Part 7

Hear me quite out. So he commissions me, If possible to track him out this Jew: And stormed most bitterly at the misdeed; Which seems to him to be the very sin Against the Holy Ghost—That is, the sin Of all most unforgiven, most enormous; But luckily we cannot tell exactly What it consists in—All at once my conscience Was roused, and it occurred to me that I Perhaps had given occasion to this sin. Now do not you remember a knight’s squire, Who eighteen years ago gave to your hands A female child a few weeks old?

NATHAN.

How that? In fact such was—

FRIAR.

Now look with heed at me, And recollect. I was the man on horseback Who brought the child.

NATHAN.

Was you?

FRIAR.

And he from whom I brought it was methinks a lord of Filnek— Leonard of Filnek.

NATHAN.

Right!

FRIAR.

Because the mother. Died a short time before; and he, the father, Had on a sudden to make off to Gazza, Where the poor helpless thing could not go with him; Therefore he sent it you—that was my message. Did not I find you out at Darun? there Consign it to you?

NATHAN.

Yes.

FRIAR.

It were no wonder My memory deceived me. I have had Many a worthy master, and this one I served not long. He fell at Askalon— But he was a kind lord.

NATHAN.

O yes, indeed; For much have I to thank him, very much— He more than once preserved me from the sword.

FRIAR.

O brave—you therefore will with double pleasure Have taken up this daughter.

NATHAN.

You have said it.

FRIAR.

Where is she then? She is not dead, I hope— I would not have her dead, dear pretty creature. If no one else know anything about it All is yet safe.

NATHAN.

Aye all!

FRIAR.

Yes, trust me, Nathan, This is my way of thinking—if the good That I propose to do is somehow twined With mischief, then I let the good alone; For we know pretty well what mischief is, But not what’s for the best. ’Twas natural If you meant to bring up the Christian child Right well, that you should rear it as your own; And to have done this lovingly and truly, For such a recompense—were horrible. It might have been more prudent to have had it Brought up at second hand by some good Christian In her own faith. But your friend’s orphan child You would not then have loved. Children need love, Were it the mute affection of a brute, More at that age than Christianity. There’s always time enough for that—and if The maid have but grown up before your eyes With a sound frame and pious—she remains Still in her maker’s eye the same. For is not Christianity all built on Judaism? Oh, it has often vexed me, cost me tears, That Christians will forget so often that Our Saviour was a Jew.

NATHAN.

You, my good brother, Shall be my advocate, when bigot hate And hard hypocrisy shall rise upon me— And for a deed—a deed—thou, thou shalt know it— But take it with thee to the tomb. As yet Has vanity ne’er tempted me to tell it To living soul—only to thee I tell it, To simple piety alone; for it Alone can feel what deeds the man who trusts In God can gain upon himself.

FRIAR.

You seem Affected, and your eye-balls swim in water.

NATHAN.

’Twas at Darun you met me with the child; But you will not have known that a few days Before, the Christians murdered every Jew in Gath, Woman and child; that among these, my wife With seven hopeful sons were found, who all Beneath my brother’s roof which they had fled to, Were burnt alive.

FRIAR.

Just God!

NATHAN.

And when you came, Three nights had I in dust and ashes lain Before my God and wept—aye, and at times Arraigned my maker, raged, and cursed myself And the whole world, and to Christianity Swore unrelenting hate.

FRIAR.

Ah, I believe you.

NATHAN.

But by degrees returning reason came, She spake with gentle voice—And yet God is, And this was his decree—now exercise What thou hast long imagined, and what surely Is not more difficult to exercise Than to imagine—if thou will it once. I rose and called out—God, I will—I will, So thou but aid my purpose—And behold You was just then dismounted, and presented To me the child wrapt in your mantle. What You said, or I, occurs not to me now— Thus much I recollect—I took the child, I bore it to my couch, I kissed it, flung Myself upon my knees and sobbed—my God, Now have I one out of the seven again!

FRIAR.

Nathan, you are a Christian! Yes, by God You are a Christian—never was a better.

NATHAN.

Heaven bless us! What makes me to you a Christian Makes you to me a Jew. But let us cease To melt each other—time is nigh to act, And though a sevenfold love had bound me soon To this strange only girl, though the mere thought, That I shall lose in her my seven sons A second time distracts me—yet I will, If providence require her at my hands, Obey.

