SCENE.—The Cloister of a Convent.
_The_ FRIAR _alone_.
FRIAR.
Aye—aye—he’s very right—the patriarch is—
In fact of all that he has sent me after
Not much turns out his way—Why put on me
Such business and no other? I don’t care
To coax and wheedle, and to run my nose
Into all sorts of things, and have a hand
In all that’s going forward. I did not
Renounce the world, for my own part, in order
To be entangled with ’t for other people.
FRIAR _and_ TEMPLAR.
TEMPLAR (_abruptly entering_).
Good brother, are you there? I’ve sought you long.
FRIAR.
Me, sir?
TEMPLAR.
What, don’t you recollect me?
FRIAR.
Oh,
I thought I never in my life was likely
To see you any more. For so I hoped
In God. I did not vastly relish the proposal
That I was bound to make you. Yes, God knows,
How little I desired to find a hearing,
Knows I was inly glad when you refused
Without a moment’s thought, what of a knight
Would be unworthy. Are your second thoughts—
TEMPLAR.
So, you already know my purpose, I
Scarce know myself.
FRIAR.
Have you by this reflected
That our good patriarch is not so much out,
That gold and fame in plenty may be got
By his commission, that a foe’s a foe
Were he our guardian angel seven times over.
Have you weighed this ’gainst flesh and blood, and come
To strike the bargain he proposed. Ah, God.
TEMPLAR.
My dear good man, set your poor heart at ease.
Not therefore am I come, not therefore wish
To see the patriarch in person. Still
On the first point I think as I then thought,
Nor would I for aught in the world exchange
That good opinion, which I once obtained
From such a worthy upright man as thou art,
I come to ask your patriarch’s advice—
FRIAR (_looking round with timidity_).
Our patriarch’s—you? a knight ask priest’s advice?
TEMPLAR.
Mine is a priestly business.
FRIAR.
Yet the priests
Ask not the knights’ advice, be their affair
Ever so knightly.
TEMPLAR.
Therefore one allows them
To overshoot themselves, a privilege
Which such as I don’t vastly envy them.
Indeed if I were acting for myself,
Had not t’ account with others, I should care
But little for his counsel. But some things
I’d rather do amiss by others’ guidance
Than by my own aright. And then by this time
I see religion too is party, and
He, who believes himself the most impartial,
Does but uphold the standard of his own,
Howe’er unconsciously. And since ’tis so,
So must be well.
FRIAR.
I rather shall not answer,
For I don’t understand exactly.
TEMPLAR.
Yet
Let me consider what it is precisely
That I have need of, counsel or decision,
Simple or learned counsel.—Thank you, brother,
I thank you for your hint—A patriarch—why?
Be thou my patriarch; for ’tis the plain Christian,
Whom in the patriarch I have to consult,
And not the patriarch in the Christian.
FRIAR.
Oh,
I beg no further—you must quite mistake me;
He that knows much hath learnt much care, and I
Devoted me to only one. ’Tis well,
Most luckily here comes the very man,
Wait here, stand still—he has perceived you, knight.
TEMPLAR.
I’d rather shun him, he is not my man.
A thick red smiling prelate—and as stately—
FRIAR.
But you should see him on a gala-day;
He only comes from visiting the sick.
TEMPLAR.
Great Saladin must then be put to shame.
[_The Patriarch_, _after marching up one of the aisles in great pomp_,
_draws near_, _and makes signs to the Friar_, _who approaches him_.
PATRIARCH, FRIAR, _and_ TEMPLAR.
PATRIARCH.
Hither—was that the templar? What wants he?
FRIAR.
I know not.
PATRIARCH (_approaches the templar_, _while the friar and the rest of his
train draw back_).
So, sir knight, I’m truly happy
To meet the brave young man—so very young too—
Something, God helping, may come of him.
TEMPLAR.
More
Than is already hardly will come of him,
But less, my reverend father, that may chance.
PATRIARCH.
It is my prayer at least a knight so pious
May for the cause of Christendom and God
Long be preserved; nor can that fail, so be
Young valour will lend ear to aged counsel.
With what can I be useful any way?
TEMPLAR.
With that which my youth is without, with counsel.
PATRIARCH.
Most willingly, but counsel should be followed.
TEMPLAR.
Surely not blindly?
