+   Again occur, you have yourself to blame
+   If I proceed more calmly, question first.
+   And let what's burning, burn.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                    Great God forbid!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   And now I have a favour to implore.
+   Know me henceforth no more. Grant me this grace,
+   And save me from her father; for with me
+   A Jew's a Jew; a Swabian blunt am I.
+   The image of the maid is now erased
+   Out of my soul--if it was ever there.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   But yours remains with her.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                     Well, and what then?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Who knows? Men are not always what they seem.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   They're seldom better.                         (_Going_.)
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                              Stay a little while.
+   What need of haste?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                              Woman! forbear to make
+   These palm--trees odious: I have loved their shade.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Then go, thou German bear! Yet I must follow him.
+                            (_She follow him at a distance_.)
+
+
+
+
+                                ACT II.
+
+
+                    Scene I.--_The Sultan's Palace_.
+
+                Saladin and Sittah (_playing at chess_).
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Where are your thoughts? How ill you play, dear brother!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Not well in truth--and yet I thought----
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                           Oh, yes!
+   You're playing well for me; take back that move.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Why?
+                                SITTAH.
+
+            Don't you see you leave your knight exposed?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Ay, true!--then so.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                        And now I take your pawn.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   That's true again, dear Sittah! Well, then, check!
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   That will not help you--I protect my king,
+   And all is safe again.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                 Well, out of this
+   Dilemma 'tis not easy to escape.
+   I cannot save the knight.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                 I pass him by;
+   I will not take him.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                        Well, I owe you nothing;
+   The place you gain is better than the piece.
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Perhaps.
+                                SALADIN.
+
+              But reckon not without your host;
+   You did not see that move.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                Not I, indeed;
+   I did not think you weary of your queen.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   My queen!
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                Well, well! I see that I to-day
+   Shall win my thousand dinars and no more.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+  Why so?
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                Why so? Because designedly
+   You lose the game! You vex me, Saladin!
+   I find no pleasure in a game like this.
+   And even when I lose, I come off well;
+   For, to console me for the games you win,
+   You force me to accept a double stake.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   In that case, then, it may be by design
+   That you have sometimes lost. Is that the truth?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   At least your generosity's to blame
+   That I improve so little in my play.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   But we forget the game; come, finish it.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Well, 'tis my move; now, check to king and queen!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Indeed! I did not see the double check.
+   I lose my queen.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                     Let's see! Can it be helped?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   No, take the queen--I have no luck with her.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Only with her?
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                    Remove her from the board,
+   I shall not miss her. Now I am right again.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   I know from lessons which yourself have taught
+   How courteously we should behave to queens.
+                           (_Offering to restore the piece_.)
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Take her or not, I shall not move her more.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Why need I take her? Check, and check!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                                Go on.
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Check, check, and check again!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                         'Tis checkmate now.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Hold!--no, not yet. You may advance the knight,
+   And ward the danger. But 'twill be the same.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   You are the winner, and Al-Hafi pays.
+   Let him be called, Sittah! You were not wrong.
+   My thoughts were wandering--were not in the game,
+   But who gives us so oft these shapeless bits
+   Of wood? which speak of naught--suggest no thought.
+   Was it with Iman that I've played--Well, well,
+   Ill-luck is ever wont to seek excuse.
+   Not the unmeaning squares or shapeless men
+   Have made me heedless; your dexterity,
+   Your calm, sharp eye, dear Sittah!
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                           What of that?
+   Is that to blunt the sting of your defeat?
+   Enough--your thoughts were wandering more than mine.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Than yours? What subject could engage your thoughts?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Far different cares than those which trouble you.
+   But, Saladin, say, when shall we again
+   Resume this pleasant pastime?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                 Dearest Sittah,
+   This interruption will but whet our zeal.
+   Your thoughts are on the war: well, let it come--
+   'Twas not my arm that first unsheathed the sword;
+   I would have willingly prolonged the truce,
+   And willingly have knit a tender bond,
+   For Sittah's sake, with Richard's noble brother.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   How pleased you are, can you but praise your Richard.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   If Richard's sister had but been bestowed
+   Upon our brother Melek, what a house
+   Had then been ours! the best, the happiest
+   The earth could boast. You know I am not slow
+   To praise myself: I'm worthy of my friends.
+   What men these unions would have given us!
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Did I not smile at once at your fine dreams?
+   You do not, will not, know the Christian race.
+   It is their pride not to be men, but Christians.
+   The virtue which their founder felt and taught,
+   The charity He mingled with their creed,
+   Is valued, not because it is humane,
+   And good, and lovely, but for this alone,
+   That it was Christ who taught it, Christ who did it.
+   'Tis well for them He was so good a man,
+   Well that they take His goodness all on trust,
+   And in His virtues put their faith. His virtues!
+   'Tis not His virtues, but His name alone
+   They wish to thrust upon us--His mere name,
+   Which they desire should overspread the world,
+   Should swallow up the name of all good men,
+   And put the rest to shame. 'Tis for His name
+   Alone they care.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                    Else, Sittah, as you say,
+   They would not have required that you and Melek
+   Should be called Christians, ere they suffered you
+   To feel for Christians the pure flame of love.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   As if from Christians, and from them alone,
+   That love can be expected, which the hand
+   Of our Creator gives to man and wife.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Christians believe such vain absurdities,
+   That this may be among them. And yet, Sittah,
+   The Templars, not the Christians, are in this
+   To blame. 'Tis they alone who thwart my plans;
+   'Tis they who still hold Acca, pledged to us
+   By treaty as the dower of Richard's sister.
+   And, to maintain their order's interests,
+   They use this cant--the nonsense of the monk.
+   Scarce would they wait until the truce expired
+   To fall upon us. But, go on, good sirs!
+   Would that all else may thrive as well as this!
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Why, what else troubles you? What other care
+   Have you to struggle with?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                That constant grief--
+   I've been to Lebanon, and seen our father.
+   He's full of care.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                     Alas!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                              He must give way.
+   Straitened on every side, no aid, no help,
+   Nothing comes in.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                        What ails him, Saladin?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   The only thing that I am loth to name,
+   Which, when I have it, so superfluous seems,
+   And, when I have it not, so necessary.
+   Where is Al-Hafi? Have they gone for him?
+   Will no one go? Oh, fatal, cursed money!
+   Welcome, Al-Hafi! You are come at last.
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+             _The_ Dervise Al-Hafi, Saladin, _and_ Sittah.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   The gold from Egypt, I suppose, is come.
+   Say, is it much?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                     What! have you heard of it?
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Not I. I thought I should receive it here.
+
+              SALADIN (_pacing thoughtfully to and fro_).
+
+   Sittah has won a thousand dinars, pay them.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Pay without getting. That is worse than nothing!
+   And still to Sittah--once again for chess!
+   But let us see the board; how stands the game?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   You grudge me my good fortune?
+
+                    AL-HAFI (_examining the board_).
+
+                         Grudge you? When--
+   You know too well----
+
+                    SITTAH (_making signs to him_).
+
+                        Oh, hush! Al-Hafi, hush!
+
+                 AL-HAFI (_still examining the board_).
+
+   Don't grudge it to yourself.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                         Al-Hafi, hush!
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   And were the white men yours?
+                                         You gave the check?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   'Tis well he does not hear.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                                    The move is his.
+
+                     SITTAH (_approaching nearer_).
+
+   Then promise me that I shall have the money.
+
+                AL-HAFI (_still intent upon the board_).
+
+   You shall receive it as you've always done.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   How! are you mad?
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                          The game's not over yet.
+   You have not lost it, Saladin.
+
+                    SALADIN (_paying no attention_).
+
+                                      Oh, yes;
+   Pay down the money.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                              Pay! here stands the queen.
+
+                      SALADIN (_still heedless_).
+
+   She's of no use; she's lost.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                               Do say that I
+   May send and fetch the gold.
+
+                  AL-HAFI (_still studying the game_).
+
+                                   Oh, yes! of course.
+   But though the queen be lost, you are not mate.
+
+                  SALADIN (_dashing down the board_).
+
+   I say I am. I will be mate.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                                  If so,
+   Small pains, small gains, say I. So got, so spent.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   What is he muttering there?
+
+      SITTAH (_to_ Saladin, _making a sign meanwhile to_ Al-Hafi).
+
+                                   You know him well.
+   He likes entreaties--loves to be implored.
+   Who knows if he be not a little jealous?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Well, not of thee--not of my sister, surely.
+   What do I hear? Al-Hafi, are you jealous?
+
+                                 AL-HAFI.
+
+   Perhaps I am. I wish I had her head,
+   Or that I were as good as she.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                  My brother,
+   He always pays me fairly, and to-day
+   He'll do the same. Let him alone. Now go!
+   Al-Hafi! go! I'll have the money----
+
+                                 AL-HAFI.
+
+                                      No, not I.
+   I'll act this farce no more. He must know soon.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Who? what?
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                  Al-Hafi! say, is this your promise?
+   Is't thus you keep your word?
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                                    Could I foresee
+   That it would come to this?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                 Well, tell me all.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Al-Hafi! I implore you, be discreet.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   'Tis very strange; and what can Sittah have
+   So earnestly to sue for, from a stranger--
+   A Dervise--rather than from me, her brother?
+   Al-Hafi, I command you. Dervise, speak.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Let not a trifle touch my brother nearer
+   Than is becoming, for you know that I
+   Have often won as much from you at chess.
+   But as I stand in little need of gold,
+   I've left the money in Al-Hafi's chest,
+   Which is not over full; but never fear,
+   It is not my intention to bestow
+   My wealth on either of you.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                                   Were this all!
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Some more such trifles are perhaps unclaimed:
+   My own allowance, which you set apart
+   Has lain some months untouched.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                                    Nor is this all.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Then tell the whole.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                          Whilst we've been waiting for
+   The gold from Egypt, she----
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                    Nay, hear him not.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Not only has had nothing,----
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                 Dearest sister I--
+   But also has been lending it to you?
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Ay! at her sole expense maintained your state.
+
+                       SALADIN (_embracing her_).
+
+   So like my sister!
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                      Who but you, my brother,
+   Could make me rich enough to have the power?
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   And soon he'll make her once again as poor
+   As he is now.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                I poor! her brother poor!
+   When had I more--when had I less than now?
+   A cloak, a horse, a sabre, and my God!
+   What need I else? and these ne'er can I lack.
+   And yet, Al-Hafi, I could scold you now.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Nay, brother, do not scold. I would that I
+   Could thus also relieve our father's cares!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Ah! now my joy has vanished all at once.
+   We can want nothing; but he's destitute.
+   And whilst he wants, we all are poor indeed.
+   What shall I do? From Egypt we can hope
+   For nothing--though God only knows the cause.
+   'Tis general peace around, and as for me,
+   I could live sparingly, reduce, retrench,
+   If none else suffered; but 'twould not avail.
+   A cloak, a horse, a sword I ne'er can want.
+   As to my God, He is not to be bought.
+   He asks but little, only asks my heart.
+   I had relied, Al-Hafi, on your chest,
+   Upon the surplus there.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                             A surplus there!
+   Say, should I not have been impaled or hanged,
+   If I had been detected hoarding up
+   A surplus? Deficits I might have ventured.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Well, but what next? Could you have found out none
+   To borrow from, but Sittah?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                 And would I
+   Have borne it, had another been preferred?
+   I claim that privilege. I am not yet
+   Quite beggared.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                   No, not quite. Dear Sittah, this
+   Alone was wanting. But, Al-Hafi, go,
+   Inquire about, take where and what you can;
+   Borrow on promise, contract, anyhow;
+   But, mark me, not from those I have enriched.
+   'Twould seem as if I wished to have it back.
+   Go to the covetous. They gladliest lend.
+   They know how well their money thrives with me.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   I know of none.
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                      I recollect just now,
+   I heard, Al-Hafi, of your friend's return.
+
+                         AL-HAFI (_starting_).
+
+   Friend! friend of mine! and who can that be, pray?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Your boasted Jew.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                      A Jew! and praised by me!
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   On whom his God--I think I recollect
+   The very words you used, as touching him--
+   On whom his God, of all the choicest goods
+   Of earth, in full abundance, has bestowed
+   The greatest and the least.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                                What could I mean
+
+   When I said so?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                     The least of good things--wealth.
+   The greatest--wisdom!
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                             How! and of a Jew
+   Did I say that?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                    Ay, that you did--of Nathan.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Oh, true! of Nathan--yes! He did not now
+   Occur to me. But he's returned at last,
+   Then do not doubt that he's well off. He's called
+   The Wise, the Rich, by all the Jewish folk.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Now more than ever is he named the Rich.
+   The town resounds with news of costly stuffs
+   And priceless treasures he has brought with him.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Is he the Rich once more? Then, do not fear,
+   He'll be the Wise again.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                           What think you? Will
+   You visit him, Al-Hafi?
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                          What, to borrow?
+   You know him, surely! Think you he will lend?
+   His very wisdom lies in this--that he
+   Will lend to no one.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                          Formerly you gave
+   A picture very different of him.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   In case of need he'll lend you merchandise;
+   But money--money--never! He's a Jew,
+   Who has not many equals 'mongst his tribe.
+   He's wise, knows how to live, can play at chess;
+   Excels in evil, too, as well as good.
+   Rely not on him. To the poor, indeed,
+   He vies with Saladin himself in gifts;
+   And if not quite so much, he gives as freely,
+   To Jew, and Christian, and Mahometan--
+   To all alike.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                And such a man as this----
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   How comes it, then, I never heard of him?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Can he refuse to lend to Saladin,
+   Who wants for others--never for himself.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Ay, there peeps out the Jew--the vulgar Jew:
+   Believe me, he is jealous, envious
+   Of generosity. It seems as though
+   To earn God's favour were his special mission.
+   And that he may possess wherewith to give,
+   He never lends. The law he serves, commands
+   That he show mercy, but not complaisance.
+   Thus him has mercy made the rudest churl
+   In all the world. 'Tis true I have not been
+   This long time past on friendly terms with him,
+   But do not think that I would do him wrong,
+   He's good in all things else, but not in that;
+   Therefore I'll go and knock at other doors.
+   I recollect this instant an old Moor,
+   Who's rich and covetous: I'll go to him. (_Exit_.)
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Why in such haste, Al-Hafi?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                 Let him go.
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+                            Sittah, Saladin.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   He speeds away, as though he would escape.
+   Why so? Is he indeed himself deceived,
+   Or would he now mislead me?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                 Can I guess?
+   I scarcely know the man of whom you speak,
+   And, for the first time, hear to-day of him.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Can it be possible you know him not
+   Who, it is said, has visited the
+   Of Solomon and David; knows the spell
+   To ope their marble lids, and thence obtain
+   The boundless stores that claim no lesser source.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Were this man's wealth by miracle procured,
+   'Tis not at Solomon's or David's tomb
+   That it is found. Mere mortal fools lie there.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Or knaves!--But still his source of opulence
+   Is more productive, more exhaustless than
+   A cave of Mammon.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                  For he trades, I'm told.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   His caravans through every desert toil,
+   His laden camels throng the public roads,
+   His ships in every harbour furl their sails.
+   Al-Hafi long ago has told me this,
+   Adding, with pride, how Nathan gives away,
+   What he esteems it noble to have earned
+   By patient industry, for others' wants;
+   How free from bias is his lofty soul,
+   His heart to every virtue how unlocked,
+   To every lovely feeling how allied!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   And yet Al-Hafi spoke with coldness of him.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Not coldness, but unwillingness, as if
+   He deemed it dangerous to praise too much,
+   Yet knew not how to blame without a cause.
+   Or can it be, in truth, that e'en the best
+   Amongst a tribe can never quite escape
+   The foibles of their race, and that, in fact,
+   Al-Hafi has in this to blush for Nathan?
+   But come what may, let him be Jew or not,
+   If he be rich, that is enough for me.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   You would not, sister, take his--wealth by force?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   By force? What mean you? Fire and sword? Oh, no!
+   What force is necessary with the weak
+   But their own weakness? Come awhile with me,
+   Into my harem. I have bought a songstress
+   You have not heard--she came but yesterday.
+   Meanwhile I'll think upon a subtle plan
+   For this same Nathan. Follow, Saladin!
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+_The Place of Palms, near_ Nathan's _house, from which_ Recha _and_
+Nathan _are coming_; Daja, _meeting them_.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Dear father! you have been so slow, that you
+   Will scarcely meet him now.
+
+                                 NATHAN.
+
+                            Well, well, my child;
+   If not beneath the palms, be sure that we
+   Shall meet him somewhere else. Be satisfied.
+   Is not that Daja whom I see approaching?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   She certainly has lost him.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                               Wherefore so?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Her pace were quicker else.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                               She has not seen us.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   There, now she spies us.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                              And her speed redoubles.
+   Recha, be calm!
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                        What! would you have your child
+   Be cold and unconcerned about his fate
+   To whom her life is due?--a life to her
+   But dear because she owed it first to you.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   I would not wish you other than you are,
+   E'en if I knew that in your secret soul
+   Another and a different feeling throbs.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   What means my father?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                            Do you ask of me--
+   So tremblingly of me? What passes now
+   Within your soul is innocence and nature.
+   Nay, fear not, for it gives me no alarm.
+   But promise, if the heart shall ever speak
+   A plainer language, you will not conceal
+   One single of your wishes from my love.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Oh, the bare thought that I should ever wish
+   To hide them from my father, makes me shudder.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Recha, enough of this. Now, what says Daja?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   He's still beneath the palms, and presently
+   He'll reach yon wall. See! here he comes at last.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   He seems irresolute which way to turn,
+   To left or right!
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                     His custom is to seek
+   The convent walls, so he will pass this way.
+   What will you wager? Yes, he comes to us.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Right! Did you speak to him? How did he look?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   As usual.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+               Do not let him see you here.
+   Stand farther back, or to the house retire.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Just one look more. Ah! the trees hide him now.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Come, come away! Recha, your father's right.
+   Should he observe us he'll retire at once.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Alas! the trees----
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                      Now he emerges from them.
+   He can't but see you. Hence! I beg of you.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Come, Recha, come! I know a window whence
+   We may observe him better.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                             Come, then, come.
+                                    (_They both retire_.)
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+           Nathan (_who is presently joined by the_ Templar).
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   I almost shrink from meeting this strange fellow--
+   Recoil from his rough virtue! That one man
+   Should ever make another feel confused!
+   But see, he comes! he seems a noble youth;
+   Looks like a man. I like his daring eye,
+   His honest gait. Although the shell is bitter,
+   The kernel may not be so. I have seen
+   One like him somewhere. Pardon, noble Frank----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   What would you?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                        Pardon me----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                               What would you, Jew?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   The privilege of speaking to you.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                    Well!
