Part 3

A pretty dream. It makes me smile. You do not know the Christians. You will not know them. ’Tis this people’s pride Not to be men, but to be Christians. Even What of humane their Founder felt, and taught, And left to savour their found superstition, They value not because it is humane, Lovely, and good for man; they only prize it Because ’twas 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 for granted, And in His virtues put their trust. His virtues— ’Tis not His virtues, but His name alone They wish to thrust upon us—’Tis His name Which they desire should overspread the world, Should swallow up the name of all good men, And put the best to shame. ’Tis His mere name They care for—

SALADIN.

Else, my Sittah, as thou sayst, They would not have required that thou, and Melek, Should be called Christians, ere you might be suffered To feel for Christians conjugal affection.

SITTAH.

As if from Christians only, and as Christians, That love could be expected which our Maker In man and woman for each other planted.

SALADIN.

The Christians do believe such idle notions, They well might fancy this: and yet thou errest. The templars, not the Christians, are in fault. ’Tis not as Christians, but as templars, that They thwart my purpose. They alone prevent it. They will on no account evacuate Acca, Which was to be the dower of Richard’s sister, And, lest their order suffer, use this cant— Bring into play the nonsense of the monk— And scarcely would await the truce’s end To fall upon us. Go on so—go on, To me you’re welcome, sirs. Would all things else Went but as right!

SITTAH.

What else should trouble thee, If this do not?

SALADIN.

Why, that which ever has. I’ve been on Libanon, and seen our father. He’s full of care.

SITTAH.

Alas!

SALADIN.

He can’t make shift, Straitened on all sides, put off, disappointed; Nothing comes in.

SITTAH.

What fails him, Saladin?

SALADIN.

What? but the thing I scarcely deign to name, Which, when I have it, so superfluous seems, And, when I have it not, so necessary. Where is Al-Hafi then—this fatal money— O welcome, Hafi!

HAFI, SALADIN, _and_ SITTAH.

HAFI.

I suppose the gold From Egypt is arrived.

SALADIN.

Hast tidings of it?

HAFI.

I? no, not I. I thought to have ta’en it here.

SALADIN.

To Sittah pay a thousand dinars.

HAFI.

Pay? And not receive—that’s something less than nothing. To Sittah and again to Sittah—and Once more for loss at chess? Is this your game?

SITTAH.

Dost grudge me my good fortune?

HAFI (_examining the board_).

Grudge! you know—

SITTAH (_making signs to Hafi_).

Hush, Hafi, hush!

HAFI.

And were the white men yours? You gave the check?

SITTAH.

’Tis well he does not hear.

HAFI.

And he to move?

SITTAH (_approaching Hafi_).

Say then aloud that I Shall have my money.

HAFI (_still considering the game_).

Yes, yes! you shall have it— As you have always had it.

SITTAH.

Are you crazy?

HAFI.

The game is not decided; Saladin, You have not lost.

SALADIN (_scarcely hearkening_).

Well, well!—pay, pay.

HAFI.

Pay, pay— There stands your queen.

SALADIN (_still walking about_).

It boots not, she is useless.

SITTAH (_low to Hafi_).

Do say that I may send and fetch the gold.

HAFI.

Aye, aye, as usual—But although the queen Be useless, you are by no means check-mate.

SALADIN (_dashes down the board_).

I am. I will then—

HAFI.

So! small pains, small gains; As got, so spent.

SALADIN (_to Sittah_).

What is he muttering there?

SITTAH (_to Saladin_, _winking meanwhile to Hafi_).

You know him well, and his unyielding way. He chooses to be prayed to—maybe he’s envious—

SALADIN.

No, not of thee, not of my sister, surely. What do I hear, Al-Hafi, are you envious?

HAFI.

Perhaps. I’d rather have her head than mine, Or her heart either.

SITTAH.

Ne’ertheless, my brother, He pays me right, and will again to-day. Let him alone. There, go away, Al-Hafi; I’ll send and fetch my dinars.

HAFI.

No, I will not; I will not act this farce a moment longer: He shall, must know it.

SALADIN.

Who? what?

SITTAH.

O Al-Hafi, Is this thy promise, this thy keeping word?

HAFI.

How could I think it was to go so far?

SALADIN.

Well, what am I to know?

SITTAH.

I pray thee, Hafi, Be more discreet.

SALADIN.

