Читать книгу Nathan the Wise; a dramatic poem in five acts - Г. Э. Лессинг, Gotthold Ephraim Lessing - Страница 5

This fellow does not follow me for pastime.

How skaunt he eyes his hands!  Well, my good brother—

Perhaps I should say, father; ought I not?

No—brother—a lay-brother at your service.

Well, brother, then; if I myself had something—

But—but, by God, I’ve nothing.

   Thanks the same;

And God reward your purpose thousand-fold!

The will, and not the deed, makes up the giver.

Nor was I sent to follow you for alms—

Sent then?

   Yes, from the monastery.

      Where

I was just now in hopes of coming in

For pilgrims’ fare.

   They were already at table:

But if it suit with you to turn directly—

Why so?  ’Tis true, I have not tasted meat

This long time.  What of that?  The dates are ripe.

O with that fruit go cautiously to work.

Too much of it is hurtful, sours the humours,

Makes the blood melancholy.

   And if I

Choose to be melancholy—For this warning

You were not sent to follow me, I ween.

Oh, no: I only was to ask about you,

And feel your pulse a little.

      And you tell me

Of that yourself?

   Why not?

      A deep one! troth:

And has your cloister more such?

      I can’t say.

Obedience is our bounden duty.

   So—

And you obey without much scrupulous questioning?

Were it obedience else, good sir?

   How is it

The simple mind is ever in the right?

May you inform me who it is that wishes

To know more of me?  ’Tis not you yourself,

I dare be sworn.

   Would it become me, sir,

Or benefit me?

   Whom can it become,

Whom can it benefit, to be so curious?

The patriarch, I presume—’twas he that sent me.

The patriarch?  Knows he not my badge, the cross

Of red on the white mantle?

   Can I say?

Well, brother, well!  I am a templar, taken

Prisoner at Tebnin, whose exalted fortress,

Just as the truce expired, we sought to climb,

In order to push forward next to Sidon.

I was the twentieth captive, but the only

Pardoned by Saladin—with this, the patriarch

Knows all, or more than his occasions ask.

And yet no more than he already knows,

I think.  But why alone of all the captives

Thou hast been spared, he fain would learn—

      Can I

Myself tell that?  Already, with bare neck,

I kneeled upon my mantle, and awaited

The blow—when Saladin with steadfast eye

Fixed me, sprang nearer to me, made a sign—

I was upraised, unbound, about to thank him—

And saw his eye in tears.  Both stand in silence.

He goes.  I stay.  How all this hangs together,

Thy patriarch may unriddle.

   He concludes,

That God preserved you for some mighty deed.

Some mighty deed?  To save out of the fire

A Jewish girl—to usher curious pilgrims

About Mount Sinai—to—

   The time may come—

And this is no such trifle—but perhaps

The patriarch meditates a weightier office.

Think you so, brother?  Has he hinted aught?

Why, yes; I was to sift you out a little,

And hear if you were one to—

   Well—to what?

I’m curious to observe how this man sifts.

The shortest way will be to tell you plainly

What are the patriarch’s wishes.

   And they are—

To send a letter by your hand.

   By me?

I am no carrier.  And were that an office

More meritorious than to save from burning

A Jewish maid?

   So it should seem; must seem—

For, says the patriarch, to all Christendom

This letter is of import; and to bear it

Safe to its destination, says the patriarch,

God will reward with a peculiar crown

In heaven; and of this crown, the patriarch says,

No one is worthier than you—

   Than I?

For none so able, and so fit to earn

This crown, the patriarch says, as you.

      As I?

The patriarch here is free, can look about him,

And knows, he says, how cities may be stormed,

And how defended; knows, he says, the strengths

And weaknesses of Saladin’s new bulwark,

And of the inner rampart last thrown up;

And to the warriors of the Lord, he says,

Could clearly point them out;—

   And can I know

Exactly the contents of this same letter?

Why, that I don’t pretend to vouch exactly—

’Tis to King Philip: and our patriarch—

I often wonder how this holy man,

Who lives so wholly to his God and heaven,

Can stoop to be so well informed about

Whatever passes here—’Tis a hard task!

Well—and your patriarch—

   Knows, with great precision,

And from sure hands, how, when, and with what force,

And in which quarter, Saladin, in case

The war breaks out afresh, will take the field.

He knows that?

   Yes; and would acquaint King Philip,

That he may better calculate, if really

The danger be so great as to require

Him to renew at all events the truce

So bravely broken by your body.

   So?

This is a patriarch indeed!  He wants

No common messenger; he wants a spy.

Go tell your patriarch, brother, I am not,

As far as you can sift, the man to suit him.

I still esteem myself a prisoner, and

A templar’s only calling is to fight,

And not to ferret out intelligence.