+   How can I help it? Quick, then--what's your wish?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Patience! nor pass with such contempt and pride
+   One who must be your debtor evermore.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   How so? I almost guess. No; are you then----
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   My name is Nathan, father to the maid
+   Your generous courage rescued from the flames.
+   I come to----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+               If you come to render thanks,
+   Spare them. I have already been compelled
+   To bear too many thanks for this small act.
+   Besides, you owe me nothing. Could I know
+   The maiden was your daughter? I was bound--
+   It is a Templar's duty--to assist
+   All who need succour; and my life just then
+   Was a mere burden. It was a relief
+   To risk it for another, even though
+   The task were to preserve a Jewess' life.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Great--great yet horrible--I understand
+   The turn. The modest greatness will assume
+   The hideous mask to ward off gratitude.
+   But though he may disdain our proffer'd thanks,
+   Is there no other tribute we can pay?
+   Sir Knight! if you were not a stranger here,
+   And not a pris'ner, I were not so bold.
+   But, come, what service can I render you?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   You!--nothing.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                     I am rich.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                              The richer Jew
+   Was ne'er in my esteem the better 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 the sake
+   Of my poor mantle; when it is well worn,
+   And spite of darning will not hold together,
+   I'll come and borrow cloth or gold of you,
+   To make a new one. Nay, Sir, do not start;
+   The danger is not pressing--'tis not yet
+   Quite worthless; it is sound, and strong, and good.
+   Save in one corner, where an ugly spot
+   Is singed, and that is from a burn it got
+   When I bore off your daughter from the fire.
+
+                 NATHAN (_taking hold of the mantle_).
+
+   'Tis strange, indeed, that such a spot as this
+   Should bear far better witness to the man
+   Than his own lips. This spot! Oh, I could kiss it.
+   Your pardon, Sir, in truth, I meant it not!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   What?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+          'Twas a tear that fell.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                    Well, 'tis no matter.
+   'Tis not the first. (This Jew doth puzzle me.)
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Would you but send this mantle to my daughter!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Why?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+           That she, too, may press it to her lips;
+   For at her benefactor's feet to fall
+   She now may hope in vain.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                               But, Jew, your name?
+   Tis Nathan, is it not? You choose your words
+   With skill--I am confused. I did not think
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Feign, Templar, and dissemble as you may,
+   I see the truth. I see your generous heart,
+   Too honest and too good to be polite.
+   A grateful girl, all feeling, and her maid
+   Swift to obey--a father far from home,
+   You valued her fair fame, and would not see her.
+   You scorned to tempt lest you should victor prove.
+   For this too I must tender you my thanks.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   You know at least how Templars _ought_ to feel.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Why Templars only? and why ought to feel?
+   Is it because your rules and vows enjoin
+   These duties to _your order_? Sir, I know
+   How good men all should feel, and know as well
+   That every country can produce good men.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   You'll make distinctions?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                            Yes, in colour, form,
+   And dress, perhaps.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                       Ay, and in number too--
+   Here more--there less.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                            The difference is not much.
+   Great men, like trees, have ever need of room;
+   Too many set together only serve
+   To crush each other's boughs. The middling sort,
+   Like us, are found in numbers, they abound;
+   Only let not one 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 what nation was the first
+   To scatter discord 'mongst their fellow-men?
+   To claim the title of "the chosen people?"
+   How now if I were not to hate them, but
+   To scorn this upstart nation, for their pride?
+   That pride which it bequeathed to Mussulman
+   And Christian, as if God were theirs alone.
+   You start to hear a Christian and a Templar
+   Talk thus. But when and where has all this rage,
+   This pious rage, to win the better God,
+   And force this better God on all the world,
+   Shown itself more, or in a blacker form,
+   Than here, and now? Who here, who now retains
+   The blinding scales upon his eyes--and yet
+   Let him be blind who will!--forget my words,
+   And leave me (_is going_).
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                   Templar! you but little know
+   How closer henceforth I shall cling to you.
+   We must, we must be friends. Despise my people--
+   We did not choose a nation for ourselves.
+   Are we our nation's? What then is a nation?
+   Were Jews or Christians such, ere they were men?
+   Ah! would that I had found in you one man
+   To whom it were enough to be a man.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Thou hast so, Nathan! Yes, by Heaven, thou hast.
+   Thy hand. I blush to have mistaken thee.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Now I feel proud. 'Tis only common souls
+   In whom we seldom err.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                           Uncommon ones
+   We do not oft forget. Nathan, we must,
+   We must be friends.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                        We are so. And my Recha
+   Will now rejoice. How bright the prospect grows
+   That dawns upon me! If you did but know her.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   I grow impatient, Nathan. But who now
+   Comes from your house? Methinks it is your Daja.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Yes, and her look how full of care! God grant----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   That nothing may have chanced to our Recha!
+
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+                          Daja (_rushing in_).
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Nathan, dear Nathan!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                           Well.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                  Forgive me, Knight,
+   That I must interrupt you.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                               What has happened?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   The Sultan sends for you--commands you straight
+   To speak with him. Protect us, Heaven! the Sultan!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   The Sultan sends for me! He would inspect
+   The goods--the precious wares that I have brought
+   From Persia. Say there's nothing yet unpacked.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   No, no; 'tis not to look at anything;
+   He wants to speak to you in person, Nathan,
+   And orders you to come at once.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                    I go.
+
+   Daja, return.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                Knight, take it not amiss.
+   We were alarmed for what the Sultan might
+   Require of Nathan.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                      That I soon shall know. (_Exit Daja_.)
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                         Nathan, _the_ Templar.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Are you then not acquainted with him yet?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Who, Saladin? Not yet. I've neither shunned
+   Nor sought to see him. And the public voice
+   Proclaims his fame so loud, that I could wish
+   Rather to take its language upon trust,
+   Than sift the truth. And yet if it be true
+   That he has spared your life----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                   Yes, so it is.
+   The life I live, he gave.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                             Then he bestows
+   A double, treble life on me. And thus
+   He flings a bond around me, which secures
+   My duty to his service; and henceforth
+   I burn to know his wishes. Now, for all
+   I am prepared; and further, will confess
+   'Tis for your sake alone that I am thus.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Often I've sought to meet him, but as yet
+   Have found no means to render him my thanks.
+   The impress which his mind received of me
+   Was transient, and ere now has disappeared.
+   Who knows if he may still remember me?
+   And yet once more at least he must recall
+   Me to his thoughts--to fix my future lot!
+   'Tis not enough that by his gracious will
+   I still have of life; I've yet to learn
+   According to whose will I have to live.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Therefore 'twere well I did not tarry now.
+   Perchance some happy word may give excuse
+   To speak of you. Now, pardon me, farewell!
+   I must away. When shall we meet again?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Whenever 'tis permitted.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                 When you will.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   To-day, then.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                  And your name?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                           My name was--is--
+   Conrad of Stauffen.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                        Conrad of Stauffen! Stauffen!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   What is there in my name to wonder at?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   There are more races of that name, no doubt.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Yes, many of the name were here--rot here,
+   My uncle even--I should say my father.
+   But wherefore is your eye so fixed on me?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   I know not; but I love to look on you.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Therefore I take my leave. The searching eye
+   Will oft discover more than it desires.
+   I fear it, Nathan; so, farewell. Let time,
+   Not curious prying, make us better known. (_Exit_.)
+
+            NATHAN (_looking after him with astonishment_).
+
+   "The searching eye will oft discover more
+   Than it desires." As if he read my soul!
+   That, too, may chance to be. 'Tis not alone
+   His walk, his stature, but his very voice!
+   Leonard so bore himself--was even wont
+   To carry thus his sword upon his arm,
+   And thus to shade his eyebrow with his hand,
+   As if to hide the fire that fill'd his look.
+   So deeply graven images may seem
+   At times to lie asleep within the soul,
+   When all at once a single word--a tone--
+   Calls them to life again. Of Stauffen--right--
+   Filnek and Stauffen--I will soon know more.
+   But first to Saladin. Ha! Daja here--
+   And on the watch! Come nearer, Daja, come.
+
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+                             Daja, Nathan.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Well, both of you have something more at heart
+   Than to know what the Sultan wants with me.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   And you can hardly blame her for it, sir.
+   You were beginning to converse with him
+   More trustingly yourself, when suddenly
+   The Sultan's message drove us from the window.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Go tell her, Daja, she may soon expect
+   A visit from the Templar.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                               What! indeed!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   I think I may rely upon you, Daja.
+   Be on your guard, I beg, you'll not repent it.
+   Your conscience shall at length be satisfied,
+   But do not mar my plans. Inquire, explain,
+   But with reserve, with fitting modesty.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   No need for such advice. I go, I go.
+   And you must follow; for, see, Hafi comes--
+   The Sultan sends a second messenger.
+
+
+                               Scene IX.
+
+                            Nathan, Al-Hafi.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Ha! are you there? I have been seeking you.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Why in such haste? What can he want with me?
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Who?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+          Saladin. But I am coming quickly.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   To whom? To Saladin?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                          Has he not sent you?
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Me? no--but has he sent already?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                  Yes.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Then it is so.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                        What's so?
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                      That----I'm not guilty,
+   God knows, I'm not to blame; 'tis not my fault.
+   I've done my best--belied, and slandered you--
+   To save you from it.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                        Save me? and from what?
+   Be plain.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+               From being made his Defterdar.
+   I pity you--I cannot stay to see it.
+   I fly this hour--you know the road I take.
+   Speak, then, if I can serve you; but your wants
+   Must suit a wretch that's wholly destitute.
+   Quick, what's your pleasure?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                               Recollect yourself--
+   Your words are mystery. I know of nothing.
+   What do you mean?
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                     You'll take your money--bags?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   My money--bags!
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                        Ay, bring your treasures forth--
+   The treasures you must shower on Saladin.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   And is that all?
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+              Ah! shall I witness it,
+   How, day by day, he'll scoop and pare you down,
+   Till nothing but a hollow, empty shell,
+   A husk as light as film, is left behind.
+   Nathan, you've yet to learn how spendthrift waste
+   From prudent bounty's never empty stores
+   Borrows and borrows, till there's not a crumb
+   Left to keep rats from starving. Do not think
+   That he who wants your gold will heed advice.
+   When has the Sultan listened to advice?
+   Hear what befel me with him.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                   Well--go on.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   He played just now at chess with Sittah. She
+   Is a keen player. I drew near and watched.
+   The game which Saladin supposed was lost,
+   Stood yet upon the board. He had given in,
+   I marked, and cried, "The game's not lost at all!"
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Oh! what a grand discovery for you.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   He needed only to remove his king
+   Behind the castle--and the check was saved.
+   Could I but show you----
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                           I believe it all!
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Then with the castle free, he must have won.
+   I saw it, and I called him to the board.
+   What do you think he did?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                  He doubted you.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Not only that--he would not hear a word--
+   And with contempt he overthrew the board.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Indeed!
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+             He said he chose it--would be mate.
+   Is that to play the game?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                              Most surely not.
+   'Twas rather playing with the game.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                                         And yet
+   The stakes were high.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                          A trifle to the Sultan!
+   Money is nought to him. It is not that
+   Which galls, but not to hear Al-Hafi out--
+   Not to admire his comprehensive glance,
+   His eagle eye--'tis that demands revenge.
+   Say, am I right?
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                   I only tell this tale
+   That you may know how much his head is worth.
+   But I am weary of him. All the day
+   I am running round to every wretched Moor
+   To borrow--money for him--I who ne'er
+   Ask for myself, am now obliged to sue
+   For others--and, according to my creed,
+   To borrow is to beg, as, when you lend
+   Your money upon usury, you steal.
+   Among my Ghebers on the Ganges' shores
+   I shall need neither; there I shall not be
+   The tool or pimp of any; there alone
+   Upon the Ganges honest men are found.
+   You, Nathan, you alone of all I see
+   Are worthy on the Ganges' banks to live.
+   Then come with me; leave him the wretched gold
+   That he would strip you of--'tis all he wants.
+   Little by little he will ruin you;
+   'Tis better to be quit of all at once;
+   Come, then, and I'll provide you with a staff.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Nay, that resource will still remain for us
+   As a last refuge. But I'll think of it.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+   Nay, ponder not upon a thing like this.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Then stay till I have seen the Sultan. Stay
+   Till I have bid farewell.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                              The man who stays
+   To hunt for motives, to search reasons out,
+   Who cannot boldly and at once resolve
+   To live a free man's life, must be the slave
+   Of others till his death. But as you please.
+   Farewell! my path is here, and yours is there!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   But stay, Al-Hafi! till you have arranged
+   The state accounts.
+
+                                AL-HAFI.
+
+                        Pah! Nathan, there's no need;
+   The balance in the chest is quickly told,
+   And my account, Sittah, or you, will vouch.
+   Farewell!                                   (_Exit_.)
+
+                     NATHAN (_looking after him_).
+
+              Yes, I will vouch it, honest, wild--
+   How shall I call him? Ah! the real beggar
+   Is, after all, the only real king. (_Exit at opposite side_.)
+
+
+
+
+                                ACT III.
+
+
+                Scene I.--_A room in_ Nathan's _house_.
+
+                              Recha, Daja.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Well, Daja, did my father really say
+   "That I might instantly expect him here?"
+   That surely meant that he would come at once,
+   And yet how many minutes have rolled by!
+   But I'll not dwell upon the moments gone,
+   I'll only live in those that are to come,
+   That one which brings him here must come in time.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   But for the Sultan's ill-timed messenger
+   Nathan had brought him hither.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                                    When he comes--
+   Oh! when this dearest of my inmost hopes
+   Shall be fulfilled--what then--what then?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                             What then?
+   Why then I trust the wish most dear to me
+   Will also be fulfilled.
+
+                                  RECHA.
+
+                         And in its place
+   What wish shall take possession of my breast?
+   Which now forgets to heave, unless it pant
+   With some fond wish? Will nothing come? I shudder!
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   My wish shall then supplant the one fulfilled,
+   My wish to see you borne to Europe's shores
+   By hands well worthy of you.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                                    You do err.
+   The very thought which makes you form this wish
+   Forbids it to be mine. Your native land
+   Attracts you, and has mine no charm for me?
+   Shall a remembrance of your cherished home,
+   Your absent kindred and your dearest friends,
+   Which years and distance have not yet effaced,
+   Rule in your soul with softer, mightier sway
+   Than what I know, and hear, and feel of mine.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   'Tis vain to struggle, for the ways of Heaven
+   Are still the ways of Heaven. And who can say
+   If he who saved your life may not be doomed,
+   Through his God's arm, for whom he nobly fights.
+   To lead you to that people--to that land
+   To which you should belong by right of birth?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   What are you saying, Daja? dearest Daja!
+   Indeed you have some strange and curious thoughts.
+   "_His_ God!" whose God? To whom can God belong,
+   And how can God belong to any man,
+   Or need a human arm to fight his battles?
+   And who, among the scattered clods of earth
+   Can say for which of them himself was born,
+   Unless for that on which he was produced?
+   If Nathan heard thee! How has Nathan sinned,
+   That Daja seeks to paint my happiness
+   So far removed from his? What has he done,
+   That thus amongst the seeds of reason, which
+   He sowed unmixed and pure within my soul,
+   The hand of Daja must for ever seek
+   To plant the weeds, or flowers of her own land?
+   He has no wish to see upon this soil
+   Such rank luxuriant blossoms. I myself
+   Must own I faint beneath the sour--sick odour;
+   Your head is stronger and is used to it.
+   I find no fault with those of stronger nerves
+   Who can support it--mine, alas! give way.
+   Your angel too, how near befool'd was I
+   Through him; I blush whene'er I see my father.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   As if, dear Recha, you alone were wise.
+   Folly! If I might speak----
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                            And may you not?
+   Have I not listened gladly to your tales
+   About the valiant heroes of your faith?
+   Have I not freely on their deeds bestowed
+   My admiration--to their sufferings given
+   The tribute of my tears? Their faith, 'tis true,
+   Has never seemed to me their noblest boast,
+   But, therefore, Daja, I have only learnt
+   To find more consolation in the thought
+   That our devotion to the God of all
+   Depends not on our notions of that God.
+   My father has so often taught me this--
+   You have so often to this point agreed,
+   How can it be that you wish now alone
+   To undermine what you have built together?
+   But this is no discourse with which to wait
+   The friend whom we expect--and yet for me
+   'Tis of some moment whether he----But hark!
+   Hark! Some one comes this way.---If it were he!
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+                       The Templar, Daja, Recha.
+
+                  (_A servant ushers in the_ Templar.)
+
+   This way, Sir Knight!--
+
+   (Recha _starts, composes herself, and is about to fall at his
+                                feet_.)
+
+                          'Tis he! my rescuer. Ah!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   'Twas only to avoid this scene that I
+   So long postponed my visit.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                                   At the feet
+   Of this proud man, I will thank God alone,
+   And not the man. He does not want my thanks--
+   As little as the bucket does which proved
+   Itself so useful at the fire, and let
+   Itself be filled and emptied; so this man,
+   He too was thrust by chance amid the flames;
+   I dropped by chance into his open arms,
+   By chance remained there, like a fluttering spark
+   Upon his mantle--till--I know not what
+   Expelled us from the flames. What room is here
+   For thanks?--In Europe wine excites the men
+   To greater deeds--The Templar knows his duty,
+   Performs his task, as well-trained spaniels do,
+   Who fetch alike from water and from flames.
+
+ TEMPLAR (_who has been surveying her with surprise and uneasiness_).
+
+   O Daja, Daja! if in hasty hours
+   Of care and grief, this unchecked tongue of mine
+   Betrayed me into rudeness, why convey
+   To her each idle word that leaves my lips?
+   This is indeed too galling a revenge!
+   Yet, if henceforth, you will interpret better----
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   I question if these little stings, Sir Knight,
+   Were so shot forth as to have done you wrong.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   How! you had cares, and were more covetous
+   Of them than of your life.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                             Thou best of beings,
+   How is my soul with eye and ear at strife?
+   No, 'twas not she I rescued from the fire,
+   For who could know her and forbear the deed?
+   In truth, disguised by terror----
+                (_He gazes on her as if entranced_.)
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                                  But to me
+   You still appear the same as then you seemed.
+   (_A pause, till she resumes in order to interrupt his reverie_.)
+   Tell me, Sir Knight, where have you been so long?
+   And--I might almost ask--where are you now?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   I am where I, perhaps, ought not to be.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   And been, perhaps, where you should not have been.
+   That is not well.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                    I have been up the mountain--
+   What is the name?--ay! Sinai!
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                                       I am glad;
+   For, doubtless, you can tell me if 'tis true----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   If what is true? If holy people show
+   The spot where Moses stood before his God?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Oh no; not that. Wherever Moses stood
+   It was before his God. I know enough
+   About such things already. Is it true--
+   I wish to learn from you who have been there--
+   If it is not by far less difficult
+   To climb than to descend the holy mount?