That’s very singular. And what can Sittah then so earnestly, So warmly have to sue for from a stranger, A dervis, rather than from me, her brother? Al-Hafi, I command. Dervis, speak out.

SITTAH.

Let not a trifle, brother, touch you nearer Than is becoming. You know I have often Won the same sum of you at chess, and, as I have not just at present need of money, I’ve left the sum at rest in Hafi’s chest, Which is not over-full; and thus the stakes Are not yet taken out—but, never fear, It is not my intention to bestow them On thee, or Hafi.

HAFI.

Were it only this—

SITTAH.

Some more such trifles are perhaps unclaimed; My own allowance, which you set apart, Has lain some months untouched.

HAFI.

Nor is that all—

SALADIN.

Nor yet—speak then!

HAFI.

Since we have been expecting The treasure out of Egypt, she not only—

SITTAH.

Why listen to him?

HAFI.

Has not had an asper;—

SALADIN.

Good creature—but has been advancing to thee—

HAFI.

Has at her sole expense maintained thy state.

SALADIN (_embracing her_).

My sister—ah!

SITTAH.

And who but you, my brother, Could make me rich enough to have the power?

HAFI.

And in a little time again will leave thee Poor as himself.

SALADIN.

I, poor—her brother, poor? When had I more, when less than at this instant? A cloak, a horse, a sabre, and a God!— What need I else? With them what can be wanting? And yet, Al-Hafi, I could quarrel with thee For this.

SITTAH.

A truce to that, my brother. Were it As easy to remove our father’s cares!

SALADIN.

Ah! now my joy thou hast at once abated: To me there is, there can be, nothing wanting; But—but to him—and, in him, to us all. What shall I do? From Egypt maybe nothing Will come this long time. Why—God only knows. We hear of no stir. To reduce, to spare, I am quite willing for myself to stoop to, Were it myself, and only I, should suffer— But what can that 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 my heart. I had relied, Al-Hafi, Upon a surplus in my chest.

HAFI.

A surplus? And tell me, would you not have had me impaled, Or hanged at least, if you had found me out In hoarding up a surplus? Deficits— Those one may venture on.

SALADIN.

Well, but how next? Could you have found out no one where to borrow Unless of Sittah?

SITTAH.

And would I have borne To see the preference given to another? I still lay claim to it. I am not as yet Entirely bare.

SALADIN.

Not yet entirely—This Was wanting still. Go, turn thyself about; Take where, and as, thou canst; be quick, Al-Hafi. Borrow on promise, contract, anyhow; But heed me—not of those I have enriched— To borrow there might seem to ask it back. Go to the covetous. They’ll gladliest lend— They know how well their money thrives with me—

HAFI.

I know none such.

SITTAH.

I recollect just now I heard, Al-Hafi, of thy friend’s return.

HAFI (_startled_).

Friend—friend of mine—and who should that be?

SITTAH.

Who? Thy vaunted Jew!

HAFI.

A Jew, and praised by me?

SITTAH.

To whom his God (I think I still retain Thy own expression used concerning him) To whom, of all the good things of this world, His God in full abundance has bestowed The greatest and the least.

HAFI.

What could I mean When I said so?

SITTAH.

The least of good things, riches; The greatest, wisdom.

HAFI.

How—and of a Jew Could I say that?

SITTAH.

Didst thou not—of thy Nathan?

HAFI.

Hi ho! of him—of Nathan? At that moment He did not come across me. But, in fact, He is at length come home; and, I suppose, Is not ill off. His people used to call him The wise—also the rich.

SITTAH.

The rich he’s named Now more than ever. The whole town resounds With news of jewels, costly stuffs, and stores, That he brings back.

HAFI.

Is he the rich again— He’ll be, no fear of it, once more the wise.

SITTAH.

What thinkst thou, Hafi, of a call on him?

HAFI.

On him—sure not to borrow—why, you know him— He lend? Therein his very wisdom lies, That he lends no one.

SITTAH.

Formerly thon gav’st A very different picture of this Nathan.

HAFI.

In case of need he’ll lend you merchandise, But money, money, never. He’s a Jew, There are but few such! he has understanding, Knows life, plays chess; but is in bad notorious Above his brethren, as he is in good. On him rely not. To the poor indeed He vies perhaps with Saladin in giving: Though he distributes less, he gives as freely, As silently, as nobly, to Jew, Christian, Mahometan, or Parsee—’tis all one.

