Act 5 — Scene VI.--Sittah's harem.
Ernest Bell translation
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.