Perhaps the Patriarch has already planned
Some mighty business for you.
TEMPLAR.
Think you so?
Has he already given you a hint?
FRIAR.
Yes--but my task is first to sift a little,
To see if you are one to undertake----
TEMPLAR.
Well--sift away? (We'll see how this man sifts).
FRIAR.
The better course will be to name at once
What is the Patriarch's desire.
TEMPLAR.
It is----?
FRIAR.
To make you bearer of a letter.
TEMPLAR.
Me?
I am no carrier. Is that the office
More meritorious than to save from death
A Jewish maid?
FRIAR.
So, truly, it would seem.
The Patriarch says that this little note
Involves the general weal of Christendom,
And that to bear it to its destined hand,
Safely, will merit a peculiar crown
From Heaven--and of that crown, the Patriarch
Says none can worthier be than you.
TEMPLAR.
Than I!
FRIAR.
You have your liberty--can look around;
You understand how cities may be stormed,
And how defended, says the Patriarch;
You know the strength and weakness of the towers,
And of the inner rampart lately reared
By Saladin, and you could point out all
To the Lord's champions fully.
TEMPLAR.
May I know
Exactly the contents of this same letter?
FRIAR.
Of that I am not quite informed myself.
'Tis to King Philip; and our Patriarch--
I often wonder how that holy man,
Whose every thought would seem absorbed by Heaven,
Can stoop to earthly things, and how his mind
Can be so deeply skilled in human lore----
TEMPLAR.
Well, then, your Patriarch----
FRIAR.
Exactly knows
From secret sources, how, and with what force,
And in what quarter, should the war break out,
The foe and Saladin will take the field.
TEMPLAR.
Knows he so much?
FRIAR.
Ay, truly! and he longs
To send the urgent tidings to King Philip,
That he may better calculate if now
The danger be so great, as to demand
At every hazard that he should renew
The truce so boldly broken by the Templars.
TEMPLAR.
The noble Patriarch! He seeks in me
No common herald, but the meanest spy.
Therefore, good brother, tell your Patriarch,
That I am not--as far as you can sift--
The man to suit his ends. I hold myself
A captive still. I know a Templar's duty:
Ready to die, not live to play the spy.
FRIAR.
I thought as much. Nor can I censure you
For your resolve. The best has still to come.
Our Patriarch has learnt the very fort,
Its name, its strength, its site on Lebanon,
Wherein those countless treasures are concealed,
Wherewith the Sultan's prudent father pays
His troops, and all the heavy costs of war.
He knows that Saladin, from time to time,
Visits this fortress, by some secret way,
With but a few attendants.
TEMPLAR.
Well! what then?
FRIAR.
'Twould be an easy task, methinks, to seize
The Sultan thus defenceless--and to end him.
You shudder, knight! Two monks who fear the Lord,
Are ready now to undertake the task,
And wait a leader.
TEMPLAR.
And the Patriarch
Has pitched on me to do this noble deed?
FRIAR.
He thinks King Philip might from Ptolemais
Give aid in the design.
TEMPLAR.
Has pitched on me!
On me!--Say, brother, have you never heard
The boundless debt I owe to Saladin?
FRIAR.
Truly I have.
TEMPLAR.
And yet----
FRIAR.
The Patriarch
Says that is very well; but yet your order,
And vows to God----
TEMPLAR.
Change nothing; they command
No villainy.
FRIAR.
No. But the Patriarch
Says what seems villainy to human eyes,
May not appear so in the sight of God.
TEMPLAR.
Brother, I owe my life to Saladin,
And his shall my hand take?
FRIAR.
Oh, no!--But yet
The Patriarch maintains that Saladin,
Who is the common foe of Christendom,
Can never have a claim to be your friend.
TEMPLAR.
My friend? forsooth! because I will not be
A thankless wretch to him!
FRIAR.
'Tis so!--But yet
The Patriarch thinks gratitude is not
Before the eyes of God or man, a debt,
Unless, for our own sakes, some benefit
Has been conferred; and, says the Patriarch,
It is affirmed the Sultan spared your life
Merely because your voice, your look, your air,
Awoke a recollection of his brother----
TEMPLAR.
He knows all this, and yet?----Ah, were it true!
And, Saladin, could Nature form in me
A single feature in thy brother's likeness,
With nothing in my soul to answer it?
Or what does correspond, shall I belie
To please a Patriarch? No, surely Nature
Could never lie so basely! Nor, kind God,
Couldst thou so contradict Thyself! Go, brother,
And do not rouse my anger.
FRIAR.
I withdraw
More gladly than I came. And, pardon me:
A monk's first duty, sir, is to obey.
Scene VI.--_The_ Templar _and_ Daja.
(_She has been watching him from afar and now approaches_.)
DAJA.
Methinks the monk left him in no good mood,
But, spite of that, I must my errand risk.
TEMPLAR.
This hits exactly. As the proverb goes,
Women and monks are ever Satan's tools,
And I to-day am subject to them both.
DAJA.
Whom do I see? Thank God, our noble knight.
Where have you been so long? Not ill, I hope?
TEMPLAR.
No.
DAJA.
In good health?
TEMPLAR.
Yes.
DAJA.
We have all been grieved
Lest something should have ailed you. Have you been
Upon a journey?
TEMPLAR.
Fairly guessed.
DAJA.
Since when
Have you returned to us?
TEMPLAR.
Since yesterday.
DAJA.
Our Recha's father, too, is just returned,
And now may Recha hope at last.
TEMPLAR.
For what?
DAJA.
For what she has so often asked in vain.
Her father pressingly invites you too.
He lately has arrived from Babylon
With twenty camels, bearing precious stones,
And stuffs and fragrant spices, which he sought
In India, Persia, Syria, and China.
TEMPLAR.
I am no merchant.
DAJA.
He is much esteemed
By all his nation--honoured as a prince--
And yet to hear how he is named by all
Nathan _the Wise_, and not _the Rich_, seems strange.
It often makes me wonder.
TEMPLAR.
But to them
It may be, _wise_ and rich--both mean the same.
DAJA.
It seems to me he should be called _the Good_,
So rich a store of goodness dwells in him.
Since he has learned the weighty debt he owes
For service done to Recha there is nought
He would withhold from you.
TEMPLAR.
Well?
DAJA.
Try him, sir!
TEMPLAR.
What then? A moment passes soon away.
DAJA.
I had not dwelt with him so many years
Were he less kind. I know a Christian's worth,
And it was never o'er my cradle sung
That I to Palestine should wend my way,
Following a husband's steps, to educate
A Jewish maid. My husband was a page,
A noble page, in Emperor Frederick's court----
TEMPLAR.
By birth a Swiss, who earned the sorry fame
Of drowning in one river with his lord.
Woman! how often have you told this tale?
When will you cease to persecute me thus?
DAJA.
To persecute you!
TEMPLAR.
Ay, to persecute!
Now mark me. I will never see you more,
Hear you, nor be reminded of a deed
Performed at random. When I think of it,
I wonder somewhat, though I ne'er repent.
But hear me still. Should such a fatal chance
Again occur, you have yourself to blame
If I proceed more calmly, question first.
And let what's burning, burn.
DAJA.
Great God forbid!
TEMPLAR.
And now I have a favour to implore.
Know me henceforth no more. Grant me this grace,
And save me from her father; for with me
A Jew's a Jew; a Swabian blunt am I.
The image of the maid is now erased
Out of my soul--if it was ever there.
DAJA.
But yours remains with her.
TEMPLAR.
Well, and what then?
DAJA.
Who knows? Men are not always what they seem.
TEMPLAR.
They're seldom better. (_Going_.)
DAJA.
Stay a little while.
What need of haste?
TEMPLAR.
Woman! forbear to make
These palm--trees odious: I have loved their shade.
DAJA.
Then go, thou German bear! Yet I must follow him.
(_She follow him at a distance_.)
ACT II.
Scene I.--_The Sultan's Palace_.
Saladin and Sittah (_playing at chess_).
SITTAH.
Where are your thoughts? How ill you play, dear brother!
SALADIN.
Not well in truth--and yet I thought----
SITTAH.
Oh, yes!
You're playing well for me; take back that move.
SALADIN.
Why?
SITTAH.
Don't you see you leave your knight exposed?
SALADIN.
Ay, true!--then so.
SITTAH.
And now I take your pawn.
SALADIN.
That's true again, dear Sittah! Well, then, check!
SITTAH.
That will not help you--I protect my king,
And all is safe again.
SALADIN.
Well, out of this
Dilemma 'tis not easy to escape.
I cannot save the knight.
SITTAH.
I pass him by;
I will not take him.
SALADIN.
Well, I owe you nothing;
The place you gain is better than the piece.
SITTAH.
Perhaps.
SALADIN.
But reckon not without your host;
You did not see that move.
SITTAH.
Not I, indeed;
I did not think you weary of your queen.
SALADIN.
My queen!
SITTAH.
Well, well! I see that I to-day
Shall win my thousand dinars and no more.
SALADIN.
Why so?
SITTAH.
Why so? Because designedly
You lose the game! You vex me, Saladin!
I find no pleasure in a game like this.
And even when I lose, I come off well;
For, to console me for the games you win,
You force me to accept a double stake.
SALADIN.
In that case, then, it may be by design
That you have sometimes lost. Is that the truth?
SITTAH.
At least your generosity's to blame
That I improve so little in my play.
SALADIN.
But we forget the game; come, finish it.
SITTAH.
Well, 'tis my move; now, check to king and queen!
SALADIN.
Indeed! I did not see the double check.
I lose my queen.
SITTAH.
Let's see! Can it be helped?
SALADIN.
No, take the queen--I have no luck with her.
SITTAH.
Only with her?
SALADIN.
Remove her from the board,
I shall not miss her. Now I am right again.
SITTAH.
I know from lessons which yourself have taught
How courteously we should behave to queens.
(_Offering to restore the piece_.)
SALADIN.
Take her or not, I shall not move her more.
SITTAH.
Why need I take her? Check, and check!
SALADIN.
Go on.
SITTAH.
Check, check, and check again!
SALADIN.
'Tis checkmate now.
SITTAH.
Hold!--no, not yet. You may advance the knight,
And ward the danger. But 'twill be the same.
SALADIN.
You are the winner, and Al-Hafi pays.
Let him be called, Sittah! You were not wrong.
My thoughts were wandering--were not in the game,
But who gives us so oft these shapeless bits
Of wood? which speak of naught--suggest no thought.
Was it with Iman that I've played--Well, well,
Ill-luck is ever wont to seek excuse.