SITTAH.

And such a man should be—

SALADIN.

How comes it then I never heard of him?

SITTAH.

Should be unwilling To lend to Saladin, who wants for others, Not for himself.

HAFI.

Aye, there peeps out the Jew, The ordinary Jew. Believe me, prince, He’s jealous, really envious of your giving. To earn God’s favour seems his very business. He lends not that he may always have to give. The law commandeth mercy, not compliance: And thus for mercy’s sake he’s uncomplying. ’Tis true, I am not now on the best terms With Nathan, but I must entreat you, think not That therefore I would do injustice to him. He’s good in everything, but not in that— Only in that. I’ll knock at other doors. I just have recollected an old Moor, Who’s rich and covetous—I go—I go.

SITTAH.

Why in such hurry, Hafi?

SALADIN.

Let him go.

SALADIN _and_ SITTAH.

SITTAH.

He hastens like a man who would escape me; Why so? Was he indeed deceived in Nathan, Or does he play upon us?

SALADIN.

Can I guess? I scarcely know of whom you have been talking, And hear to-day, for the first time, of Nathan.

SITTAH.

Is’t possible the man were hid from thee, Of whom ’tis said, he has found out the tombs Of Solomon and David, knows the word That lifts their marble lids, and thence obtains The golden oil that feeds his shining pomp?

SALADIN.

Were this man’s wealth by miracle created, ’Tis not at David’s tomb, or Solomon’s, That ’twould be wrought. Not virtuous men lie there.

SITTAH.

His source of opulence is more productive And more exhaustless than a cave of Mammon.

SALADIN.

He trades, I hear.

SITTAH.

His ships fill every harbour; His caravans through every desert toil. This has Al-Hafi told me long ago: With transport adding then—how nobly Nathan Bestows what he esteems it not a meanness By prudent industry to have justly earned— How free from prejudice his lofty soul— His heart to every virtue how unlocked— With every lovely feeling how familiar.

SALADIN.

Yet Hafi spake just now so coldly of him.

SITTAH.

Not coldly; but with awkwardness, confusion, As if he thought it dangerous to praise him, And yet knew not to blame him undeserving, Or can it really be that e’en the best Among a people cannot quite escape The tinges of the tribe; and that, in fact, Al-Hafi has in this to blush for Nathan? Be that as’t may—be he the Jew or no— Is he but rich—that is enough for us.

SALADIN.

You would not, sister, take his wealth by force.

SITTAH.

What do you mean by force—fire, 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 her, she came yesterday: Meanwhile I’ll think somewhat about a project I have upon this Nathan. Follow, brother.

SCENE.—The Place of Palms, close to Nathan’s House.

NATHAN, _attired_, _comes out with_ RECHA.

RECHA.

You have been so very slow, my dearest father, You now will hardly be in time to find him.

NATHAN.

Well, if not here beneath the palms; yet, surely, Elsewhere. My child, be satisfied. See, see, Is not that Daya making towards us?

RECHA.

She certainly has lost him then.

NATHAN.

Why so?

RECHA.

Else she’d walk quicker.

NATHAN.

She may not have seen us.

RECHA.

There, now she sees us.

NATHAN.

And her speed redoubles, Be calm, my Recha.

RECHA.

Would you have your daughter Be cool and unconcerned who ’twas that saved her, Heed not to whom is due the life she prizes Chiefly because she owed it first to thee?

NATHAN.

I would not wish thee other than thou art, E’en if I knew that in thy secret soul A very different emotion throbs.

RECHA.

Why—what my father?

NATHAN.

Dost thou ask of me, So tremblingly of me, what passes in thee? Whatever ’tis, ’tis innocence and nature. Be not alarmed, it gives me no alarm; But promise me that, when thy heart shall speak A plainer language, thou wilt not conceal A single of thy wishes from my fondness.

RECHA.

Oh the mere possibility of wishing Rather to veil and hide them makes me shudder.

NATHAN.

Let this be spoken once for all. Well, Daya—

NATHAN, RECHA, _and_ DAYA.

DAYA.

He still is here beneath the palms, and soon Will reach yon wall. See, there he comes.

RECHA.

And seems Irresolute where next; if left or right.

DAYA.

I know he mostly passes to the convent, And therefore comes this path. What will you lay me?

RECHA.

