Part 6

Oh, I beg no further—you must quite mistake me; He that knows much hath learnt much care, and I Devoted me to only one. ’Tis well, Most luckily here comes the very man, Wait here, stand still—he has perceived you, knight.

TEMPLAR.

I’d rather shun him, he is not my man. A thick red smiling prelate—and as stately—

FRIAR.

But you should see him on a gala-day; He only comes from visiting the sick.

TEMPLAR.

Great Saladin must then be put to shame.

[_The Patriarch_, _after marching up one of the aisles in great pomp_, _draws near_, _and makes signs to the Friar_, _who approaches him_.

PATRIARCH, FRIAR, _and_ TEMPLAR.

PATRIARCH.

Hither—was that the templar? What wants he?

FRIAR.

I know not.

PATRIARCH (_approaches the templar_, _while the friar and the rest of his train draw back_).

So, sir knight, I’m truly happy To meet the brave young man—so very young too— Something, God helping, may come of him.

TEMPLAR.

More Than is already hardly will come of him, But less, my reverend father, that may chance.

PATRIARCH.

It is my prayer at least a knight so pious May for the cause of Christendom and God Long be preserved; nor can that fail, so be Young valour will lend ear to aged counsel. With what can I be useful any way?

TEMPLAR.

With that which my youth is without, with counsel.

PATRIARCH.

Most willingly, but counsel should be followed.

TEMPLAR.

Surely not blindly?

PATRIARCH.

Who says that? Indeed None should omit to make use of the reason Given him by God, in things where it belongs, But it belongs not everywhere; for instance, If God, by some one of his blessed angels, Or other holy minister of his word, Deign’d to make known a mean, by which the welfare Of Christendom, or of his holy church, In some peculiar and especial manner Might be promoted or secured, who then Shall venture to rise up, and try by reason The will of him who has created reason, Measure th’ eternal laws of heaven by The little rules of a vain human honour?— But of all this enough. What is it then On which our counsel is desired?

TEMPLAR.

Suppose, My reverend father, that a Jew possessed An only child, a girl we’ll say, whom he With fond attention forms to every virtue, And loves more than his very soul; a child Who by her pious love requites his goodness. And now suppose it whispered—say to me— This girl is not the daughter of the Jew, He picked up, purchased, stole her in her childhood— That she was born of Christians and baptised, But that the Jew hath reared her as a Jewess, Allows her to remain a Jewess, and To think herself his daughter. Reverend father What then ought to be done?

PATRIARCH.

I shudder! But First will you please explain if such a case Be fact, or only an hypothesis? That is to say, if you, of your own head, Invent the case, or if indeed it happened, And still continues happening?

TEMPLAR.

I had thought That just to learn your reverence’s opinion This were all one.

PATRIARCH.

All one—now see how apt Proud human reason is in spiritual things To err: ’tis not all one; for, if the point In question be a mere sport of the wit, ’Twill not be worth our while to think it through But I should recommend the curious person To theatres, where oft, with loud applause, Such pro and contras have been agitated. But if the object should be something more Than by a school-trick—by a sleight of logic To get the better of me—if the case Be really extant, if it should have happened Within our diocese, or—or perhaps Here in our dear Jerusalem itself, Why then—

TEMPLAR.

What then?

PATRIARCH.

Then were it proper To execute at once upon the Jew The penal laws in such a case provided By papal and imperial right, against So foul a crime—such dire abomination.

TEMPLAR.

So.

PATRIARCH.

And the laws forementioned have decreed, That if a Jew shall to apostacy Seduce a Christian, he shall die by fire.

TEMPLAR.

So.

PATRIARCH.

How much more the Jew, who forcibly Tears from the holy font a Christian child, And breaks the sacramental bond of baptism; For all what’s done to children is by force— I mean except what the church does to children.

TEMPLAR.

What if the child, but for this fostering Jew, Must have expired in misery?

PATRIARCH.

That’s nothing, The Jew has still deserved the faggot—for ’Twere better it here died in misery Than for eternal woe to live. Besides, Why should the Jew forestall the hand of God? God, if he wills to save, can save without him.

TEMPLAR.

And spite of him too save eternally.

PATRIARCH.

That’s nothing! Still the Jew is to be burnt.

TEMPLAR.

That hurts me—more particularly as ’Tis said he has not so much taught the maid His faith, as brought her up with the mere knowledge Of what our reason teaches about God.