Not the unmeaning squares or shapeless men
Have made me heedless; your dexterity,
Your calm, sharp eye, dear Sittah!
SITTAH.
What of that?
Is that to blunt the sting of your defeat?
Enough--your thoughts were wandering more than mine.
SALADIN.
Than yours? What subject could engage your thoughts?
SITTAH.
Far different cares than those which trouble you.
But, Saladin, say, when shall we again
Resume this pleasant pastime?
SALADIN.
Dearest Sittah,
This interruption will but whet our zeal.
Your thoughts are on the war: well, let it come--
'Twas not my arm that first unsheathed the sword;
I would have willingly prolonged the truce,
And willingly have knit a tender bond,
For Sittah's sake, with Richard's noble brother.
SITTAH.
How pleased you are, can you but praise your Richard.
SALADIN.
If Richard's sister had but been bestowed
Upon our brother Melek, what a house
Had then been ours! the best, the happiest
The earth could boast. You know I am not slow
To praise myself: I'm worthy of my friends.
What men these unions would have given us!
SITTAH.
Did I not smile at once at your fine dreams?
You do not, will not, know the Christian race.
It is their pride not to be men, but Christians.
The virtue which their founder felt and taught,
The charity He mingled with their creed,
Is valued, not because it is humane,
And good, and lovely, but for this alone,
That it was 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 on trust,
And in His virtues put their faith. His virtues!
'Tis not His virtues, but His name alone
They wish to thrust upon us--His mere name,
Which they desire should overspread the world,
Should swallow up the name of all good men,
And put the rest to shame. 'Tis for His name
Alone they care.
SALADIN.
Else, Sittah, as you say,
They would not have required that you and Melek
Should be called Christians, ere they suffered you
To feel for Christians the pure flame of love.
SITTAH.
As if from Christians, and from them alone,
That love can be expected, which the hand
Of our Creator gives to man and wife.
SALADIN.
Christians believe such vain absurdities,
That this may be among them. And yet, Sittah,
The Templars, not the Christians, are in this
To blame. 'Tis they alone who thwart my plans;
'Tis they who still hold Acca, pledged to us
By treaty as the dower of Richard's sister.
And, to maintain their order's interests,
They use this cant--the nonsense of the monk.
Scarce would they wait until the truce expired
To fall upon us. But, go on, good sirs!
Would that all else may thrive as well as this!
SITTAH.
Why, what else troubles you? What other care
Have you to struggle with?
SALADIN.
That constant grief--
I've been to Lebanon, and seen our father.
He's full of care.
SITTAH.
Alas!
SALADIN.
He must give way.
Straitened on every side, no aid, no help,
Nothing comes in.
SITTAH.
What ails him, Saladin?
SALADIN.
The only thing that I am loth to name,
Which, when I have it, so superfluous seems,
And, when I have it not, so necessary.
Where is Al-Hafi? Have they gone for him?
Will no one go? Oh, fatal, cursed money!
Welcome, Al-Hafi! You are come at last.
Scene II.
_The_ Dervise Al-Hafi, Saladin, _and_ Sittah.
AL-HAFI.
The gold from Egypt, I suppose, is come.
Say, is it much?
SALADIN.
What! have you heard of it?
AL-HAFI.
Not I. I thought I should receive it here.
SALADIN (_pacing thoughtfully to and fro_).
Sittah has won a thousand dinars, pay them.
AL-HAFI.
Pay without getting. That is worse than nothing!
And still to Sittah--once again for chess!
But let us see the board; how stands the game?
SITTAH.
You grudge me my good fortune?
AL-HAFI (_examining the board_).
Grudge you? When--
You know too well----
SITTAH (_making signs to him_).
Oh, hush! Al-Hafi, hush!
AL-HAFI (_still examining the board_).
Don't grudge it to yourself.
SITTAH.
Al-Hafi, hush!
AL-HAFI.
And were the white men yours?
You gave the check?
SITTAH.
'Tis well he does not hear.
AL-HAFI.
The move is his.
SITTAH (_approaching nearer_).
Then promise me that I shall have the money.
AL-HAFI (_still intent upon the board_).
You shall receive it as you've always done.
SITTAH.
How! are you mad?
AL-HAFI.
The game's not over yet.
You have not lost it, Saladin.
SALADIN (_paying no attention_).
Oh, yes;
Pay down the money.
AL-HAFI.
Pay! here stands the queen.
SALADIN (_still heedless_).
She's of no use; she's lost.
SITTAH.
Do say that I
May send and fetch the gold.
AL-HAFI (_still studying the game_).
Oh, yes! of course.
But though the queen be lost, you are not mate.
SALADIN (_dashing down the board_).
I say I am. I will be mate.
AL-HAFI.
If so,
Small pains, small gains, say I. So got, so spent.
SALADIN.
What is he muttering there?
SITTAH (_to_ Saladin, _making a sign meanwhile to_ Al-Hafi).
You know him well.
He likes entreaties--loves to be implored.
Who knows if he be not a little jealous?
SALADIN.
Well, not of thee--not of my sister, surely.
What do I hear? Al-Hafi, are you jealous?
AL-HAFI.
Perhaps I am. I wish I had her head,
Or that I were as good as she.
SITTAH.
My brother,
He always pays me fairly, and to-day
He'll do the same. Let him alone. Now go!
Al-Hafi! go! I'll have the money----
AL-HAFI.
No, not I.
I'll act this farce no more. He must know soon.
SALADIN.
Who? what?
SITTAH.
Al-Hafi! say, is this your promise?
Is't thus you keep your word?
AL-HAFI.
Could I foresee
That it would come to this?
SALADIN.
Well, tell me all.
SITTAH.
Al-Hafi! I implore you, be discreet.
SALADIN.
'Tis very strange; and what can Sittah have
So earnestly to sue for, from a stranger--
A Dervise--rather than from me, her brother?
Al-Hafi, I command you. Dervise, speak.
SITTAH.
Let not a trifle touch my brother nearer
Than is becoming, for you know that I
Have often won as much from you at chess.
But as I stand in little need of gold,
I've left the money in Al-Hafi's chest,
Which is not over full; but never fear,
It is not my intention to bestow
My wealth on either of you.
AL-HAFI.
Were this all!
SITTAH.
Some more such trifles are perhaps unclaimed:
My own allowance, which you set apart
Has lain some months untouched.
AL-HAFI.
Nor is this all.
SALADIN.
Then tell the whole.
AL-HAFI.
Whilst we've been waiting for
The gold from Egypt, she----
SITTAH.
Nay, hear him not.
AL-HAFI.
Not only has had nothing,----
SALADIN.
Dearest sister I--
But also has been lending it to you?
AL-HAFI.
Ay! at her sole expense maintained your state.
SALADIN (_embracing her_).
So like my sister!
SITTAH.
Who but you, my brother,
Could make me rich enough to have the power?
AL-HAFI.
And soon he'll make her once again as poor
As he is now.
SALADIN.
I poor! her brother poor!
When had I more--when had I less than now?
A cloak, a horse, a sabre, and my God!
What need I else? and these ne'er can I lack.
And yet, Al-Hafi, I could scold you now.
SITTAH.
Nay, brother, do not scold. I would that I
Could thus also relieve our father's cares!
SALADIN.
Ah! now my joy has vanished all at once.
We can want nothing; but he's destitute.
And whilst he wants, we all are poor indeed.
What shall I do? From Egypt we can hope
For nothing--though God only knows the cause.
'Tis general peace around, and as for me,
I could live sparingly, reduce, retrench,
If none else suffered; but 'twould not 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 asks my heart.
I had relied, Al-Hafi, on your chest,
Upon the surplus there.
AL-HAFI.
A surplus there!
Say, should I not have been impaled or hanged,
If I had been detected hoarding up
A surplus? Deficits I might have ventured.
SALADIN.
Well, but what next? Could you have found out none
To borrow from, but Sittah?
SITTAH.
And would I
Have borne it, had another been preferred?
I claim that privilege. I am not yet
Quite beggared.
SALADIN.
No, not quite. Dear Sittah, this
Alone was wanting. But, Al-Hafi, go,
Inquire about, take where and what you can;
Borrow on promise, contract, anyhow;
But, mark me, not from those I have enriched.
'Twould seem as if I wished to have it back.
Go to the covetous. They gladliest lend.
They know how well their money thrives with me.
AL-HAFI.
I know of none.
SITTAH.
I recollect just now,
I heard, Al-Hafi, of your friend's return.
AL-HAFI (_starting_).
Friend! friend of mine! and who can that be, pray?
SITTAH.
Your boasted Jew.
AL-HAFI.
A Jew! and praised by me!
SITTAH.
On whom his God--I think I recollect
The very words you used, as touching him--
On whom his God, of all the choicest goods
Of earth, in full abundance, has bestowed
The greatest and the least.
AL-HAFI.
What could I mean
When I said so?
SITTAH.
The least of good things--wealth.
The greatest--wisdom!
AL-HAFI.
How! and of a Jew
Did I say that?
SITTAH.
Ay, that you did--of Nathan.
AL-HAFI.
Oh, true! of Nathan--yes! He did not now
Occur to me. But he's returned at last,
Then do not doubt that he's well off. He's called
The Wise, the Rich, by all the Jewish folk.
SITTAH.
Now more than ever is he named the Rich.
The town resounds with news of costly stuffs
And priceless treasures he has brought with him.
AL-HAFI.
Is he the Rich once more? Then, do not fear,
He'll be the Wise again.
SITTAH.
What think you? Will
You visit him, Al-Hafi?
AL-HAFI.
What, to borrow?
You know him, surely! Think you he will lend?
His very wisdom lies in this--that he
Will lend to no one.
SITTAH.
Formerly you gave
A picture very different of him.
AL-HAFI.
In case of need he'll lend you merchandise;
But money--money--never! He's a Jew,
Who has not many equals 'mongst his tribe.
He's wise, knows how to live, can play at chess;
Excels in evil, too, as well as good.
Rely not on him. To the poor, indeed,
He vies with Saladin himself in gifts;
And if not quite so much, he gives as freely,
To Jew, and Christian, and Mahometan--
To all alike.
SITTAH.
And such a man as this----
SALADIN.
How comes it, then, I never heard of him?
SITTAH.
Can he refuse to lend to Saladin,
Who wants for others--never for himself.
AL-HAFI.
Ay, there peeps out the Jew--the vulgar Jew:
Believe me, he is jealous, envious
Of generosity. It seems as though
To earn God's favour were his special mission.