PATRIARCH.
Who says that? Indeed
None should omit to make use of the reason
Given him by God, in things where it belongs,
But it belongs not everywhere; for instance,
If God, by some one of his blessed angels,
Or other holy minister of his word,
Deign’d to make known a mean, by which the welfare
Of Christendom, or of his holy church,
In some peculiar and especial manner
Might be promoted or secured, who then
Shall venture to rise up, and try by reason
The will of him who has created reason,
Measure th’ eternal laws of heaven by
The little rules of a vain human honour?—
But of all this enough. What is it then
On which our counsel is desired?
TEMPLAR.
Suppose,
My reverend father, that a Jew possessed
An only child, a girl we’ll say, whom he
With fond attention forms to every virtue,
And loves more than his very soul; a child
Who by her pious love requites his goodness.
And now suppose it whispered—say to me—
This girl is not the daughter of the Jew,
He picked up, purchased, stole her in her childhood—
That she was born of Christians and baptised,
But that the Jew hath reared her as a Jewess,
Allows her to remain a Jewess, and
To think herself his daughter. Reverend father
What then ought to be done?
PATRIARCH.
I shudder! But
First will you please explain if such a case
Be fact, or only an hypothesis?
That is to say, if you, of your own head,
Invent the case, or if indeed it happened,
And still continues happening?
TEMPLAR.
I had thought
That just to learn your reverence’s opinion
This were all one.
PATRIARCH.
All one—now see how apt
Proud human reason is in spiritual things
To err: ’tis not all one; for, if the point
In question be a mere sport of the wit,
’Twill not be worth our while to think it through
But I should recommend the curious person
To theatres, where oft, with loud applause,
Such pro and contras have been agitated.
But if the object should be something more
Than by a school-trick—by a sleight of logic
To get the better of me—if the case
Be really extant, if it should have happened
Within our diocese, or—or perhaps
Here in our dear Jerusalem itself,
Why then—
TEMPLAR.
What then?
PATRIARCH.
Then were it proper
To execute at once upon the Jew
The penal laws in such a case provided
By papal and imperial right, against
So foul a crime—such dire abomination.
TEMPLAR.
So.
PATRIARCH.
And the laws forementioned have decreed,
That if a Jew shall to apostacy
Seduce a Christian, he shall die by fire.
TEMPLAR.
So.
PATRIARCH.
How much more the Jew, who forcibly
Tears from the holy font a Christian child,
And breaks the sacramental bond of baptism;
For all what’s done to children is by force—
I mean except what the church does to children.
TEMPLAR.
What if the child, but for this fostering Jew,
Must have expired in misery?
PATRIARCH.
That’s nothing,
The Jew has still deserved the faggot—for
’Twere better it here died in misery
Than for eternal woe to live. Besides,
Why should the Jew forestall the hand of God?
God, if he wills to save, can save without him.
TEMPLAR.
And spite of him too save eternally.
PATRIARCH.
That’s nothing! Still the Jew is to be burnt.
TEMPLAR.
That hurts me—more particularly as
’Tis said he has not so much taught the maid
His faith, as brought her up with the mere knowledge
Of what our reason teaches about God.
PATRIARCH.
That’s nothing! Still the Jew is to be burnt—
And for this very reason would deserve
To be thrice burnt. How, let a child grow up
Without a faith? Not even teach a child
The greatest of its duties, to believe?
’Tis heinous! I am quite astonished, knight,
That you yourself—
TEMPLAR.
The rest, right reverend sir,
In the confessional, but not before.
[_Offers to go_.
PATRIARCH.
What off—not stay for my interrogation—
Not name to me this infidel, this Jew—
Not find him up for me at once? But hold,
A thought occurs, I’ll straightway to the sultan
Conformably to the capitulation,
Which Saladin has sworn, he must support us
In all the privileges, all the doctrines
Which appertain to our most holy faith,
Thank God, we’ve the original in keeping,
We have his hand and seal to it—we—
And I shall lead him easily to think
How very dangerous for the state it is
Not to believe. All civic bonds divide,
Like flax fire-touched, where subjects don’t believe.
Away with foul impiety!
TEMPLAR.
It happens
Somewhat unlucky that I want the leisure
To enjoy this holy sermon. I am sent for
To Saladin.
PATRIARCH.