FRIAR.

The very thing I should advise you; But your good genius has forestalled my thought.

NATHAN.

The first best claimant must not seek to tear Her from me.

FRIAR.

No most surely not.

NATHAN.

And he, That has not stronger claims than I, at least Ought to have earlier.

FRIAR.

Certainly.

NATHAN.

By nature And blood conferred.

FRIAR.

I mean so too.

NATHAN.

Then name The man allied to her as brother, uncle, Or otherwise akin, and I from him Will not withhold her—she who was created And was brought up to be of any house, Of any faith, the glory—I, I hope, That of your master and his race you knew More than myself.

FRIAR.

I hardly think that, Nathan; For I already told you that I passed A short time with him.

NATHAN.

Can you tell at least The mother’s family name? She was, I think, A Stauffen.

FRIAR.

May be—yes, in fact, you’re right.

NATHAN.

Conrade of Stauffen was her brother’s name— He was a templar.

FRIAR.

I am clear it was. But stay, I recollect I’ve yet a book, ’Twas my dead lord’s—I drew it from his bosom, While we were burying him at Askalon.

NATHAN.

Well!

FRIAR.

There are prayers in’t, ’tis what we call A breviary. This, thought I, may yet serve Some Christian man—not me indeed, for I Can’t read.

NATHAN.

No matter, to the thing.

FRIAR.

This book is written at both ends quite full, And, as I’m told, contains, in his hand-writing About both him and her what’s most material.

NATHAN.

Go, run and fetch the book—’tis fortunate; I am ready with its weight in gold to pay it, And thousand thanks beside—Go, run.

FRIAR.

Most gladly; But ’tis in Arabic what he has written.

[_Goes_.

NATHAN.

No matter—that’s all one—do fetch it—Oh! If by its means I may retain the daughter, And purchase with it such a son-in-law; But that’s unlikely—well, chance as it may. Who now can have been with the patriarch To tell this tale? That I must not forget To ask about. If ’t were of Daya’s?

NATHAN _and_ DAYA.

DAYA (_anxiously breaks in_).

Nathan!

NATHAN.

Well!

DAYA.

Only think, she was quite frightened at it, Poor child, a message—

NATHAN.

From the patriarch?

DAYA.

No— The sultan’s sister, princess Sittah, sends.

NATHAN.

And not the patriarch?

DAYA.

Can’t you hear? The princess Has sent to see your Recha.

NATHAN.

Sent for Recha Has Sittah sent for Recha? Well, if Sittah, And not the patriarch, sends.

DAYA.

Why think of him?

NATHAN.

Have you heard nothing from him lately—really Seen nothing of him—whispered nothing to him?

DAYA.

How, I to him?

NATHAN.

Where are the messengers?

DAYA.

There, just before you.

NATHAN.

I will talk with them Out of precaution. If there’s nothing lurking Beneath this message of the patriarch’s doing—

[_Goes_.

DAYA.

And I—I’ve other fears. The only daughter, As they suppose, of such a rich, rich Jew, Would for a Mussulman be no bad thing; I bet the templar will be choused, unless I risk the second step, and to herself Discover who she is. Let me for this Employ the first short moments we’re alone; And that will be—oh, as I am going with her. A serious hint upon the road I think Can’t be amiss—yes, now or never—yes.

## ACT V.

SCENE.—A Room in the Palace; the Purses still in a pile.

SALADIN, _and_, _soon after_, _several_ MAMALUKES.

SALADIN (_as he comes in_).

Here lies the money still, and no one finds The dervis yet—he’s probably got somewhere Over a chess-board. Play would often make The man forget himself, and why not, me. Patience—Ha! what’s the matter.

SALADIN _and_ IBRAHIM.

IBRAHIM.

Happy news— Joy, sultan, joy, the caravan from Cairo Is safe arrived and brings the seven years’ tribute Of the rich Nile.

SALADIN.

Bravo, my Ibrahim, Thou always wast a welcome messenger, And now at length—at length—accept my thanks For the good tidings.

IBRAHIM (_waiting_).

Hither with them, sultan.

SALADIN.

What art thou waiting for? Go.

IBRAHIM.

Nothing further For my glad news?

SALADIN.

What further?

IBRAHIM.

Errand boys Earn hire—and when their message smiles i’ the telling, The sender’s hire by the receiver’s bounty Is oft outweighed. Am I to be the first Whom Saladin at length has learnt to pay In words? The first about whose recompense The sultan higgled?