And that he may possess wherewith to give,
He never lends. The law he serves, commands
That he show mercy, but not complaisance.
Thus him has mercy made the rudest churl
In all the world. 'Tis true I have not been
This long time past on friendly terms with him,
But do not think that I would do him wrong,
He's good in all things else, but not in that;
Therefore I'll go and knock at other doors.
I recollect this instant an old Moor,
Who's rich and covetous: I'll go to him. (_Exit_.)
SITTAH.
Why in such haste, Al-Hafi?
SALADIN.
Let him go.
Scene III.
Sittah, Saladin.
SITTAH.
He speeds away, as though he would escape.
Why so? Is he indeed himself deceived,
Or would he now mislead me?
SALADIN.
Can I guess?
I scarcely know the man of whom you speak,
And, for the first time, hear to-day of him.
SITTAH.
Can it be possible you know him not
Who, it is said, has visited the
Of Solomon and David; knows the spell
To ope their marble lids, and thence obtain
The boundless stores that claim no lesser source.
SALADIN.
Were this man's wealth by miracle procured,
'Tis not at Solomon's or David's tomb
That it is found. Mere mortal fools lie there.
SITTAH.
Or knaves!--But still his source of opulence
Is more productive, more exhaustless than
A cave of Mammon.
SALADIN.
For he trades, I'm told.
SITTAH.
His caravans through every desert toil,
His laden camels throng the public roads,
His ships in every harbour furl their sails.
Al-Hafi long ago has told me this,
Adding, with pride, how Nathan gives away,
What he esteems it noble to have earned
By patient industry, for others' wants;
How free from bias is his lofty soul,
His heart to every virtue how unlocked,
To every lovely feeling how allied!
SALADIN.
And yet Al-Hafi spoke with coldness of him.
SITTAH.
Not coldness, but unwillingness, as if
He deemed it dangerous to praise too much,
Yet knew not how to blame without a cause.
Or can it be, in truth, that e'en the best
Amongst a tribe can never quite escape
The foibles of their race, and that, in fact,
Al-Hafi has in this to blush for Nathan?
But come what may, let him be Jew or not,
If he be rich, that is enough for me.
SALADIN.
You would not, sister, take his--wealth by force?
SITTAH.
By force? What mean you? Fire and 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--she came but yesterday.
Meanwhile I'll think upon a subtle plan
For this same Nathan. Follow, Saladin!
Scene IV.
_The Place of Palms, near_ Nathan's _house, from which_ Recha _and_
Nathan _are coming_; Daja, _meeting them_.
RECHA.
Dear father! you have been so slow, that you
Will scarcely meet him now.
NATHAN.
Well, well, my child;
If not beneath the palms, be sure that we
Shall meet him somewhere else. Be satisfied.
Is not that Daja whom I see approaching?
RECHA.
She certainly has lost him.
NATHAN.
Wherefore so?
RECHA.
Her pace were quicker else.
NATHAN.
She has not seen us.
RECHA.
There, now she spies us.
NATHAN.
And her speed redoubles.
Recha, be calm!
RECHA.
What! would you have your child
Be cold and unconcerned about his fate
To whom her life is due?--a life to her
But dear because she owed it first to you.
NATHAN.
I would not wish you other than you are,
E'en if I knew that in your secret soul
Another and a different feeling throbs.
RECHA.
What means my father?
NATHAN.
Do you ask of me--
So tremblingly of me? What passes now
Within your soul is innocence and nature.
Nay, fear not, for it gives me no alarm.
But promise, if the heart shall ever speak
A plainer language, you will not conceal
One single of your wishes from my love.
RECHA.
Oh, the bare thought that I should ever wish
To hide them from my father, makes me shudder.
NATHAN.
Recha, enough of this. Now, what says Daja?
DAJA.
He's still beneath the palms, and presently
He'll reach yon wall. See! here he comes at last.
RECHA.
He seems irresolute which way to turn,
To left or right!
DAJA.
His custom is to seek
The convent walls, so he will pass this way.
What will you wager? Yes, he comes to us.
RECHA.
Right! Did you speak to him? How did he look?
DAJA.
As usual.
NATHAN.
Do not let him see you here.
Stand farther back, or to the house retire.
RECHA.
Just one look more. Ah! the trees hide him now.
DAJA.
Come, come away! Recha, your father's right.
Should he observe us he'll retire at once.
RECHA.
Alas! the trees----
NATHAN.
Now he emerges from them.
He can't but see you. Hence! I beg of you.
DAJA.
Come, Recha, come! I know a window whence
We may observe him better.
RECHA.
Come, then, come.
(_They both retire_.)
Scene V.
Nathan (_who is presently joined by the_ Templar).
NATHAN.
I almost shrink from meeting this strange fellow--
Recoil from his rough virtue! That one man
Should ever make another feel confused!
But see, he comes! he seems a noble youth;
Looks like a man. I like his daring eye,
His honest gait. Although the shell is bitter,
The kernel may not be so. I have seen
One like him somewhere. Pardon, noble Frank----
TEMPLAR.
What would you?
NATHAN.
Pardon me----
TEMPLAR.
What would you, Jew?
NATHAN.
The privilege of speaking to you.
TEMPLAR.
Well!
How can I help it? Quick, then--what's your wish?
NATHAN.
Patience! nor pass with such contempt and pride
One who must be your debtor evermore.
TEMPLAR.
How so? I almost guess. No; are you then----
NATHAN.
My name is Nathan, father to the maid
Your generous courage rescued from the flames.
I come to----
TEMPLAR.
If you come to render thanks,
Spare them. I have already been compelled
To bear too many thanks for this small act.
Besides, you owe me nothing. Could I know
The maiden was your daughter? I was bound--
It is a Templar's duty--to assist
All who need succour; and my life just then
Was a mere burden. It was a relief
To risk it for another, even though
The task were to preserve a Jewess' life.
NATHAN.
Great--great yet horrible--I understand
The turn. The modest greatness will assume
The hideous mask to ward off gratitude.
But though he may disdain our proffer'd thanks,
Is there no other tribute we can pay?
Sir Knight! if you were not a stranger here,
And not a pris'ner, I were not so bold.
But, come, what service can I render you?
TEMPLAR.
You!--nothing.
NATHAN.
I am rich.
TEMPLAR.
The richer Jew
Was ne'er in my esteem the better 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 the sake
Of my poor mantle; when it is well worn,
And spite of darning will not hold together,
I'll come and borrow cloth or gold of you,
To make a new one. Nay, Sir, do not start;
The danger is not pressing--'tis not yet
Quite worthless; it is sound, and strong, and good.
Save in one corner, where an ugly spot
Is singed, and that is from a burn it got
When I bore off your daughter from the fire.
NATHAN (_taking hold of the mantle_).
'Tis strange, indeed, that such a spot as this
Should bear far better witness to the man
Than his own lips. This spot! Oh, I could kiss it.
Your pardon, Sir, in truth, I meant it not!
TEMPLAR.
What?
NATHAN.
'Twas a tear that fell.
TEMPLAR.
Well, 'tis no matter.
'Tis not the first. (This Jew doth puzzle me.)
NATHAN.
Would you but send this mantle to my daughter!
TEMPLAR.
Why?
NATHAN.
That she, too, may press it to her lips;
For at her benefactor's feet to fall
She now may hope in vain.
TEMPLAR.
But, Jew, your name?
Tis Nathan, is it not? You choose your words
With skill--I am confused. I did not think
NATHAN.
Feign, Templar, and dissemble as you may,
I see the truth. I see your generous heart,
Too honest and too good to be polite.
A grateful girl, all feeling, and her maid
Swift to obey--a father far from home,
You valued her fair fame, and would not see her.
You scorned to tempt lest you should victor prove.
For this too I must tender you my thanks.
TEMPLAR.
You know at least how Templars _ought_ to feel.
NATHAN.
Why Templars only? and why ought to feel?
Is it because your rules and vows enjoin
These duties to _your order_? Sir, I know
How good men all should feel, and know as well
That every country can produce good men.
TEMPLAR.
You'll make distinctions?
NATHAN.
Yes, in colour, form,
And dress, perhaps.
TEMPLAR.
Ay, and in number too--
Here more--there less.
NATHAN.
The difference is not much.
Great men, like trees, have ever need of room;
Too many set together only serve
To crush each other's boughs. The middling sort,
Like us, are found in numbers, they abound;
Only let not one 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 what nation was the first
To scatter discord 'mongst their fellow-men?
To claim the title of "the chosen people?"
How now if I were not to hate them, but
To scorn this upstart nation, for their pride?
That pride which it bequeathed to Mussulman
And Christian, as if God were theirs alone.
You start to hear a Christian and a Templar
Talk thus. But when and where has all this rage,
This pious rage, to win the better God,
And force this better God on all the world,
Shown itself more, or in a blacker form,
Than here, and now? Who here, who now retains
The blinding scales upon his eyes--and yet
Let him be blind who will!--forget my words,
And leave me (_is going_).
NATHAN.
Templar! you but little know
How closer henceforth I shall cling to you.
We must, we must be friends. Despise my people--
We did not choose a nation for ourselves.
Are we our nation's? What then is a nation?
Were Jews or Christians such, ere they were men?
Ah! would that I had found in you one man
To whom it were enough to be a man.
TEMPLAR.
Thou hast so, Nathan! Yes, by Heaven, thou hast.
Thy hand. I blush to have mistaken thee.
NATHAN.
Now I feel proud. 'Tis only common souls
In whom we seldom err.
TEMPLAR.
Uncommon ones
We do not oft forget. Nathan, we must,
We must be friends.
NATHAN.
We are so. And my Recha
Will now rejoice. How bright the prospect grows
That dawns upon me! If you did but know her.
TEMPLAR.
I grow impatient, Nathan. But who now
Comes from your house? Methinks it is your Daja.
NATHAN.
Yes, and her look how full of care! God grant----
TEMPLAR.
That nothing may have chanced to our Recha!
Scene VI.
Daja (_rushing in_).
DAJA.
Nathan, dear Nathan!
NATHAN.
Well.
DAJA.
Forgive me, Knight,
That I must interrupt you.
NATHAN.
What has happened?
DAJA.
The Sultan sends for you--commands you straight
To speak with him. Protect us, Heaven! the Sultan!
NATHAN.
The Sultan sends for me! He would inspect
The goods--the precious wares that I have brought
From Persia. Say there's nothing yet unpacked.
DAJA.
No, no; 'tis not to look at anything;
He wants to speak to you in person, Nathan,
And orders you to come at once.