+   For with all other mountains that I know,
+   'Tis quite the contrary. You turn away!
+   Why do you turn, Sir Knight? Nay, look at me.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   I wish to hear you rather.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                              I perceive,
+   Because you do not wish that I should see
+   You smile at my simplicity. You smile
+   That I have not some more important thing
+   To ask about the holy hill of hills.
+   Is it so?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+             Must I meet those eyes again?
+   And now you cast them down, and check your smile.
+   How can I in those changeful features read
+   What I so plainly hear--the truth your words
+   So audibly declare, and yet would hide?
+   How truly did your father say to me,
+   "If you but knew her!"
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                             Who said that to you?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Your father, and of you he spoke the words.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Have I not said it to you many times?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Where is your father now? with Saladin?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Doubtless he is.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                      Still there! Oh, I forget.
+   He cannot still be there. He waits for me,
+   As he appointed, near the cloister gate.
+   Forgive me, I must go in quest of him.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   I will do that. Wait here, I'll bring him straight.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   O no, O no! He is expecting me.
+   Besides, you cannot tell what may have chanced.
+   'Tis not unlikely he may be engaged
+   With Saladin--you do not know the Sultan--
+   In some unpleasant----Danger may ensue
+   If I delay.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+              Danger! for whom? for what?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Danger for me--for you--for him! unless
+   I go at once                                    (_Exit_.)
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+                              Recha, Daja.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                  What is the matter, Daja?
+   So quick! what ails him--makes him fly from hence?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Let him alone. I think it no bad sign.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Sign! and of what?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                           That something vexes him.
+   It boils, but it must not boil over. Go,
+   'Tis your turn now.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                        My turn. You have become
+   Incomprehensible to me--like him.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Now you may pay him back with interest
+   All the unrest he once occasioned you.
+   But be not too vindictive--too severe.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Well, Daja, you must know your meaning best.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   And are you then already calm once more?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   In truth I am.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                     Confess at least, dear Recha,
+   That all this restlessness has brought you pleasure,
+   And that you have to thank his want of ease
+   For all the ease that you yourself enjoy.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   I know not that, but I must still confess
+   That to myself it seems a mystery
+   How in this bosom, such a pleasing calm
+   Can suddenly succeed so rude a storm.
+   His countenance, his speech, his manner have----
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   By this time satisfied you.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                                No, not that.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Well, satisfied your more impatient want.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Well, well, if you must have it so.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                        Not I!
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   To me he must be ever dear. To me
+   He must remain more dear than life, although
+   My pulse no longer flutters at his name,
+   My heart no longer, when I think of him,
+   Beats with a fuller throb. What have I said?
+   Come, Daja, to the window once again
+   Which overlooks the palms.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                   I see 'tis not
+   Yet satisfied, that more impatient want.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Now, I shall see the palm--trees once again;
+   Not him alone amidst them.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                  Such a fit
+   Of coldness speaks of fevers yet to come.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Nay, I'm not cold, in truth I do not see
+   Less gladly that which I do calmly see.
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+            (_The Hall of Audience in_ Saladin's _Palace_.)
+
+                            Saladin, Sittah.
+
+                     SALADIN (_giving directions_).
+
+   Bring the Jew here, as soon as he arrives.
+   He seems in no great haste.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                Nay, Saladin,
+   Perhaps he was not found at home.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                        Ah, sister!
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   You look as if some contest were at hand.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Ay! and with weapons I'm not used to wield.
+   Must I then play the hypocrite--and frame
+   Precautions--lay a snare? Where learnt I that?
+   And for what end? To seek for money--money!
+   For money from a Jew? And to such arts
+   Must Saladin descend, that he may win
+   The most contemptible of paltry things?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   But paltry things, despised too much, are sure
+   To find some method of revenge.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                    'Tis true!
+   What, if this Jew should prove an upright man,
+   Such as the Dervise painted him?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                        Why, then,
+   Your difficulty ceases; for a snare
+   Implies an avaricious, cheating Jew,
+   And not an upright man. Then he is ours
+   Without a snare. 'Twill give us joy to hear
+   How such a man will speak--with what stern strength
+   He'll tear the net, or with what cunning skill
+   Untangle all its meshes, one by one.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   True, Sittah! 'twill afford me rare delight.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   What, then, need trouble you? For if he be,
+   Like all his nation, a mere cozening Jew,
+   You need not blush, if you appear to him
+   No better than he deems all other men.
+   But if to him you wear a different look,
+   You'll be a fool--his dupe!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                 So I must, then,
+   Do ill, lest bad men should think ill of me.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Yes, brother, if you call it doing ill
+   To put a thing to its intended use.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Well, there is nothing woman's wit invents
+   It cannot palliate----
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                       How, palliate?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Sittah, I fear such fine-wrought filagree
+   Will break in my rude hand. It is for those
+   Who frame such plots to bring them into play.
+   The execution needs the inventor's skill.
+   But let it pass.--I'll dance as best I can--
+   Yet sooner would I do it ill than well.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Oh, brother, have more courage in yourself!
+   Have but the will, I'll answer for the rest.
+   How strange that men like you are ever prone
+   To think it is their swords alone that raise them.
+   When with the fox the noble lion hunts,
+   'Tis of the fellowship he feels ashamed,
+   But of the cunning, never.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                          Well, 'tis strange
+   That women so delight to bring mankind
+   Down to their level. But, dear Sittah, go;
+   I think I know my lesson.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                             Must I go?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   You did not mean to stay?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                              No, not with you,
+   But in this neighb'ring chamber.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                        What! to listen?
+   Not so, my sister, if I shall succeed.
+   Away! the curtain rustles--he is come.
+   Beware of lingering! I'll be on the watch.
+   (_While_ Sittah _retires through, one door_, Nathan _enters at
+              another, and_ Saladin _seats himself_.)
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+                            Saladin, Nathan.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Draw nearer, Jew--yet nearer--close to me!
+   Lay fear aside.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                   Fear, Sultan, 's for your foes.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Your name is Nathan?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                           Yes.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                    Nathan the Wise.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   No.
+                                SALADIN.
+
+        But, at least the people call you so.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   That may be true. The people!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                       Do not think
+   I treat the people's voice contemptuously.
+   I have been wishing long to know the man
+   Whom it has called the Wise.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                   What, if it named
+   Him so in scorn? If wise means prudent only--
+   And prudent, one who knows his interest well?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Who knows his real interest, you mean.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Then, Sultan, selfish men were the most prudent,
+   And wise, and prudent, then, would mean the same.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   You're proving what your speeches contradict.
+   You know the real interests of man:
+   The people know them not--have never sought
+   To know them. That alone can make man wise.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Which every man conceives himself to be.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   A truce to modesty! To meet it ever,
+   When we are seeking truth is wearisome (_springs up_).
+   So, let us to the point. Be candid, Jew,
+   Be frank and honest.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                        I will serve you, prince,
+   And prove that I am worthy of your favour.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   How will you serve me?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                You shall have the best
+   Of all I have, and at the cheapest rate.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   What mean you? Not your wares?--My sister, then,
+   Shall make the bargain with you. (That's for the listener!)
+   I am not versed in mercantile affairs,
+   And with a merchant's craft I've nought to do.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Doubtless you would inquire if I have marked
+   Upon my route the movements of the foe?
+   Whether he's stirring? If I may presume----
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Neither was that my object. On that point
+   I know enough. But hear me.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                 I obey.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   It is another, a far different thing
+   On which I seek for wisdom; and since you
+   Are called the Wise, tell me which faith or law
+   You deem the best.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                         Sultan, I am a Jew.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   And I a Mussulman. The Christian stands
+   Between us. Here are three religions, then,
+   And of these three one only can be true.
+   A man like you remains not where his birth
+   By accident has cast him; or if so,
+   Conviction, choice, or ground of preference,
+   Supports him. Let me, Nathan, hear from you,
+   In confidence, the reasons of your choice,
+   Which I have lacked the leisure to examine.
+   It may be, Nathan, that I am the first
+   Sultan who has indulged this strange caprice,
+   Which need not, therefore, make a Sultan blush.
+   Am I the first? Nay, speak; or if you seek
+   A brief delay to shape your scattered thoughts,
+   I yield it freely. (Has she overheard?
+   She will inform me if I've acted right.)
+   Reflect then, Nathan, I shall soon return. (_Exit_.)
+
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+                           NATHAN (_alone_).
+
+   Strange! how is this? What can the Sultan want?
+   I came prepared for cash--he asks for truth!
+   Truth! as if truth were cash! A coin disused--
+   Valued by weight! If so, 'twere well, indeed!
+   But coin quite new, not coin but for the die,
+   To be flung down and on the counter told----
+   It is not that. Like gold tied up in bags,
+   Will truth lie hoarded in the wise man's head,
+   To be produced at need? Now, in this case,
+   Which of us plays the Jew? He asks for truth.
+   Is truth what he requires? his aim, his end?
+   Or does he use it as a subtle snare?
+   That were too petty for his noble mind.
+   Yet what is e'er too petty for the great?
+   Did he not rush at once into the house,
+   Whilst, as a friend, he would have paused or knocked?
+   I must beware. Yet to repel him now
+   And act the stubborn Jew, is not the thing;
+   And wholly to fling off the Jew, still less.
+   For if no Jew, he might with justice ask,
+   Why not a Mussulman?--That thought may serve.--
+   Others than children may be quieted
+   With tales well told. But see, he comes--he comes.
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                            Saladin, Nathan.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   (_Aside_) (The coast is clear)--I am not come too soon?
+   Have you reflected on this matter, Nathan?
+   Speak! no one hears.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                           Would all the world might hear!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   And are you of your cause so confident?
+   'Tis wise, indeed, of you to hide no truth,
+   For truth to hazard all, even life and goods.
+
+                                 NATHAN.
+
+   Ay, when necessity and profit bid.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   I hope that henceforth I shall rightly bear
+   One of my names, "Reformer of the world
+   And of the law!"
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                      A noble title, truly;
+   But, Sultan, ere I quite explain myself,
+   Permit me to relate a tale.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                 Why not?
+   I ever was a friend of tales well told.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Well told! Ah, Sultan! that's another thing.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   What! still so proudly modest? But begin.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   In days of yore, there dwelt in Eastern lands
+   A man, who from a valued hand received
+   A ring of priceless worth. An opal stone
+   Shot from within an ever-changing hue,
+   And held this virtue in its form concealed,
+   To render him of God and man beloved,
+   Who wore it in this fixed unchanging faith.
+   No wonder that its Eastern owner ne'er
+   Withdrew it from his finger, and resolved
+   That to his house the ring should be secured.
+   Therefore he thus bequeathed it: first to him
+   Who was the most beloved of his sons,
+   Ordaining then that he should leave the ring
+   To the most dear among his children; then,
+   That without heeding birth, the fav'rite son,
+   In virtue of the ring alone, should still
+   Be lord of all the house. You hear me, Sultan?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   I understand. Proceed.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                             From son to son,
+   The ring at length descended to a sire
+   Who had three sons, alike obedient to him,
+   And whom he loved with just and equal love.
+   The first, the second, and the third, in turn,
+   According as they each apart received
+   The overflowings of his heart, appeared
+   Most worthy as his heir, to take the ring,
+   Which, with good-natured weakness, he in turn
+   Had promised privately to each; and thus
+   Things lasted for a while. But death approached,
+   The father now embarrassed, could not bear
+   To disappoint two sons, who trusted him.
+   What's to be done? In secret he commands
+   The jeweller to come, that from the form
+   Of the true ring, he may bespeak two more.
+   Nor cost nor pains are to be spared, to make
+   The rings alike--quite like the true one. This
+   The artist managed. When the rings were brought
+   The father's eye could not distinguish which
+   Had been the model. Overjoyed, he calls
+   His sons, takes leave of each apart--bestows
+   His blessing and his ring on each--and dies.
+   You hear me?
+
+             SALADIN (_who has turned away in perplexity_).
+
+                      Ay! I hear. Conclude the tale.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   'Tis ended, Sultan! All that follows next
+   May well be guessed. Scarce is the father dead,
+   When with his ring, each separate son appears,
+   And claims to be the lord of all the house.
+   Question arises, tumult and debate--
+   But all in vain--the true ring could no more
+   Be then distinguished than----(_after a pause, in which he
+     awaits the Sultan's reply_) the true faith now.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Is that your answer to my question?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                              No!
+   But it may serve as my apology.
+   I cannot venture to decide between
+   Rings which the father had expressly made,
+   To baffle those who would distinguish them.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Rings, Nathan! Come, a truce to this! The creeds
+   Which I have named have broad, distinctive marks,
+   Differing in raiment, food, and drink!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                           'Tis true!
+   But then they differ not in their foundation.
+   Are not all built on history alike,
+   Traditional or written? History
+   Must be received on trust. Is it not so?
+   In whom are we most likely to put trust?
+   In our own people? in those very men
+   Whose blood we are? who, from our earliest youth
+   Have proved their love for us, have ne'er deceived,
+   Except in cases where 'twere better so?
+   Why should I credit my forefathers less
+   Than you do yours? or can I ask of you
+   To charge your ancestors with falsehood, that
+   The praise of truth may be bestowed on mine?
+   And so of Christians.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                         By our Prophet's faith,
+   The man is right. I have no more to say.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Now let us to our rings once more return.
+   We said the sons complained; each to the judge
+   Swore from his father's hand immediately
+   To have received the ring--as was the case--
+   In virtue of a promise, that he should
+   One day enjoy the ring's prerogative.
+   In this they spoke the truth. Then each maintained
+   It was not possible that to himself
+   His father had been false. Each could not think
+   His father guilty of an act so base.
+   Rather than that, reluctant as he was
+   To judge his brethren, he must yet declare
+   Some treach'rous act of falsehood had been done.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Well! and the judge? I'm curious now to hear
+   What you will make him say. Go on, go on!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   The judge said: If the father is not brought
+   Before my seat, I cannot judge the case.
+   Am I to judge enigmas? Do you think
+   That the true ring will here unseal its lips?
+   But, hold! You tell me that the real ring
+   Enjoys the secret power to make the man
+   Who wears it, both by God and man, beloved.
+   Let that decide. Who of the three is loved
+   Best by his brethren? Is there no reply?
+   What! do these love--exciting rings alone
+   Act inwardly? Have they no outward charm?
+   Does each one love himself alone? You're all
+   Deceived deceivers. All your rings are false.
+   The real ring, perchance, has disappeared;
+   And so your father, to supply the loss,
+   Has caused three rings to fill the place of one.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   O, charming, charming!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                         And,--the judge continued:--
+   If you insist on judgment, and refuse
+   My counsel, be it so. I recommend
+   That you consider how the matter stands.
+   Each from his father has received a ring:
+   Let each then think the real ring his own.
+   Your father, possibly, desired to free
+   His power from one ring's tyrannous control.
+   He loved you all with an impartial love,
+   And equally, and had no inward wish
+   To prove the measure of his love for one
+   By pressing heavily upon the rest.
+   Therefore, let each one imitate this love;
+   So, free from prejudice, let each one aim
+   To emulate his brethren in the strife
+   To prove the virtues of his several ring,
+   By offices of kindness and of love,
+   And trust in God. And if, in years to come,
+   The virtues of the ring shall reappear
+   Amongst your children's children, then, once more,
+   Come to this judgment--seat. A greater far
+   Than I shall sit upon it, and decide.
+   So spake the modest judge.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                 Oh God, O God!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   And if now, Saladin, you think you're he----
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+(_Approaches_ Nathan, _and takes his hand, which he retains to the end
+of the scene_.)
+
+   This promised judge--I?--Dust! I?--Nought! oh God!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   What is the matter, Sultan?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                   Dearest Nathan!
+   That judge's thousand years are not yet past;
+   His judgment-seat is not for me. But go,
+   And still remain my friend.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                 Has Saladin
+   Aught else to say?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                        No.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                              Nothing?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                          Truly nothing.
+   But why this eagerness?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                              I could have wished
+   An opportunity to ask a boon.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+Wait not for opportunity. Speak now.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   I have been traveling, and am just returned
+   From a long journey, from collecting debts.
+   Hard cash is troublesome these perilous times,
+   I know not where I may bestow it safely.
+   These coming wars need money; and, perchance,
+   You can employ it for me, Saladin?
+
+                SALADIN (_fixing his eyes upon_ Nathan).
+
+   I ask not, Nathan, have you seen Al-Hafi?
+   Nor if some shrewd suspicion of your own
+   Moves you to make this offer.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                   What suspicion?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   I do not ask--forgive me,--it is just,
+   For what avails concealment? I confess
+   I was about----
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                 To ask this very thing?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Yes!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+          Then our objects are at once fulfilled,
+   And if I cannot send you all my store,
+   The Templar is to blame for that. You know
+   The man. I owe a heavy debt to him.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   The Templar! Surely, Nathan, with your gold
+   You do not aid my direst foes?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                    I speak
+   Of him whose life was spared by Saladin.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Of what do you remind me? I had quite
+   Forgot the youth. Where is he? Know you him?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Have you not heard, then, how your clemency
+   Through him has flowed to me? How, at the risk
+   Of the existence which your mercy gave,
+   He saved my daughter from the raging flames?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Ha! did he so? He looked like one that would!
+   My brother, too--his image--would have done it.
+   Is he still here? Bring him to me at once.
+   I have so often spoken to my sister
+   Of this same brother, whom she never knew,
+   That I must let her see his counterfeit.
+   Go, fetch him. How a single noble deed,
+   Though but the offspring of the merest whim,
+   Gives birth to other blessings! Bring him to me.
+
+                  NATHAN (_loosing_ Saladin's _hand_).
+
+   I'll go--the other matter then is settled. (_Exit_.)
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   I wish I had but let my sister listen.
+   I'll go at once to her and tell it all.
+                              (_Exit on the opposite side_.)
+
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+_The Place of Palms in the neighbourhood of the Convent, where the_
+Templar _awaits_ Nathan.
+
+       TEMPLAR (_walking to and fro, in conflict with himself_.)
+
+   The panting victim here may rest awhile.
+   So far 'tis well. I dare not ask myself
+   What change has sprung within me, nor inquire
+   What yet may happen. Flight has proved in vain,
+   And, come what may, I could no more than flee,
+   The stroke was far too sudden to escape.
+   Long--much--I strove to keep aloof, in vain.
+   But once to see her, e'en against my will,
+   To see her, and to frame a firm resolve
+   Never to lose her. What, then, is resolve?
+   Resolve is purpose--action, while--in truth--
+   I was but passive. But to see her once,
+   And feel that I was woven into her being,
+   Was then and still remains the self-same thing.