SALADIN.

Go, pick up a purse.

IBRAHIM.

No, not now—you might give them all away

SALADIN.

All—hold, man. Here, come hither, take these two— And is he really going—shall he conquer Me then in generosity? for surely ’Tis harder for this fellow to refuse Than ’tis for me to give. Here, Ibrahim— Shall I be tempted, just before my exit, To be a different man—small Saladin Not die like Saladin, then wherefore live so?

ABDALLAH _and_ SALADIN.

ABDALLAH.

Hail, Sultan!

SALADIN.

If thou comest to inform me That the whole convoy is arrived from Egypt, I know it already.

ABDALLAH.

Do I come too late?

SALADIN.

Too late, and why too late? There for thy tidings Pick up a purse or two.

ABDALLAH.

Does that make three?

SALADIN.

So thou wouldst reckon—well, well, take them, take them.

ABDALLAH.

A third will yet be here if he be able.

SALADIN.

How so?

ABDALLAH.

He may perhaps have broke his neck. We three, as soon as certain of the coming Of the rich caravan, each crossed our horses, And galloped hitherward. The foremost fell, Then I was foremost, and continued so Into the city, but sly Ibrahim, Who knows the streets—

SALADIN.

But he that fell, go, seek him.

ABDALLAH.

That will I quickly—if he lives, the half Of what I’ve got is his.

[_Goes_.

SALADIN.

What a fine fellow! And who can boast such mamalukes as these; And is it not allowed me to imagine That my example helped to form them. Hence With the vile thought at last to turn another.

_A third_ COURIER.

Sultan—

SALADIN.

Was’t thou who fell?

COURIER.

No, I’ve to tell thee That Emir Mansor, who conducts the convoy, Alights.

SALADIN.

O bring him to me—Ah, he’s there— Be welcome, Emir. What has happened to thee? For we have long expected thee.

SALADIN _and_ EMIR.

EMIR (_after the wont obeisance_).

This letter Will show, that, in Thebais, discontents Required thy Abulkassem’s sabred hand, Ere we could march. Since that, our progress, sultan, My zeal has sped most anxiously.

SALADIN.

I trust thee— But my good Mansor take without delay— Thou art not loth to go further—fresh protection, And with the treasure on to Libanon; The greater part at least I have to lodge With my old father.

EMIR.

O, most willingly.

SALADIN.

And take not a slight escort. Libanon Is far from quiet, as thou wilt have heard; The templars stir afresh, be therefore cautious. Come, I must see thy troop, and give the orders.

[_To a slave_.

Say I shall be with Sittah when I’ve finished.

SCENE—A Place of Palms.

_The_ TEMPLAR _walking to and fro_.

TEMPLAR.

Into this house I go not—sure at last He’ll show himself—once, once they used to see me So instantly, so gladly—time will come When he’ll send out most civilly to beg me Not to pace up and down before his door. Psha—and yet I’m a little nettled too; And what has thus embittered me against him? He answered yes. He has refused me nothing As yet. And Saladin has undertaken To bring him round. And does the Christian nestle Deeper in me than the Jew lurks in him? Who, who can justly estimate himself? How comes it else that I should grudge him so The little booty that he took such pains To rob the Christians of? A theft, no less Than such a creature tho’—but whose, whose creature? Sure not the slave’s who floated the mere block On to life’s barren strand, and then ran off; But his the artist’s, whose fine fancy moulded Upon the unowned block a godlike form, Whose chisel graved it there. Recha’s true father, Spite of the Christian who begot her, is, Must ever be, the Jew. Alas, were I To fancy her a simple Christian wench, And without all that which the Jew has given, Which only such a Jew could have bestowed— Speak out my heart, what had she that would please thee? No, nothing! Little! For her very smile Shrinks to a pretty twisting of the muscles— Be that, which makes her smile, supposed unworthy Of all the charms in ambush on her lips? No, not her very smile—I’ve seen sweet smiles Spent on conceit, on foppery, on slander, On flatterers, on wicked wooers spent, And did they charm me then? then wake the wish To flutter out a life beneath their sunshine? Indeed not—Yet I’m angry with the man Who alone gave this higher value to her. How this, and why? Do I deserve the taunt With which I was dismissed by Saladin? ’Tis bad enough that Saladin should think so; How little, how contemptible must I Then have appeared to him—all for a girl. Conrade, this will not do—back, back—And if Daya to boot had prated matter to me Not easy to be proved—At last he’s coming, Engaged in earnest converse—and with whom? My friar in Nathan’s house! then he knows all— Perhaps has to the patriarch been betrayed. O Conrade, what vile mischiefs thou hast brooded Out of thy cross-grained head, that thus one spark Of that same passion, love, can set so much O’ th’ brain in flame? Quick, then, determine, wretch, What shalt thou say or do? Step back a moment And see if this good friar will please to quit him.