Why then—indeed—if so—
TEMPLAR.
And will prepare the sultan, if agreeable.
For your right reverend visit.
PATRIARCH.
I have heard
That you found favour in the sultan’s sight,
I beg with all humility to be
Remembered to him. I am purely motived
By zeal in th’ cause of God. What of too much
I do, I do for him—weigh that in goodness.
’Twas then, most noble sir—what you were starting
About the Jew—a problem merely!
TEMPLAR.
Problem!
[_Goes_.
PATRIARCH.
Of whose foundation I’ll have nearer knowledge.
Another job for brother Bonafides.
Hither, my son!
[_Converses with the Friar as he walks off_.
SCENE.—A Room in the Palace.
SLAVES _bring in a number of purses and pile them on the floor_. SALADIN
_is present_.
SALADIN.
In troth this has no end. And is there much
Of this same thing behind?
SLAVE.
About one half.
SALADIN.
Then take the rest to Sittah. Where’s Al-Hafi?
What’s here Al-Hafi shall take charge of straight.
Or shan’t I rather send it to my father;
Here it slips through one’s fingers. Sure in time
One may grow callous; it shall now cost labour
To come at much from me—at least until
The treasures come from Ægypt, poverty
Must shift as ’t can—yet at the sepulchre
The charges must go on—the Christian pilgrims
Shall not go back without an alms.
SALADIN _and_ SITTAH.
SITTAH (_entering_).
Why this?
Wherefore the gold to me?
SALADIN.
Pay thyself with it,
And if there’s something left ’twill be in store.
Are Nathan and the templar not yet come?
SITTAH.
He has been seeking for him everywhere—
Look what I met with when the plate and jewels
Were passing through my hands—
[_Showing a small portrait_.
SALADIN.
Ha! What, my brother?
’Tis he, ’tis he, _was_ he, _was_ he alas!
Thou dear brave youth, and lost to me so early;
What would I not with thee and at thy side
Have undertaken? Let me have the portrait,
I recollect it now again; he gave it
Unto thy elder sister, to his Lilah,
That morning that she would not part with him,
But clasped him so in tears. It was the last
Morning that he rode out; and I—I let him
Ride unattended. Lilah died for grief,
And never could forgive me that I let him
Then ride alone. He came not back.
SITTAH.
Poor brother—
SALADIN.
Time shall be when none of us will come back,
And then who knows? It is not death alone
That balks the hopes of young men of his cast,
Such have far other foes, and oftentimes
The strongest like the weakest is o’ercome.
Be as it may—I must compare this picture
With our young templar, to observe how much
My fancy cheated me.
SITTAH.
I therefore brought it;
But give it me, I’ll tell thee if ’tis like.
We women see that best.
SALADIN (_to a slave at the door_).
Ah, who is there?
The templar? let him come.
SITTAH (_throws herself on a sofa apart and drops her veil_).
Not to interfere,
Or with my curiosity disturb you.
SALADIN.
That’s right. And then his voice, will that be like?
The tone of Assad’s voice, sleeps somewhere yet—
So—
TEMPLAR _and_ SALADIN.
TEMPLAR.
I thy prisoner, sultan,
SALADIN.
Thou my prisoner—
And shall I not to him whose life I gave
Also give freedom?
TEMPLAR.
What ’twere worthy thine
To do, it is my part to hear of thee,
And not to take for granted. But, O Sultan,
To lay loud protestations at thy feet
Of gratitude for a life spared, agrees
Not with my station or my character.
At all times, ’tis once more, prince, at thy service.
SALADIN.
Only forbear to use it against me.
Not that I grudge my enemy one pair more
Of hands—but such a heart, it goes against me
To yield him. I have been deceived with thee,
Thou brave young man, in nothing. Yes, thou art
In soul and body Assad. I could ask thee,
Where then hast thou been lurking all this time?
Or in what cavern slept? What Ginnistan
Chose some kind Perie for thy hiding-place,
That she might ever keep the flower thus fresh?
Methinks I could remind thee here and yonder
Of what we did together—could abuse thee
For having had one secret, e’en to me—
Cheat me of one adventure—yes, I could,
If I saw thee alone, and not myself.
Thanks that so much of this fond sweet illusion
At least is true, that in my sear of life
An Assad blossoms for me. Thou art willing?