NATHAN.
I go.
Daja, return.
DAJA.
Knight, take it not amiss.
We were alarmed for what the Sultan might
Require of Nathan.
NATHAN.
That I soon shall know. (_Exit Daja_.)
Scene VII.
Nathan, _the_ Templar.
TEMPLAR.
Are you then not acquainted with him yet?
NATHAN.
Who, Saladin? Not yet. I've neither shunned
Nor sought to see him. And the public voice
Proclaims his fame so loud, that I could wish
Rather to take its language upon trust,
Than sift the truth. And yet if it be true
That he has spared your life----
TEMPLAR.
Yes, so it is.
The life I live, he gave.
NATHAN.
Then he bestows
A double, treble life on me. And thus
He flings a bond around me, which secures
My duty to his service; and henceforth
I burn to know his wishes. Now, for all
I am prepared; and further, will confess
'Tis for your sake alone that I am thus.
TEMPLAR.
Often I've sought to meet him, but as yet
Have found no means to render him my thanks.
The impress which his mind received of me
Was transient, and ere now has disappeared.
Who knows if he may still remember me?
And yet once more at least he must recall
Me to his thoughts--to fix my future lot!
'Tis not enough that by his gracious will
I still have of life; I've yet to learn
According to whose will I have to live.
NATHAN.
Therefore 'twere well I did not tarry now.
Perchance some happy word may give excuse
To speak of you. Now, pardon me, farewell!
I must away. When shall we meet again?
TEMPLAR.
Whenever 'tis permitted.
NATHAN.
When you will.
TEMPLAR.
To-day, then.
NATHAN.
And your name?
TEMPLAR.
My name was--is--
Conrad of Stauffen.
NATHAN.
Conrad of Stauffen! Stauffen!
TEMPLAR.
What is there in my name to wonder at?
NATHAN.
There are more races of that name, no doubt.
TEMPLAR.
Yes, many of the name were here--rot here,
My uncle even--I should say my father.
But wherefore is your eye so fixed on me?
NATHAN.
I know not; but I love to look on you.
TEMPLAR.
Therefore I take my leave. The searching eye
Will oft discover more than it desires.
I fear it, Nathan; so, farewell. Let time,
Not curious prying, make us better known. (_Exit_.)
NATHAN (_looking after him with astonishment_).
"The searching eye will oft discover more
Than it desires." As if he read my soul!
That, too, may chance to be. 'Tis not alone
His walk, his stature, but his very voice!
Leonard so bore himself--was even wont
To carry thus his sword upon his arm,
And thus to shade his eyebrow with his hand,
As if to hide the fire that fill'd his look.
So deeply graven images may seem
At times to lie asleep within the soul,
When all at once a single word--a tone--
Calls them to life again. Of Stauffen--right--
Filnek and Stauffen--I will soon know more.
But first to Saladin. Ha! Daja here--
And on the watch! Come nearer, Daja, come.
Scene VIII.
Daja, Nathan.
NATHAN.
Well, both of you have something more at heart
Than to know what the Sultan wants with me.
DAJA.
And you can hardly blame her for it, sir.
You were beginning to converse with him
More trustingly yourself, when suddenly
The Sultan's message drove us from the window.
NATHAN.
Go tell her, Daja, she may soon expect
A visit from the Templar.
DAJA.
What! indeed!
NATHAN.
I think I may rely upon you, Daja.
Be on your guard, I beg, you'll not repent it.
Your conscience shall at length be satisfied,
But do not mar my plans. Inquire, explain,
But with reserve, with fitting modesty.
DAJA.
No need for such advice. I go, I go.
And you must follow; for, see, Hafi comes--
The Sultan sends a second messenger.
Scene IX.
Nathan, Al-Hafi.
AL-HAFI.
Ha! are you there? I have been seeking you.
NATHAN.
Why in such haste? What can he want with me?
AL-HAFI.
Who?
NATHAN.
Saladin. But I am coming quickly.
AL-HAFI.
To whom? To Saladin?
NATHAN.
Has he not sent you?
AL-HAFI.
Me? no--but has he sent already?
NATHAN.
Yes.
AL-HAFI.
Then it is so.
NATHAN.
What's so?
AL-HAFI.
That----I'm not guilty,
God knows, I'm not to blame; 'tis not my fault.
I've done my best--belied, and slandered you--
To save you from it.
NATHAN.
Save me? and from what?
Be plain.
AL-HAFI.
From being made his Defterdar.
I pity you--I cannot stay to see it.
I fly this hour--you know the road I take.
Speak, then, if I can serve you; but your wants
Must suit a wretch that's wholly destitute.
Quick, what's your pleasure?
NATHAN.
Recollect yourself--
Your words are mystery. I know of nothing.
What do you mean?
AL-HAFI.
You'll take your money--bags?
NATHAN.
My money--bags!
AL-HAFI.
Ay, bring your treasures forth--
The treasures you must shower on Saladin.
NATHAN.
And is that all?
AL-HAFI.
Ah! shall I witness it,
How, day by day, he'll scoop and pare you down,
Till nothing but a hollow, empty shell,
A husk as light as film, is left behind.
Nathan, you've yet to learn how spendthrift waste
From prudent bounty's never empty stores
Borrows and borrows, till there's not a crumb
Left to keep rats from starving. Do not think
That he who wants your gold will heed advice.
When has the Sultan listened to advice?
Hear what befel me with him.
NATHAN.
Well--go on.
AL-HAFI.
He played just now at chess with Sittah. She
Is a keen player. I drew near and watched.
The game which Saladin supposed was lost,
Stood yet upon the board. He had given in,
I marked, and cried, "The game's not lost at all!"
NATHAN.
Oh! what a grand discovery for you.
AL-HAFI.
He needed only to remove his king
Behind the castle--and the check was saved.
Could I but show you----
NATHAN.
I believe it all!
AL-HAFI.
Then with the castle free, he must have won.
I saw it, and I called him to the board.
What do you think he did?
NATHAN.
He doubted you.
AL-HAFI.
Not only that--he would not hear a word--
And with contempt he overthrew the board.
NATHAN.
Indeed!
AL-HAFI.
He said he chose it--would be mate.
Is that to play the game?
NATHAN.
Most surely not.
'Twas rather playing with the game.
AL-HAFI.
And yet
The stakes were high.
NATHAN.
A trifle to the Sultan!
Money is nought to him. It is not that
Which galls, but not to hear Al-Hafi out--
Not to admire his comprehensive glance,
His eagle eye--'tis that demands revenge.
Say, am I right?
AL-HAFI.
I only tell this tale
That you may know how much his head is worth.
But I am weary of him. All the day
I am running round to every wretched Moor
To borrow--money for him--I who ne'er
Ask for myself, am now obliged to sue
For others--and, according to my creed,
To borrow is to beg, as, when you lend
Your money upon usury, you steal.
Among my Ghebers on the Ganges' shores
I shall need neither; there I shall not be
The tool or pimp of any; there alone
Upon the Ganges honest men are found.
You, Nathan, you alone of all I see
Are worthy on the Ganges' banks to live.
Then come with me; leave him the wretched gold
That he would strip you of--'tis all he wants.
Little by little he will ruin you;
'Tis better to be quit of all at once;
Come, then, and I'll provide you with a staff.
NATHAN.
Nay, that resource will still remain for us
As a last refuge. But I'll think of it.
AL-HAFI.
Nay, ponder not upon a thing like this.
NATHAN.
Then stay till I have seen the Sultan. Stay
Till I have bid farewell.
AL-HAFI.
The man who stays
To hunt for motives, to search reasons out,
Who cannot boldly and at once resolve
To live a free man's life, must be the slave
Of others till his death. But as you please.
Farewell! my path is here, and yours is there!
NATHAN.
But stay, Al-Hafi! till you have arranged
The state accounts.
AL-HAFI.
Pah! Nathan, there's no need;
The balance in the chest is quickly told,
And my account, Sittah, or you, will vouch.
Farewell! (_Exit_.)
NATHAN (_looking after him_).
Yes, I will vouch it, honest, wild--
How shall I call him? Ah! the real beggar
Is, after all, the only real king. (_Exit at opposite side_.)
ACT III.
Scene I.--_A room in_ Nathan's _house_.
Recha, Daja.
RECHA.
Well, Daja, did my father really say
"That I might instantly expect him here?"
That surely meant that he would come at once,
And yet how many minutes have rolled by!
But I'll not dwell upon the moments gone,
I'll only live in those that are to come,
That one which brings him here must come in time.
DAJA.
But for the Sultan's ill-timed messenger
Nathan had brought him hither.
RECHA.
When he comes--
Oh! when this dearest of my inmost hopes
Shall be fulfilled--what then--what then?
DAJA.
What then?
Why then I trust the wish most dear to me
Will also be fulfilled.
RECHA.
And in its place
What wish shall take possession of my breast?
Which now forgets to heave, unless it pant
With some fond wish? Will nothing come? I shudder!
DAJA.
My wish shall then supplant the one fulfilled,
My wish to see you borne to Europe's shores
By hands well worthy of you.
RECHA.
You do err.
The very thought which makes you form this wish
Forbids it to be mine. Your native land
Attracts you, and has mine no charm for me?
Shall a remembrance of your cherished home,
Your absent kindred and your dearest friends,
Which years and distance have not yet effaced,
Rule in your soul with softer, mightier sway
Than what I know, and hear, and feel of mine.
DAJA.
'Tis vain to struggle, for the ways of Heaven
Are still the ways of Heaven. And who can say
If he who saved your life may not be doomed,
Through his God's arm, for whom he nobly fights.
To lead you to that people--to that land
To which you should belong by right of birth?
RECHA.
What are you saying, Daja? dearest Daja!
Indeed you have some strange and curious thoughts.
"_His_ God!" whose God? To whom can God belong,
And how can God belong to any man,
Or need a human arm to fight his battles?
And who, among the scattered clods of earth
Can say for which of them himself was born,
Unless for that on which he was produced?
If Nathan heard thee! How has Nathan sinned,
That Daja seeks to paint my happiness
So far removed from his? What has he done,
That thus amongst the seeds of reason, which
He sowed unmixed and pure within my soul,
The hand of Daja must for ever seek
To plant the weeds, or flowers of her own land?
He has no wish to see upon this soil
Such rank luxuriant blossoms. I myself
Must own I faint beneath the sour--sick odour;
Your head is stronger and is used to it.
I find no fault with those of stronger nerves
Who can support it--mine, alas! give way.
