TEMPLAR.
With pleasure when I’m able to discoverWhat you call me. But that yours will explain.Begin—
DAYA.
That is not fair, yours first, sir knight;For be assured my secret serves you notUnless I have yours first. If I sift it outYou’ll not have trusted me, and then my secretIs still my own, and yours lost all for nothing.But, knight, how can you men so fondly fancyYou ever hide such secrets from us women.
TEMPLAR.
Secrets we often are unconscious of.
DAYA.
May be—So then I must at last be friendly,And break it to you. Tell me now, whence came itThat all at once you started up abruptlyAnd in the twinkling of an eye were fled?That you left us without one civil speech!That you return no more with Nathan to us—Has Recha then made such a slight impression,Or made so deep a one? I penetrate you.Think you that on a limed twig the poor birdCan flutter cheerfully, or hop at easeWith its wing pinioned? Come, come, in one wordAcknowledge to me plainly that you love her,Love her to madness, and I’ll tell you what.
TEMPLAR.
To madness, oh, you’re very penetrating.
DAYA.
Grant me the love, and I’ll give up the madness.
TEMPLAR.
Because that must be understood of course—A templar love a Jewess—
DAYA.
Seems absurd,But often there’s more fitness in a thingThan we at once discern; nor were this timeThe first, when through an unexpected pathThe Saviour drew his children on to himAcross the tangled maze of human life.
TEMPLAR.
So solemn that—(and yet if in the steadOf Saviour, I were to say Providence,It would sound true) you make me curious, Daya,Which I’m unwont to be.
DAYA.
This is the placeFor miracles
TEMPLAR.
For wonders—well and good—Can it be otherwise, where the whole worldPresses as toward a centre. My dear Daya,Consider what you asked of me as owned;That I do love her—that I can’t imagineHow I should live without her—that
DAYA.
Indeed!Then, knight, swear to me you will call her yours,Make both her present and eternal welfare.
TEMPLAR.
And how, how can I, can I swear to doWhat is not in my power?
DAYA.
’Tis in your power,A single word will put it in your power.
TEMPLAR.
So that her father shall not be against it.
DAYA.
Her father—father? he shall be compelled.
TEMPLAR.
As yet he is not fallen among thieves—Compelled?
DAYA.
Aye to be willing that you should.
TEMPLAR.
Compelled and willing—what if I inform theeThat I have tried to touch this string already,It vibrates not responsive.
DAYA.
He refused thee?
TEMPLAR.
He answered in a tone of such discordanceThat I was hurt.
DAYA.
What do you say? How, youBetrayed the shadow of a wish for Recha,And he did not spring up for joy, drew back,Drew coldly back, made difficulties?
TEMPLAR.
Almost.
DAYA.
Well then I’ll not deliberate a moment.
TEMPLAR.
And yet you are deliberating still.
DAYA.
That man was always else so good, so kind,I am so deeply in his debt. Why, whyWould he not listen to you? God’s my witnessThat my heart bleeds to come about him thus.
TEMPLAR.
I pray you, Daya, once for all, to endThis dire uncertainty. But if you doubtWhether what ’tis your purpose to revealBe right or wrong, be praiseworthy or shameful,Speak not—I will forget that you have hadSomething to hide.
DAYA.
That spurs me on still more.Then learn that Recha is no Jewess, thatShe is a Christian.
TEMPLAR.
I congratulate you,’Twas a hard labour, but ’tis out at last;The pangs of the delivery won’t hurt you.Go on with undiminished zeal, and peopleHeaven, when no longer fit to people earth.
DAYA.
How, knight, does my intelligence deserveSuch bitter scorn? That Recha is a ChristianOn you a Christian templar, and her lover,Confers no joy.
TEMPLAR.
Particularly asShe is a Christian of your making, Daya.
DAYA.
O, so you understand it—well and good—I wish to find out him that might convert her.It is her fate long since to have been thatWhich she is spoiled for being.
TEMPLAR.
Do explain—Or go.
DAYA.
She is a Christian child—of ChristianParents was born and is baptised.
TEMPLAR(hastily).
And Nathan—
DAYA.
Is not her father.
TEMPLAR.
Nathan not her father—And are you sure of what you say?
DAYA.