TEMPLAR.
All that from thee comes to me, whatsoever
It chance to prove, lies as a wish already
Within my soul.
SALADIN.
We’ll try the experiment.
Wilt thou stay with me? dwell about me? boots not
As Mussulman or Christian, in a turban
Or a white mantle—I have never wished
To see the same bark grow about all trees.
TEMPLAR.
Else, Saladin, thou hardly hadst become
The hero that thou art, alike to all
The gardener of the Lord.
SALADIN.
If thou think not
The worse of me for this, we’re half right.
TEMPLAR.
Quite so.
One word.
SALADIN (_holds out his hand_).
TEMPLAR (_takes it_).
One man—and with this receive more
Than thou canst take away again—thine wholly.
SALADIN.
’Tis for one day too great a gain—too great.
Came he not with thee?
TEMPLAR.
Who?
SALADIN.
Who? Nathan.
TEMPLAR (_coldly_).
No,
I came alone.
SALADIN.
O, what a deed of thine!
And what a happiness, a blessing to thee,
That such a deed was serving such a man.
TEMPLAR.
Yes, yes.
SALADIN.
So cold—no, my young friend—when God
Does through our means a service, we ought not
To be so cold, not out of modesty
Wish to appear so cold.
TEMPLAR.
In this same world
All things have many sides, and ’tis not easy
To comprehend how they can fit each other.
SALADIN.
Cling ever to the best—Give praise to God,
Who knows how they can fit. But, my young man,
If thou wilt be so difficult, I must
Be very cautious with thee, for I too
Have many sides, and some of them perhaps
Such as mayn’t always seem to fit.
TEMPLAR.
That wounds me;
Suspicion usually is not my failing.
SALADIN.
Say then of whom thou harbour’st it, of Nathan?
So should thy talk imply—canst thou suspect him?
Give me the first proof of thy confidence.
TEMPLAR.
I’ve nothing against Nathan, I am angry
With myself only.
SALADIN.
And for what?
TEMPLAR.
For dreaming
That any Jew could learn to be no Jew—
For dreaming it awake.
SALADIN.
Out with this dream.
TEMPLAR.
Thou know’st of Nathan’s daughter, sultan. What
I did for her I did—because I did it;
Too proud to reap thanks which I had not sown for,
I shunned from day to day her very sight.
The father was far off. He comes, he hears,
He seeks me, thanks me, wishes that his daughter
May please me; talks to me of dawning prospects—
I listen to his prate, go, see, and find
A girl indeed. O, sultan, I am ashamed—
SALADIN.
A shamed that a Jew girl knew how to make
Impression on thee, surely not.
TEMPLAR.
But that
To this impression my rash yielding heart,
Trusting the smoothness of the father’s prate,
Opposed no more resistance. Fool—I sprang
A second time into the flame, and then
I wooed, and was denied.
SALADIN.
Denied! Denied!
TEMPLAR.
The prudent father does not flatly say
No to my wishes, but the prudent father
Must first inquire, and look about, and think.
Oh, by all means. Did not I do the same?
Did not I look about and ask who ’twas
While she was shrieking in the flame? Indeed,
By God, ’tis something beautifully wise
To be so circumspect.
SALADIN.
Come, come, forgive
Something to age. His lingerings cannot last.
He is not going to require of thee
First to turn Jew.
TEMPLAR.
Who knows?
SALADIN.
Who? I, who know
This Nathan better.
TEMPLAR.
Yet the superstition
In which we have grown up, not therefore loses
When we detect it, all its influence on us.
Not all are free that can bemock their fetters.
SALADIN.
Maturely said—but Nathan, surely Nathan—
TEMPLAR.
The worst of superstitions is to think
One’s own most bearable.
SALADIN.
May be, but Nathan—
TEMPLAR.
Must Nathan be the mortal, who unshrinking
Can face the moon-tide ray of truth, nor there
Betray the twilight dungeon which he crawled from.
SALADIN.
Yes, Nathan is that man.
TEMPLAR.
I thought so too,
But what if this picked man, this chosen sage,
Were such a thorough Jew that he seeks out
For Christian children to bring up as Jews—
How then?
SALADIN.
Who says this of him?
TEMPLAR.