PATRIARCH.

That’s nothing! Still the Jew is to be burnt— And for this very reason would deserve To be thrice burnt. How, let a child grow up Without a faith? Not even teach a child The greatest of its duties, to believe? ’Tis heinous! I am quite astonished, knight, That you yourself—

TEMPLAR.

The rest, right reverend sir, In the confessional, but not before.

[_Offers to go_.

PATRIARCH.

What off—not stay for my interrogation— Not name to me this infidel, this Jew— Not find him up for me at once? But hold, A thought occurs, I’ll straightway to the sultan Conformably to the capitulation, Which Saladin has sworn, he must support us In all the privileges, all the doctrines Which appertain to our most holy faith, Thank God, we’ve the original in keeping, We have his hand and seal to it—we— And I shall lead him easily to think How very dangerous for the state it is Not to believe. All civic bonds divide, Like flax fire-touched, where subjects don’t believe. Away with foul impiety!

TEMPLAR.

It happens Somewhat unlucky that I want the leisure To enjoy this holy sermon. I am sent for To Saladin.

PATRIARCH.

Why then—indeed—if so—

TEMPLAR.

And will prepare the sultan, if agreeable. For your right reverend visit.

PATRIARCH.

I have heard That you found favour in the sultan’s sight, I beg with all humility to be Remembered to him. I am purely motived By zeal in th’ cause of God. What of too much I do, I do for him—weigh that in goodness. ’Twas then, most noble sir—what you were starting About the Jew—a problem merely!

TEMPLAR.

Problem!

[_Goes_.

PATRIARCH.

Of whose foundation I’ll have nearer knowledge. Another job for brother Bonafides. Hither, my son!

[_Converses with the Friar as he walks off_.

SCENE.—A Room in the Palace.

SLAVES _bring in a number of purses and pile them on the floor_. SALADIN _is present_.

SALADIN.

In troth this has no end. And is there much Of this same thing behind?

SLAVE.

About one half.

SALADIN.

Then take the rest to Sittah. Where’s Al-Hafi? What’s here Al-Hafi shall take charge of straight. Or shan’t I rather send it to my father; Here it slips through one’s fingers. Sure in time One may grow callous; it shall now cost labour To come at much from me—at least until The treasures come from Ægypt, poverty Must shift as ’t can—yet at the sepulchre The charges must go on—the Christian pilgrims Shall not go back without an alms.

SALADIN _and_ SITTAH.

SITTAH (_entering_).

Why this? Wherefore the gold to me?

SALADIN.

Pay thyself with it, And if there’s something left ’twill be in store. Are Nathan and the templar not yet come?

SITTAH.

He has been seeking for him everywhere— Look what I met with when the plate and jewels Were passing through my hands—

[_Showing a small portrait_.

SALADIN.

Ha! What, my brother? ’Tis he, ’tis he, _was_ he, _was_ he alas! Thou dear brave youth, and lost to me so early; What would I not with thee and at thy side Have undertaken? Let me have the portrait, I recollect it now again; he gave it Unto thy elder sister, to his Lilah, That morning that she would not part with him, But clasped him so in tears. It was the last Morning that he rode out; and I—I let him Ride unattended. Lilah died for grief, And never could forgive me that I let him Then ride alone. He came not back.

SITTAH.

Poor brother—

SALADIN.

Time shall be when none of us will come back, And then who knows? It is not death alone That balks the hopes of young men of his cast, Such have far other foes, and oftentimes The strongest like the weakest is o’ercome. Be as it may—I must compare this picture With our young templar, to observe how much My fancy cheated me.

SITTAH.

I therefore brought it; But give it me, I’ll tell thee if ’tis like. We women see that best.

SALADIN (_to a slave at the door_).

Ah, who is there? The templar? let him come.

SITTAH (_throws herself on a sofa apart and drops her veil_).

Not to interfere, Or with my curiosity disturb you.

SALADIN.

That’s right. And then his voice, will that be like? The tone of Assad’s voice, sleeps somewhere yet— So—

TEMPLAR _and_ SALADIN.

TEMPLAR.

I thy prisoner, sultan,

SALADIN.

Thou my prisoner— And shall I not to him whose life I gave Also give freedom?

TEMPLAR.

What ’twere worthy thine To do, it is my part to hear of thee, And not to take for granted. But, O Sultan, To lay loud protestations at thy feet Of gratitude for a life spared, agrees Not with my station or my character. At all times, ’tis once more, prince, at thy service.