I am,It is a truth has cost me tears of blood.No, he is not her father.
TEMPLAR.
And has onlyBrought her up as his daughter, educatedThe Christian child a Jewess.
DAYA.
Certainly.
TEMPLAR.
And she is unacquainted with her birth?Has never learnt from him that she was bornA Christian, and no Jewess?
DAYA.
Never yet.
TEMPLAR.
And he not only let the child grow upIn this mistaken notion, but still leavesThe woman in it.
DAYA.
Aye, alas!
TEMPLAR.
How, Nathan,The wise good Nathan thus allow himselfTo stifle nature’s voice? Thus to misguideUpon himself th’ effusions of a heartWhich to itself abandoned would have formedAnother bias, Daya—yes, indeedYou have intrusted an important secretThat may have consequences—it confounds me,I cannot tell what I’ve to do at present,Therefore go, give me time, he may come byAnd may surprise us.
DAYA.
I should drop for fright.
TEMPLAR.
I am not able now to talk, farewell;And if you chance to meet him, only sayThat we shall find each other at the sultan’s.
DAYA.
Let him not see you’ve any grudge against him.That should be kept to give the proper impulseTo things at last, and may remove your scruplesRespecting Recha. But then, if you take herBack with you into Europe, let not meBe left behind.
TEMPLAR.
That we’ll soon settle, go.
TheFriaralone.
FRIAR.
Aye—aye—he’s very right—the patriarch is—In fact of all that he has sent me afterNot much turns out his way—Why put on meSuch business and no other? I don’t careTo coax and wheedle, and to run my noseInto all sorts of things, and have a handIn all that’s going forward. I did notRenounce the world, for my own part, in orderTo be entangled with ’t for other people.
FRIARandTEMPLAR.
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 likelyTo see you any more. For so I hopedIn God. I did not vastly relish the proposalThat I was bound to make you. Yes, God knows,How little I desired to find a hearing,Knows I was inly glad when you refusedWithout a moment’s thought, what of a knightWould be unworthy. Are your second thoughts—
TEMPLAR.
So, you already know my purpose, IScarce know myself.
FRIAR.
Have you by this reflectedThat our good patriarch is not so much out,That gold and fame in plenty may be gotBy his commission, that a foe’s a foeWere he our guardian angel seven times over.Have you weighed this ’gainst flesh and blood, and comeTo 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 wishTo see the patriarch in person. StillOn the first point I think as I then thought,Nor would I for aught in the world exchangeThat good opinion, which I once obtainedFrom 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 priestsAsk not the knights’ advice, be their affairEver so knightly.
TEMPLAR.
Therefore one allows themTo overshoot themselves, a privilegeWhich such as I don’t vastly envy them.Indeed if I were acting for myself,Had not t’ account with others, I should careBut little for his counsel. But some thingsI’d rather do amiss by others’ guidanceThan by my own aright. And then by this timeI see religion too is party, andHe, 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.
YetLet me consider what it is preciselyThat 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 IDevoted 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,andTemplar.
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 happyTo meet the brave young man—so very young too—Something, God helping, may come of him.
TEMPLAR.
MoreThan 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 piousMay for the cause of Christendom and GodLong be preserved; nor can that fail, so beYoung 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? IndeedNone should omit to make use of the reasonGiven 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 welfareOf Christendom, or of his holy church,In some peculiar and especial mannerMight be promoted or secured, who thenShall venture to rise up, and try by reasonThe will of him who has created reason,Measure th’ eternal laws of heaven byThe little rules of a vain human honour?—But of all this enough. What is it thenOn which our counsel is desired?
TEMPLAR.
Suppose,My reverend father, that a Jew possessedAn only child, a girl we’ll say, whom heWith fond attention forms to every virtue,And loves more than his very soul; a childWho 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, andTo think herself his daughter. Reverend fatherWhat then ought to be done?
PATRIARCH.
I shudder! ButFirst will you please explain if such a caseBe 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 thoughtThat just to learn your reverence’s opinionThis were all one.
PATRIARCH.