Oh yes he does. And did you speak to him? How did he seem to-day?

DAYA.

As heretofore.

NATHAN.

Don’t let him see you with me: further back; Or rather to the house.

RECHA.

Just one peep more. Now the hedge steals him from me.

DAYA.

Come away. Your father’s in the right—should he perceive us, ’Tis very probable he’ll tack about.

RECHA.

But for the hedge—

NATHAN.

Now he emerges from it. He can’t but see you: hence—I ask it of you.

DAYA.

I know a window whence we yet may—

RECHA.

Ay.

[_Goes in with Daya_.

NATHAN.

I’m almost shy of this strange fellow, almost Shrink back from his rough virtue. That one man Should ever make another man feel awkward! And yet—He’s coming—ha!—by God, the youth Looks like a man. I love his daring eye, His open gait. May be the shell is bitter; But not the kernel surely. I have seen Some such, methinks. Forgive me, noble Frank.

NATHAN _and_ TEMPLAR.

TEMPLAR.

What?

NATHAN.

Give me leave.

TEMPLAR.

Well, Jew, what wouldst thou have?

NATHAN.

The liberty of speaking to you!

TEMPLAR.

So— Can I prevent it? Quick then, what’s your business?

NATHAN.

Patience—nor hasten quite so proudly by A man, who has not merited contempt, And whom, for evermore, you’ve made your debtor.

TEMPLAR.

How so? Perhaps I guess—No—Are you then—

NATHAN.

My name is Nathan, father to the maid Your generous courage snatched from circling flames, And hasten—

TEMPLAR.

If with thanks, keep, keep them all. Those little things I’ve had to suffer much from: Too much already, far. And, after all, You owe me nothing. Was I ever told She was your daughter? ’Tis a templar’s duty To rush to the assistance of the first Poor wight that needs him; and my life just then Was quite a burden. I was mighty glad To risk it for another; tho’ it were That of a Jewess.

NATHAN.

Noble, and yet shocking! The turn might be expected. Modest greatness Wears willingly the mask of what is shocking To scare off admiration: but, altho’ She may disdain the tribute, admiration, Is there no other tribute she can bear with? Knight, were you here not foreign, not a captive I would not ask so freely. Speak, command, In what can I be useful?

TEMPLAR.

You—in nothing.

NATHAN.

I’m rich.

TEMPLAR.

To me the richer Jew ne’er seemed The bettor 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 my poor mantle’s sake—when that is threadbare, And spite of darning will not hold together, I’ll come and borrow cloth, or money of thee, To make me up a new one. Don’t look solemn; The danger is not pressing; ’tis not yet At the last gasp, but tight and strong and good, Save this poor corner, where an ugly spot You see is singed upon it. It got singed As I bore off your daughter from the fire.

NATHAN (_taking hold of the mantle_).

’Tis singular that such an ugly spot Bears better testimony to the man Than his own mouth. This brand—Oh I could kiss it! Your pardon—that I meant not.

TEMPLAR.

What?

NATHAN.

A tear Fell on the spot.

TEMPLAR.

You’ll find up more such tears— (This Jew methinks begins to work upon me).

NATHAN.

Would you send once this mantle to my daughter?

TEMPLAR.

Why?

NATHAN.

That her lips may cling to this dear speck; For at her benefactor’s feet to fall, I find, she hopes in vain.

TEMPLAR.

But, Jew, your name You said was Nathan—Nathan, you can join Your words together cunningly—right well— I am confused—in fact—I would have been—

NATHAN.

Twist, writhe, disguise you, as you will, I know you, You were too honest, knight, to be more civil; A girl all feeling, and a she-attendant All complaisance, a father at a distance— You valued her good name, and would not see her. You scorned to try her, lest you should be victor; For that I also thank you.

TEMPLAR.

I confess, You know how templars ought to think.

NATHAN.

Still templars— And only _ought_ to think—and all because The rules and vows enjoin it to the _order_— I know how good men think—know that all lands Produce good men.

TEMPLAR.

But not without distinction.

NATHAN.

In colour, dress, and shape, perhaps, distinguished.

TEMPLAR.

Here more, there fewer sure?

NATHAN.

