RECHA.
Daya,
What art thou prating of? My dearest Daya,
Indeed thou hast some strange unseemly notions.
“His God—for whom he fights”—what is a God
Belonging to a man—needing another
To fight his battles? And can we pronounce
For which among the scattered clods of earth
You, I was born; unless it be for that
On which we were produced. If Nathan heard thee—
What has my father done to thee, that thou
Hast ever sought to paint my happiness
As lying far remote from him and his.
What has he done to thee that thus, among
The seeds of reason, which he sowed unmixed,
Pure in my soul, thou ever must be seeking
To plant the weeds, or flowers, of thy own land.
He wills not of these pranking gaudy blossoms
Upon this soil. And I too must acknowledge
I feel as if they had a sour-sweet odour,
That makes me giddy—that half suffocates.
Thy head is wont to bear it. I don’t blame
Those stronger nerves that can support it. Mine—
Mine it behoves not. Latterly thy angel
Had made me half a fool. I am ashamed,
Whene’er I see my father, of the folly.
DAYA.
As if here only wisdom were at home—
Folly—if I dared speak.
RECHA.
And dar’st thou not?
When was I not all ear, if thou beganst
To talk about the heroes of thy faith?
Have I not freely on their deeds bestowed
My admiration, to their sufferings yielded
The tribute of my tears? Their faith indeed
Has never seemed their most heroic side
To me: yet, therefore, have I only learnt
To find more consolation in the thought,
That our devotion to the God of all
Depends not on our notions about God.
My father has so often told us so—
Thou hast so often to this point consented—
How can it be that thou alone art restless
To undermine what you built up together?
This is not the most fit discussion, Daya,
To usher in our friend to; tho’ indeed
I should not disincline to it—for to me
It is of infinite importance if
He too—but hark—there’s some one at the door.
If it were he—stay—hush—
(A Slave who shows in the Templar.)
They are—here this way.
Templar, Daya, and Recha.
RECHA.