All one—now see how aptProud human reason is in spiritual thingsTo err: ’tis not all one; for, if the pointIn question be a mere sport of the wit,’Twill not be worth our while to think it throughBut I should recommend the curious personTo theatres, where oft, with loud applause,Such pro and contras have been agitated.But if the object should be something moreThan by a school-trick—by a sleight of logicTo get the better of me—if the caseBe really extant, if it should have happenedWithin our diocese, or—or perhapsHere in our dear Jerusalem itself,Why then—
TEMPLAR.
What then?
PATRIARCH.
Then were it properTo execute at once upon the JewThe penal laws in such a case providedBy papal and imperial right, againstSo foul a crime—such dire abomination.
TEMPLAR.
So.
PATRIARCH.
And the laws forementioned have decreed,That if a Jew shall to apostacySeduce a Christian, he shall die by fire.
TEMPLAR.
So.
PATRIARCH.
How much more the Jew, who forciblyTears 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 miseryThan 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 maidHis faith, as brought her up with the mere knowledgeOf what our reason teaches about God.
PATRIARCH.
That’s nothing! Still the Jew is to be burnt—And for this very reason would deserveTo be thrice burnt. How, let a child grow upWithout a faith? Not even teach a childThe 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 sultanConformably to the capitulation,Which Saladin has sworn, he must support usIn all the privileges, all the doctrinesWhich 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 thinkHow very dangerous for the state it isNot to believe. All civic bonds divide,Like flax fire-touched, where subjects don’t believe.Away with foul impiety!
TEMPLAR.
It happensSomewhat unlucky that I want the leisureTo enjoy this holy sermon. I am sent forTo Saladin.
PATRIARCH.
Why then—indeed—if so—
TEMPLAR.
And will prepare the sultan, if agreeable.For your right reverend visit.
PATRIARCH.
I have heardThat you found favour in the sultan’s sight,I beg with all humility to beRemembered to him. I am purely motivedBy zeal in th’ cause of God. What of too muchI do, I do for him—weigh that in goodness.’Twas then, most noble sir—what you were startingAbout 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.
Slavesbring in a number of purses and pile them on the floor.Saladinis present.
SALADIN.
In troth this has no end. And is there muchOf 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 timeOne may grow callous; it shall now cost labourTo come at much from me—at least untilThe treasures come from Ægypt, povertyMust shift as ’t can—yet at the sepulchreThe charges must go on—the Christian pilgrimsShall not go back without an alms.
SaladinandSittah.
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 jewelsWere passing through my hands—
[Showing a small portrait.
SALADIN.
Ha! What, my brother?’Tis he, ’tis he,washe,washe alas!Thou dear brave youth, and lost to me so early;What would I not with thee and at thy sideHave undertaken? Let me have the portrait,I recollect it now again; he gave itUnto thy elder sister, to his Lilah,That morning that she would not part with him,But clasped him so in tears. It was the lastMorning that he rode out; and I—I let himRide unattended. Lilah died for grief,And never could forgive me that I let himThen 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 aloneThat balks the hopes of young men of his cast,Such have far other foes, and oftentimesThe strongest like the weakest is o’ercome.Be as it may—I must compare this pictureWith our young templar, to observe how muchMy 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—
TemplarandSaladin.
TEMPLAR.
I thy prisoner, sultan,
SALADIN.
Thou my prisoner—And shall I not to him whose life I gaveAlso give freedom?
TEMPLAR.
What ’twere worthy thineTo do, it is my part to hear of thee,And not to take for granted. But, O Sultan,To lay loud protestations at thy feetOf gratitude for a life spared, agreesNot 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 moreOf hands—but such a heart, it goes against meTo yield him. I have been deceived with thee,Thou brave young man, in nothing. Yes, thou artIn soul and body Assad. I could ask thee,Where then hast thou been lurking all this time?Or in what cavern slept? What GinnistanChose some kind Perie for thy hiding-place,That she might ever keep the flower thus fresh?Methinks I could remind thee here and yonderOf what we did together—could abuse theeFor 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 illusionAt least is true, that in my sear of lifeAn Assad blossoms for me. Thou art willing?
TEMPLAR.
All that from thee comes to me, whatsoeverIt chance to prove, lies as a wish alreadyWithin my soul.
SALADIN.
We’ll try the experiment.Wilt thou stay with me? dwell about me? boots notAs Mussulman or Christian, in a turbanOr a white mantle—I have never wishedTo see the same bark grow about all trees.