SALADIN.

Only forbear to use it against me. Not that I grudge my enemy one pair more Of hands—but such a heart, it goes against me To yield him. I have been deceived with thee, Thou brave young man, in nothing. Yes, thou art In soul and body Assad. I could ask thee, Where then hast thou been lurking all this time? Or in what cavern slept? What Ginnistan Chose some kind Perie for thy hiding-place, That she might ever keep the flower thus fresh? Methinks I could remind thee here and yonder Of what we did together—could abuse thee For having had one secret, e’en to me— Cheat me of one adventure—yes, I could, If I saw thee alone, and not myself. Thanks that so much of this fond sweet illusion At least is true, that in my sear of life An Assad blossoms for me. Thou art willing?

TEMPLAR.

All that from thee comes to me, whatsoever It chance to prove, lies as a wish already Within my soul.

SALADIN.

We’ll try the experiment. Wilt thou stay with me? dwell about me? boots not As Mussulman or Christian, in a turban Or a white mantle—I have never wished To see the same bark grow about all trees.

TEMPLAR.

Else, Saladin, thou hardly hadst become The hero that thou art, alike to all The gardener of the Lord.

SALADIN.

If thou think not The worse of me for this, we’re half right.

TEMPLAR.

Quite so. One word.

SALADIN (_holds out his hand_).

TEMPLAR (_takes it_).

One man—and with this receive more Than thou canst take away again—thine wholly.

SALADIN.

’Tis for one day too great a gain—too great. Came he not with thee?

TEMPLAR.

Who?

SALADIN.

Who? Nathan.

TEMPLAR (_coldly_).

No, I came alone.

SALADIN.

O, what a deed of thine! And what a happiness, a blessing to thee, That such a deed was serving such a man.

TEMPLAR.

Yes, yes.

SALADIN.

So cold—no, my young friend—when God Does through our means a service, we ought not To be so cold, not out of modesty Wish to appear so cold.

TEMPLAR.

In this same world All things have many sides, and ’tis not easy To comprehend how they can fit each other.

SALADIN.

Cling ever to the best—Give praise to God, Who knows how they can fit. But, my young man, If thou wilt be so difficult, I must Be very cautious with thee, for I too Have many sides, and some of them perhaps Such as mayn’t always seem to fit.

TEMPLAR.

That wounds me; Suspicion usually is not my failing.

SALADIN.

Say then of whom thou harbour’st it, of Nathan? So should thy talk imply—canst thou suspect him? Give me the first proof of thy confidence.

TEMPLAR.

I’ve nothing against Nathan, I am angry With myself only.

SALADIN.

And for what?

TEMPLAR.

For dreaming That any Jew could learn to be no Jew— For dreaming it awake.

SALADIN.

Out with this dream.

TEMPLAR.

Thou know’st of Nathan’s daughter, sultan. What I did for her I did—because I did it; Too proud to reap thanks which I had not sown for, I shunned from day to day her very sight. The father was far off. He comes, he hears, He seeks me, thanks me, wishes that his daughter May please me; talks to me of dawning prospects— I listen to his prate, go, see, and find A girl indeed. O, sultan, I am ashamed—

SALADIN.

A shamed that a Jew girl knew how to make Impression on thee, surely not.

TEMPLAR.

But that To this impression my rash yielding heart, Trusting the smoothness of the father’s prate, Opposed no more resistance. Fool—I sprang A second time into the flame, and then I wooed, and was denied.

SALADIN.

Denied! Denied!

TEMPLAR.

The prudent father does not flatly say No to my wishes, but the prudent father Must first inquire, and look about, and think. Oh, by all means. Did not I do the same? Did not I look about and ask who ’twas While she was shrieking in the flame? Indeed, By God, ’tis something beautifully wise To be so circumspect.

SALADIN.

Come, come, forgive Something to age. His lingerings cannot last. He is not going to require of thee First to turn Jew.

TEMPLAR.

Who knows?

SALADIN.

Who? I, who know This Nathan better.

TEMPLAR.

Yet the superstition In which we have grown up, not therefore loses When we detect it, all its influence on us. Not all are free that can bemock their fetters.

SALADIN.

Maturely said—but Nathan, surely Nathan—

TEMPLAR.

The worst of superstitions is to think One’s own most bearable.