Your angel too, how near befool'd was I
Through him; I blush whene'er I see my father.
DAJA.
As if, dear Recha, you alone were wise.
Folly! If I might speak----
RECHA.
And may you not?
Have I not listened gladly to your tales
About the valiant heroes of your faith?
Have I not freely on their deeds bestowed
My admiration--to their sufferings given
The tribute of my tears? Their faith, 'tis true,
Has never seemed to me their noblest boast,
But, therefore, Daja, I have only learnt
To find more consolation in the thought
That our devotion to the God of all
Depends not on our notions of that God.
My father has so often taught me this--
You have so often to this point agreed,
How can it be that you wish now alone
To undermine what you have built together?
But this is no discourse with which to wait
The friend whom we expect--and yet for me
'Tis of some moment whether he----But hark!
Hark! Some one comes this way.---If it were he!
Scene II.
The Templar, Daja, Recha.
(_A servant ushers in the_ Templar.)
This way, Sir Knight!--
(Recha _starts, composes herself, and is about to fall at his
feet_.)
'Tis he! my rescuer. Ah!
TEMPLAR.
'Twas only to avoid this scene that I
So long postponed my visit.
RECHA.
At the feet
Of this proud man, I will thank God alone,
And not the man. He does not want my thanks--
As little as the bucket does which proved
Itself so useful at the fire, and let
Itself be filled and emptied; so this man,
He too was thrust by chance amid the flames;
I dropped by chance into his open arms,
By chance remained there, like a fluttering spark
Upon his mantle--till--I know not what
Expelled us from the flames. What room is here
For thanks?--In Europe wine excites the men
To greater deeds--The Templar knows his duty,
Performs his task, as well-trained spaniels do,
Who fetch alike from water and from flames.
TEMPLAR (_who has been surveying her with surprise and uneasiness_).
O Daja, Daja! if in hasty hours
Of care and grief, this unchecked tongue of mine
Betrayed me into rudeness, why convey
To her each idle word that leaves my lips?
This is indeed too galling a revenge!
Yet, if henceforth, you will interpret better----
DAJA.
I question if these little stings, Sir Knight,
Were so shot forth as to have done you wrong.
RECHA.
How! you had cares, and were more covetous
Of them than of your life.
TEMPLAR.
Thou best of beings,
How is my soul with eye and ear at strife?
No, 'twas not she I rescued from the fire,
For who could know her and forbear the deed?
In truth, disguised by terror----
(_He gazes on her as if entranced_.)
RECHA.
But to me
You still appear the same as then you seemed.
(_A pause, till she resumes in order to interrupt his reverie_.)
Tell me, Sir Knight, where have you been so long?
And--I might almost ask--where are you now?
TEMPLAR.
I am where I, perhaps, ought not to be.
RECHA.
And been, perhaps, where you should not have been.
That is not well.
TEMPLAR.
I have been up the mountain--
What is the name?--ay! Sinai!
RECHA.
I am glad;
For, doubtless, you can tell me if 'tis true----
TEMPLAR.
If what is true? If holy people show
The spot where Moses stood before his God?
RECHA.
Oh no; not that. Wherever Moses stood
It was before his God. I know enough
About such things already. Is it true--
I wish to learn from you who have been there--
If it is not by far less difficult
To climb than to descend the holy mount?
For with all other mountains that I know,
'Tis quite the contrary. You turn away!
Why do you turn, Sir Knight? Nay, look at me.
TEMPLAR.
I wish to hear you rather.
RECHA.
I perceive,
Because you do not wish that I should see
You smile at my simplicity. You smile
That I have not some more important thing
To ask about the holy hill of hills.
Is it so?
TEMPLAR.
Must I meet those eyes again?
And now you cast them down, and check your smile.
How can I in those changeful features read
What I so plainly hear--the truth your words
So audibly declare, and yet would hide?
How truly did your father say to me,
"If you but knew her!"
RECHA.
Who said that to you?
TEMPLAR.
Your father, and of you he spoke the words.
DAJA.
Have I not said it to you many times?
TEMPLAR.
Where is your father now? with Saladin?
RECHA.
Doubtless he is.
TEMPLAR.
Still there! Oh, I forget.
He cannot still be there. He waits for me,
As he appointed, near the cloister gate.
Forgive me, I must go in quest of him.
DAJA.
I will do that. Wait here, I'll bring him straight.
TEMPLAR.
O no, O no! He is expecting me.
Besides, you cannot tell what may have chanced.
'Tis not unlikely he may be engaged
With Saladin--you do not know the Sultan--
In some unpleasant----Danger may ensue
If I delay.
RECHA.
Danger! for whom? for what?
TEMPLAR.
Danger for me--for you--for him! unless
I go at once (_Exit_.)
Scene III.
Recha, Daja.
RECHA.
What is the matter, Daja?
So quick! what ails him--makes him fly from hence?
DAJA.
Let him alone. I think it no bad sign.
RECHA.
Sign! and of what?
DAJA.
That something vexes him.
It boils, but it must not boil over. Go,
'Tis your turn now.
RECHA.
My turn. You have become
Incomprehensible to me--like him.
DAJA.
Now you may pay him back with interest
All the unrest he once occasioned you.
But be not too vindictive--too severe.
RECHA.
Well, Daja, you must know your meaning best.
DAJA.
And are you then already calm once more?
RECHA.
In truth I am.
DAJA.
Confess at least, dear Recha,
That all this restlessness has brought you pleasure,
And that you have to thank his want of ease
For all the ease that you yourself enjoy.
RECHA.
I know not that, but I must still confess
That to myself it seems a mystery
How in this bosom, such a pleasing calm
Can suddenly succeed so rude a storm.
His countenance, his speech, his manner have----
DAJA.
By this time satisfied you.
RECHA.
No, not that.
DAJA.
Well, satisfied your more impatient want.
RECHA.
Well, well, if you must have it so.
DAJA.
Not I!
RECHA.
To me he must be ever dear. To me
He must remain more dear than life, although
My pulse no longer flutters at his name,
My heart no longer, when I think of him,
Beats with a fuller throb. What have I said?
Come, Daja, to the window once again
Which overlooks the palms.
DAJA.
I see 'tis not
Yet satisfied, that more impatient want.
RECHA.
Now, I shall see the palm--trees once again;
Not him alone amidst them.
DAJA.
Such a fit
Of coldness speaks of fevers yet to come.
RECHA.
Nay, I'm not cold, in truth I do not see
Less gladly that which I do calmly see.
Scene IV.
(_The Hall of Audience in_ Saladin's _Palace_.)
Saladin, Sittah.
SALADIN (_giving directions_).
Bring the Jew here, as soon as he arrives.
He seems in no great haste.
SITTAH.
Nay, Saladin,
Perhaps he was not found at home.
SALADIN.
Ah, sister!
SITTAH.
You look as if some contest were at hand.
SALADIN.
Ay! and with weapons I'm not used to wield.
Must I then play the hypocrite--and frame
Precautions--lay a snare? Where learnt I that?
And for what end? To seek for money--money!
For money from a Jew? And to such arts
Must Saladin descend, that he may win
The most contemptible of paltry things?
SITTAH.
But paltry things, despised too much, are sure
To find some method of revenge.
SALADIN.
'Tis true!
What, if this Jew should prove an upright man,
Such as the Dervise painted him?
SITTAH.
Why, then,
Your difficulty ceases; for a snare
Implies an avaricious, cheating Jew,
And not an upright man. Then he is ours
Without a snare. 'Twill give us joy to hear
How such a man will speak--with what stern strength
He'll tear the net, or with what cunning skill
Untangle all its meshes, one by one.
SALADIN.
True, Sittah! 'twill afford me rare delight.
SITTAH.
What, then, need trouble you? For if he be,
Like all his nation, a mere cozening Jew,
You need not blush, if you appear to him
No better than he deems all other men.
But if to him you wear a different look,
You'll be a fool--his dupe!
SALADIN.
So I must, then,
Do ill, lest bad men should think ill of me.
SITTAH.
Yes, brother, if you call it doing ill
To put a thing to its intended use.
SALADIN.
Well, there is nothing woman's wit invents
It cannot palliate----
SITTAH.
How, palliate?
SALADIN.
Sittah, I fear such fine-wrought filagree
Will break in my rude hand. It is for those
Who frame such plots to bring them into play.
The execution needs the inventor's skill.
But let it pass.--I'll dance as best I can--
Yet sooner would I do it ill than well.
SITTAH.
Oh, brother, have more courage in yourself!
Have but the will, I'll answer for the rest.
How strange that men like you are ever prone
To think it is their swords alone that raise them.
When with the fox the noble lion hunts,
'Tis of the fellowship he feels ashamed,
But of the cunning, never.
SALADIN.
Well, 'tis strange
That women so delight to bring mankind
Down to their level. But, dear Sittah, go;
I think I know my lesson.
SITTAH.
Must I go?
SALADIN.
You did not mean to stay?
SITTAH.
No, not with you,
But in this neighb'ring chamber.
SALADIN.
What! to listen?
Not so, my sister, if I shall succeed.
Away! the curtain rustles--he is come.
Beware of lingering! I'll be on the watch.
(_While_ Sittah _retires through, one door_, Nathan _enters at
another, and_ Saladin _seats himself_.)
Scene V.
Saladin, Nathan.
SALADIN.
Draw nearer, Jew--yet nearer--close to me!
Lay fear aside.
NATHAN.
Fear, Sultan, 's for your foes.
SALADIN.
Your name is Nathan?
NATHAN.
Yes.
SALADIN.
Nathan the Wise.
NATHAN.
No.
SALADIN.
But, at least the people call you so.
NATHAN.
That may be true. The people!
SALADIN.
Do not think
I treat the people's voice contemptuously.
I have been wishing long to know the man
Whom it has called the Wise.
NATHAN.
What, if it named
Him so in scorn? If wise means prudent only--
And prudent, one who knows his interest well?
SALADIN.
Who knows his real interest, you mean.
NATHAN.
Then, Sultan, selfish men were the most prudent,
And wise, and prudent, then, would mean the same.
SALADIN.
You're proving what your speeches contradict.
You know the real interests of man:
The people know them not--have never sought
To know them. That alone can make man wise.
NATHAN.
Which every man conceives himself to be.
SALADIN.
A truce to modesty! To meet it ever,
When we are seeking truth is wearisome (_springs up_).
So, let us to the point. Be candid, Jew,
Be frank and honest.
NATHAN.
I will serve you, prince,
And prove that I am worthy of your favour.
SALADIN.
How will you serve me?
