Part 5

In truth a noble title. But, sultan, e’er I quite unfold myself Allow me to relate a tale.

SALADIN.

Why not? I always was a friend of tales well told.

NATHAN.

Well told, that’s not precisely my affair.

SALADIN.

Again so proudly modest, come begin.

NATHAN.

In days of yore, there dwelt in east a man Who from a valued hand received a ring Of endless worth: the stone of it an opal, That shot an ever-changing tint: moreover, It had the hidden virtue him to render Of God and man beloved, who in this view, And this persuasion, wore it. Was it strange The eastern man ne’er drew it off his finger, And studiously provided to secure it For ever to his house. Thus—He bequeathed it; First, to the _most beloved_ of his sons, Ordained that he again should leave the ring To the _most dear_ among his children—and That without heeding birth, the _favourite_ son, In virtue of the ring alone, should always Remain the lord o’ th’ house—You hear me, Sultan?

SALADIN.

I understand thee—on.

NATHAN.

From son to son, At length this ring descended to a father, Who had three sons, alike obedient to him; Whom therefore he could not but love alike. At times seemed this, now that, at times the third, (Accordingly as each apart received The overflowings of his heart) most worthy To heir the ring, which with good-natured weakness He privately to each in turn had promised. This went on for a while. But death approached, And the good father grew embarrassed. So To disappoint two sons, who trust his promise, He could not bear. What’s to be done. He sends In secret to a jeweller, of whom, Upon the model of the real ring, He might bespeak two others, and commanded To spare nor cost nor pains to make them like, Quite like the true one. This the artist managed. The rings were brought, and e’en the father’s eye Could not distinguish which had been the model. Quite overjoyed he summons all his sons, Takes leave of each apart, on each bestows His blessing and his ring, and dies—Thou hearest me?

SALADIN.

I hear, I hear, come finish with thy tale; Is it soon ended?

NATHAN.

It is ended, Sultan, For all that follows may be guessed of course. Scarce is the father dead, each with his ring Appears, and claims to be the lord o’ th’ house. Comes question, strife, complaint—all to no end; For the true ring could no more be distinguished Than now can—the true faith.

SALADIN.

How, how, is that To be the answer to my query?

NATHAN.

No, But it may serve as my apology; If I can’t venture to decide between Rings, which the father got expressly made, That they might not be known from one another.

SALADIN.

The rings—don’t trifle with me; I must think That the religions which I named can be Distinguished, e’en to raiment, drink and food,

NATHAN.

And only not as to their grounds of proof. Are not all built alike on history, Traditional, or written. History Must be received on trust—is it not so? In whom now are we likeliest to put trust? In our own people surely, in those men Whose blood we are, in them, who from our childhood Have given us proofs of love, who ne’er deceived us, Unless ’twere wholesomer to be deceived. How can I less believe in my forefathers Than thou in thine. How can I ask of thee To own that thy forefathers falsified In order to yield mine the praise of truth. The like of Christians.

SALADIN.

By the living God, The man is in the right, I must be silent.

NATHAN.

Now let us to our rings return once more. As said, the sons complained. Each to the judge Swore from his father’s hand immediately To have received the ring, as was the case; After he had long obtained the father’s promise, One day to have the ring, as also was. The father, each asserted, could to him Not have been false, rather than so suspect Of such a father, willing as he might be With charity to judge his brethren, he Of treacherous forgery was bold t’ accuse them.

SALADIN.

Well, and the judge, I’m eager now to hear What thou wilt make him say. Go on, go on.

NATHAN.

The judge said, If ye summon not the father Before my seat, I cannot give a sentence. Am I to guess enigmas? Or expect ye That the true ring should here unseal its lips? But hold—you tell me that the real ring Enjoys the hidden power to make the wearer Of God and man beloved; let that decide. Which of you do two brothers love the best? You’re silent. Do these love-exciting rings

## Act inward only, not without? Does each

Love but himself? Ye’re all deceived deceivers, None of your rings is true. The real ring Perhaps is gone. To hide or to supply Its loss, your father ordered three for one.

SALADIN.

O charming, charming!

NATHAN.