NATHAN _and the_ FRIAR _come together out of Nathan’s house_.

NATHAN.

Once more, good brother, thanks.

FRIAR.

The like to you.

NATHAN.

To me, and why; because I’m obstinate— Would force upon you what you have no use for?

FRIAR.

The book besides was none of mine. Indeed It must at any rate belong to th’ daughter; It is her whole, her only patrimony— Save she has you. God grant you ne’er have reason To sorrow for the much you’ve done for her.

NATHAN.

How should I? that can never be; fear nothing.

FRIAR.

Patriarchs and templars—

NATHAN.

Have not in their power Evil enough to make me e’er repent. And then—But are you really well assured It is a templar who eggs on your patriarch?

FRIAR.

It scarcely can be other, for a templar Talked with him just before, and what I heard Agreed with this.

NATHAN.

But there is only one Now in Jerusalem; and him I know; He is my friend, a noble open youth.

FRIAR.

The same. But what one is at heart, and what One gets to be in active life, mayn’t always Square well together.

NATHAN.

No, alas, they do not. Therefore unangered I let others do Their best or worst. O brother, with your book I set all at defiance, and am going Straight with it to the Sultan.

FRIAR.

God be with you! Here I shall take my leave.

NATHAN.

And have not seen her— Come soon, come often to us. If to-day The patriarch make out nothing—but no matter, Tell him it all to-day, or when you will.

FRIAR.

Not I—farewell!

NATHAN.

Do not forget us, brother My God, why may I not beneath thy sky Here drop upon my knees; now the twined knot, Which has so often made my thinkings anxious, Untangles of itself—God, how I am eased, Now that I’ve nothing in the world remaining That I need hide—now that I can as freely Walk before man as before thee, who only Need’st not to judge a creature by his deeds— Deeds which so seldom are his own—O God!

NATHAN _and_ TEMPLAR.

TEMPLAR (_coming forward_).

Hoa, Nathan, take me with you.

NATHAN.

Ha! Who calls? Is it you, knight? And whither have you been That you could not be met with at the Sultan’s?

TEMPLAR.

We missed each other—take it not amiss.

NATHAN.

I, no, but Saladin.

TEMPLAR.

You was just gone.

NATHAN.

O, then you spoke with him; I’m satisfied.

TEMPLAR.

Yes—but he wants to talk with us together.

NATHAN.

So much the better. Come with me, my step Was eitherwise bent thither.

TEMPLAR.

May I ask, Nathan, who ’twas now left you?

NATHAN.

Did you know him?

TEMPLAR.

Was’t that good-hearted creature the lay-brother, Whom the hoar patriarch has a knack of using To feel his way out?

NATHAN.

That may be. In fact He’s at the patriarch’s.

TEMPLAR.

’Tis no awkward hit To make simplicity the harbinger Of craft.

NATHAN.

If the simplicity of dunces, But if of honest piety?

TEMPLAR.

This last No patriarch can believe in.

NATHAN.

I’ll be bound for’t This last belongs to him who quitted me. He’ll not assist his patriarch to accomplish A vile or cruel purpose.

TEMPLAR.

Such, at least, He would appear—but has he told you then Something of me?

NATHAN.

Of you? No—not by name, He can’t well be acquainted with your name.

TEMPLAR.

No, that not.

NATHAN.

He indeed spoke of a templar, Who—

TEMPLAR.

What?

NATHAN.

But by this templar could not mean To point out you.

TEMPLAR.

Stay, stay, who knows? Let’s hear.

NATHAN.

Who has accused me to his patriarch.

TEMPLAR.