That boots not much, The great man everywhere has need of room. Too many set together only serve To crush each others’ branches. Middling good, As we are, spring up everywhere in plenty. Only let one not 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, I trust, you know the nation, That first began to strike at fellow men, That first baptised itself the chosen people— How now if I were—not to hate this people, Yet for its pride could not forbear to scorn it, The pride which it to Mussulman and Christian Bequeathed, as were its God alone the true one, You start, that I, a Christian and a templar, Talk thus. Where, when, has e’er the pious rage To own the better god—on the whole world To force this better, as the best of all— Shown itself more, and in a blacker form, Than here, than now? To him, whom, here and now, The film is not removing from his eye— But be he blind that wills! Forget my speeches And leave me.

NATHAN.

Ah! indeed you do not know How closer I shall cling to you henceforth. We must, we will be friends. Despise my nation— We did not choose a nation for ourselves. Are we our nations? What’s a nation then? Were Jews and Christians such, e’er they were men? And have I found in thee one more, to whom It is enough to be a man?

TEMPLAR.

That hast thou. Nathan, by God, thou hast. Thy hand. I blush To have mistaken thee a single instant.

NATHAN.

And I am proud of it. Only common souls We seldom err in.

TEMPLAR.

And uncommon ones Seldom forget. Yes, Nathan, yes we must, We will be friends.

NATHAN.

We are so. And my Recha— She will rejoice. How sweet the wider prospect That dawns upon me! Do but know her—once.

TEMPLAR.

I am impatient for it. Who is that Bursts from your house, methinks it is your Daya.

NATHAN.

Ay—but so anxiously—

TEMPLAR.

Sure, to our Recha Nothing has happened.

NATHAN, TEMPLAR, _and_ DAYA.

DAYA.

Nathan, Nathan.

NATHAN.

Well.

DAYA.

Forgive me, knight, that I must interrupt you.

NATHAN.

What is the matter?

TEMPLAR.

What?

DAYA.

The sultan sends— The sultan wants to see you—in a hurry. Jesus! the sultan—

NATHAN.

Saladin wants me? He will be curious to see what wares, Precious, or new, I brought with me from Persia. Say there is nothing hardly yet unpacked.

DAYA.

No, no: ’tis not to look at anything. He wants to speak to you, to you in person, And orders you to come as soon as may be.

NATHAN.

I’ll go—return.

DAYA.

Knight, take it not amiss; But we were so alarmed for what the sultan Could have in view.

NATHAN.

That I shall soon discover.

NATHAN _and_ TEMPLAR.

TEMPLAR.

And don’t you know him yet, I mean his person?

NATHAN.

Whose, Saladin’s? Not yet. I’ve neither shunned, Nor sought to see him. And the general voice Speaks too well of him, for me not to wish, Rather to take its language upon trust, Than sift the truth out. Yet—if it be so— He, by the saving of your life, has now—

TEMPLAR.

Yes: it is so. The life I live he gave.

NATHAN.

And in it double treble life to me. This flings a bond about me, which shall tie me For ever to his service: and I scarcely Like to defer inquiring for his wishes. For everything I am ready; and am ready To own that ’tis on your account I am so.

TEMPLAR.

As often as I’ve thrown me in his way, I have not found as yet the means to thank him. The impression that I made upon him came Quickly, and so has vanished. Now perhaps He recollects me not, who knows? Once more At least, he must recall me to his mind, Fully to fix my doom. ’Tis not enough That by his order I am yet in being, By his permission live, I have to learn According to whose will I must exist.

NATHAN.

Therefore I shall the more avoid delay. Perchance some word may furnish me occasion To glance at you—perchance—Excuse me, knight, I am in haste. When shall we see you with us?

TEMPLAR.

Soon as I may.

NATHAN.

That is, whene’er you will.

TEMPLAR.

To-day, then.

NATHAN.

And your name?

TEMPLAR.

My name was—is Conrade of Stauffen.

NATHAN.

Conrade of Stauffen! Stauffen!

TEMPLAR.

Why does that strike so forcibly upon you?

NATHAN.

There are more races of that name, no doubt.

TEMPLAR.

Yes, many of that name were here—rot here. My uncle even—I should say, my father. But wherefore is your look so sharpened on me?

NATHAN.

Nothing—how can I weary to behold you—

TEMPLAR.

Therefore I quit you first. The searching eye Finds often more than it desires to see. I fear it, Nathan. Fare thee well. Let time, Not curiosity make us acquainted.

[_Goes_.

NATHAN, _and soon after_, DAYA.

NATHAN.