+   To live apart from her--oh, bitter thought!--
+   Were death; and after death--where'er we were--
+   'Twould there be death too. Say, then, is this love?
+   And doth the Templar love? A Christian loves
+   A Jewish maiden! Well, and what of that?
+   This is the holy land; holy to me,
+   And dear, because I have of late renounced
+   Full many a prejudice. What says my vow?
+   In the same hour that made me prisoner
+   To Saladin. The head he gave me back,
+   Was it the old one? No. I'm newly framed,
+   I know no fragment of the ancient forms
+   That bound me once. My brain is clearer now,
+   More fit for my paternal home above.
+   Now I can think as once my father thought,
+   If tales of him are not untruly told--
+   Tales that were ne'er so credible as now,
+   When I am stumbling where my father fell.
+   Fell! yet 'twere better far to fall with men
+   Than stand with boys. His conduct guarantees
+   His approbation. And what need I more
+   Than Nathan's approbation? Of his praise
+   I cannot doubt. Oh, what a Jew is he!
+   And yet he would appear the simple Jew.
+   But, see, he comes--he comes in haste--delight
+   Beams from his eye. But who leaves Saladin
+   With other looks? Ho! Nathan!
+
+
+                               Scene IX.
+
+                         Nathan, _the_ Templar.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                    Are you there?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Your visit to the Sultan has been long.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Not over long. My audience was delayed.
+   But, Conrad, this man well supports his fame--
+   His fame is but his shadow. But I must
+   Without delay inform you that he would----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                                Say on.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Would speak with you. So, come with me at once.
+   I have some brief commands to give at home,
+   Then to the Sultan.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                        Nathan, I will ne'er
+   Enter your door again----
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                            Then you've been there
+   Already--spoken with her. Tell me all.
+   How do you like my Recha?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                               Words would fail
+   To tell how much. I dare not trust myself
+   Alone with her again, unless you say
+   That I may gaze upon her form for ever.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   What can this mean?
+
+        TEMPLAR (_after a short pause, embracing him suddenly_).
+
+                              My father!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   How, young man?
+
+              TEMPLAR (_withdrawing himself as suddenly_).
+
+   Call me your son! I do implore you, Nathan.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Dear youth!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                  And not your son! I pray you, Nathan,
+   Conjure you, by the strongest ties of Nature,
+   Let it content you now to be a man:
+   Repel me not.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                    My dearest friend!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                    Say son!
+   Why not your son? What, if in Recha's heart
+   Mere gratitude had paved the way for love,
+   And if we both but waited your assent
+   To crown our union! You are silent, sir!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   I am astonished at your words, young Knight.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Astonished! Do I then astonish you
+   With your own thoughts, although you know them not
+   When uttered by my lips. Astonished, Nathan?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Would that I knew what Stauffen was your father!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   What say you, Nathan? At a time like this,
+   Can you indulge such empty, curious thoughts?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   I knew a Stauffen once whose name was Conrad.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   What, if my father bore that very name?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   And did he so?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                   I bear my father's name,
+   I am called Conrad.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                       So! And yet the man
+   I knew was not your father, for, like you,
+   He was a Templar, and was never married.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   And what of that?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                        How?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                    He might still have been
+   My father.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                  Nay, you jest.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                               You're far too good.
+   What matters it? Does bastard wound your ear?
+   The race, good sir, is not to be despised.
+   But spare my pedigree, and I'll spare yours.
+   Great God! forbid my words should ever cast
+   The smallest doubt on your ancestral tree.
+   You can attest it backwards, leaf by leaf,
+   To Abraham. And from that point--I know it well,
+   Myself--can even swear to it.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Your words are bitter. Do I merit this?
+   What have I e'er refused you? I have but
+   Forborn assent at the first word you spoke.
+   No more!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+             Oh! true, no more. Forgive me, Nathan.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Well, come with me, come.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                               Whither? to your house?
+   That will I not--it burns. I'll wait you here.
+   Farewell. If I'm to see her once again,
+   I then shall see her often; and if not,
+   I have already seen her too--too much.
+
+
+                                Scene X.
+
+                          _The_ Templar, Daja.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Too much, indeed! Strange that the human brain
+   So infinite of comprehension, should
+   At times with a mere trifle be engrossed,
+   Suddenly filled, and all at once quite full,
+   No matter what it teems with. But the soul
+   Soon calms again, and the fermenting stuff
+   Makes itself room, restoring life and order.
+   And is this, then, the first time that I love?
+   And was the glow to which I gave that name
+   Not love at all? And is this love alone
+   Which now with burning flame consumes my heart?
+
+                 DAJA (_who has crept up to his side_).
+
+   Sir Knight! Sir Knight!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                           Who calls? What, Daja, you!
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Yes, I am here; I managed to slip by him.
+   But he can see us where we stand. Come nearer,
+   And place yourself with me behind this tree.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Why so mysterious? What's the secret, Daja?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Yes, 'tis a secret which has brought me hither--
+   A twofold secret. Part is known to me,
+   The other part to you. Come, let us change:
+   First tell me yours, and then I'll tell you mine.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Yes, willingly, when I have ascertained
+   What you call mine. But yours will throw a light
+   Upon the whole. Begin, then.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                   That's not fair;
+   You must begin, Sir Knight, and I will follow.
+   For be assured my secret's nothing worth,
+   Unless I hear yours first. Then lose no time,
+   For if I guess it, you've not trusted me;
+   My secret, then, will be my own, and yours
+   Worth nothing. But do you suppose, Sir Knight,
+   That you can hide such secrets from a woman?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Secrets we often are unconscious of.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Perhaps. But I must prove myself your friend
+   And tell you all. Confess how happened it
+   That you so suddenly took leave of us,
+   And that with Nathan you will not return?
+   Has Recha, then, made no impression on you,
+   Or made too deep a one, perchance? Oh yes!
+   Too deep--too deep! You are a hapless bird
+   Whose fluttering wing the fatal twig has limed,
+   Confess it, plainly, with a word, you love--
+   Love her to madness, and I'll tell you then----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   To madness? Ah! you understand it well.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Well, grant the love, the madness I'll resign.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Because, of course, there is no doubt of it.
+   A Templar love a Jewess!----
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                              Why, it seems
+   Absurd. But often there's more fitness in
+   Some things than we can readily discern;
+   And 'twould not be the first time that our Lord
+   Had drawn us to Him by a secret path
+   Which we had ne'er discovered of ourselves.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Solemnly spoken I (and if for our Lord
+   I substituted Providence, 'twere true).
+   You make me curious, far beyond my wont.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   This is the land of miracles!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                 Ay, true,
+   Of miracles! Can it be otherwise,
+   When all the world flocks hither? Dearest Daja,
+   You have your wish; so take it as confessed
+   That I do love her, nor can comprehend
+   How I can live without her.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                Can this be?
+   Then swear, Sir Knight, to make her yours--to save
+   Her here on earth--to save her there for ever.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   How can I this? How can I swear to do
+   What stands not in my power.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                  'Tis in your power!
+   One single word brings it within your power.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   But will her father smile upon my suit?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Her father, truly! He shall be compelled.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Compell'd! What, has he fallen among thieves?
+   Compell'd!
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+             Then hear me. Nathan will consent:
+   He must consent.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                        Consent! and must! Oh, Daja!
+   I have already tried to touch that chord;
+   It vibrates not responsive.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                    What! reject you?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   He answered me in such discordant tone
+   That I was hurt.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   What say you? Did you breathe
+   The shadow of a wish to marry Recha.
+   And did not Nathan leap for joy? Did he
+   Draw coldly back--raise obstacles?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                        He did.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+            Then I'll deliberate no moment more.
+
+                       TEMPLAR (_after a pause_).
+
+   And yet you are deliberating still.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Nathan in all things has been ever good.
+   I owe him much. Did he refuse to listen?
+   God knows it grieves me to constrain him thus.
+
+                                 TEMPLAR.
+
+   I pray you, Daja, now to terminate
+   This dire uncertainty. But if you doubt
+   Whether the thing you would impart to me
+   Be right or wrong, worthy of shame or honour,
+   Then tell it not, and henceforth I'll forget
+   You have a secret it were well to hide.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Your words but spur me on to tell you all.
+   Then learn that Recha is no Jewess--that
+   She is a Christian maid.
+
+                          TEMPLAR (_coldly_).
+
+                              I wish you joy!
+   At last the tedious labour's at an end.
+   The birth-pangs have not hurt you. Still go on
+   With undiminished zeal, and people heaven
+   When you are fit no more to people earth.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   How, Knight! and does the news I bring deserve
+   Such bitter taunts? Does it confer no joy
+   On you to hear that Recha is a Christian,
+   On you, her lover, and a Christian knight?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   And more especially since Recha is
+   A Christian of your making?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                 Think you so?
+   Then I would fain see him that may convert her.
+   It is her fate long since to have been that
+   Which she can now no more become.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                              Explain,
+   Or leave me.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                   Well! she is a Christian maid,
+   Of Christian parents born--and is baptised.
+
+                          TEMPLAR (_hastily_).
+
+   And Nathan!
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                  Not her father.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                             Nathan not
+   Her father? Are you sure of that?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                        I am;
+   The truth has cost me tears of blood. He's not.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   But as his daughter he has brought her up,
+   Brought up the Christian maiden as a Jewess?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Just so.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+             And knows she aught about her birth?
+   Has she not learnt from him that she was born
+   A Christian and no Jewess?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                    Never yet.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   And he not only let the child grow up
+   In this mistaken notion, but he leaves
+   The woman in it.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                        Ay, alas!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                 Oh, Nathan!
+   How can the wise, good Nathan lend himself
+   To stifle Nature's voice--to misdirect
+   The yearnings of a heart in such a way
+   Which, to itself abandoned, would have formed
+   Another bias, Daja? Ay, in truth,
+   The secret is of moment, and may have
+   Important issues. But I feel perplexed:
+   I know not how I ought to act. But go,
+   Let me have breathing time. He may approach,
+   He may surprise us suddenly. Farewell!
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   I tremble with affright.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                         And I can scarce
+   Express my thoughts. But go; and should you chance
+   To meet him, say he'll find me at the Sultan's.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Let him not see that you have any thing
+   Against him. That 'twere well to keep reserved,
+   To give the proper turn to things at last.
+   It may remove your scruples, touching Recha.
+   But if you take her back to Europe, Knight,
+   You will not leave me here?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                    We'll see, now go!
+
+
+
+
+                                ACT IV.
+
+               Scene I.--_The Cloisters of the Convent_.
+
+          _The_ Friar, _and presently afterwards the_ Templar.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Ay, ay! he must be right, the Patriarch!
+   And yet, of all his business, no great part
+   Has prospered in my hands. But why should he
+   Entrust such tasks to me? I have no wish
+   To play the knave, to wheedle and persuade,
+   To worm out secrets, and to thrust my hand
+   Into my neighbour's business. Not for this
+   Did I renounce the world, that I might be
+   Entangled with its cares for other men.
+
+                     TEMPLAR (_entering abruptly_).
+
+   Good brother, are you here? I've sought you long.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Me, sir?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+               What, don't you recollect me, then?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Ay! but, Sir Knight, I never thought to see
+   Your face again--and so I hoped in God.
+   God knows how much I hated the proposal
+   Which I was bound to make you, and He knows
+   How little I desired you should assent,
+   How in my inmost soul I was rejoiced
+   When you refused, without a moment's thought,
+   To do what had been shameful in a Knight.
+   But have you thought the matter o'er again?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   You seem to know what object brings me here.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Have you, Sir Knight, reflected by this time,
+   That our good Patriarch is not much deceived
+   In thinking gold and glory may be won
+   By his commission? that a foe's a foe,
+   Were he our guardian angel seven times o'er?
+   Have you 'gainst flesh and blood weighed all these things,
+   And are you come to strike a bargain now?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   My dear good man, be patient; not for this
+   Am I come hither; not for aught like this
+   Do I desire to see the Patriarch.
+   On every point my thoughts remain unchanged;
+   Nor would I for the wealth of all this world
+   Forfeit that good opinion, which I won
+   From such an upright, honest man as you.
+   I merely come to ask the Patriarch
+   For counsel.
+
+                    FRIAR (_looking round timidly_).
+
+                 Counsel from the Patriarch!
+   What, you! a knight to ask a priest's advice!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Mine is a priestly business.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                 Yet the priests
+   Would scorn a knight's advice, were their affairs
+   Ever so knightly.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                        Therefore they're allowed
+   To err sometimes, a privilege which I,
+   For one, don't greatly envy them; and yet,
+   If I were acting only for myself,
+   And were not bound to others, I should care
+   But little for advice. But in some things
+   'Twere better to go wrong by others' guidance
+   Than, by our own, go right. And I observe,
+   By this time, that religion's naught but party,
+   And he who in his own belief is most
+   Impartial, does but hold the standard up
+   Of his own creed, howe'er unconsciously.
+   Yet since 'tis so, it must be right.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                     I'm silent.
+   In truth, I don't quite comprehend.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                        And yet--
+   (Let me consider first what 'tis I want--
+   Decision or advice from sage or simple?)
+   Thanks, brother; yes, I thank you for your hint.
+   What is a patriarch? Be thou for once
+   My patriarch; for 'tis the Christian rather
+   Whom in the patriarch I would consult,
+   Than in the Christian the mere patriarch.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Hold, hold, Sir Knight! no more of this, I find
+   That you mistake me. He who hath learnt much
+   Must needs have many cares. I know but one----
+   But hark, behold! here comes the very man!
+   'Tis he, so stay; he has perceived us both.
+
+
+                                Scene II.
+
+_The_ Patriarch, _after marching up one of the aisles with great pomp,
+approaches_.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   I'd rather shun him--he is not my man--
+   A round, red smiling prelate! And what state!
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   But you should see him at a festival,
+   Now he but comes from visiting the sick.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Great Saladin will then have cause to blush.
+
+        PATRIARCH (_coming forward, makes signs to the_ Friar).
+
+   Was that the Templar? What's his business here?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   I know not.
+
+   PATRIARCH (_advancing, whilst the_ Friar _and his train retire_.)
+
+                  Well, Sir Knight, I'm truly glad
+   To meet so brave a youth. So very young,
+   Something may come of him, if Heaven assist.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Not more than has already come of him,
+   But rather less, my reverend father.
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+                                           Well,
+   It is my prayer that so devout a Knight
+   May for the cause of Christendom and God
+   Be long preserved; nor can it fail to be,
+   If valour will give ear to aged words.
+   Then say, how can I serve you, Sir?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                        With that
+   In which my youth's deficient--sound advice.
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+   Most gladly, if you'll follow my advice.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Not blindly, though.
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+                        Whose words are those? Indeed,
+   None should neglect to use the intellect
+   Bestowed by God, when it is suitable.
+   But is it always suitable? O no!
+   If God, through one of the celestial choir--
+   That is, through one of the blest ministers
+   Of His most sacred word--should condescend
+   To show some way by which the Church's weal,
+   Or else the general good of Christendom,
+   Might be secured, what man would venture then
+   To weigh the laws of intellect against
+   His will, who fashioned intellect itself?
+   Or measure the unchanged decrees of Heaven
+   By empty rules that suit this petty world?
+   But of all this enough. Now tell me, Knight,
+   Wherefore you seek our counsel?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                 Reverend father!
+   Suppose a Jew possessed an only child--
+   A girl--whom he with fond parental care
+   Trained to each virtue, treasured as his soul,
+   Whilst she, with love as ardent as his own,
+   Repaid his love,--suppose it rumoured then
+   That she was not the daughter of this Jew,
+   But a poor orphan, purchased in her youth,
+   Or stolen, or found--or anything, but still
+   Of Christian birth, and in her youth baptised,
+   And that the Jew had reared her in his faith,
+   Allowed her to be thought a Jewish maid,
+   And firmly to believe herself his child,--
+   Say, reverend father, what should then be done?
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+   I shudder at the thought! But, worthy Sir,
+   Say, is this fact, or mere hypothesis?
+   That is, if your own head has framed the case,
+   Or has it happened--does it still exist?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   That's unimportant, and could not assist
+   Your reverence to pronounce upon the point.
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+   What! unimportant! See, Sir Knight, how apt
+   Proud reason is to err in sacred things.
+   'Tis of deep import; though, 'tis true, the case
+   May be the offspring of your sportive wit,
+   When we should straight dismiss it from our thoughts,
+   And I should then refer you to the stage
+   Where _pros_ and _cons_ like these are oft discussed
+   With loud applause. But if the object be,
+   By something better than a sleight of hand,
+   To sound my judgment, if the thing be fact,
+   And may have happened in our diocese,
+   Here in our dear Jerusalem itself,
+   Why then----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                  What then?
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+                         Then were it well, Sir Knight,
+   To execute at once upon the Jew
+   The penalty provided for the case,
+   By Papal and Imperial laws, against
+   So foul a crime, such dire iniquity.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Indeed!
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+             The laws I mention have decreed
+   That if a Jew shall to apostasy
+   Seduce a Christian, he shall die by fire.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Indeed!
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+            How much more when a Jew by force
+   Tears from baptismal bonds a Christian child?
+   For all that's done to children is by force,
+   Save what the Church shall order and perform.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   What if the child were steeped in misery,
+   And must have died, but for this bounteous Jew?
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+   It matters not: the Jew should still be burnt.
+   'Twere better to expire in misery,
+   Than live to suffer never-ending pains.
+   The Jew moreover should not have forestalled
+   The hand of God, whom had He willed to save,
+   Could save without him.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                              Make him happy too,
+   In spite of him.
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+                     It matters not, the Jew
+   Must still be burnt.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                        That grieves me very much,
+   And all the more, as people say that he
+   Has reared the child not in his own belief,
+   So much as in no faith at all, and taught
+   Her neither more nor less of God than is
+   By reason asked.
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+                        It matters not, the Jew
+   Must still be burnt--and for this very cause
+   Would merit threefold death. To rear a child
+   Without a faith! Not even teach a child
+   The greatest of all duties--to believe!
+   'Tis heinous, and I'm rapt in wonder, Knight,
+   That you yourself----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                         Oh, reverend Sir, the rest
+   In the confessional, if God allow. (_Is going_.)
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+   What, going! and not await my questioning!
+   Not name to me this infidel, this Jew!
+   Not find him out for me at once! But, hold!
+   A thought occurs. I'll to the Sultan straight.
+   According to the treaty we have sworn
+   With Saladin, he must protect our creed
+   With all the privileges, all the rights
+   That appertain to our most holy faith.