SALADIN.

May be, but Nathan—

TEMPLAR.

Must Nathan be the mortal, who unshrinking Can face the moon-tide ray of truth, nor there Betray the twilight dungeon which he crawled from.

SALADIN.

Yes, Nathan is that man.

TEMPLAR.

I thought so too, But what if this picked man, this chosen sage, Were such a thorough Jew that he seeks out For Christian children to bring up as Jews— How then?

SALADIN.

Who says this of him?

TEMPLAR.

E’en the maid With whom he frets me—with the hope of whom He seemed to joy in paying me the service, Which he would not allow me to do gratis— This very maid is not his daughter—no, She is a kidnapped Christian child.

SALADIN.

Whom he Has, notwithstanding, to thy wish refused?

TEMPLAR (_with vehemence_).

Refused or not, I know him now. There lies The prating tolerationist unmasked— And I’ll halloo upon this Jewish wolf, For all his philosophical sheep’s clothing, Dogs that shall touze his hide.

SALADIN (_earnestly_).

Peace, Christian!

TEMPLAR.

What! Peace, Christian—and may Jew and Mussulman Stickle for being Jew and Mussulman, And must the Christian only drop the Christian?

SALADIN (_more solemnly_).

Peace, Christian!

TEMPLAR (_calmly_.)

Yes, I feel what weight of blame Lies in that word of thine pent up. O that I knew how Assad in my place would act.

SALADIN.

He—not much better, probably as fiery. Who has already taught thee thus at once Like him to bribe me with a single word? Indeed, if all has past as thou narratest, I scarcely can discover Nathan in it. But Nathan is my friend, and of my friends One must not bicker with the other. Bend— And be directed. Move with caution. Do not Loose on him the fanatics of thy sect. Conceal what all thy clergy would be claiming My hand to avenge upon him, with more show Of right than is my wish. Be not from spite To any Jew or Mussulman a Christian.

TEMPLAR.

Thy counsel is but on the brink of coming Somewhat too late, thanks to the patriarch’s Bloodthirsty rage, whose instrument I shudder To have almost become.

SALADIN.

How! how! thou wentest Still earlier to the patriarch than to me?

TEMPLAR.

Yes, in the storm of passion, in the eddy Of indecision—pardon—oh! thou wilt No longer care, I fear, to find in me One feature of thy Assad.

SALADIN.

Yes, that fear. Methinks I know by this time from what failings Our virtue springs—this do thou cultivate, Those shall but little harm thee in my sight. But go, seek Nathan, as he sought for thee, And bring him hither: I must reconcile you. If thou art serious about the maid— Be calm, she shall be thine—Nathan shall feel That without swine’s flesh one may educate A Christian child, Go.

[_Templar withdraws_.

SITTAH (_rising from the sofa_).

Very strange indeed!

SALADIN.

Well, Sittah, must my Assad not have been A gallant handsome youth?

SITTAH.

If he was thus, And ’twasn’t the templar who sat to the painter. But how couldst thou be so forgetful, brother, As not to ask about his parents?

SALADIN.

And

## Particularly too about his mother.

Whether his mother e’er was in this country, That is your meaning, isn’t it?

SITTAH.

You run on—

SALADIN.

Oh, nothing is more possible, for Assad ’Mong handsome Christian ladies was so welcome, To handsome Christian ladies so attached, That once a report spread—but ’tis not pleasant To bring that up. Let us be satisfied That we have got him once again—have got him With all the faults and freaks, the starts and wildness Of his warm gentle heart—Oh, Nathan must Give him the maid—Dost think so?

SITTAH.

Give—give up!

SALADIN.

Aye, for what right has Nathan with the girl If he be not her father? He who saved Her life so lately has a stronger claim To heir their rights who gave it her at first.

SITTAH.

What therefore, Saladin, if you withdraw The maid at once from the unrightful owner?

SALADIN.

There is no need of that.

SITTAH.

Need, not precisely; But female curiosity inspires Me with that counsel. There are certain men Of whom one is irresistibly impatient To know what women they can be in love with.

SALADIN.

Well then you may send for her.

SITTAH.

May I, brother?

SALADIN.

But hurt not Nathan, he must not imagine That we propose by violence to part them.

SITTAH.

Be without apprehension.

SALADIN.

Fare you well, I must make out where this Al-Hafi is.