And (the judge continued) If you will take advice in lieu of sentence, This is my counsel to you, to take up The matter where it stands. If each of you Has had a ring presented by his father, Let each believe his own the real ring. ’Tis possible the father chose no longer To tolerate the one ring’s tyranny; And certainly, as he much loved you all, And loved you all alike, it could not please him By favouring one to be of two the oppressor. Let each feel honoured by this free affection. Unwarped of prejudice; let each endeavour To vie with both his brothers in displaying The virtue of his ring; assist its might With gentleness, benevolence, forbearance, With inward resignation to the godhead, And if the virtues of the ring continue To show themselves among your children’s children, After a thousand thousand years, appear Before this judgment-seat—a greater one Than I shall sit upon it, and decide. So spake the modest judge.

SALADIN.

God!

NATHAN.

Saladin, Feel’st thou thyself this wiser, promised man?

SALADIN.

I dust, I nothing, God!

[_Precipitates himself upon Nathan_, _and takes hold of his hand_, _which he does not quit the remainder of the scene_.

NATHAN.

What moves thee, Sultan?

SALADIN.

Nathan, my dearest Nathan, ’tis not yet The judge’s thousand thousand years are past, His judgment-seat’s not mine. Go, go, but love me.

NATHAN.

Has Saladin then nothing else to order?

SALADIN.

No.

NATHAN.

Nothing?

SALADIN.

Nothing in the least, and wherefore?

NATHAN.

I could have wished an opportunity To lay a prayer before you.

SALADIN.

Is there need Of opportunity for that? Speak freely.

NATHAN.

I come from a long journey from collecting Debts, and I’ve almost of hard cash too much; The times look perilous—I know not where To lodge it safely—I was thinking thou, For coming wars require large sums, couldst use it.

SALADIN (_fixing Nathan_).

Nathan, I ask not if thou sawst Al-Hafi, I’ll not examine if some shrewd suspicion Spurs thee to make this offer of thyself.

NATHAN.

Suspicion—

SALADIN.

I deserve this offer. Pardon, For what avails concealment, I acknowledge I was about—

NATHAN.

To ask the same of me?

SALADIN.

Yes.

NATHAN.

Then ’tis well we’re both accommodated. That I can’t send thee all I have of treasure Arises from the templar; thou must know him, I have a weighty debt to pay to him.

SALADIN.

A templar! How, thou dost not with thy gold Support my direst foes.

NATHAN.

I speak of him Whose life the sultan—

SALADIN.

What art thou recalling? I had forgot the youth, whence is he, knowest thou?

NATHAN.

Hast thou not heard then how thy clemency To him has fallen on me. He at the risk Of his new-spared existence, from the flames Rescued my daughter.

SALADIN.

Ha! Has he done that; He looked like one that would—my brother too, Whom he’s so like, bad done it. Is he here still? Bring him to me—I have so often talked To Sittah of this brother, whom she knew not, That I must let her see his counterfeit. Go fetch him. How a single worthy action, Though but of whim or passion born, gives rise To other blessings! Fetch him.

NATHAN.

In an instant. The rest remains as settled.

SALADIN.

O, I wish I had let my sister listen. Well, I’ll to her. How shall I make her privy to all this?

SCENE.—The Place of Palms.

The TEMPLAR _walking and agitated_.

TEMPLAR.

Here let the weary victim pant awhile.— Yet would I not have time to ascertain What passes in me; would not snuff beforehand The coming storm. ’Tis sure I fled in vain; But more than fly I could not do, whatever Comes of it. Ah! to ward it off—the blow Was given so suddenly. Long, much, I strove To keep aloof; but vainly. Once to see her— Her, whom I surely did not court the sight of, To see her, and to form the resolution, Never to lose sight of her here again, Was one—The resolution?—Not ’tis will, Fixt purpose, made (for I was passive in it) Sealed, doomed. To see her, and to feel myself Bound to her, wove into her very being, Was one—remains one. Separate from her To live is quite unthinkable—is death. And wheresoever after death we be, There too the thought were death. And is this love? Yet so in troth the templar loves—so—so— The Christian loves the Jewess. What of that? Here in this holy land, and therefore holy And dear to me, I have already doffed Some prejudices.—Well—what says my vow? As templar I am dead, was dead to that From the same hour which made me prisoner To Saladin. But is the head he gave me My old one? No. It knows no word of what Was prated into yon, of what had bound it. It is a better; for its patrial sky Fitter than yon. I feel—I’m conscious of it, With this I now begin to think, as here My father must have thought; if tales of him Have not been told untruly. Tales—why tales? They’re credible—more credible than ever— Now that I’m on the brink of stumbling, where He fell. He fell? I’d rather fall with men, Than stand with children. His example pledges His approbation, and whose approbation Have I else need of? Nathan’s? Surely of his Encouragement, applause, I’ve little need To doubt—O what a Jew is he! yet easy To pass for the mere Jew. He’s coming—swiftly— And looks delighted—who leaves Saladin With other looks? Hoa, Nathan!