+   Thank God! we have retained the deed itself,
+   With seal and signature affixed, and we
+   Can readily convince him, make him feel
+   How full of peril for the state it is
+   Not to believe. All civil bonds are rent
+   Asunder, torn to pieces, Knight, when men
+   Have no belief. Away, away for ever
+   With such impiety!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                         I much deplore
+   That I want time to relish this discourse,
+   This holy sermon. Saladin awaits
+   My coming.
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+                  Ah, indeed!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                             And I'll prepare
+   The Sultan for your presence, reverend Sir,
+   If you desire.
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+                  Why, yes! for I have heard
+   You have found favour in the Sultan's sight.
+   I beg to be remembered with respect.
+   Zeal in the cause of God impels me on,
+   And all excesses are performed for Him.
+   Weigh that in kindness, then, most noble Sir!
+   But, tell me, was your case about the Jew
+   A problem merely?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                        Problem! (_He retires_.)
+
+                               PATRIARCH.
+
+                                 (Of the facts,
+   I must have fuller knowledge. I must be
+   Better informed; 'twill be another job
+   For brother Bonafides.) Son, come hither!
+                       (_Speaks with the_ Friar _as he retires_.)
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+                          Saladin's _Palace_.
+
+(_Slaves are employed in bringing bags of gold, and piling them on the
+floor_.)
+
+                            Saladin, Sittah.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   In truth, this weary business ne'er will end;
+   Say, is it nearly done?
+
+                                A SLAVE.
+
+                              One half is done.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Then take the rest to Sittah? Where's Al-Hafi?
+   He must take charge of what is here. But, hold,
+   Were it not best to send it to my father?
+   Here 'twill be quickly spent. I feel, in truth,
+   That I am growing miserly. At last
+   He must be skilful who gets much from me,
+   And till from Egypt further treasure comes,
+   Our poverty must be content to struggle.
+   Yet, at the Holy Sepulchre, the cost
+   Of all the Christian pilgrims must be paid;
+   They must, at least, not go with empty hands.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Why, what is this? wherefore this gold to me?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Recoup yourself with it, if aught is left,
+   Keep it in store.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                        Are Nathan and the Knight
+   Not yet arrived?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                        The former everywhere
+   Is seeking him.
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                    Behold what I have found
+   In turning o'er my ornaments and jewels (_showing a small
+            portrait_).
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Ha! what is here! a portrait! yes, my brother!
+   'Tis he--'tis he! _Was_ he--_was_ he, alas!
+   Oh dear, brave youth! so early lost to me!
+   With thee at hand what had I not achieved!
+   Give me the portrait, Sittah. I recall
+   This picture well. He gave it to his Lilla--
+   Your elder sister--when one summer morn
+   He tore himself away reluctantly.
+   She would not yield, but clasped him in her arms.
+   'Twas the last morning that he e'er rode forth,
+   And I, alas! I let him ride alone.
+   Poor Lilla died of grief, and ne'er forgave
+   My error that I let him ride alone.
+   He ne'er returned.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                        Poor brother!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                      Say no more.
+   A few short years, and we shall ne'er return.
+   And then who knows? But 'tis not death alone
+   That blights the hopes and promises of youth,
+   They have far other foes, and oftentimes
+   The strongest, like the weakest, is o'ercome.
+   But be that as it may, I must compare
+   This portrait with the Templar, that I may
+   Observe how much my fancy cheated me.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   'Twas for that purpose that I brought it here.
+   But give it, and I'll tell thee if 'tis like:
+   We women are best judges of such things.
+
+               SALADIN (_to the doorkeeper who enters_).
+
+   Who's there? the Templar? Bid him come at once.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Not to disturb you, or perplex him with
+   My curious questions, I'll retire awhile. (_Throws herself upon the
+             sofa, and lets her veil fall_.)
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   That's well. (And now his voice--will that be like?
+   For Assad's voice still slumbers in my soul!)
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+                      _The_ Templar _and_ Saladin.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   I am your prisoner, Sultan.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                You my prisoner!
+   Shall I refuse him liberty, whose life
+   I freely spared?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                     It is my duty, Sire,
+   To hear, and not anticipate, your will.
+   Yet it but ill becomes my character
+   And station, Sultan, to be thus profuse
+   Of gratitude because you've spared my life--
+   A life which henceforth is at your command.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Only forbear to use it to my hurt.
+   Not that I grudge my mortal enemy
+   Another pair of hands; but such a heart
+   As yours I do not yield him willingly.
+   You valiant youth! I have not gauged you ill:
+   In soul and body, you are truly Assad.
+   I fain would learn where you have been so long
+   Concealed. In what dim cavern you have slept?
+   What spirit, in some region of the blest,
+   Has kept this beauteous flower so fresh in bloom?
+   Methinks I could remind you of our sports
+   In days gone by; and I could chide you, too,
+   For having kept one secret from my ear,
+   For having dared one gallant deed alone.
+   I'm happy that so much of this deceit
+   At least is true, that in my sear of life
+   An Assad blooms for me once more. And you,
+   You too are happy, Knight!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                  Whate'er you will--
+   Whatever be your thought--lies as a wish
+   Within mine inmost soul.
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                             We'll prove you, then.
+   Will you abide with me?--cling to my side,
+   Whether as Christian or as Mussulman,
+   In turban or white mantle? Choose your garb--
+   Choose for yourself. I never have desired
+   That the same bark should grow on every tree.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+   Else, Saladin, you never had become
+   The hero that you are--who'd rather be
+   The gardener of the Lord.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                 If thus you think
+   Of Saladin, we're half agreed, already----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Nay, quite!
+
+                     SALADIN (_offering his hand_).
+
+   One word!
+
+                         TEMPLAR (_taking it_).
+
+                             One man! and with this hand
+   Take more than you can e'er take back again.
+   Henceforth I'm wholly yours.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                This is too much--
+   For one day 'tis too much! Came he not with you?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Who?
+                                SALADIN.
+
+            Who? Nathan.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                              No; I came alone.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Oh, what a deed was thine! what happiness
+   That such a deed should serve so good a man!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   'Twas nothing.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                Why so cold, O valiant youth!
+   When God makes man His minister of good,
+   He need not be so cold, nor modestly
+   Wish to appear so cold.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                              But in the world
+   All things have many sides, and who is he
+   Can comprehend how they may fit each other?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Cling ever to what's noble, and praise God!
+   He knows how all things fit. But if you are
+   So scrupulous, young man, I must beware.
+   I too have many sides, and some of them
+   May seem to you not always made to fit.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   That grieves me; for suspicion, at the least,
+   Is not a sin of mine.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                     Then, tell me, whom
+   Do you suspect? Not Nathan, surely? What!
+   Nathan suspected, and by you? Explain--
+   Afford me this first proof of confidence.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   I've nothing against Nathan. I am vexed,
+   But with myself alone.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                              Why so?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                     For dreaming
+   That any Jew can think himself no Jew.
+   I dreamt this waking.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                              Tell me all your dream.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   You know that Nathan has a daughter, Sultan!
+   And what I did for her, I did--because
+   I did it. Far too proud to reap the thanks
+   I had not sown, from day to day I shunned
+   The maiden's sight. Her father was afar.
+   He comes, he hears, he seeks me, give me thanks;
+   Wishes that she might please me, and he talks
+   Of dawning prospects. Well, I hear it all,
+   I listen to him, go and see the maid--
+   O! such a maiden, Sultan. But, I blush.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Why blush? Blush that a Jewish maid should win
+   Your admiration? 'Tis a venial fault.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   But oh! that, through her father's sweet discourse,
+   To this impression my o'er-hasty heart
+   Such weak resistance offered! Fool. I leaped
+   A second time into the flame, and then
+   I wooed, and was denied.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                    Denied?--denied?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   The prudent father does not plainly say
+   No, to my suit--but he must first inquire--
+   He must reflect. Well, be it so. Had I
+   Not done the same? I looked about, inquired--
+   Reflected--ere I plunged into the flames
+   Where she was shrieking. Oh, by Heaven! it is
+   A splendid thing to be so circumspect!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Nay, but you must concede somewhat to age.
+   His doubts will pass away, nor will he wish
+   You to become a Jew.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                              Who knows?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                          Who knows!
+   One who knows Nathan better than yourself.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   And yet the superstitions we have learned
+   From education, do not lose their power
+   When we have found them out; nor are all free
+   Whose judgment mocks the galling chains they wear.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   'Tis wisely said; but Nathan, surely Nathan----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   That superstition is the worst of all
+   Which thinks itself the easiest to be borne----
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   'Tis possible. But Nathan----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                And to trust
+   To it alone a blind humanity
+   Till it is used to truth's more brilliant light.
+   To it alone----
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                      Well, well! But Nathan's fate
+   Is not to be so weak----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                              I thought so once,
+   But what if this bright pattern to mankind
+   Were such a thorough Jew that he seeks out
+   For Christian children to bring up as Jews?
+   How then?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                  Who speaks so of him?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                        E'en the maid
+   For whom I'm so distressed, with hopes of whom
+   He seemed so glad to recompense the deed
+   He would not suffer me to do for naught.
+   This maid is not his daughter; no, she is
+   A kidnapped Christian child.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                       Whom Nathan now
+   Refuses you!
+
+                         TEMPLAR (_earnestly_).
+
+                   Refuse or not refuse,
+   He is found out--the prating hypocrite
+   Is now found out; but on this Jewish wolf,
+   For all his philosophical sheep's garb,
+   Dogs I can loosen who will tear his hide.
+
+                         SALADIN (_earnestly_).
+
+   Peace, Christian!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                  What! peace, Christian? Wherefore so?
+   Shall Jew and Mussulman be free to boast
+   Their creeds, and shall the Christian be ashamed
+   To own his faith?
+
+                      SALADIN (_more earnestly_).
+
+                        Peace, Christian!
+
+                           TEMPLAR (_calmly_).
+
+                                         Yes, I feel
+   What weight of blame lies in your calm reproof--
+   In that one word pronounced by Saladin.
+   Oh! that I knew what Assad would have done
+   Had he but fill'd my place!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                               He had not done
+   Much better; nay, perhaps, had been more warm.
+   Where did you learn to bribe me with a word?
+   And yet, in truth, if all has happened so
+   As you narrate, it is not much like Nathan.
+   But Nathan is my friend, and of my friends
+   One must not quarrel with the other. So
+   Take counsel, act with prudence. Do not loose
+   On him the fanatics among your race.
+   Keep silence. All the clergy of your sect
+   Would call to me for vengeance upon him
+   With far more show of right than I could wish.
+   Let not revenge impel you to become
+   A Christian to the Jew or Mussulman.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Thanks to the Patriarch's bloodthirsty rage,
+   Your counsel almost comes too late; and I
+   Had nearly proved his cruel instrument.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   How so? and did you see the Patriarch
+   Before you came to me?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                               Yes, in the storm
+   Of passion--in the whirl of doubt----Forgive me.
+   I fear you will no longer find in me
+   One feature of your Assad.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                              Yes, that fear
+   Is like him. But, methinks, I know full well
+   The weaknesses from which our virtues spring:
+   Attend to these--the former cannot hurt.
+   But go, seek Nathan, as he sought for you,
+   And bring him hither. Be but reconciled.
+   Are you in earnest, Knight, about this maid?
+   Be calm--she shall be yours. Nathan shall feel
+   That without swines-flesh he has dared to rear
+   A Christian child. Now, Templar, leave me. Go!
+                   (_Exit the_ Templar. Sittah _leaves the sofa_.)
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+                         Saladin _and_ Sittah.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   'Tis strange, indeed.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                      What say you now, my Sittah?
+   Was not our Assad once a handsome youth?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   If this were like him, and 'twere not the knight
+   Who had his portrait taken. But, dear brother,
+   How could you ever so forget yourself
+   As not to make inquiry for his parents?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   And more especially about his mother?
+   That was your meaning--eh?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                              You are too quick.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   But nothing is more possible; for he,
+   My brother Assad, was so favoured by
+   The Christian ladies--handsome Christian ladies--
+   That a report once spread----But 'tis not right
+   We should refer to that. We'll be content
+   That he is here again, with all his faults,
+   The faults and wildness of his gentle heart--
+   That he is here again. Oh, Nathan must
+   Give him the maid. What think you?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                          What, to him?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Ay! for what claim has Nathan to the girl
+   If he is not her father? He, who saved
+   Her life, may properly assume the rights
+   Of him who gave existence to the maid.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Then might not Saladin lay claim to her,
+   Withdrawing her from the unrightful owner?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   There is no need of that.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                             No actual need,
+   But female curiosity suggests
+   That counsel to me. There are certain men
+   Of whom I feel impatient till I know
+   What maidens they can love.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                   Well send for her.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Brother, may I do that?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                           But hurt not Nathan.
+   He must not think that we, by violence,
+   Would separate them.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                              Fear it not.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                           Farewell!
+   I must find out where this Al-Hafi is.
+
+
+                               Scene VI.
+
+_The hall in_ Nathan's _house, looking towards the palm-trees, as in
+the first Act. Part of the merchandise and treasures unpacked and
+displayed_.
+
+                           Nathan _and_ Daja.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   O, how magnificent are all these things!
+   How rich! they're such as none but you could give.
+   Where was this silver stuff with sprigs of gold
+   Woven? What might it cost? 'Tis what I call
+   A wedding garment. Is there any queen
+   Could wish aught richer?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                              Why a wedding robe?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   In buying it, you never thought of that.
+   But, Nathan, it must be so--it must, indeed--
+   'Twas made for that. See, here, the pure white ground,
+   Emblem of innocence; that branching gold,
+   Covering the virgin white on every side,
+   Emblem of wealth. Say, is it not divine?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Why all this ingenuity of speech?
+   Over whose wedding dress would you display
+   This learning? Have you found a lover, Daja?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   What, I?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                  Who, then?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                              I, gracious Heaven?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                              Who, then?
+   Whose wedding garment would you speak of, Daja?
+   All this is yours, 'tis meant for no one else.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   What, mine! for me! I thought it was for Recha.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   No, what I bought for her is elsewhere packed;
+   'Tis in another bale. But, come, away
+   With all this rubbish.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                           Nathan, tempt me not,
+   For were these things the very costliest
+   In all the world, I'll touch not one of them
+   Till you have sworn to seize a happy chance
+   Which Heaven ne'er offers twice.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                          What happy chance?
+   What must I seize?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                     Nathan, feign not such ignorance.
+   But, in one word--the Templar loves your Recha--
+   Give her to him, and then your sin, which I
+   Can hide no longer, will for ever cease.
+   The maid will then once more resume her place
+   Amongst the Christians, will again become
+   What she was born to, and what once she was;
+   And you, whom we can never thank enough
+   For all your goodness, will not then have heaped
+   More burning coals of fire upon your head.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Still harping on the same old string again,
+   New tuned, but neither to accord nor hold.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   How so?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+               The Templar pleases me; 'tis true
+   I'd rather he, than any one, had Recha.
+   But patience.
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                  Patience! and, say, is not that
+   The string you always harp on?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                  Still, have patience
+   But for a few days longer. Ha! who comes?
+   A friar! Go ask him what his errand is.
+
+                            DAJA (_going_).
+
+   What can he want?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                        Give--give before he begs.
+   (Oh, that I knew how I could sound the Knight
+   Without betraying what my motive is!
+   For should I tell it, and my thoughts prove false,
+   I shall have staked the father's rights in vain.)
+   What is the matter?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                    He would speak with you.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Let him approach. Leave us together, Daja.
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                        Nathan _and the_ Friar.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+    (_Aside_. Gladly I would continue Recha's father!
+   And can I not be so, though I may cease
+   To bear the name? To her--at least to her--
+   I should be father still, if she but knew
+   How willingly I bore that title once.)
+   What can I do to serve you, pious brother?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Not much; and yet it gives me pleasure, Nathan,
+   To see at least that you are still so well.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   You know me, then, it seems?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                 Who knows you not?
+   You have impressed your name on many a hand--
+   It has been stamped on mine these many years.
+
+                   NATHAN (_feeling for his purse_).
+
+   Come, brother, come; here's to refresh it.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                                     Thanks.
+   That would be robbing poorer men. I will
+   Take nothing; but I beg of you, permit
+   That I refresh your memory with my name;
+   For I can boast of having formerly
+   Placed something in your hand you should not scorn.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Excuse me--I'm ashamed--what was it? Say,
+   And then take for atonement sevenfold
+   The value of the thing.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                         Well, first of all,
+   Hear how this very day has brought to mind
+   The pledge I gave you.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                       What! a pledge to me?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Not long ago I led a hermit's life
+   On Quarantana, near to Jericho.
+   Some Arab thieves came and attacked my cell;
+   They robbed my oratory, forcing me
+   To follow them. But fortune favoured me.
+   I fled, came hither to the Patriarch,
+   And sought from him another calm retreat,
+   Where I might serve my God in solitude
+   Till death should bless me.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                             Ah! I am on thorns.
+   Be quick! What pledge did you entrust to me?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Yes, Nathan, presently. The Patriarch
+   Has promised I shall have a hermitage
+   On Tabor, when 'tis vacant; and meanwhile
+   Employs me in this convent as a brother,
+   And here I am at present. But I pine
+   For Tabor fifty times a day; for here
+   He makes me toil at work which I detest.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Be speedy, I beseech you.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                Well, it chanced
+   Some one has whispered in his ear to-day
+   That a Jew lives hard by, who educates
+   A Christian as his daughter.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                 How?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                                  Nay, hear.
+   He has commissioned me, if possible,
+   To find this Jew out for him; and he raves
+   Loudly and bitterly against the crime,
+   Which he pronounces as the actual sin
+   Against the Holy Ghost--that is, the sin
+   The greatest, which a sinner can commit.
+   But luckily we can't exactly tell
+   Its nature. But my conscience all at once
+   Was roused, and it occurred to me that I
+   Had once, perhaps, been guilty of this sin.
+   Do you remember, eighteen years ago,
+   When a knight's squire committed to your hands
+   A female infant but a few weeks old?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   What say you? Well, in fact there was----
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                                  Ay, look--
+   Look well at me--for I'm that squire: 'twas I.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   What! you?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                   And he from whom I brought the child
+   Was, if I recollect the matter right,
+   A Lord of Filneck--Wolf von Filneck.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                          Right.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Because the mother died not long before;
+   And he, the father, was obliged to fly
+   To Gaza suddenly. The helpless child
+   Could not accompany him, and therefore he
+   Committed it to you: that was my task.
+   I found you out at Daran.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                              Right, quite right.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   It were no wonder had my memory
+   Deceived me. I have served so many lords.
+   The one who fled was not my master long,
+   He fell at Askalon. His heart was kind.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Yes, yes, and I have much to thank him for.
+   Not once, but many times he saved my life.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   O, glorious! then the greater joy for you
+   To educate his daughter.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                              You say well.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Where is she now? She is not dead, I hope.