NATHAN.
You shall have the best
Of all I have, and at the cheapest rate.
SALADIN.
What mean you? Not your wares?--My sister, then,
Shall make the bargain with you. (That's for the listener!)
I am not versed in mercantile affairs,
And with a merchant's craft I've nought to do.
NATHAN.
Doubtless you would inquire if I have marked
Upon my route the movements of the foe?
Whether he's stirring? If I may presume----
SALADIN.
Neither was that my object. On that point
I know enough. But hear me.
NATHAN.
I obey.
SALADIN.
It is another, a far different thing
On which I seek for wisdom; and since you
Are called the Wise, tell me which faith or law
You deem the best.
NATHAN.
Sultan, I am a Jew.
SALADIN.
And I a Mussulman. The Christian stands
Between us. Here are three religions, then,
And of these three one only can be true.
A man like you remains not where his birth
By accident has cast him; or if so,
Conviction, choice, or ground of preference,
Supports him. Let me, Nathan, hear from you,
In confidence, the reasons of your choice,
Which I have lacked the leisure to examine.
It may be, Nathan, that I am the first
Sultan who has indulged this strange caprice,
Which need not, therefore, make a Sultan blush.
Am I the first? Nay, speak; or if you seek
A brief delay to shape your scattered thoughts,
I yield it freely. (Has she overheard?
She will inform me if I've acted right.)
Reflect then, Nathan, I shall soon return. (_Exit_.)
Scene VI.
NATHAN (_alone_).
Strange! how is this? What can the Sultan want?
I came prepared for cash--he asks for truth!
Truth! as if truth were cash! A coin disused--
Valued by weight! If so, 'twere well, indeed!
But coin quite new, not coin but for the die,
To be flung down and on the counter told----
It is not that. Like gold tied up in bags,
Will truth lie hoarded in the wise man's head,
To be produced at need? Now, in this case,
Which of us plays the Jew? He asks for truth.
Is truth what he requires? his aim, his end?
Or does he use it as a subtle snare?
That were too petty for his noble mind.
Yet what is e'er too petty for the great?
Did he not rush at once into the house,
Whilst, as a friend, he would have paused or knocked?
I must beware. Yet to repel him now
And act the stubborn Jew, is not the thing;
And wholly to fling off the Jew, still less.
For if no Jew, he might with justice ask,
Why not a Mussulman?--That thought may serve.--
Others than children may be quieted
With tales well told. But see, he comes--he comes.
Scene VII.
Saladin, Nathan.
SALADIN.
(_Aside_) (The coast is clear)--I am not come too soon?
Have you reflected on this matter, Nathan?
Speak! no one hears.
NATHAN.
Would all the world might hear!
SALADIN.
And are you of your cause so confident?
'Tis wise, indeed, of you to hide no truth,
For truth to hazard all, even life and goods.
NATHAN.
Ay, when necessity and profit bid.
SALADIN.
I hope that henceforth I shall rightly bear
One of my names, "Reformer of the world
And of the law!"
NATHAN.
A noble title, truly;
But, Sultan, ere I quite explain myself,
Permit me to relate a tale.
SALADIN.
Why not?
I ever was a friend of tales well told.
NATHAN.
Well told! Ah, Sultan! that's another thing.
SALADIN.
What! still so proudly modest? But begin.
NATHAN.
In days of yore, there dwelt in Eastern lands
A man, who from a valued hand received
A ring of priceless worth. An opal stone
Shot from within an ever-changing hue,
And held this virtue in its form concealed,
To render him of God and man beloved,
Who wore it in this fixed unchanging faith.
No wonder that its Eastern owner ne'er
Withdrew it from his finger, and resolved
That to his house the ring should be secured.
Therefore he thus bequeathed it: first to him
Who was the most beloved of his sons,
Ordaining then that he should leave the ring
To the most dear among his children; then,
That without heeding birth, the fav'rite son,
In virtue of the ring alone, should still
Be lord of all the house. You hear me, Sultan?
SALADIN.
I understand. Proceed.
NATHAN.
From son to son,
The ring at length descended to a sire
Who had three sons, alike obedient to him,
And whom he loved with just and equal love.
The first, the second, and the third, in turn,
According as they each apart received
The overflowings of his heart, appeared
Most worthy as his heir, to take the ring,
Which, with good-natured weakness, he in turn
Had promised privately to each; and thus
Things lasted for a while. But death approached,
The father now embarrassed, could not bear
To disappoint two sons, who trusted him.
What's to be done? In secret he commands
The jeweller to come, that from the form
Of the true ring, he may bespeak two more.
Nor cost nor pains are to be spared, to make
The rings alike--quite like the true one. This
The artist managed. When the rings were brought
The father's eye could not distinguish which
Had been the model. Overjoyed, he calls
His sons, takes leave of each apart--bestows
His blessing and his ring on each--and dies.
You hear me?
SALADIN (_who has turned away in perplexity_).
Ay! I hear. Conclude the tale.
NATHAN.
'Tis ended, Sultan! All that follows next
May well be guessed. Scarce is the father dead,
When with his ring, each separate son appears,
And claims to be the lord of all the house.
Question arises, tumult and debate--
But all in vain--the true ring could no more
Be then distinguished than----(_after a pause, in which he
awaits the Sultan's reply_) the true faith now.
SALADIN.
Is that your answer to my question?
NATHAN.
No!
But it may serve as my apology.
I cannot venture to decide between
Rings which the father had expressly made,
To baffle those who would distinguish them.
SALADIN.
Rings, Nathan! Come, a truce to this! The creeds
Which I have named have broad, distinctive marks,
Differing in raiment, food, and drink!
NATHAN.
'Tis true!
But then they differ not in their foundation.
Are not all built on history alike,
Traditional or written? History
Must be received on trust. Is it not so?
In whom are we most likely to put trust?
In our own people? in those very men
Whose blood we are? who, from our earliest youth
Have proved their love for us, have ne'er deceived,
Except in cases where 'twere better so?
Why should I credit my forefathers less
Than you do yours? or can I ask of you
To charge your ancestors with falsehood, that
The praise of truth may be bestowed on mine?
And so of Christians.
SALADIN.
By our Prophet's faith,
The man is right. I have no more to say.
NATHAN.
Now let us to our rings once more return.
We said the sons complained; each to the judge
Swore from his father's hand immediately
To have received the ring--as was the case--
In virtue of a promise, that he should
One day enjoy the ring's prerogative.
In this they spoke the truth. Then each maintained
It was not possible that to himself
His father had been false. Each could not think
His father guilty of an act so base.
Rather than that, reluctant as he was
To judge his brethren, he must yet declare
Some treach'rous act of falsehood had been done.
SALADIN.
Well! and the judge? I'm curious now to hear
What you will make him say. Go on, go on!
NATHAN.
The judge said: If the father is not brought
Before my seat, I cannot judge the case.
Am I to judge enigmas? Do you think
That the true ring will here unseal its lips?
But, hold! You tell me that the real ring
Enjoys the secret power to make the man
Who wears it, both by God and man, beloved.
Let that decide. Who of the three is loved
Best by his brethren? Is there no reply?
What! do these love--exciting rings alone
Act inwardly? Have they no outward charm?
Does each one love himself alone? You're all
Deceived deceivers. All your rings are false.
The real ring, perchance, has disappeared;
And so your father, to supply the loss,
Has caused three rings to fill the place of one.
SALADIN.
O, charming, charming!
NATHAN.
And,--the judge continued:--
If you insist on judgment, and refuse
My counsel, be it so. I recommend
That you consider how the matter stands.
Each from his father has received a ring:
Let each then think the real ring his own.
Your father, possibly, desired to free
His power from one ring's tyrannous control.
He loved you all with an impartial love,
And equally, and had no inward wish
To prove the measure of his love for one
By pressing heavily upon the rest.
Therefore, let each one imitate this love;
So, free from prejudice, let each one aim
To emulate his brethren in the strife
To prove the virtues of his several ring,
By offices of kindness and of love,
And trust in God. And if, in years to come,
The virtues of the ring shall reappear
Amongst your children's children, then, once more,
Come to this judgment--seat. A greater far
Than I shall sit upon it, and decide.
So spake the modest judge.
SALADIN.
Oh God, O God!
NATHAN.
And if now, Saladin, you think you're he----
SALADIN.
(_Approaches_ Nathan, _and takes his hand, which he retains to the end
of the scene_.)
This promised judge--I?--Dust! I?--Nought! oh God!
NATHAN.
What is the matter, Sultan?
SALADIN.
Dearest Nathan!
That judge's thousand years are not yet past;
His judgment-seat is not for me. But go,
And still remain my friend.
NATHAN.
Has Saladin
Aught else to say?
SALADIN.
No.
NATHAN.
Nothing?
SALADIN.
Truly nothing.
But why this eagerness?
NATHAN.
I could have wished
An opportunity to ask a boon.
SALADIN.
Wait not for opportunity. Speak now.
NATHAN.
I have been traveling, and am just returned
From a long journey, from collecting debts.
Hard cash is troublesome these perilous times,
I know not where I may bestow it safely.
These coming wars need money; and, perchance,
You can employ it for me, Saladin?
SALADIN (_fixing his eyes upon_ Nathan).
I ask not, Nathan, have you seen Al-Hafi?
Nor if some shrewd suspicion of your own
Moves you to make this offer.
NATHAN.
What suspicion?
SALADIN.
I do not ask--forgive me,--it is just,
For what avails concealment? I confess
I was about----
NATHAN.
To ask this very thing?
SALADIN.
Yes!
NATHAN.
Then our objects are at once fulfilled,
And if I cannot send you all my store,
The Templar is to blame for that. You know
The man. I owe a heavy debt to him.
SALADIN.
The Templar! Surely, Nathan, with your gold
You do not aid my direst foes?
NATHAN.
I speak
Of him whose life was spared by Saladin.
SALADIN.
Of what do you remind me? I had quite
Forgot the youth. Where is he? Know you him?
NATHAN.
Have you not heard, then, how your clemency
Through him has flowed to me? How, at the risk
Of the existence which your mercy gave,
He saved my daughter from the raging flames?
SALADIN.
Ha! did he so? He looked like one that would!
My brother, too--his image--would have done it.
Is he still here? Bring him to me at once.
I have so often spoken to my sister
Of this same brother, whom she never knew,
That I must let her see his counterfeit.
Go, fetch him. How a single noble deed,
Though but the offspring of the merest whim,
Gives birth to other blessings! Bring him to me.
NATHAN (_loosing_ Saladin's _hand_).