NATHAN _and_ TEMPLAR.

NATHAN.

Are you there?

TEMPLAR.

Your visit to the sultan has been long.

NATHAN.

Not very long; my going was indeed Too much delayed. Troth, Conrade, this man’s fame Outstrips him not. His fame is but his shadow. But before all I have to tell you—

TEMPLAR.

What?

NATHAN.

That he would speak with you, and that directly. First to my house, where I would give some orders, Then we’ll together to the sultan.

TEMPLAR.

Nathan, I enter not thy doors again before—

NATHAN.

Then you’ve been there this while—have spoken with her. How do you like my Recha?

TEMPLAR.

Words cannot tell— Gaze on her once again—I never will— Never—no never: unless thou wilt promise That I for ever, ever, may behold her.

NATHAN.

How should I take this?

TEMPLAR (_falling suddenly upon his neck_).

Nathan—O my father!

NATHAN.

Young man!

TEMPLAR (_quitting him as suddenly_).

Not son?—I pray thee, Nathan—ha!

NATHAN.

Thou dear young man!

TEMPLAR.

Not son?—I pray thee, Nathan, Conjure thee by the strongest bonds of nature, Prefer not those of later date, the weaker.— Be it enough to thee to be a man! Push me not from thee!

NATHAN.

Dearest, dearest friend!—

TEMPLAR.

Not son? Not son? Not even—even if Thy daughter’s gratitude had in her bosom Prepared the way for love—not even if Both wait thy nod alone to be but one?— You do not speak?

NATHAN.

Young knight, you have surprised me.

TEMPLAR.

Do I surprise thee—thus surprise thee, Nathan, With thy own thought? Canst thou not in my mouth Know it again? Do I surprise you?

NATHAN.

Ere I know, which of the Stauffens was your father?

TEMPLAR.

What say you, Nathan?—And in such a moment Is curiosity your only feeling?

NATHAN.

For see, once I myself well knew a Stauffen, Whose name was Conrade.

TEMPLAR.

Well, and if my father Was bearer of that name?

NATHAN.

Indeed?

TEMPLAR.

My name Is from my father’s, Conrade.

NATHAN.

Then thy father Was not my Conrade. He was, like thyself, A templar, never wedded.

TEMPLAR.

For all that—

NATHAN.

How?

TEMPLAR.

For all that he may have been my father.

NATHAN.

You joke.

TEMPLAR.

And you are captious. Boots it then To be true-born? Does bastard wound thine ear? The race is not to be despised: but hold, Spare me my pedigree; I’ll spare thee thine. Not that I doubt thy genealogic tree. O, God forbid! You may attest it all As far as Abraham back; and backwarder I know it to my heart—I’ll swear to it also.

NATHAN.

Knight, you grow bitter. Do I merit this? Have I refused you ought? I’ve but forborne To close with you at the first word—no more.

TEMPLAR.

Indeed—no more? O then forgive—

NATHAN.

’Tis well. Do but come with me.

TEMPLAR.

Whither? To thy house? No? there not—there not: ’tis a burning soil. Here I await thee, go. Am I again To see her, I shall see her times enough: If not I have already gazed too much.

NATHAN.

I’ll try to be soon back.

[_Goes_.

TEMPLAR.

Too much indeed— Strange that the human brain, so infinite Of comprehension, yet at times will fill Quite full, and all at once, of a mere trifle— No matter what it teems with. Patience! Patience! The soul soon calms again, th’ upboiling stuff Makes itself room and brings back light and order. Is this then the first time I love? Or was What by that name I knew before, not love— And this, this love alone that now I feel?

DAYA _and_ TEMPLAR.

DAYA.

Sir knight, sir knight.