SCENE.—The Hall in Nathan’s House, as in the first scene; the things there mentioned unpacked and displayed.

DAYA _and_ NATHAN.

DAYA.

O how magnificent, how tasty, charming— All such as only you could give—and where Was this thin silver stuff with sprigs of gold Woven? What might it cost? Yes, this is worthy To be a wedding-garment. Not a queen Could wish a handsomer.

NATHAN.

Why wedding-garment?

DAYA.

Perhaps of that you thought not when you bought it; But Nathan, it must be so, must indeed. It seems made for a bride—the pure white ground, Emblem of innocence—the branching gold, Emblem of wealth—Now is not it delightful?

NATHAN.

What’s all this ingenuity of speech for? Over whose wedding-gown are you displaying Your emblematic learning? Have you found A bridegroom?

DAYA.

I—

NATHAN.

Who then?

DAYA.

I—Gracious God!

NATHAN.

Who then? Whose wedding-garment do you speak of? For this is all your own and no one’s else.

DAYA.

Mine—is’t for me and not for Recha?

NATHAN.

What I brought for Recha is in another bale. Come, clear it off: away with all your rubbish.

DAYA.

You tempter—No—Were they the precious things Of the whole universe, I will not touch them Until you promise me to seize upon Such an occasion as heaven gives not twice.

NATHAN.

Seize upon what occasion? For what end?

DAYA.

There, do not act so strange. You must perceive The templar loves your Recha—Give her to him; Then will your sin, which I can hide no longer, Be at an end. The maid will come once more Among the Christians, will be once again What she was born to, will be what she was; And you, by all the benefits, for which We cannot thank you enough, will not have heaped More coals of fire upon your head.

NATHAN.

Again Harping on the old string, new tuned indeed, But so as neither to accord nor hold.

DAYA.

How so?

NATHAN.

The templar pleases me indeed, I’d rather he than any one had Recha; But—do have patience.

DAYA.

Patience—and is that Not the old string you harp on?

NATHAN.

Patience, patience, For a few days—no more. Ha! who comes here? A friar—ask what he wants.

DAYA (_going_).

What can he want?

NATHAN.

Give, give before he begs. O could I tell How to come at the templar, not betraying The motive of my curiosity— For if I tell it, and if my suspicion Be groundless, I have staked the father idly. What is the matter?

DAYA (_returning_).

He must speak to you.

NATHAN.

Then let him come to me. Go you meanwhile.

[_Daya goes_.

How gladly would I still remain my Recha’s Father. And can I not remain so, though I cease to wear the name. To her, to her I still shall wear it, when she once perceives

[_Friar enters_.

How willingly I were so. Pious brother, What can be done to serve you?

NATHAN _and_ FRIAR.

FRIAR.

O not much; And yet I do rejoice to see you yet So well.

NATHAN.

You know me then—

FRIAR.

Who knows you not? You have impressed your name in many a hand, And it has been in mine these many years.

NATHAN (_feeling for his purse_).

Here, brother, I’ll refresh it.

FRIAR.

Thank you, thank you— From poorer men I’d steal—but nothing now! Only allow me to refresh my name In your remembrance; for I too may boast To have of old put something in your hand Not to be scorned.

NATHAN.

Excuse me, I’m ashamed, What was it? Claim it of me sevenfold, I’m ready to atone for my forgetting.

FRIAR.

But before all, hear how this very day I was reminded of the pledge I brought you.

NATHAN.

A pledge to me intrusted?

FRIAR.

Some time since, I dwelt as hermit on the Quarantana, Not far from Jericho, but Arab robbers Came and broke up my cell and oratory, And dragged me with them. Fortunately I Escaped, and with the patriarch sought a refuge, To beg of him some other still retreat, Where I may serve my God in solitude Until my latter end.

NATHAN.

I stand on coals— Quick, my good brother, let me know what pledge You once intrusted to me.

FRIAR.

Presently, Good Nathan, presently. The patriarch Has promised me a hermitage on Thabor, As soon as one is vacant, and meanwhile Employs me as lay-brother in the convent, And there I am at present: and I pine A hundred times a day for Thabor; for The patriarch will set me about all work, And some that I can’t brook—as for example—

NATHAN.

Be speedy, I beseech you.

FRIAR.

Now it happens That some one whispered in his ear to-day, There lives hard by a Jew, who educates A Christian child as his own daughter.

NATHAN (_startled_).

How

FRIAR.