E’en the maid
With whom he frets me—with the hope of whom
He seemed to joy in paying me the service,
Which he would not allow me to do gratis—
This very maid is not his daughter—no,
She is a kidnapped Christian child.
SALADIN.
Whom he
Has, notwithstanding, to thy wish refused?
TEMPLAR (_with vehemence_).
Refused or not, I know him now. There lies
The prating tolerationist unmasked—
And I’ll halloo upon this Jewish wolf,
For all his philosophical sheep’s clothing,
Dogs that shall touze his hide.
SALADIN (_earnestly_).
Peace, Christian!
TEMPLAR.
What!
Peace, Christian—and may Jew and Mussulman
Stickle for being Jew and Mussulman,
And must the Christian only drop the Christian?
SALADIN (_more solemnly_).
Peace, Christian!
TEMPLAR (_calmly_.)
Yes, I feel what weight of blame
Lies in that word of thine pent up. O that
I knew how Assad in my place would act.
SALADIN.
He—not much better, probably as fiery.
Who has already taught thee thus at once
Like him to bribe me with a single word?
Indeed, if all has past as thou narratest,
I scarcely can discover Nathan in it.
But Nathan is my friend, and of my friends
One must not bicker with the other. Bend—
And be directed. Move with caution. Do not
Loose on him the fanatics of thy sect.
Conceal what all thy clergy would be claiming
My hand to avenge upon him, with more show
Of right than is my wish. Be not from spite
To any Jew or Mussulman a Christian.
TEMPLAR.
Thy counsel is but on the brink of coming
Somewhat too late, thanks to the patriarch’s
Bloodthirsty rage, whose instrument I shudder
To have almost become.
SALADIN.
How! how! thou wentest
Still earlier to the patriarch than to me?
TEMPLAR.
Yes, in the storm of passion, in the eddy
Of indecision—pardon—oh! thou wilt
No longer care, I fear, to find in me
One feature of thy Assad.
SALADIN.
Yes, that fear.
Methinks I know by this time from what failings
Our virtue springs—this do thou cultivate,
Those shall but little harm thee in my sight.
But go, seek Nathan, as he sought for thee,
And bring him hither: I must reconcile you.
If thou art serious about the maid—
Be calm, she shall be thine—Nathan shall feel
That without swine’s flesh one may educate
A Christian child, Go.
[_Templar withdraws_.
SITTAH (_rising from the sofa_).
Very strange indeed!
SALADIN.
Well, Sittah, must my Assad not have been
A gallant handsome youth?
SITTAH.
If he was thus,
And ’twasn’t the templar who sat to the painter.
But how couldst thou be so forgetful, brother,
As not to ask about his parents?
SALADIN.
And
Particularly too about his mother.
Whether his mother e’er was in this country,
That is your meaning, isn’t it?
SITTAH.
You run on—
SALADIN.
Oh, nothing is more possible, for Assad
’Mong handsome Christian ladies was so welcome,
To handsome Christian ladies so attached,
That once a report spread—but ’tis not pleasant
To bring that up. Let us be satisfied
That we have got him once again—have got him
With all the faults and freaks, the starts and wildness
Of his warm gentle heart—Oh, Nathan must
Give him the maid—Dost think so?
SITTAH.
Give—give up!
SALADIN.
Aye, for what right has Nathan with the girl
If he be not her father? He who saved
Her life so lately has a stronger claim
To heir their rights who gave it her at first.
SITTAH.
What therefore, Saladin, if you withdraw
The maid at once from the unrightful owner?
SALADIN.
There is no need of that.
SITTAH.
Need, not precisely;
But female curiosity inspires
Me with that counsel. There are certain men
Of whom one is irresistibly impatient
To know what women they can be in love with.
SALADIN.
Well then you may send for her.
SITTAH.
May I, brother?
SALADIN.
But hurt not Nathan, he must not imagine
That we propose by violence to part them.
SITTAH.
Be without apprehension.
SALADIN.
Fare you well,
I must make out where this Al-Hafi is.
SCENE.—The Hall in Nathan’s House, as in the first scene; the things
there mentioned unpacked and displayed.
DAYA _and_ NATHAN.
DAYA.
O how magnificent, how tasty, charming—
All such as only you could give—and where
Was this thin silver stuff with sprigs of gold
Woven? What might it cost? Yes, this is worthy
To be a wedding-garment. Not a queen
Could wish a handsomer.