TEMPLAR.

Who calls? ha, Daya, you?

DAYA.

I managed to slip by him. No, come here (He’ll see us where you stand) behind this tree.

TEMPLAR.

Why so mysterious? What’s the matter, Daya?

DAYA.

Yes, ’tis a secret that has brought me to you A twofold secret. One I only know, The other only you. Let’s interchange, Intrust yours first to me, then I’ll tell mine.

TEMPLAR.

With pleasure when I’m able to discover What you call me. But that yours will explain. Begin—

DAYA.

That is not fair, yours first, sir knight; For be assured my secret serves you not Unless I have yours first. If I sift it out You’ll not have trusted me, and then my secret Is still my own, and yours lost all for nothing. But, knight, how can you men so fondly fancy You ever hide such secrets from us women.

TEMPLAR.

Secrets we often are unconscious of.

DAYA.

May be—So then I must at last be friendly, And break it to you. Tell me now, whence came it That all at once you started up abruptly And in the twinkling of an eye were fled? That you left us without one civil speech! That you return no more with Nathan to us— Has Recha then made such a slight impression, Or made so deep a one? I penetrate you. Think you that on a limed twig the poor bird Can flutter cheerfully, or hop at ease With its wing pinioned? Come, come, in one word Acknowledge to me plainly that you love her, Love her to madness, and I’ll tell you what.

TEMPLAR.

To madness, oh, you’re very penetrating.

DAYA.

Grant me the love, and I’ll give up the madness.

TEMPLAR.

Because that must be understood of course— A templar love a Jewess—

DAYA.

Seems absurd, But often there’s more fitness in a thing Than we at once discern; nor were this time The first, when through an unexpected path The Saviour drew his children on to him Across the tangled maze of human life.

TEMPLAR.

So solemn that—(and yet if in the stead Of Saviour, I were to say Providence, It would sound true) you make me curious, Daya, Which I’m unwont to be.

DAYA.

This is the place For miracles

TEMPLAR.

For wonders—well and good— Can it be otherwise, where the whole world Presses as toward a centre. My dear Daya, Consider what you asked of me as owned; That I do love her—that I can’t imagine How I should live without her—that

DAYA.

Indeed! Then, knight, swear to me you will call her yours, Make both her present and eternal welfare.

TEMPLAR.

And how, how can I, can I swear to do What is not in my power?

DAYA.

’Tis in your power, A single word will put it in your power.

TEMPLAR.

So that her father shall not be against it.

DAYA.

Her father—father? he shall be compelled.

TEMPLAR.

As yet he is not fallen among thieves— Compelled?

DAYA.

Aye to be willing that you should.

TEMPLAR.

Compelled and willing—what if I inform thee That I have tried to touch this string already, It vibrates not responsive.

DAYA.

He refused thee?

TEMPLAR.

He answered in a tone of such discordance That I was hurt.

DAYA.

What do you say? How, you Betrayed the shadow of a wish for Recha, And he did not spring up for joy, drew back, Drew coldly back, made difficulties?

TEMPLAR.

Almost.

DAYA.

Well then I’ll not deliberate a moment.

TEMPLAR.

And yet you are deliberating still.

DAYA.

That man was always else so good, so kind, I am so deeply in his debt. Why, why Would he not listen to you? God’s my witness That my heart bleeds to come about him thus.

TEMPLAR.

I pray you, Daya, once for all, to end This dire uncertainty. But if you doubt Whether what ’tis your purpose to reveal Be right or wrong, be praiseworthy or shameful, Speak not—I will forget that you have had Something to hide.

DAYA.

That spurs me on still more. Then learn that Recha is no Jewess, that She is a Christian.

TEMPLAR.

I congratulate you, ’Twas a hard labour, but ’tis out at last; The pangs of the delivery won’t hurt you. Go on with undiminished zeal, and people Heaven, when no longer fit to people earth.

DAYA.

How, knight, does my intelligence deserve Such bitter scorn? That Recha is a Christian On you a Christian templar, and her lover, Confers no joy.

TEMPLAR.

## Particularly as

She is a Christian of your making, Daya.

DAYA.

O, so you understand it—well and good— I wish to find out him that might convert her. It is her fate long since to have been that Which she is spoiled for being.

TEMPLAR.