+   Let me not hear, I pray, that she is dead.
+   If no one else have found the secret out,
+   All is yet safe.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                        Indeed!
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                             Oh, Nathan, trust me.
+   This is my way of thinking: if the good
+   That I propose to do is intertwined
+   With mischief, then I let the good alone;
+   For we know well enough what mischief is,
+   But not what is the best. 'Twas natural,
+   If you intended to bring up the child
+   With care, that you should rear it as your own.
+   And to have done this lovingly and well,
+   And be thus recompensed, is piteous.
+   It were perhaps more prudent, if the child
+   Had been brought up by some good Christian's hand,
+   In her own faith. But then you had not loved
+   Your dear friend's orphan child; and children need
+   Love--were it but the affection of a brute--
+   More at that age, than Christianity:
+   There's always time enough for that: and if
+   The maiden had grown up before your eyes,
+   Healthy and pious, she had then remained
+   The same as ever in her Maker's eyes.
+   For is not Christianity all built
+   Upon the Jewish creed? Oh oft, too oft,
+   It vexes me and costs me bitter tears,
+   To think that Christians will so constantly
+   Forget that Christ our Saviour was a Jew.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Good brother, you shall be my advocate,
+   When hate and bigotry shall frown on me,
+   All for a deed--which you alone shall hear--
+   But take it with you to the tomb. As yet
+   E'en vanity has never tempted me
+   To breathe it to a soul; to you alone
+   It shall be told; for simple piety
+   Like yours can truly feel what man can do
+   Who places his full confidence in God.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   You're moved, and your eyes run o'er with tears.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   At Daran 'twas you met me with the child.
+   You had not heard that, a few days before,
+   The Christians murdered every Jew in Gath--
+   Woman and child. Amongst them was my wife--
+   Along with her, my seven hopeful sons.
+   All had sought shelter 'neath my brother's roof,
+   And there were burnt alive.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                    Just God!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                                   You came.
+   Three nights in dust and ashes I had lain
+   Before my God and wept; and I at times
+   Arraigned my Maker, raged, and cursed myself
+   And the whole world together, and I swore
+   Eternal hate to Christianity.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Who can condemn you? I believe it well.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   But by degrees returning reason came,
+   And spoke with gentle accent: "God is just!
+   And this was His decree. Now exercise
+   The lesson thou so long hast understood,
+   And which is surely not more difficult
+   To exercise than well to understand."
+   I rose and cried to God, "I will, I will!
+   Do Thou but aid my purpose." And, behold,
+   Just at that moment you dismounted. You
+   Gave me the child enfolded in your robe.
+   The words we spoke occur not to me now.
+   This much I recollect: I took the child;
+   I bore it to my bed; I kissed its cheek;
+   I flung myself upon my knees, and sobbed,
+   "My God, Thou hast restored me one of seven!"
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Nathan, you are a Christian. Yes, I swear
+   You are a Christian--better never lived.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Indeed! the very thing that makes me seem
+   Christian to you, makes you a Jew to me.
+   But let us not distress each other thus,
+   'Tis time to act, and though a sevenfold love
+   Had bound me to this strange, this lovely maid,
+   Though the mere thought distracts me, that in her
+   I lose my seven dear sons a second time,
+   If Providence require her at my hands
+   I'm ready to obey.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                       'Tis well! And thus
+   I thought to counsel you; but there's no need:
+   Your own good genius has forestalled my words.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   The first chance claimant must not tear her hence.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Most surely not.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                    And he who has no claim
+   Stronger than mine--at least he ought to have
+   Those prior claims which----
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                    Certainly,
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                           Those claims
+   Which are derived from nature and from blood.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   In my opinion, yes.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                        Then name the man
+   As brother, or as uncle, bound to her,
+   I'll not withhold her from him; she was made
+   To be the ornament of any house,
+   The pride of any faith. I hope you know
+   More of your master and his creed than I.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   On that point, Nathan, I'm but ill informed,
+   I have already told you that I spent
+   Only some moments with him.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                 Can you tell
+   The mother's name, at least? She was, I think,
+   A Stauffen?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                  Possibly; nay, more--you're right.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Conrad of Stauffen was her brother's name.
+   He was a Templar.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                        Yes, I think he was:
+   But hold, I have a book that was my lord's.
+   I drew it from his bosom when he lay
+   Dead, and we buried him at Askalon.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Well!
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+            There are prayers in it; 'tis what we call
+   A breviary. This, thought I, yet may serve
+   Some Christian man--not me, forsooth--for I
+   Can't read a word.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                        No matter--to the point.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   The pages of this book are written all
+   In his own hand, and, as I'm told, contain
+   All that's important touching him and her.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Go, run and fetch the book: 'tis fortunate!
+   I'll pay you for it with its weight in gold.
+   And with a thousand thanks besides. Go! run!
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   I go--but what he wrote is Arabic.               (_Exit_)
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   No matter, fetch it. What, if from this book
+   I can find means to keep this precious girl,
+   And win, to boot, a son-in-law like him!
+   I hardly hope--fate must decide. But who
+   Has told the Patriarch this? I must not fail
+   To ascertain. It surely was not Daja?
+
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+                           Daja _and_ Nathan.
+
+                   DAJA (_rushing in in agitation_).
+
+   Only think, Nathan!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                              What?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                     Well--only think:
+    The child was frightened when the message came!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   From whom? The Patriarch?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+                                        The Sultan's sister,
+   The Princess Sittah--
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                              Not the Patriarch?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   No, Sittah. Can't you hear? The Princess sends,
+   And wishes Recha to be brought to her.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Wishes for Recha! Sittah wishes thus?
+   'Tis Sittah, then--and not the Patriarch?
+
+                                  DAJA.
+
+   Why do you speak of him?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                              Have you not heard
+   Some tidings of him lately? Have you seen
+   Nothing of him, and whispered nothing to him?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   How could I so?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                        Where are the messengers?
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   They stand without.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                          I'll speak to them myself--
+   'Tis prudent; I shall see if nothing lurks
+   Behind this message, from the Patriarch.        (_Exit_.)
+
+                                 DAJA.
+
+   Well, I have other fears. The only child,
+   As they suppose, of such a wealthy Jew,
+   Would for a Mussulman be no bad thing.
+   I'll wager that the Templar loses her,
+   Unless I risk a second step, and state
+   Plainly to Recha who she is. So, courage!
+   And to do this I must at once employ
+   The first brief moments when we are alone.
+   Chance serves: she waits for me, and on the way
+   An earnest hint will never prove amiss.
+   So now or never. All will soon be well. (_Follows Nathan_.)
+
+
+
+
+                                 ACT V.
+
+
+     Scene I.--_The room in_ Saladin's _Palace. The treasure still
+                               piled up_.
+
+                  (Saladin, _and several Mamelukes_.)
+
+                       SALADIN (_as he enters_).
+
+   There lies the gold--and no one yet has seen
+   The Dervise. He will probably be found
+   Over the chess-board. Play can often make
+   A man forget himself. Then why not me?
+   But patience. What's the matter?
+
+                             1ST MAMELUKE.
+
+                                      Oh, good news!
+   Joy, Sultan! joy. The Cairo caravan
+   Is safe arrived, and from the Nile it brings
+   The seven years' tribute.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                            Bravo, Ibrahim!
+   You always were a welcome messenger,
+   And now at length--accept my heartfelt thanks
+   For the good tidings.
+
+                          1ST MAMELUKE (_waiting_).
+
+                                   (Let me have them, then!)
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   What are you waiting for? Go.
+
+                             1ST MAMELUKE.
+
+                                                Nothing more
+   For my good news?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                              What further?
+
+                             1ST MAMELUKE.
+
+                                          Messengers
+   Of good are paid. Am I to be the first
+   Whom Saladin has learnt to pay with words?
+   The first to whom he proves ungenerous?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Go, take a purse.
+
+                             1ST MAMELUKE.
+
+                           No, no--not now. Not if
+   You'd give them all to me.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                            All? Hold, young man!
+   Come hither. Take these purses--take these two.
+   What, going? And shall I be conquered thus
+   In generosity? for surely 'tis
+   More difficult for this man to refuse
+   Than for the Sultan to bestow. Then, here
+   Here, Ibrahim! Shall I be tempted, just
+   Before my death, to be a different man?
+   Shall Saladin not die like Saladin?
+   Then wherefore has he lived like Saladin?
+
+                      (_Enter a second Mameluke_.)
+
+                             2ND MAMELUKE.
+
+   Hail, Sultan!
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                    If you come and bring the news----
+
+                             2ND MAMELUKE.
+
+   That the Egyptian convoy is arrived.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   I know it.
+
+                             2ND MAMELUKE.
+
+                  Then I come too late.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                      Too late?
+   Wherefore too late? There, for your tidings take
+   A purse or two.
+
+                             2ND MAMELUKE.
+
+   Say three.
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                     You reckon well;
+   But take them.
+
+                             2ND MAMELUKE.
+
+                      A third messenger will come
+   Ere long, if he be able.
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                              Wherefore so?
+
+                             2ND MAMELUKE.
+
+   He may perhaps, ere this, have brok'n his neck.
+   We three, when we had heard of the approach
+   Of the rich caravan, mounted our steeds,
+   And galloped hitherward. The foremost fell,
+   Then I was first, and I continued so
+   Into the town; but that sly fellow there,
+   Who knew the streets----
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                          But where is he who fell?
+
+   Go seek him out.
+
+                             2ND MAMELUKE.
+
+                      That I will quickly do,
+   And if he lives, one half of this is his.       (_Exit_.)
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Oh, what a noble fellow! who can boast
+   Such Mamelukes as these? And may I not,
+   Without conceit, imagine that my life
+   Has helped to make them so? Avaunt the thought!
+   That I should ever teach them otherwise.
+
+                             3RD MAMELUKE.
+
+   Sultan!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                  Are you the man who fell?
+
+                             3RD MAMELUKE.
+
+                                         No, Sire.
+   I have to tell you that the Emir Mansor,
+   Who led the caravan, is just arrived.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Then bring him quickly.--There he is already.
+
+
+                               Scene II.
+
+                 _The Emir_ Mansor _and_ Saladin.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Emir, you're welcome! What has happened to you,
+   Mansor? we have expected you for long.
+
+                                MANSOR.
+
+   This letter will explain how, in Thebais,
+   Some discontents required the sabred hand
+   Of Abulkassen. But, since then, our march
+   Has been pressed forward.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                               I believe it all.
+   But take, good Mansor--take, without delay,
+   Another escort if you will proceed,
+   And take the treasure on to Lebanon:
+   The greater part is destined for my father.
+
+                                MANSOR.
+
+   Most willingly.
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                     And let your escort be
+   A strong and trusty one, for Lebanon
+   Is far from quiet, and the Templars there
+   Are on the stir again; be cautious, then
+   Come, I must see your troop, and order all.
+   (_To a slave_.) Say I shall presently return to Sittah.
+
+
+                               Scene III.
+
+           (_The palm-trees before_ Nathan's _house_.)
+
+              _The_ Templar, _walking up and down_.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Into this house I never enter more:
+   He'll come to me at last. Yet, formerly,
+   They used to watch for me with longing eyes;
+   And now----The time may come he'll send to beg,
+   Most civilly, that I will get me hence,
+   And not pace up and down before his door!
+   No matter: though I feel a little hurt.
+   I know not what has thus embittered me:
+   He answered yes, and has refused me naught,
+   So far, and Saladin has pledged himself
+   To bring him round. Say, does the Christian live
+   Deeper in me than the Jew lurks in him?
+   Ah! who can truly estimate himself?
+   How comes it else that I should grudge him so
+   The trifling booty, which he took such pains
+   To rob the Christians of? No trifling theft!
+   No less than such a creature! And to whom
+   Does she belong? Oh, surely not to him,
+   The thoughtless slave, who floated the mere block
+   On to life's barren strand, then disappeared.
+   Rather to him, the artist, whose fine soul
+   Has from the block moulded this godlike form,
+   And graved it there. And yet in spite of him,
+   The Christian, who begot this beauteous maid,
+   Recha's true father must be still the Jew.
+   Were I to fancy her a Christian now,
+   Bereft of all the Jew has given to her--
+   Which only such a Jew could have bestowed--
+   Speak out, my heart--where would have been her charm'
+   It had been nothing--little; then her smile
+   Had been a pretty twisting of the mouth
+   And that which caused it were unworthy deemed
+   Of the enchantment blooming on her lips.
+   No: not her very smile! I've seen sweet smiles
+   Squandered on pride, on foppery, on lies,
+   On flatterers, on wicked wooers spent:
+   And did they charm me then? Did they awake
+   The wish to flutter out existence in
+   Their sunshine? And I'm angry now with him
+   Who gave this higher value to the maid?
+   And wherefore so? Do I deserve the taunt
+   With which I was dismissed by Saladin?
+   'Twas bad enough he should think thus of me.
+   How wicked, how contemptible, alas!
+   I must have seemed to him! And for a girl!
+   Conrad, this will not do. Avaunt such thoughts!
+   And what if Daja has been chattering
+   Of things not easy to be proved? But see,
+   He comes, engaged in converse; and with whom?
+   With him, the Friar. Then he knows all: perhaps
+   He has betrayed him to the Patriarch.
+   O Conrad! what vile mischief hast thou done!
+   O! that one spark of love, that wayward passion,
+   Should so inflame the brain! But, quick! resolve;
+   What's to be done? Stay, step aside awhile;
+   Perhaps the Friar will leave him. Let us see.
+
+
+                               Scene IV.
+
+                        Nathan _and the_ Friar.
+
+                      NATHAN (_approaching him_).
+
+   Good brother, once more, thanks.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                            The same to you.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Why thanks from you? Because I'm wayward, and
+   Would force upon you what you cannot use?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   The book you have did not belong to me.
+   It is the maid's, is all her property,
+   Her only patrimony--save yourself.
+   God grant you ne'er have reason to repent
+   Of what you've done for her!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                       Impossible!
+   That cannot be. Fear not.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                               Alas! alas!
+   These Patriarchs and Templars----
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                       Cannot work
+   Such evil as to force me to repent.
+   But are you sure it is a Templar who
+   Urges the Patriarch?
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                            It is none else;
+   A Templar talked with him just now, and all
+   I hear confirms the rumour.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                               But there is
+   Only one Templar in Jerusalem,
+   And him I know. He is a friend of mine,
+   A noble, open-hearted youth.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+                                  The same.
+   But what one is at heart, and what one must
+   Appear in active life, are not the same.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Alas! 'tis true. And so let every one
+   Act as he will, and do his best, or worst.
+   With your book, brother, I defy them all!
+   I'm going straightway with it to the Sultan.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Then God be with you! Here I take my leave.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   What! without seeing her? But come again,
+   Come soon--come often. If the Patriarch
+   To-day learns nothing. Well! no matter now!
+   Tell him the whole to-day, or when you will.
+
+                                 FRIAR.
+
+   Not I. Farewell!                                (_Exit_.)
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                      Do not forget us, brother!
+   O God! I could sink down upon my knees,
+   Here on this spot! Behold, the knotted skein
+   Which has so often troubled me, at last
+   Untangles of itself. I feel at ease,
+   Since henceforth nothing in this world remains
+   That I need hide. Henceforth, I am as free
+   Before mankind, as in the sight of God.
+   Who only does not need to judge us men
+   By deeds, which oftentimes are not our own.
+
+
+                                Scene V.
+
+                       Nathan _and the_ Templar.
+
+          (_The latter advancing towards him from the side_.)
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Hold, Nathan, hold! Take me along with you.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Who calls? You, Templar! Where can you have been
+   That you could not be met with at the Sultan's?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   We missed each other; do not be displeased.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Not I, but Saladin.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                              You had just gone.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Oh, then, you spoke with him. I'm satisfied.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Yes; but he wants to talk with us together.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   So much the better. Come with me; I go
+   Direct to him.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                   Say, Nathan, may I ask
+   Who left you even now?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                            What! don't you know?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Was it that worthy fellow, the good friar,
+   Whom the old Patriarch employs at will
+   To work his ends?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                       The same--the very same.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   'Tis a prime hit to make simplicity
+   The workman of deceit.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                             Yes, if he use
+   The fool, and not the pious man.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                       This last
+   The Patriarch ne'er trusts.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                 Depend on this,
+   That man will not assist the Patriarch
+   To a wicked end.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                       Well, so I think myself.
+   But has he told you aught of me?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                       Of you?
+   He scarcely knows your name.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                     That's like enough.
+
+                                 NATHAN.
+
+   He spoke to me about a Templar, who----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Who what?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+               But then he never mentioned you.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Who knows? Come tell me, Nathan, all he said.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Who has accused me to the Patriarch?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Accused you! With his leave, that is untrue.
+   No! Hear me, Nathan! I am not the man
+   E'er to deny my actions. What I've done
+   I've done--and there's an end. Nor am I one
+   Who would maintain that all I've done is right.
+   But should one fault condemn me? Am I not
+   Resolved on better deeds for time to come?
+   And who is ignorant how much the man
+   Who wills it may improve? Then hear me, Nathan:
+   I am the Templar talked of by the Friar,
+   Who has accused--you know what maddened me,
+   What set my blood on fire within my veins--
+   Fool that I was! I had almost resolved
+   To fling myself both soul and body, straight
+   Into your arms. But how was I received?
+   How did you meet me, Nathan? Cold--or worse.
+   Lukewarm--far worse than cold. With cautious words,
+   Well weighed and measured, Nathan, you took care
+   To put me off, and with calm questions, asked
+   About my parentage, and God knows what,
+   You sought to meet my suit. I cannot now
+   Dwell on it and be patient. Hear me further.
+   While in this ferment, Daja suddenly
+   Drew near to me and whispered in my ear
+   A secret which cleared up the mystery.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   What was it?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                  Hear me to the end. I thought
+   The treasure you had from the Christians stolen,
+   You would not promptly to a Christian yield;
+   And so the project struck me, with good speed,
+   To bring you to extremities.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                             Good speed?
+   Good, good? pray where's the good!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                   But hear me out.
+   I own my error; you are free from guilt;
+   That prating Daja knows not what she says.
+   She's hostile to you, and she seeks to twine
+   A dangerous snare around you. Be it so.
+   I'm but a crazed enthusiast, doubly mad,
+   Aiming at far too much, or much too little.
+   That may be also true. Forgive me, Nathan.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   If you conceive thus of me----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                               Well, in short.
+   I saw the Patriarch--but named you not.
+   'Twas false to say so, for I only told
+   The case in general terms, to sound his mind.
+   And that I also might have left undone,
+   For knew I not the Patriarch to be
+   An arrant, subtle knave? And might I not
+   As well have told you all the case at first?