TEMPLAR.
Else, Saladin, thou hardly hadst becomeThe hero that thou art, alike to allThe gardener of the Lord.
SALADIN.
If thou think notThe 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 moreThan 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 GodDoes through our means a service, we ought notTo be so cold, not out of modestyWish to appear so cold.
TEMPLAR.
In this same worldAll things have many sides, and ’tis not easyTo 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 mustBe very cautious with thee, for I tooHave many sides, and some of them perhapsSuch 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 angryWith myself only.
SALADIN.
And for what?
TEMPLAR.
For dreamingThat 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. WhatI 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 daughterMay please me; talks to me of dawning prospects—I listen to his prate, go, see, and findA girl indeed. O, sultan, I am ashamed—
SALADIN.
A shamed that a Jew girl knew how to makeImpression on thee, surely not.
TEMPLAR.
But thatTo this impression my rash yielding heart,Trusting the smoothness of the father’s prate,Opposed no more resistance. Fool—I sprangA second time into the flame, and thenI wooed, and was denied.
SALADIN.
Denied! Denied!
TEMPLAR.
The prudent father does not flatly sayNo to my wishes, but the prudent fatherMust 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 ’twasWhile she was shrieking in the flame? Indeed,By God, ’tis something beautifully wiseTo be so circumspect.
SALADIN.
Come, come, forgiveSomething to age. His lingerings cannot last.He is not going to require of theeFirst to turn Jew.
TEMPLAR.
Who knows?
SALADIN.
Who? I, who knowThis Nathan better.
TEMPLAR.
Yet the superstitionIn which we have grown up, not therefore losesWhen 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 thinkOne’s own most bearable.
SALADIN.
May be, but Nathan—
TEMPLAR.
Must Nathan be the mortal, who unshrinkingCan face the moon-tide ray of truth, nor thereBetray 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 outFor Christian children to bring up as Jews—How then?
SALADIN.
Who says this of him?
TEMPLAR.
E’en the maidWith whom he frets me—with the hope of whomHe 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 heHas, notwithstanding, to thy wish refused?
TEMPLAR(with vehemence).
Refused or not, I know him now. There liesThe 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 MussulmanStickle 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 blameLies in that word of thine pent up. O thatI knew how Assad in my place would act.
SALADIN.
He—not much better, probably as fiery.Who has already taught thee thus at onceLike 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 friendsOne must not bicker with the other. Bend—And be directed. Move with caution. Do notLoose on him the fanatics of thy sect.Conceal what all thy clergy would be claimingMy hand to avenge upon him, with more showOf right than is my wish. Be not from spiteTo any Jew or Mussulman a Christian.
TEMPLAR.
Thy counsel is but on the brink of comingSomewhat too late, thanks to the patriarch’sBloodthirsty rage, whose instrument I shudderTo have almost become.
SALADIN.
How! how! thou wentestStill earlier to the patriarch than to me?
TEMPLAR.
Yes, in the storm of passion, in the eddyOf indecision—pardon—oh! thou wiltNo longer care, I fear, to find in meOne feature of thy Assad.
SALADIN.
Yes, that fear.Methinks I know by this time from what failingsOur 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 feelThat without swine’s flesh one may educateA Christian child, Go.
[Templar withdraws.
SITTAH(rising from the sofa).
Very strange indeed!
SALADIN.
Well, Sittah, must my Assad not have beenA 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.
AndParticularly 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 pleasantTo bring that up. Let us be satisfiedThat we have got him once again—have got himWith all the faults and freaks, the starts and wildnessOf his warm gentle heart—Oh, Nathan mustGive him the maid—Dost think so?
SITTAH.
Give—give up!
SALADIN.
Aye, for what right has Nathan with the girlIf he be not her father? He who savedHer life so lately has a stronger claimTo heir their rights who gave it her at first.
SITTAH.
What therefore, Saladin, if you withdrawThe maid at once from the unrightful owner?
SALADIN.
There is no need of that.
SITTAH.
Need, not precisely;But female curiosity inspiresMe with that counsel. There are certain menOf whom one is irresistibly impatientTo 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 imagineThat we propose by violence to part them.
SITTAH.