Accused thee, no, that by his leave is false. Nathan do hear me—I am not the man Who would deny a single of his actions; What I have done, I did. Nor am I one Who would defend all he has done as right— Why be ashamed of failing? Am I not Firmly resolved on better future conduct? And am I not aware how much the man That’s willing can improve? O, hear me, Nathan— I am the templar your lay-brother talked of— Who has accused—You know what made me angry, What set the blood in all my veins on fire, The mad-cap that I was—I had drawn nigh To fling myself with soul and body whole Into your arms—and you received me, Nathan— How cold, how lukewarm, for that’s worse than cold.— How with words weighed and measured, you took care To put me off; and with what questioning About my parentage, and God knows what, You seemed to answer me—I must not think on’t If I would keep my temper—Hear me, Nathan— While in this ferment—Daya steps behind me, Bolts out a secret in my ear, which seemed At once to lend a clue to your behaviour.

NATHAN.

How so?

TEMPLAR.

Do hear me to the end. I fancied That what you from the Christians had purloined You wasn’t content to let a Christian have; And so the project struck me short and good, To hold the knife to your throat till—

NATHAN.

Short and good; And good—but where’s the good?

TEMPLAR.

Yet hear me, Nathan, I own I did not right—you are unguilty, No doubt. The prating Daya does not know What she reported—has a grudge against you— Seeks to involve you in an ugly business— May be, may be, and I’m a crazy looby, A credulous enthusiast—both ways mad— Doing ever much too much, or much too little— That too may be—forgive me, Nathan.

NATHAN.

If Such be the light in which you view—

TEMPLAR.

In short I to the patriarch went. I named you not. That, as I said, was false. I only stated In general terms, the case, to learn his notion, That too might have been let alone—assuredly. For knew I not the patriarch then to be A knave? And might I not have talked with you? And ought I to have exposed the poor girl—ha! To part with such a father? Now what happens? The patriarch’s villainy consistent ever Restored me to myself—O, hear me out— Suppose he was to ferret out your name, What then? What then? He cannot seize the maid, Unless she still belong to none but you. ’Tis from your house alone that he could drag her Into a convent; therefore grant her me— Grant her to me, and let him come. By God— Sever my wife from me—he’ll not be rash Enough to think about it. Give her to me, Be she or no thy daughter, Christian, Jewess, Or neither, ’tis all one, all one—I’ll never In my whole life ask of thee which she is, Be’t as it may.

NATHAN.

You may perhaps imagine That I’ve an interest to conceal the truth.

TEMPLAR.

Be’t as it may.

NATHAN.

I neither have to you Nor any one, whom it behooved to know it, Denied that she’s a Christian, and no more Than my adopted daughter. Why, to her I have not yet betrayed it—I am bound To justify only to her.

TEMPLAR.

Of that Shall be no need. Indulge, indulge her with Never beholding you with other eyes— Spare, spare her the discovery. As yet You have her to yourself, and may bestow her; Give her to me—oh, I beseech thee, Nathan, Give her to me, I, only I can save her A second time, and will.

NATHAN.

Yes, could have saved her. But ’tis all over now—it is too late.

TEMPLAR.

How so, too late.

NATHAN.

Thanks to the patriarch.

TEMPLAR.

How Thanks to the patriarch, and for what? Can he Earn thanks of us. For what?

NATHAN.

That now we know To whom she is related—to whose hands She may with confidence be now delivered.

TEMPLAR.

He thank him who has more to thank him for.

NATHAN.

From theirs you now have to obtain her, not From mine.

TEMPLAR.

Poor Recha—what befalls thee? Oh, Poor Recha—what had been to other orphans A blessing, is to thee a curse. But, Nathan, Where are they, these new kinsmen?

NATHAN.

Where they are?

TEMPLAR.

Who are they?

NATHAN.

Who—a brother is found out To whom you must address yourself.

TEMPLAR.

A brother! And what is he, a soldier or a priest? Let’s hear what I’ve to hope.

NATHAN.

As I believe He’s neither of the two—or both. Just now I cannot say exactly.

TEMPLAR.

And besides He’s—

NATHAN.

A brave fellow, and with whom my Recha Will not be badly placed.

TEMPLAR.

But he’s a Christian. At times I know not what to make of you— Take it not ill of me, good Nathan. Will she Not have to play the Christian among Christians; And when she has been long enough the actress Not turn so? Will the tares in time not stifle The pure wheat of your setting—and does that Affect you not a whit—you yet declare She’ll not be badly placed.

NATHAN.