I'll go--the other matter then is settled. (_Exit_.)
SALADIN.
I wish I had but let my sister listen.
I'll go at once to her and tell it all.
(_Exit on the opposite side_.)
Scene VIII.
_The Place of Palms in the neighbourhood of the Convent, where the_
Templar _awaits_ Nathan.
TEMPLAR (_walking to and fro, in conflict with himself_.)
The panting victim here may rest awhile.
So far 'tis well. I dare not ask myself
What change has sprung within me, nor inquire
What yet may happen. Flight has proved in vain,
And, come what may, I could no more than flee,
The stroke was far too sudden to escape.
Long--much--I strove to keep aloof, in vain.
But once to see her, e'en against my will,
To see her, and to frame a firm resolve
Never to lose her. What, then, is resolve?
Resolve is purpose--action, while--in truth--
I was but passive. But to see her once,
And feel that I was woven into her being,
Was then and still remains the self-same thing.
To live apart from her--oh, bitter thought!--
Were death; and after death--where'er we were--
'Twould there be death too. Say, then, is this love?
And doth the Templar love? A Christian loves
A Jewish maiden! Well, and what of that?
This is the holy land; holy to me,
And dear, because I have of late renounced
Full many a prejudice. What says my vow?
In the same hour that made me prisoner
To Saladin. The head he gave me back,
Was it the old one? No. I'm newly framed,
I know no fragment of the ancient forms
That bound me once. My brain is clearer now,
More fit for my paternal home above.
Now I can think as once my father thought,
If tales of him are not untruly told--
Tales that were ne'er so credible as now,
When I am stumbling where my father fell.
Fell! yet 'twere better far to fall with men
Than stand with boys. His conduct guarantees
His approbation. And what need I more
Than Nathan's approbation? Of his praise
I cannot doubt. Oh, what a Jew is he!
And yet he would appear the simple Jew.
But, see, he comes--he comes in haste--delight
Beams from his eye. But who leaves Saladin
With other looks? Ho! Nathan!
Scene IX.
Nathan, _the_ Templar.
NATHAN.
Are you there?
TEMPLAR.
Your visit to the Sultan has been long.
NATHAN.
Not over long. My audience was delayed.
But, Conrad, this man well supports his fame--
His fame is but his shadow. But I must
Without delay inform you that he would----
TEMPLAR.
Say on.
NATHAN.
Would speak with you. So, come with me at once.
I have some brief commands to give at home,
Then to the Sultan.
TEMPLAR.
Nathan, I will ne'er
Enter your door again----
NATHAN.
Then you've been there
Already--spoken with her. Tell me all.
How do you like my Recha?
TEMPLAR.
Words would fail
To tell how much. I dare not trust myself
Alone with her again, unless you say
That I may gaze upon her form for ever.
NATHAN.
What can this mean?
TEMPLAR (_after a short pause, embracing him suddenly_).
My father!
NATHAN.
How, young man?
TEMPLAR (_withdrawing himself as suddenly_).
Call me your son! I do implore you, Nathan.
NATHAN.
Dear youth!
TEMPLAR.
And not your son! I pray you, Nathan,
Conjure you, by the strongest ties of Nature,
Let it content you now to be a man:
Repel me not.
NATHAN.
My dearest friend!
TEMPLAR.
Say son!
Why not your son? What, if in Recha's heart
Mere gratitude had paved the way for love,
And if we both but waited your assent
To crown our union! You are silent, sir!
NATHAN.
I am astonished at your words, young Knight.
TEMPLAR.
Astonished! Do I then astonish you
With your own thoughts, although you know them not
When uttered by my lips. Astonished, Nathan?
NATHAN.
Would that I knew what Stauffen was your father!
TEMPLAR.
What say you, Nathan? At a time like this,
Can you indulge such empty, curious thoughts?
NATHAN.
I knew a Stauffen once whose name was Conrad.
TEMPLAR.
What, if my father bore that very name?
NATHAN.
And did he so?
TEMPLAR.
I bear my father's name,
I am called Conrad.
NATHAN.
So! And yet the man
I knew was not your father, for, like you,
He was a Templar, and was never married.
TEMPLAR.
And what of that?
NATHAN.
How?
TEMPLAR.
He might still have been
My father.
NATHAN.
Nay, you jest.
TEMPLAR.
You're far too good.
What matters it? Does bastard wound your ear?
The race, good sir, is not to be despised.
But spare my pedigree, and I'll spare yours.
Great God! forbid my words should ever cast
The smallest doubt on your ancestral tree.
You can attest it backwards, leaf by leaf,
To Abraham. And from that point--I know it well,
Myself--can even swear to it.
NATHAN.
Your words are bitter. Do I merit this?
What have I e'er refused you? I have but
Forborn assent at the first word you spoke.
No more!
TEMPLAR.
Oh! true, no more. Forgive me, Nathan.
NATHAN.
Well, come with me, come.
TEMPLAR.
Whither? to your house?
That will I not--it burns. I'll wait you here.
Farewell. If I'm to see her once again,
I then shall see her often; and if not,
I have already seen her too--too much.
Scene X.
_The_ Templar, Daja.
TEMPLAR.
Too much, indeed! Strange that the human brain
So infinite of comprehension, should
At times with a mere trifle be engrossed,
Suddenly filled, and all at once quite full,
No matter what it teems with. But the soul
Soon calms again, and the fermenting stuff
Makes itself room, restoring life and order.
And is this, then, the first time that I love?
And was the glow to which I gave that name
Not love at all? And is this love alone
Which now with burning flame consumes my heart?
DAJA (_who has crept up to his side_).
Sir Knight! Sir Knight!
TEMPLAR.
Who calls? What, Daja, you!
DAJA.
Yes, I am here; I managed to slip by him.
But he can see us where we stand. Come nearer,
And place yourself with me behind this tree.
TEMPLAR.
Why so mysterious? What's the secret, Daja?
DAJA.
Yes, 'tis a secret which has brought me hither--
A twofold secret. Part is known to me,
The other part to you. Come, let us change:
First tell me yours, and then I'll tell you mine.
TEMPLAR.
Yes, willingly, when I have ascertained
What you call mine. But yours will throw a light
Upon the whole. Begin, then.
DAJA.
That's not fair;
You must begin, Sir Knight, and I will follow.
For be assured my secret's nothing worth,
Unless I hear yours first. Then lose no time,
For if I guess it, you've not trusted me;
My secret, then, will be my own, and yours
Worth nothing. But do you suppose, Sir Knight,
That you can hide such secrets from a woman?
TEMPLAR.
Secrets we often are unconscious of.
DAJA.
Perhaps. But I must prove myself your friend
And tell you all. Confess how happened it
That you so suddenly took leave of us,
And that with Nathan you will not return?
Has Recha, then, made no impression on you,
Or made too deep a one, perchance? Oh yes!
Too deep--too deep! You are a hapless bird
Whose fluttering wing the fatal twig has limed,
Confess it, plainly, with a word, you love--
Love her to madness, and I'll tell you then----
TEMPLAR.
To madness? Ah! you understand it well.
DAJA.
Well, grant the love, the madness I'll resign.
TEMPLAR.
Because, of course, there is no doubt of it.
A Templar love a Jewess!----
DAJA.
Why, it seems
Absurd. But often there's more fitness in
Some things than we can readily discern;
And 'twould not be the first time that our Lord
Had drawn us to Him by a secret path
Which we had ne'er discovered of ourselves.
TEMPLAR.
Solemnly spoken I (and if for our Lord
I substituted Providence, 'twere true).
You make me curious, far beyond my wont.
DAJA.
This is the land of miracles!
TEMPLAR.
Ay, true,
Of miracles! Can it be otherwise,
When all the world flocks hither? Dearest Daja,
You have your wish; so take it as confessed
That I do love her, nor can comprehend
How I can live without her.
DAJA.
Can this be?
Then swear, Sir Knight, to make her yours--to save
Her here on earth--to save her there for ever.
TEMPLAR.
How can I this? How can I swear to do
What stands not in my power.
DAJA.
'Tis in your power!
One single word brings it within your power.
TEMPLAR.
But will her father smile upon my suit?
DAJA.
Her father, truly! He shall be compelled.
TEMPLAR.
Compell'd! What, has he fallen among thieves?
Compell'd!
DAJA.
Then hear me. Nathan will consent:
He must consent.
TEMPLAR.
Consent! and must! Oh, Daja!
I have already tried to touch that chord;
It vibrates not responsive.
DAJA.
What! reject you?
TEMPLAR.
He answered me in such discordant tone
That I was hurt.
DAJA.
What say you? Did you breathe
The shadow of a wish to marry Recha.
And did not Nathan leap for joy? Did he
Draw coldly back--raise obstacles?
TEMPLAR.
He did.
DAJA.
Then I'll deliberate no moment more.
TEMPLAR (_after a pause_).
And yet you are deliberating still.
DAJA.
Nathan in all things has been ever good.
I owe him much. Did he refuse to listen?
God knows it grieves me to constrain him thus.
TEMPLAR.
I pray you, Daja, now to terminate
This dire uncertainty. But if you doubt
Whether the thing you would impart to me
Be right or wrong, worthy of shame or honour,
Then tell it not, and henceforth I'll forget
You have a secret it were well to hide.
DAJA.
Your words but spur me on to tell you all.
Then learn that Recha is no Jewess--that
She is a Christian maid.
TEMPLAR (_coldly_).
I wish you joy!
At last the tedious labour's at an end.
The birth-pangs have not hurt you. Still go on
With undiminished zeal, and people heaven
When you are fit no more to people earth.
DAJA.
How, Knight! and does the news I bring deserve
Such bitter taunts? Does it confer no joy
On you to hear that Recha is a Christian,
On you, her lover, and a Christian knight?
TEMPLAR.
And more especially since Recha is
A Christian of your making?
DAJA.
Think you so?
Then I would fain see him that may convert her.
It is her fate long since to have been that
Which she can now no more become.
TEMPLAR.
Explain,
Or leave me.
DAJA.
Well! she is a Christian maid,
Of Christian parents born--and is baptised.
TEMPLAR (_hastily_).
And Nathan!
DAJA.
Not her father.
TEMPLAR.
Nathan not
Her father? Are you sure of that?
DAJA.
I am;
The truth has cost me tears of blood. He's not.
TEMPLAR.
But as his daughter he has brought her up,
Brought up the Christian maiden as a Jewess?
DAJA.
Just so.
TEMPLAR.
And knows she aught about her birth?