+   Or was it right in me to risk the loss
+   Of such a father to the hapless maid?
+   But what has happened now? The Patriarch,
+   Ever consistent in his villainy,
+   Has all at once restored me to myself.
+   For hear me, Nathan, hear me! Were he now
+   To learn your name, what more could then occur?
+   He cannot seize the maid, if she belong
+   To some one else, and not to you alone.
+   'Tis from your house alone she can be dragged
+   Into a convent: grant her, then, I pray,
+   Grant her to me! Then come the Patriarch!
+   He'll hardly dare to take my wife from me.
+   Oh! give her to me. Be she yours or not--
+   Your daughter--Christian--Jewess--'tis all one--
+   Or be she nothing--I will ne'er inquire,
+   Or in my lifetime ask you what she is,
+   'Tis all alike to me.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                         Do you then think
+   That to conceal the truth I am compelled?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   No matter.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                I have ne'er denied the truth
+   To you, or any one whom it concerned
+   To know the fact, that she's of Christian birth,
+   And that the maid is my adopted child.
+   Why I have not informed her of the truth,
+   I need explain to none but to herself.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Nathan; no need of that, it were not well
+   That she should see you in a different light;
+   Then spare her the discovery. As yet
+   She's yours alone--no other's--to bestow.
+   Then grant her to me, Nathan, I implore--
+   Grant her to me: I only, I alone,
+   Can rescue her a second time--and will.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Yes, you could once have saved her, but alas!
+   'Tis now too late.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                        Too late! ah! say not so.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Thanks to the Patriarch.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                            Why, thanks to him?
+   Why should we thank the Patriarch! For what?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   That now we know her relatives, and know
+   Into whose hands Recha may be restored.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Let him give thanks who shall have better cause
+   To thank him.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                    But you must receive her now
+   From other hands than mine.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                   Alas, poor maid!
+   O hapless Recha! what has chanced to thee,
+   That what to other orphans had appeared
+   A real blessing, is to thee a curse!
+   But, Nathan, where are these new relatives?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Where are they?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                       Ay, both where and who are they?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Her brother is discovered, and to him
+   You must address yourself.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                  Her brother! Ha!
+   And what is he--a soldier or a priest?
+   Tell me at once what I've to hope from him.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   I hear he's neither--or he's both. As yet
+   I do not know him thoroughly.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                    What more?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   He is a gallant fellow, and with him
+   Recha may be content.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                          But he's a Christian.
+   At times I know not what to make of you.
+   Take it not ill, good Nathan, that I ask,
+   Must she not henceforth play the Christian,
+   Associate with Christians, and at last
+   Become the character she long has played?
+   Will not the tares at length grow up and choke
+   The pure wheat you have sown? And does not that
+   Affect you? Yet you say she'll be content
+   When with her brother.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                               As I think and hope.
+   For should she e'er have need of anything,
+   Has she not you and me?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                           What can she need
+   When with her brother. Gladly he'll provide
+   His dear new sister with a thousand robes,
+   With dainties, and with toys and finery.
+   And what could any sister wish for more--
+   Unless, perhaps, a husband? And him too,
+   Him too the brother, in due time, will find;
+   And the more Christian he, the better!--Nathan,
+   How sad to think the angel you have formed,
+   Should now be marred by others!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                         Be assured
+   He'll always prove deserving of our love.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Nay speak not so; of my love, speak not so,
+   For it can brook no loss, however small,
+   Not e'en a name. But, hold! Has she as yet
+   Any suspicion of these late events?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   'Tis possible, and yet I know not how.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   It matters not; she must, in either case,
+   First learn from me what fate is threat'ning her.
+   My purpose not to speak with her again,
+   And ne'er to see her more, till I should call
+   Your Recha mine, is gone. I take my leave.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Nay, whither would you go?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                  At once to her,
+   To learn if she be bold enough at heart,
+   To fix upon the only course that now
+   Is worthy of her.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                      Name it.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                  It is this:
+   That henceforth she should never care to know
+   Aught of her brother or of you.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                    What more?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   To follow me--even if it were her fate
+   To wed a Mussulman.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                          Stay, Templar, stay!
+   You will not find her. She's with Sittah now,
+   The Sultan's sister.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                         Wherefore, and since when?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   If you desire to see her brother, come,
+   Follow me straight.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                          Her brother, say you? Whose?
+   Recha's, or Sittah's?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                         Both--ay, both, perhaps.
+   But come this way, I pray you. Come with me.
+                           (Nathan _leads the_ Templar _away_.)
+
+
+                      Scene VI.--Sittah's _harem_.
+
+             Sittah _and_ Recha _engaged in conversation_.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   How I am pleased with you, sweet girl. But, come,
+   Shake off these fears, and be no more alarmed,
+   Be happy, cheerful. Let me hear you talk.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Princess!
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Nay, child, not princess! Call me friend,
+   Or Sittah--or your sister--or dear mother,
+   For I might well be so to you--so good,
+   So prudent, and so young! How much you know,
+   How much you must have read!
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                                       Read, Sittah! now
+   You're mocking me, for I can scarcely read.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Scarce read, you young deceiver!
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                                      Yes, perhaps
+   My father's hand; I thought you spoke of books.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   And so I did--of books.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                           They puzzle me
+   To read.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+            Indeed!
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                      I speak, in veriest truth.
+   My father hates book-learning, which he says,
+   Makes an impression only on the brain
+   With lifeless letters.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                          Well, he's right in that.
+   And so the greater part of what you know----
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   I've learnt from his own mouth, and I can tell
+   The when, the where, and why he taught it me.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   So it clings closer, and the soul drinks in
+   The full instruction.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                           Yes, and Sittah, too,
+   Has not read much.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                        How so? I am not vain
+   Of having read, and yet why say you so?
+   Speak boldly. Tell the reason.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                                       She's so plain--
+   So free from artifice--so like herself.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Well!
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+           And my father says 'tis rarely books
+   Work that effect.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                    Oh, what a man he is,
+   Dear Recha!
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                 Is he not?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                           He never fails
+   To hit the mark.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                    Yes, yes; and yet this father----
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   What ails you, love?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                        This father----
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                      Oh my God!
+   You're weeping.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+                     And this father--it must forth--
+   My heart wants room, wants room----
+                  (_Throws herself in tears at_ Sittah's _feet_.)
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                       What ails you, Recha?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Yes, I must lose this father!
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                             Lose him--never!
+   Why so? Be calm. Courage! it must not be.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Your offer to be friend and sister to me
+   Will now not be in vain.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                 Yes, I am both.
+   Arise, arise, or I must call for help.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   O pardon! I forget, through agony,
+   With whom I speak. Tears, sobbing, and despair
+   Are naught with Sittah. Reason, calm and cool,
+   Is over her alone omnipotent.
+   No other argument avails with her.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Well, then?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                My friend and sister, suffer not
+   Another father to be forced on me.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Another father to be forced on you!
+   Who can do that, or wish to do it, love?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Who but my good, my evil genius, Daja?
+   She can both wish it and perform the deed.
+   You do not know this good, this evil Daja.
+   May God forgive her, and reward her, too,
+   For she has done me good and evil, both.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Evil? Then she has little goodness left.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Oh, she has much.
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                      Who is she?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                                     Who? a Christian,
+   Who cared for me in childhood's early years.
+   You cannot know how little she allowed
+   That I should miss a mother's tender cares--
+   May God reward her for it!--but she has
+   Worried and tortured me.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                 Wherefore, and how?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   Poor woman, she's a Christian, and from love
+   Has tortured me: a warm enthusiast,
+   Who thinks she only knows the real road
+   That leads to God.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                       I understand you now.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   And one of those who feel in duty bound
+   To point it out to every one who strays
+   From the plain path, to lead, to drag them in.
+   And who can censure them? for if the road
+   They travel is the only one that's safe,
+   They cannot, without pain, behold their friends
+   Pursue a path that lead to endless woe,
+   Else, at the self-same time, 'twere possible
+   To love and hate another. Nor does this
+   Alone compel me to complain aloud.
+   Her groans, her prayers, her warnings, and her threats
+   I could have borne much longer willingly.
+   They always called up good and wholesome thoughts.
+   Who is not flattered to be held so dear,
+   And precious by another, that the thought
+   Of parting pierces him with lasting pain?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   This is most true.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                      And yet this goes too far,
+   And I have nothing to oppose to it--
+   Patience, reflection, nothing.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                   How? to what?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   To what she has disclosed to me.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                      Say, when?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   'Tis scarce an instant. Coming hither
+   We passed a Christian temple on our way;
+   She all at once stood still, seemed inly moved,
+   Raised her moist eyes to heaven, then looked on me.
+   "Come," she exclaimed at length, "come straight on here,
+   Through this old fane." She leads, I follow her.
+   My eyes with horror overrun the dim
+   And tottering ruin: all at once she stops
+   By a low ruined altar's sunken steps.
+   O, how I felt, when there, with streaming eyes
+   And wringing hands, down at my feet she fell!
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Good child!
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+               And, by the Holy Virgin, who had heard
+   So many suppliants' prayers, and had performed
+   Full many a wonder there, she begged, implored
+   With looks of heart-felt sympathy and love,
+   That I would now take pity on myself,
+   And pardon her for daring to unfold
+   The nature of the Church's claims on me.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   I guessed as much.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                        I'm born of Christian blood,
+   Have been baptised, and am not Nathan's child!
+   Nathan is not my father! God, O God!
+   He's not my father, Sittah! Now, behold,
+   I'm once more prostrate at your feet.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                        Arise!
+   Recha, arise! behold, my brother comes.
+
+
+                               Scene VII.
+
+                     Saladin, Sittah, _and_ Recha.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   What is the matter, Sittah?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                                    She has swooned.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Who is she?
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                  Don't you know?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                    'Tis Nathan's child.
+   What ails her?
+                                SITTAH.
+
+                    Look up, Recha! 'tis the Sultan.
+
+                 RECHA (_crawling to Saladin's feet_).
+
+   No, I'll not rise--not rise nor even look
+   Upon the Sultan's countenance, nor wonder
+   At the bright lustre of unchanging truth
+   And goodness on his brow and in his eye,
+   Before----
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+          Rise, rise!
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                           Before he promises----
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Come, come! I promise, whatsoe'er your prayer.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   'Tis only this--to leave my father to me,
+   And me to him. As yet I cannot tell
+   Who seeks to be my father: who it is
+   Can harbour such a wish I'll ne'er inquire.
+   Does blood alone make fathers--blood alone?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Who can have been so cruel as to raise
+   This dire suspicion in my Recha's breast?
+   Say, is it proved? beyond all doubt made clear?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   'Tis proved, for Daja had it from my nurse,
+   Whose dying lips entrusted it to her.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Dying! she raved. And even were it true,
+   A father is not made by blood alone;
+   Scarcely the father of a savage beast--
+   Blood only gives the right to earn the name.
+   Then fear no more, but hear me. If there be
+   Two fathers who contend for thee, leave both,
+   And claim a third! O! take me for your father!
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Oh, do so, Recha, do so!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                            I will be
+   A good, kind father to you. But, in truth
+   A better thought occurs. Why should you need
+   Two fathers? They are mortal, and must die.
+   'Twere better, Recha, to look out betimes
+   For one to start with you on equal terms,
+   And stake his life for thine. You understand?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   You make her blush!
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                          Why that was half my scheme.
+   Blushing becomes plain features, and will make
+   A beauteous cheek more beauteous. My commands
+   Are giv'n to bring your father, Nathan, here.
+   Another comes as well. You'll guess his name?
+   Hither they come! Will you allow it, Sittah?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Brother!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+               And when he comes, maid, you must blush
+   To crimson.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                Sittah! wherefore should I blush?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   You young dissembler, you will else grow pale!
+   But as thou wilt and canst. (_A female slave enters, and approaches_
+          Sittah.) What, here so soon?
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Well, let them enter. Brother, here they are!
+
+
+                              Scene VIII.
+
+             Nathan, _the_ Templar, _and the others_.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Welcome, my dear good friends! Nathan, to you
+   I must first mention, you may send and fetch
+   Your moneys when you will.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                                 Sultan----
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                                      And now
+   I'm at your service.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                         Sultan----
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                    For my gold
+   Is now arrived; the caravan is safe:
+   These many years I have not been so rich.
+   Now, tell me what you wish for, to achieve
+   Some splendid speculation? You in trade,
+   Like us, have never too much ready cash.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Why speak about this trifle first? I see
+   An eye in tears (_going towards_ Recha). My Recha, you
+        have wept.
+   What have you lost? Are you not still my child?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   My father!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                That's enough! We're understood
+   By one another! But look up--be calm,
+   Be cheerful! If your heart is still your own,
+   And if no threatened loss disturb your breast,
+   Your father is not lost to you!
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+                                    None, none!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   None! Then I'm much deceived. What we don't fear
+   To lose, we ne'er have loved, and ne'er have wished
+   To be possessed of. But 'tis well, 'tis well!
+   Nathan, this changes all! At your command,
+   We come here, Sultan. You have been misled
+   By me, and I will trouble you no more!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Rash, headlong youth! Must every temper yield
+   To yours!--and must we all thus guess your mind?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   But, Sultan, you have heard and seen it all.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Well, truly, it was awkward to be thus
+   Uncertain of your cause!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                              I know my fate.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Whoe'er presumes upon a service done,
+   Cancels the benefit. What you have saved
+   Is, therefore, not your own. Or else the thief,
+   Urged by mere avarice through flaming halls,
+   Were like yourself a hero. (_Advancing towards_ Recha _to
+        lead her to the_ Templar.) Come, sweet maid!
+   Be not reserved towards him. Had he been so,
+   Were he less warm, less proud, he had held back,
+   And had not saved you. Weigh the former deed
+   Against the latter, and you'll make him blush!
+   Do what he should have done! confess your love!
+   Make him your offer! and if he refuse,
+   Or e'er forget how infinitely more
+   You do for him than he has done for you--
+   For what, in fact, have been his services,
+   Save soiling his complexion? a mere sport--
+   Else has he nothing of my Assad in him,
+   But only wears his mask. Come, lovely maid.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   Go, dearest, go! this step is not enough
+   For gratitude; it is too little.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                     Hold!
+   Hold, Saladin! hold, Sittah!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                            What would you?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   It is the duty of another now
+   To speak.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                        Who questions that? Beyond all doubt
+   A foster--father has a right to vote
+   First, if you will. You see I know the whole.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Not quite. I speak not, Sultan, of myself.
+   There is another and a different man
+   Whom I must first confer with, Saladin.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   And who is he?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                    Her brother.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                  Recha's brother?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   E'en so.
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+             My brother! Have I then a brother?
+
+      TEMPLAR (_starting from his silent and sullen inattention_).
+
+   Where is this brother? Not yet here! 'Twas here
+   I was to meet him.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                        Patience yet awhile.
+
+                          TEMPLAR (_bitterly_).
+
+   He has imposed a father on the girl;
+   He'll find a brother for her now!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                                 Indeed,
+   That much was wanting. But this mean rebuke,
+   Christian, had ne'er escaped my Assad's lips.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Forgive him: I forgive him readily.
+   Who knows what in his youth and in his place
+   We might ourselves have thought? (_Approaching him in
+        a very friendly manner_) Suspicion, knight,
+   Follows upon reserve. Had you at first
+   Vouchsafed to me your real name----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                       How! what!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   You are no Stauffen.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                          Tell me who I am.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Conrad of Stauffen, not.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+                              Then what's my name?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Leo of Filneck.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                              How?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                    You start!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                                With reason.
+   But who says this?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                    I, who can tell you more.
+   Meanwhile, observe, I tax you not with falsehood.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Indeed!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+            It may be both names fit you well.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   I think so. (_Aside_) God inspired him with that thought.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Your mother was a Stauffen: and her brother
+   (The uncle to whose care you were consigned,
+   When, by the rigour of the climate chased,
+   Your parents quitted Germany, to seek
+   This land once more) was Conrad. He, perhaps,
+   Adopted you as his own son and heir.
+   Is it long since you travelled hither with him?
+   Does he still live?
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                       What shall I answer him?
+   He speaks the truth. Nathan, 'tis so indeed;
+   But he himself is dead. I journeyed here,
+   With the last troops of knights, to reinforce
+   Our order. But inform me how this tale
+   Concerns your Recha's brother.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                   Well, your father----
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   What! did you know him too?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                                   He was my friend.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   Your friend! Oh, Nathan, is it possible?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Oluf of Filneck did he style himself;
+   But he was not a German.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                             You know that?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   He had espoused a German, and he lived
+   For some, time with your mother there.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                                           No more
+   Of this, I beg. But what of Recha's brother?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   It is yourself.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                     What, I? am I her brother?
+
+                                 RECHA.
+
+   He, my brother?
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                     Are they so near akin?
+
+                   RECHA (_approaching the_ Templar).
+
+   My brother!
+
+                       TEMPLAR (_stepping back_).
+
+                I, your brother?
+
+               RECHA (_stopping and turning to Nathan_).
+
+                                  No, in truth,
+   It cannot be. His heart makes no response.
+   O God! we are deceivers.
+
+                      SALADIN (_to the_ Templar).
+
+                                Say you so?
+   Is that your thought? All is deceit in you:
+   The voice, the gesture, and the countenance,
+   Nothing of these is yours. How! will you not
+   Acknowledge such a sister? Then begone!
+
+                  TEMPLAR (_approaching him humbly_).
+
+   Oh! do not misinterpret my surprise.
+   Sultan, you never saw your Assad's heart
+   At any time like this. Then do not err,
+   Mistake not him and me. (_Turning to_ Nathan.) You give
+        me much,
+   Nathan, and also you take much away,
+   And yet you give me more than you withdraw--
+   Ay, infinitely more. My sister, sister! (_embraces_ Recha.)
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Blanda of Filneck.
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+                     Blanda, ha! not Recha?
+   Your Recha now no more! Have you resigned
+   Your child? Give her her Christian name once more,
+   And for my sake discard her then. Oh, Nathan,
+   Why must she suffer for a fault of mine?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   What mean you, oh, my children, both of you?
+   For sure my daughter's brother is my child
+   Whenever he shall wish.
+   (_While they embrace_ Nathan, Saladin _uneasily approaches_
+                          Sittah.)
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                              What say you, sister? Sittah.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   I'm deeply moved----
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                        And I half tremble when
+   I think of the emotion that must come:
+   Prepare yourself to bear it as you may.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   What! How!
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                  Nathan, a word--one word with you.
+   (_He joins_ Nathan, _while_ Sittah _approaches the others to
+         express her sympathy, and_ Nathan _and_ Saladin _converse
+         in a low tone_.)
+
+   Hear, hear me, Nathan. Said you not just now
+   That he----
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+             That who?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                      Her father was not born
+   In Germany. You know then whence he came?