NATHAN.
Why wedding-garment?
DAYA.
Perhaps of that you thought not when you bought it;
But Nathan, it must be so, must indeed.
It seems made for a bride—the pure white ground,
Emblem of innocence—the branching gold,
Emblem of wealth—Now is not it delightful?
NATHAN.
What’s all this ingenuity of speech for?
Over whose wedding-gown are you displaying
Your emblematic learning? Have you found
A bridegroom?
DAYA.
I—
NATHAN.
Who then?
DAYA.
I—Gracious God!
NATHAN.
Who then? Whose wedding-garment do you speak of?
For this is all your own and no one’s else.
DAYA.
Mine—is’t for me and not for Recha?
NATHAN.
What
I brought for Recha is in another bale.
Come, clear it off: away with all your rubbish.
DAYA.
You tempter—No—Were they the precious things
Of the whole universe, I will not touch them
Until you promise me to seize upon
Such an occasion as heaven gives not twice.
NATHAN.
Seize upon what occasion? For what end?
DAYA.
There, do not act so strange. You must perceive
The templar loves your Recha—Give her to him;
Then will your sin, which I can hide no longer,
Be at an end. The maid will come once more
Among the Christians, will be once again
What she was born to, will be what she was;
And you, by all the benefits, for which
We cannot thank you enough, will not have heaped
More coals of fire upon your head.
NATHAN.
Again
Harping on the old string, new tuned indeed,
But so as neither to accord nor hold.
DAYA.
How so?
NATHAN.
The templar pleases me indeed,
I’d rather he than any one had Recha;
But—do have patience.
DAYA.
Patience—and is that
Not the old string you harp on?
NATHAN.
Patience, patience,
For a few days—no more. Ha! who comes here?
A friar—ask what he wants.
DAYA (_going_).
What can he want?
NATHAN.
Give, give before he begs. O could I tell
How to come at the templar, not betraying
The motive of my curiosity—
For if I tell it, and if my suspicion
Be groundless, I have staked the father idly.
What is the matter?
DAYA (_returning_).
He must speak to you.
NATHAN.
Then let him come to me. Go you meanwhile.
[_Daya goes_.
How gladly would I still remain my Recha’s
Father. And can I not remain so, though
I cease to wear the name. To her, to her
I still shall wear it, when she once perceives
[_Friar enters_.
How willingly I were so. Pious brother,
What can be done to serve you?
NATHAN _and_ FRIAR.
FRIAR.
O not much;
And yet I do rejoice to see you yet
So well.
NATHAN.
You know me then—
FRIAR.
Who knows you not?
You have impressed your name in many a hand,
And it has been in mine these many years.
NATHAN (_feeling for his purse_).
Here, brother, I’ll refresh it.
FRIAR.
Thank you, thank you—
From poorer men I’d steal—but nothing now!
Only allow me to refresh my name
In your remembrance; for I too may boast
To have of old put something in your hand
Not to be scorned.
NATHAN.
Excuse me, I’m ashamed,
What was it? Claim it of me sevenfold,
I’m ready to atone for my forgetting.
FRIAR.
But before all, hear how this very day
I was reminded of the pledge I brought you.
NATHAN.
A pledge to me intrusted?
FRIAR.
Some time since,
I dwelt as hermit on the Quarantana,
Not far from Jericho, but Arab robbers
Came and broke up my cell and oratory,
And dragged me with them. Fortunately I
Escaped, and with the patriarch sought a refuge,
To beg of him some other still retreat,
Where I may serve my God in solitude
Until my latter end.
NATHAN.
I stand on coals—
Quick, my good brother, let me know what pledge
You once intrusted to me.
FRIAR.
Presently,
Good Nathan, presently. The patriarch
Has promised me a hermitage on Thabor,
As soon as one is vacant, and meanwhile
Employs me as lay-brother in the convent,
And there I am at present: and I pine
A hundred times a day for Thabor; for
The patriarch will set me about all work,
And some that I can’t brook—as for example—
NATHAN.
Be speedy, I beseech you.
FRIAR.
Now it happens
That some one whispered in his ear to-day,
There lives hard by a Jew, who educates
A Christian child as his own daughter.
NATHAN (_startled_).
How
FRIAR.
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.