Has she not learnt from him that she was born
A Christian and no Jewess?
DAJA.
Never yet.
TEMPLAR.
And he not only let the child grow up
In this mistaken notion, but he leaves
The woman in it.
DAJA.
Ay, alas!
TEMPLAR.
Oh, Nathan!
How can the wise, good Nathan lend himself
To stifle Nature's voice--to misdirect
The yearnings of a heart in such a way
Which, to itself abandoned, would have formed
Another bias, Daja? Ay, in truth,
The secret is of moment, and may have
Important issues. But I feel perplexed:
I know not how I ought to act. But go,
Let me have breathing time. He may approach,
He may surprise us suddenly. Farewell!
DAJA.
I tremble with affright.
TEMPLAR.
And I can scarce
Express my thoughts. But go; and should you chance
To meet him, say he'll find me at the Sultan's.
DAJA.
Let him not see that you have any thing
Against him. That 'twere well to keep reserved,
To give the proper turn to things at last.
It may remove your scruples, touching Recha.
But if you take her back to Europe, Knight,
You will not leave me here?
TEMPLAR.
We'll see, now go!
ACT IV.
Scene I.--_The Cloisters of the Convent_.
_The_ Friar, _and presently afterwards the_ Templar.
FRIAR.
Ay, ay! he must be right, the Patriarch!
And yet, of all his business, no great part
Has prospered in my hands. But why should he
Entrust such tasks to me? I have no wish
To play the knave, to wheedle and persuade,
To worm out secrets, and to thrust my hand
Into my neighbour's business. Not for this
Did I renounce the world, that I might be
Entangled with its cares for other men.
TEMPLAR (_entering abruptly_).
Good brother, are you here? I've sought you long.
FRIAR.
Me, sir?
TEMPLAR.
What, don't you recollect me, then?
FRIAR.
Ay! but, Sir Knight, I never thought to see
Your face again--and so I hoped in God.
God knows how much I hated the proposal
Which I was bound to make you, and He knows
How little I desired you should assent,
How in my inmost soul I was rejoiced
When you refused, without a moment's thought,
To do what had been shameful in a Knight.
But have you thought the matter o'er again?
TEMPLAR.
You seem to know what object brings me here.
FRIAR.
Have you, Sir Knight, reflected by this time,
That our good Patriarch is not much deceived
In thinking gold and glory may be won
By his commission? that a foe's a foe,
Were he our guardian angel seven times o'er?
Have you 'gainst flesh and blood weighed all these things,
And are you come to strike a bargain now?
TEMPLAR.
My dear good man, be patient; not for this
Am I come hither; not for aught like this
Do I desire to see the Patriarch.
On every point my thoughts remain unchanged;
Nor would I for the wealth of all this world
Forfeit that good opinion, which I won
From such an upright, honest man as you.
I merely come to ask the Patriarch
For counsel.
FRIAR (_looking round timidly_).
Counsel from the Patriarch!
What, you! a knight to ask a priest's advice!
TEMPLAR.
Mine is a priestly business.
FRIAR.
Yet the priests
Would scorn a knight's advice, were their affairs
Ever so knightly.
TEMPLAR.
Therefore they're allowed
To err sometimes, a privilege which I,
For one, don't greatly envy them; and yet,
If I were acting only for myself,
And were not bound to others, I should care
But little for advice. But in some things
'Twere better to go wrong by others' guidance
Than, by our own, go right. And I observe,
By this time, that religion's naught but party,
And he who in his own belief is most
Impartial, does but hold the standard up
Of his own creed, howe'er unconsciously.
Yet since 'tis so, it must be right.
FRIAR.
I'm silent.
In truth, I don't quite comprehend.
TEMPLAR.
And yet--
(Let me consider first what 'tis I want--
Decision or advice from sage or simple?)
Thanks, brother; yes, I thank you for your hint.
What is a patriarch? Be thou for once
My patriarch; for 'tis the Christian rather
Whom in the patriarch I would consult,
Than in the Christian the mere patriarch.
FRIAR.
Hold, hold, Sir Knight! no more of this, I find
That you mistake me. He who hath learnt much
Must needs have many cares. I know but one----
But hark, behold! here comes the very man!
'Tis he, so stay; he has perceived us both.
Scene II.
_The_ Patriarch, _after marching up one of the aisles with great pomp,
approaches_.
TEMPLAR.
I'd rather shun him--he is not my man--
A round, red smiling prelate! And what state!
FRIAR.
But you should see him at a festival,
Now he but comes from visiting the sick.
TEMPLAR.
Great Saladin will then have cause to blush.
PATRIARCH (_coming forward, makes signs to the_ Friar).
Was that the Templar? What's his business here?
FRIAR.
I know not.
PATRIARCH (_advancing, whilst the_ Friar _and his train retire_.)
Well, Sir Knight, I'm truly glad
To meet so brave a youth. So very young,
Something may come of him, if Heaven assist.
TEMPLAR.
Not more than has already come of him,
But rather less, my reverend father.
PATRIARCH.
Well,
It is my prayer that so devout a Knight
May for the cause of Christendom and God
Be long preserved; nor can it fail to be,
If valour will give ear to aged words.
Then say, how can I serve you, Sir?
TEMPLAR.
With that
In which my youth's deficient--sound advice.
PATRIARCH.
Most gladly, if you'll follow my advice.
TEMPLAR.
Not blindly, though.
PATRIARCH.
Whose words are those? Indeed,
None should neglect to use the intellect
Bestowed by God, when it is suitable.
But is it always suitable? O no!
If God, through one of the celestial choir--
That is, through one of the blest ministers
Of His most sacred word--should condescend
To show some way by which the Church's weal,
Or else the general good of Christendom,
Might be secured, what man would venture then
To weigh the laws of intellect against
His will, who fashioned intellect itself?
Or measure the unchanged decrees of Heaven
By empty rules that suit this petty world?
But of all this enough. Now tell me, Knight,
Wherefore you seek our counsel?
TEMPLAR.
Reverend father!
Suppose a Jew possessed an only child--
A girl--whom he with fond parental care
Trained to each virtue, treasured as his soul,
Whilst she, with love as ardent as his own,
Repaid his love,--suppose it rumoured then
That she was not the daughter of this Jew,
But a poor orphan, purchased in her youth,
Or stolen, or found--or anything, but still
Of Christian birth, and in her youth baptised,
And that the Jew had reared her in his faith,
Allowed her to be thought a Jewish maid,
And firmly to believe herself his child,--
Say, reverend father, what should then be done?
PATRIARCH.
I shudder at the thought! But, worthy Sir,
Say, is this fact, or mere hypothesis?
That is, if your own head has framed the case,
Or has it happened--does it still exist?
TEMPLAR.
That's unimportant, and could not assist
Your reverence to pronounce upon the point.
PATRIARCH.
What! unimportant! See, Sir Knight, how apt
Proud reason is to err in sacred things.
'Tis of deep import; though, 'tis true, the case
May be the offspring of your sportive wit,
When we should straight dismiss it from our thoughts,
And I should then refer you to the stage
Where _pros_ and _cons_ like these are oft discussed
With loud applause. But if the object be,
By something better than a sleight of hand,
To sound my judgment, if the thing be fact,
And may have happened in our diocese,
Here in our dear Jerusalem itself,
Why then----
TEMPLAR.
What then?
PATRIARCH.
Then were it well, Sir Knight,
To execute at once upon the Jew
The penalty provided for the case,
By Papal and Imperial laws, against
So foul a crime, such dire iniquity.
TEMPLAR.
Indeed!
PATRIARCH.
The laws I mention have decreed
That if a Jew shall to apostasy
Seduce a Christian, he shall die by fire.
TEMPLAR.
Indeed!
PATRIARCH.
How much more when a Jew by force
Tears from baptismal bonds a Christian child?
For all that's done to children is by force,
Save what the Church shall order and perform.
TEMPLAR.
What if the child were steeped in misery,
And must have died, but for this bounteous Jew?
PATRIARCH.
It matters not: the Jew should still be burnt.
'Twere better to expire in misery,
Than live to suffer never-ending pains.
The Jew moreover should not have forestalled
The hand of God, whom had He willed to save,
Could save without him.
TEMPLAR.
Make him happy too,
In spite of him.
PATRIARCH.
It matters not, the Jew
Must still be burnt.
TEMPLAR.
That grieves me very much,
And all the more, as people say that he
Has reared the child not in his own belief,
So much as in no faith at all, and taught
Her neither more nor less of God than is
By reason asked.
PATRIARCH.
It matters not, the Jew
Must still be burnt--and for this very cause
Would merit threefold death. To rear a child
Without a faith! Not even teach a child
The greatest of all duties--to believe!
'Tis heinous, and I'm rapt in wonder, Knight,
That you yourself----
TEMPLAR.
Oh, reverend Sir, the rest
In the confessional, if God allow. (_Is going_.)
PATRIARCH.
What, going! and not await my questioning!
Not name to me this infidel, this Jew!
Not find him out for me at once! But, hold!
A thought occurs. I'll to the Sultan straight.
According to the treaty we have sworn
With Saladin, he must protect our creed
With all the privileges, all the rights
That appertain to our most holy faith.
Thank God! we have retained the deed itself,
With seal and signature affixed, and we
Can readily convince him, make him feel
How full of peril for the state it is
Not to believe. All civil bonds are rent
Asunder, torn to pieces, Knight, when men
Have no belief. Away, away for ever
With such impiety!
TEMPLAR.
I much deplore
That I want time to relish this discourse,
This holy sermon. Saladin awaits
My coming.
PATRIARCH.
Ah, indeed!
TEMPLAR.
And I'll prepare
The Sultan for your presence, reverend Sir,
If you desire.
PATRIARCH.
Why, yes! for I have heard
You have found favour in the Sultan's sight.
I beg to be remembered with respect.
Zeal in the cause of God impels me on,
And all excesses are performed for Him.
Weigh that in kindness, then, most noble Sir!
But, tell me, was your case about the Jew
A problem merely?
TEMPLAR.
Problem! (_He retires_.)
PATRIARCH.
(Of the facts,
I must have fuller knowledge. I must be
Better informed; 'twill be another job
For brother Bonafides.) Son, come hither!
(_Speaks with the_ Friar _as he retires_.)
Scene III.
Saladin's _Palace_.
(_Slaves are employed in bringing bags of gold, and piling them on the
floor_.)
Saladin, Sittah.
SALADIN.
In truth, this weary business ne'er will end;
Say, is it nearly done?
A SLAVE.
One half is done.
SALADIN.