That’s much as I supposed, and, to speak plainly,

Not to be blamed.  The best is yet behind.

The patriarch has made out the very fortress,

Its name, and strength, and site on Libanon,

Wherein the mighty sums are now concealed,

With which the prudent father of the sultan

Provides the cost of war, and pays the army.

He knows that Saladin, from time to time,

Goes to this fortress, through by-ways and passe

With few attendants.

   Well—

      How easy ’twere

To seize his person in these expeditions,

And make an end of all!  You shudder, sir—

Two Maronites, who fear the Lord, have offer

To share the danger of the enterprise,

Under a proper leader.

   And the patriarch

Had cast his eye on me for this brave office?

He thinks King Philip might from Ptolemais

Best second such a deed.

   On me? on me?

Have you not heard then, just now heard, the favour

Which I received from Saladin?

      Oh, yes!

And yet?

   The patriarch thinks—that’s mighty well—

God, and the order’s interest—

   Alter nothing,

Command no villainies.

   No, that indeed not;

But what is villainy in human eyes

May in the sight of God, the patriarch thinks,

Not be—

   I owe my life to Saladin,

And might take his?

   That—fie!  But Saladin,

The patriarch thinks, is yet the common foe

Of Christendom, and cannot earn a right

To be your friend.

   My friend—because I will not

Behave like an ungrateful scoundrel to him.

Yet gratitude, the patriarch thinks, is not

A debt before the eye of God or man,

Unless for our own sakes the benefit

Had been conferred; and, it has been reported,

The patriarch understands that Saladin

Preserved your life merely because your voice,

Your air, or features, raised a recollection

Of his lost brother.

   He knows this? and yet—

If it were sure, I should—ah, Saladin!

How! and shall nature then have formed in me

A single feature in thy brother’s likeness,

With nothing in my soul to answer to it?

Or what does correspond shall I suppress

To please a patriarch?  So thou dost not cheat us,

Nature—and so not contradict Thyself,

Kind God of all.—Go, brother, go away:

Do not stir up my anger.

   I withdraw

More gladly than I came.  We cloister-folk

Are forced to vow obedience to superiors.

The monk, methinks, left him in no good mood:

But I must risk my message.

   Better still

The proverb says that monks and women are

The devil’s clutches; and I’m tossed to-day

From one to th’ other.

   Whom do I behold?—

Thank God!  I see you, noble knight, once more.

Where have you lurked this long, long space?  You’ve not

Been ill?

   No.

      Well, then?

      Yes.

      We’ve all been anxious

Lest something ailed you.

   So?

   Have you been journeying?

Hit off!

   How long returned?

      Since yesterday.

Our Recha’s father too is just returned,

And now may Recha hope at last—

      For what?

For what she often has requested of you.

Her father pressingly invites your visit.

He now arrives from Babylon, with twenty

High-laden camels, brings the curious drugs,

And precious stones, and stuffs, he has collected

From Syria, Persia, India, even China.

I am no chap.

   His nation honours him,

As if he were a prince, and yet to hear him

Called the wise Nathan by them, not the rich,

Has often made me wonder.

   To his nation

Are rich and wise perhaps of equal import.

But above all he should be called the good.

You can’t imagine how much goodness dwells

Within him.  Since he has been told the service

You rendered to his Recha, there is nothing

That he would grudge you.

   Aye?

      Do—see him, try him.

A burst of feeling soon is at an end.

And do you think that I, were he less kind,

Less bountiful, had housed with him so long:

That I don’t feel my value as a Christian:

For ’twas not o’er my cradle said, or sung,

That I to Palestina should pursue

My husband’s steps, only to educate

A Jewess.  My husband was a noble page

In Emperor Frederic’s army.

      And by birth

A Switzer, who obtained the gracious honour

Of drowning in one river with his master.

Woman, how often you have told me this!

Will you ne’er leave off persecuting me?

My Jesus! persecute—

      Aye, persecute.

Observe then, I henceforward will not see,

Not hear you, nor be minded of a deed

Over and over, which I did unthinking,

And which, when thought about, I wonder at.

I wish not to repent it; but, remember,

Should the like accident occur again,

’Twill be your fault if I proceed more coolly,

Ask a few questions, and let burn what’s burning.

My God forbid!

   From this day forth, good woman,

Do me at least the favour not to know me:

I beg it of you; and don’t send the father.

A Jew’s a Jew, and I am rude and bearish.

The image of the maid is quite erased

Out of my soul—if it was ever there—

But yours remains with her.

   Why so—what then—

Wherefore give harbour to it?—

   Who knows wherefore?

Men are not always what they seem to be.

They’re seldom better than they seem to be.

Ben’t in this hurry.

   Pray, forbear to make

These palm-trees odious.  I have loved to walk here.

Farewell then, bear.  Yet I must track the savage.