+   And what he was?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                     He never told me that.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   Was he no Frank, nor from the Western land?
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   He said as much. He spoke the Persian tongue.
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+   The Persian! need I more? 'Tis he! 'twas he!
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   Who?
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+         Assad, my brother Assad, beyond doubt.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+   If you think so, then be assured from this:
+   Look in this book (_handing him the breviary_).
+
+                                SALADIN.
+
+                        Oh, 'tis his hand! once more
+   I recognise it.
+
+                                NATHAN.
+
+                       They know naught of this:
+   It rests with you to tell them all the truth.
+
+          SALADIN (_turning over the leaves of the breviary_).
+
+   They are my brother's children. Shall I not
+   Acknowledge them and claim them? Or shall I
+   Abandon them to you? (_Speaking aloud_.) Sittah, they are
+   The children of my brother and of yours. (_Rushes to
+        embrace them_.)
+
+                   SITTAH (_following his example_).
+
+   What do I hear? Could it be otherwise?
+
+                      SALADIN (_to the_ Templar).
+
+   Proud youth! from this time forward you are bound
+   To love me. (_To_ Recha.) And henceforth, without your
+        leave
+   Or with it, I am what I vowed to be.
+
+                                SITTAH.
+
+   And so am I.
+
+                      SALADIN (_to the_ Templar).
+
+   My son! my Assad's son!
+
+                                TEMPLAR.
+
+   I of your blood! Then those were more than dreams
+   With which they used to lull my infancy--
+                               (_Falls at_ Sultan's _feet_.)
+
+                        SALADIN (_raising him_).
+
+   There, mark the rascal! though he knew something
+   Of what has chanced, he was content that I
+   Should have become his murderer! Beware.
+   (_The curtain falls whilst they repeatedly embrace each
+                          other in silence_.)
+
+
+
+                             END OF VOL. I.
+
+
+                           *   *   *   *   *
+
+      LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET
+                           AND CHARING CROSS.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                                       York Street, Covent Garden,
+                                                 _November_, 1877.
+
+
+
+                                   A
+
+                          CLASSIFIED CATALOGUE
+
+                                   OF
+
+                             SELECTED WORKS
+
+                              PUBLISHED BY
+
+                         GEORGE BELL AND SONS.
+
+                               *   *   *
+
+                               CONTENTS:
+
+Travel and Archæology          1    |     Poetry and Drama      11
+Biography--History           2,4    |     Law and Reference     14
+Philosophy                     5    |     Natural History       15
+Theology                       6    |     Art and Ornament      16
+Standard Prose                10    |     Young People          18
+
+                           *   *   *   *   *
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+ANCIENT ATHENS; its History, Topography, and Remains. By T. H. Dyer,
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+DESERT OF THE EXODUS. Journeys on Foot in the Wilderness of the Forty
+Years' Wanderings, undertaken in connexion with the Ordnance Survey of
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+ROGERS.                                   | KEATS.
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+Edition. Imp. 16mo. 5_s_.
+
+'Mrs. Ewing gives us some really charming writing. While her first
+story most prettily teaches children how much they can do to help their
+parents, the immediate result will be, we fear, anything but good. For
+if a child once begins "The Brownies," it will get so deeply interested
+in it, that when bed-time comes it will altogether forget the moral,
+and will weary its parents with importunities for just a few minutes
+more to see how everything ends. The frontispiece, by the old friend
+of our childhood, George Cruikshank, is no less pretty than the
+story.'--_Saturday Review_.
+
+MRS. OVERTHEWAY'S REMEMBRANCES. Illustrated with 10 fine Full-page
+Engravings on Wood, after Drawings by Pasquier and Wolf, and Edition,
+cloth gilt, 3_s_. 6_d_.
+
+'It is not often nowadays the privilege of a critic to grow
+enthusiastic over a new work; and the rarity of the occasion that calls
+forth the delight is apt to lead one into the sin of hyperbole. And yet
+we think we shall not be accused of extravagance when we say that,
+without exception, "Mrs. Overthewny's Remembrances" is the most
+delightful work avowedly written for children that we have ever read.
+There are passages in this book which the genius of George Eliot would
+be proud to own. It is full of a peculiar, heart-stirring pathos of its
+own, which culminates in the last pages, when Ida finds that her father
+is not dead. The book is one that may be recurred to often, and always
+with the same delight. We predict for it a great popularity.'--
+_Leader_.
+
+MELCHIOR'S DREAM, and other Tales. Illustrated. 3rd Edition. Fcap. 8vo.
+3_s_. 6_d_.
+
+"'Melchior's Dream' is an exquisite little story, charming by original
+humour, buoyant spirits, and tender pathos."--_Athenæum_.
+
+A FLAT IRON FOR A FARTHING; or, Some Passages in the Life of an Only
+Son. With 12 Illustrations by H. Allingham. 5th Edition. Small 8vo.
+5_s_.
+
+'Let every parent and guardian who wishes to be amused, and at the same
+time to please a child, purchase "A Flat Iron for a Farthing; or, some
+Passages in the Life of an Only Son," by J. H Ewing. We will answer for
+the delight with which they will read it themselves, and we do not
+doubt that the young and fortunate recipients will also like it. The
+story is quaint, original, and altogether delightful.'--_Athenæum_.
+
+'A capital book for a present. No child who is fortunate enough to
+possess it will be in a hurry to put it down, for it is a book of
+uncommon fascination. The story is good, the principles inculcated
+admirable, and some of the illustrations simply delicious.'--_John
+Bull_.
+
+LOB-LIE-BY-THE-FIRE; or, the Luck of Lingborough. And other Tales.
+Illustrated by George Cruikshank. 2nd Edition. Imp. 16mo. 5_s_.
+
+'A charming tale by another of those clever writers, thanks to
+whom the children are now really better served than their
+neighbours.'--_Spectator_.
+
+'Mrs. Ewing has written as good a story as her "Brownies," and that is
+saying a great deal. "Lob-lie-by-the-fire" has humour and pathos, and
+teaches what is right without making children think they are reading a
+sermon.'--_Saturday Review_.
+
+SIX TO SIXTEEN: A Story for Girls. With 10 Illustrations by Mrs.
+Allingham. 3rd Edition. Small post 8vo. 5_s_.
+
+'The homely good sense and humour of the bulk of the story are set off
+by the pathos of its opening and its close, and a soft and beautiful
+light, as of dawn and sunset, is thrown round the substantial English
+ideal of what a girl's education ought to be, which runs through the
+tale.'--_Spectator_.
+
+'It is a beautifully told story, full of humour and pathos, and bright
+sketches of scenery and character. It is all told with great
+naturalness, and will amuse grown-up people quite as much as children.
+In reading the story, we have been struck especially by characteristic
+bits of description, which show very happily the writer's appreciation
+of child life.'--_Pall Mall Gazette_.
+
+'We have rarely met, on such a modest scale, with characters so ably
+and simply drawn ... The merits of the volume, in themselves not small,
+are much enhanced by some clever illustrations from the pencil of Mrs.
+Allingham.'--_Athenæum_.
+
+'The tone of the book is pleasant and healthy, and singularly free from
+that sentimental, not to say "mawkish," stain which is apt to disfigure
+such productions. The illustrations by Mrs. Allingham add a special
+attraction to the little volume.'--_Times_.
+
+'It is scarcely necessary to say that Mrs. Ewing's book is one of the
+best of the year.'--_Saturday Review_.
+
+'There is in it not only a great deal of common sense, but there is
+true humour.... We have not met a healthier or breezier tale for girls
+for a long period.'--_Academy_.
+
+JAN OF THE WINDMILL; a Story of the Plains. With 11 Illustrations by
+Helen Allingham. Crown 8vo. 8_s_. 6_d_.
+
+'A capital story, which, like all that Mrs. Ewing gives us, will be
+read with pleasure Some well-drawn illustrations materially increase
+the attractiveness of the volume.'--_City Press_.
+
+                          _By Mrs. O'Reilly_.
+
+'Mrs. O'Reilly's works need no commendation ... the style is so good,
+the narrative so engrossing, and the tone so excellent.'--_John Bull_.
+
+LITTLE PRESCRIPTION, and other Tales. With 6 Illustrations by W. H.
+Petherick and others. 16mo. 2_s_. 6_d_.
+
+'A worthy successor of some charming little volumes of the same
+kind.... The tale from which the title is taken is for its grace and
+pathos an especial favourite.'--_Spectator_.
+
+'Mrs. O'Reilly could not write otherwise than well, even if she were to
+try.'--_Morning Post_.
+
+CICELY'S CHOICE, A Story for Girls. With a Frontispiece by J. A.
+Pasquier. Fcap. 8vo. gilt edges, 3_s_. 6_d_.
+
+'A pleasant story.... It is a book for girls, and grown people will
+also enjoy reading it.'--_Athenæum_.
+
+'A pleasant, well-written, interesting story, likely to be acceptable
+to young people who are in their teens.'--_Scotsman_.
+
+GILES'S MINORITY; or, Scenes at the Red House. With 8 Illustrations.
+16mo. 2_s_. 6_d_.
+
+'In one of our former reviews we praised "Deborah's Drawer." "Giles's
+Minority" no less deserves our goodwill. It is a picture of
+school-room life, and is so well drawn that grown-up readers may
+delight in it. In literary excellence this little book is above most of
+its fellows.'--_Times_.
+
+DOLL WORLD; or, Play and Earnest. A Study from Real Life. With 8
+Illustrations. By C. A. Saltmarsh. 16mo. 2_s_. 6_d_.
+
+'It is a capital child's book, and it has a charm for grown-up people
+also, as the fairy haze of "long-ago" brightens every page. We are not
+ashamed to confess to the "thrilling interest" with which we followed
+the history of "Robertina" and "Mabel."'--_Athenæum_.
+
+DEBORAH'S DRAWER. With 9 Illustrations. 16mo. 2_s_. 6_d_.
+
+'Any godmamma who wishes to buy an unusually pretty and
+artistically-written gift-book for an eight-year-old pet cannot do
+better than spend a florin or two on the contents of "Aunt Deborah's
+Drawer."'--_Athenæum_.
+
+DAISY'S COMPANIONS; or, Scenes from Child Life. A Story for Little
+Girls. With 8 Illustrations. 3rd Edit. 16mo. 2_s_. 6_d_.
+
+'If anybody wants a pretty little present for a pretty (and good)
+little daughter, or a niece or grand-daughter, we cannot recommend a
+better or tastier one than "Daisy's Companions."'--_Times_.
+
+                   _Captain Marryats Books for Boys_.
+
+     Uniform Illustrated Edition, neatly bound in cloth, post 8vo.
+               3_s_. 6_d_. each; gilt edges, 4_s_. 6_d_.
+
+POOR JACK. With Sixteen            | THE SETTLERS IN CANADA.
+ Illustrations after Designs by    |  With Illustrations by
+ Clarkson Stanfield, R.A.          |  Gilbert and Dalziel.
+THE MISSION; or, Scenes in         | THE PRIVATEERSMAN.
+ Africa. With Illustrations by     |  Adventures by Sea and Land in
+ John Gilbert.                     |  Civil and Savage Life One
+THE PIRATE, AND THREE              |  Hundred Years Ago. Illustrated
+ CUTTERS. With Memoir of the       |  with Eight Steel Engravings.
+ Author, and 20 Steel Engravings   | MASTERMAN READY; or, the
+ by Clarkson Stanfield, R.A.       |  Wreck of the Pacific.
+  Cheap Edition, without           |  Embellished with Ninety-three
+  Illustrations, 1_s_. 6_d_.       |  Engravings on Wood.
+
+A BOY'S LOCKER. A Smaller Edition of Captain Marryat's Books for Boys,
+in 12 vols. Fcap. 8vo. in a compact cloth box, 21_s_.
+
+                     _By Hans Christian Andersen_.
+
+FAIRYTALES AND SKETCHES. Translated by C. C. Peachey, H. Ward, A.
+Plesner, &c. With 104 Illustrations by Otto Speckter and others. Crown
+8vo. 6_s_.
+
+'The translation most happily hits the delicate quaintness of
+Andersen--most happily transposes into simple English words the tender
+precision of the famous story-teller; in a keen examination of the book
+we scarcely recall a single phrase or turn that obviously could have
+been bettered.'--_Daily Telegraph_.
+
+TALES FOR CHILDREN. With 48 Full-page Illustrations by Wehnert, and 57
+Small Engravings on Wood by W. Thomas. A new Edition. Crown 8vo. 6_s_.
+
+This and the above volume form the most complete English Edition of
+Andersen's Tales.
+
+LATER TALES. Translated from the Danish by Augusta Plesner and H. Ward.
+With Illustrations by Otto Speckter, W. Cooper, and other Artists.
+Cloth gilt, 3_s_. 6_d_.
+
+                               *   *   *
+
+WONDERWORLD. A Collection of Fairy Tales, Old and New. Translated from
+the French, German, and Danish. With 4 Coloured Illustrations and
+numerous Woodcuts by L. Richter, Oscar Pletsch, and others. Royal 16mo.
+cloth, gilt edges, 3_s_. 6_d_.
+
+'It will delight the children, and has in it a wealth of wisdom that
+may be of practical service when they have grown into men and
+women.'--_Literary World_.
+
+GUESSING STORIES; or, The Surprising Adventures of the Man with the
+Extra Pair of Eyes. By the late Archdeacon Freeman. 3rd Edition, 2_s_.
+6_d_.
+
+GRIMM'S GAMMER GRETHEL; or, German Fairy Tales and Popular Stories.
+Translated by Edgar Taylor. Numerous Woodcuts after G. Cruikshank's
+designs. Post 8vo. 3_s_. 6_d_.
+
+LITTLE PLAYS FOR LITTLE PEOPLE; with Hints for Drawing-room
+Performances. By Mrs. Chisholm, Author of 'Rana, the Story of a Frog.'
+16mo. with Illustrations, 2_s_. 6_d_.
+
+ROBINSON CRUSOE. With a Biographical Account of Defoe. Illustrated with
+70 Wood Engravings, chiefly after Designs by Harvey; and 12 Engravings
+on Steel after Stothard. Post 8vo. 5_s_.
+
+THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD. By E. Wetherell. With 10 Illustrations. Post 8vo.
+3_s_. 6_d_.
+
+UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. By H. B. Stowe. Illustrated. Post 8vo. 3_s_. 6_d_.
+
+KIRSTIN'S ADVENTURES. A Story of Jutland Life. By the Author of
+'Casimir the Little Exile,' &c. With Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 3_s_.
+6_d_.
+
+'There is so much true art and natural talent in the book that we are
+half inclined to take it away from the boys and girls for whom it is
+written.'--_Times_.
+
+KATIE; or, the Simple Heart. By D. Richmond, Author of 'Annie
+Maitland.' Illustrated by M. I. Booth. 2nd Edition. Crown 8vo. 3_s_.
+6_d_.
+
+'The family life which surrounds Katie is both pretty and natural. The
+tone is good, and the plot--we speak from experience--engages a child's
+interest with almost too keen a sympathy.'--_Guardian_.
+
+QUEENS OF ENGLAND from the Norman Conquest. By A. Strickland. An
+Abridged Edition, with Portrait of Matilda of Flanders. In 1 vol. crown
+8vo. cloth, 6_s_. 6_d_.
+
+GLIMPSES INTO PET-LAND. By the Rev. J. G. Wood, M.A., F.L.S. With
+Frontispiece. Fcap. 3_s_. 6_d_.
+
+FRIENDS IN FUR AND FEATHERS. By Gwynfryn. Illustrated with 8 Full-page
+Engravings by F. W. Keyl, &c. 5th Edition. Handsomely bound, 3_s_.
+6_d_.
+
+'We have already characterised some other book as the best cat-and-dog
+book of the season. We said so because we had not seen the present
+little book, which is delightful. It is written on an artistic
+principle, consisting of actual biographies of certain elephants,
+squirrels, blackbirds, and what not, who lived in the flesh; and we
+only wish that human biographies were always as entertaining and
+instructive.'--_Saturday Review_.
+
+INSECT ARCHITECTURE. By Rennie. Edited by the Rev. J. G. Wood, Author
+of 'Homes Without Hands.' Post 8vo. with nearly 200 Illustrations,
+5_s_.
+
+THE ENTERTAINING NATURALIST. By Mrs. Loudon. Revised and enlarged by W.
+S. Dallas, F.L.S. With nearly 500 Illustrations. Post 8vo. 5_s_.
+
+ANECDOTES OF DOGS. By Edward Jesse. With Illustrations. Post 8vo.
+cloth, 5_s_. With 34 Steel Engravings after Cooper, Landseer, &c. 7_s_.
+6_d_.
+
+NATURAL HISTORY OF SELBORNE. By Gilbert White. Edited by Jesse.
+Illustrated with 40 Engravings. Post 8vo. 5_s_.; or, with the Plates
+Coloured, 7_s_. 6_d_.
+
+CHARADES, ENIGMAS, AND RIDDLES. Collected by a Cantab. 5th Edition,
+enlarged. Illustrated. Fcap. 8vo. 1_s_.
+
+POETRY-BOOK FOR SCHOOLS, illustrated with 37 highly finished Engravings
+by C. W. Cope, R.A., W. Helmsley, S. Palmer, F. Skill, G. Thomas, and
+H. Weir. Crown 8vo. gilt, 2_s_. 6_d_.; cloth, 1_s_.
+
+GILES WITHERNE; or, the Reward of Disobedience. A Village Tale for the
+Young. By the Rev. J. P. Parkinson, D.C.L. 6th Edition. Illustrated by
+the Rev. F. W. Mann. Super-royal 16mo. 1_s_.
+
+THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. By John Bunyan. With 281 Engravings from
+Designs by William Harvey. Post 8vo. 3_s_. 6_d_.
+
+OLD NURSERY RHYMES AND CHIMES. Collected and arranged by a Peal of
+Bells. Fcap. 4to. Ornamental binding, 2_s_. 6_d_.
+
+NURSERY CAROLS. By the Rev. Dr. Monsell, Rector of St. Nicholas,
+Guildford, with upwards of 100 Illustrations by Ludwig Richter and
+Oscar Pletsch. Imp. 16mo. 3_s_. 6_d_.
+
+'At once a poet and a child lover, full of fun and yet disposed gently
+to instil what is good, Dr. Monsell is inimitable in this particular
+department.'--_John Bull_.
+
+                           *   *   *   *   *
+
+                                LONDON:
+
+                 GEORGE BELL & SONS, York Street,
+
+                             Covent Garden.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Dramatic Works of G. E. Lessing, by 
+Gotthold Ephraim Lessing
+
+*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DRAMATIC WORKS OF LESSING ***
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