Do explain— Or go.

DAYA.

She is a Christian child—of Christian Parents was born and is baptised.

TEMPLAR (_hastily_).

And Nathan—

DAYA.

Is not her father.

TEMPLAR.

Nathan not her father— And are you sure of what you say?

DAYA.

I am, It is a truth has cost me tears of blood. No, he is not her father.

TEMPLAR.

And has only Brought her up as his daughter, educated The Christian child a Jewess.

DAYA.

Certainly.

TEMPLAR.

And she is unacquainted with her birth? Has never learnt from him that she was born A Christian, and no Jewess?

DAYA.

Never yet.

TEMPLAR.

And he not only let the child grow up In this mistaken notion, but still leaves The woman in it.

DAYA.

Aye, alas!

TEMPLAR.

How, Nathan, The wise good Nathan thus allow himself To stifle nature’s voice? Thus to misguide Upon himself th’ effusions of a heart Which to itself abandoned would have formed Another bias, Daya—yes, indeed You have intrusted an important secret That may have consequences—it confounds me, I cannot tell what I’ve to do at present, Therefore go, give me time, he may come by And may surprise us.

DAYA.

I should drop for fright.

TEMPLAR.

I am not able now to talk, farewell; And if you chance to meet him, only say That we shall find each other at the sultan’s.

DAYA.

Let him not see you’ve any grudge against him. That should be kept to give the proper impulse To things at last, and may remove your scruples Respecting Recha. But then, if you take her Back with you into Europe, let not me Be left behind.

TEMPLAR.

That we’ll soon settle, go.

## ACT IV.

SCENE.—The Cloister of a Convent.

_The_ FRIAR _alone_.

FRIAR.

Aye—aye—he’s very right—the patriarch is— In fact of all that he has sent me after Not much turns out his way—Why put on me Such business and no other? I don’t care To coax and wheedle, and to run my nose Into all sorts of things, and have a hand In all that’s going forward. I did not Renounce the world, for my own part, in order To be entangled with ’t for other people.

FRIAR _and_ TEMPLAR.

TEMPLAR (_abruptly entering_).

Good brother, are you there? I’ve sought you long.

FRIAR.

Me, sir?

TEMPLAR.

What, don’t you recollect me?

FRIAR.

Oh, I thought I never in my life was likely To see you any more. For so I hoped In God. I did not vastly relish the proposal That I was bound to make you. Yes, God knows, How little I desired to find a hearing, Knows I was inly glad when you refused Without a moment’s thought, what of a knight Would be unworthy. Are your second thoughts—

TEMPLAR.

So, you already know my purpose, I Scarce know myself.

FRIAR.

Have you by this reflected That our good patriarch is not so much out, That gold and fame in plenty may be got By his commission, that a foe’s a foe Were he our guardian angel seven times over. Have you weighed this ’gainst flesh and blood, and come To strike the bargain he proposed. Ah, God.

TEMPLAR.

My dear good man, set your poor heart at ease. Not therefore am I come, not therefore wish To see the patriarch in person. Still On the first point I think as I then thought, Nor would I for aught in the world exchange That good opinion, which I once obtained From such a worthy upright man as thou art, I come to ask your patriarch’s advice—

FRIAR (_looking round with timidity_).

Our patriarch’s—you? a knight ask priest’s advice?

TEMPLAR.

Mine is a priestly business.

FRIAR.

Yet the priests Ask not the knights’ advice, be their affair Ever so knightly.

TEMPLAR.

Therefore one allows them To overshoot themselves, a privilege Which such as I don’t vastly envy them. Indeed if I were acting for myself, Had not t’ account with others, I should care But little for his counsel. But some things I’d rather do amiss by others’ guidance Than by my own aright. And then by this time I see religion too is party, and He, who believes himself the most impartial, Does but uphold the standard of his own, Howe’er unconsciously. And since ’tis so, So must be well.

FRIAR.

I rather shall not answer, For I don’t understand exactly.

TEMPLAR.

Yet Let me consider what it is precisely That I have need of, counsel or decision, Simple or learned counsel.—Thank you, brother, I thank you for your hint—A patriarch—why? Be thou my patriarch; for ’tis the plain Christian, Whom in the patriarch I have to consult, And not the patriarch in the Christian.

FRIAR.