Be without apprehension.
SALADIN.
Fare you well,I must make out where this Al-Hafi is.
DayaandNathan.
DAYA.
O how magnificent, how tasty, charming—All such as only you could give—and whereWas this thin silver stuff with sprigs of goldWoven? What might it cost? Yes, this is worthyTo be a wedding-garment. Not a queenCould 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 displayingYour emblematic learning? Have you foundA 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.
WhatI brought for Recha is in another bale.Come, clear it off: away with all your rubbish.
DAYA.
You tempter—No—Were they the precious thingsOf the whole universe, I will not touch themUntil you promise me to seize uponSuch an occasion as heaven gives not twice.
NATHAN.
Seize upon what occasion? For what end?
DAYA.
There, do not act so strange. You must perceiveThe 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 moreAmong the Christians, will be once againWhat she was born to, will be what she was;And you, by all the benefits, for whichWe cannot thank you enough, will not have heapedMore coals of fire upon your head.
NATHAN.
AgainHarping 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 thatNot 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 tellHow to come at the templar, not betrayingThe motive of my curiosity—For if I tell it, and if my suspicionBe 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’sFather. And can I not remain so, thoughI cease to wear the name. To her, to herI still shall wear it, when she once perceives
[Friar enters.
How willingly I were so. Pious brother,What can be done to serve you?
NathanandFriar.
FRIAR.
O not much;And yet I do rejoice to see you yetSo 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 nameIn your remembrance; for I too may boastTo have of old put something in your handNot 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 dayI 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 robbersCame and broke up my cell and oratory,And dragged me with them. Fortunately IEscaped, and with the patriarch sought a refuge,To beg of him some other still retreat,Where I may serve my God in solitudeUntil my latter end.
NATHAN.
I stand on coals—Quick, my good brother, let me know what pledgeYou once intrusted to me.
FRIAR.
Presently,Good Nathan, presently. The patriarchHas promised me a hermitage on Thabor,As soon as one is vacant, and meanwhileEmploys me as lay-brother in the convent,And there I am at present: and I pineA hundred times a day for Thabor; forThe 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 happensThat some one whispered in his ear to-day,There lives hard by a Jew, who educatesA 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 sinAgainst the Holy Ghost—That is, the sinOf all most unforgiven, most enormous;But luckily we cannot tell exactlyWhat it consists in—All at once my conscienceWas roused, and it occurred to me that IPerhaps had given occasion to this sin.Now do not you remember a knight’s squire,Who eighteen years ago gave to your handsA 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 horsebackWho brought the child.
NATHAN.
Was you?
FRIAR.
And he from whomI 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? thereConsign it to you?
NATHAN.
Yes.
FRIAR.
It were no wonderMy memory deceived me. I have hadMany a worthy master, and this oneI 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 pleasureHave 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 itAll is yet safe.
NATHAN.
Aye all!
FRIAR.
Yes, trust me, Nathan,This is my way of thinking—if the goodThat I propose to do is somehow twinedWith mischief, then I let the good alone;For we know pretty well what mischief is,But not what’s for the best. ’Twas naturalIf you meant to bring up the Christian childRight 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 itBrought up at second hand by some good ChristianIn her own faith. But your friend’s orphan childYou 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 ifThe maid have but grown up before your eyesWith a sound frame and pious—she remainsStill in her maker’s eye the same. For is notChristianity all built on Judaism?Oh, it has often vexed me, cost me tears,That Christians will forget so often thatOur Saviour was a Jew.
NATHAN.
You, my good brother,Shall be my advocate, when bigot hateAnd 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 yetHas vanity ne’er tempted me to tell itTo living soul—only to thee I tell it,To simple piety alone; for itAlone can feel what deeds the man who trustsIn God can gain upon himself.
FRIAR.
You seemAffected, 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 daysBefore, the Christians murdered every Jew in Gath,Woman and child; that among these, my wifeWith seven hopeful sons were found, who allBeneath 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 lainBefore my God and wept—aye, and at timesArraigned my maker, raged, and cursed myselfAnd the whole world, and to ChristianitySwore 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 exerciseWhat thou hast long imagined, and what surelyIs not more difficult to exerciseThan to imagine—if thou will it once.I rose and called out—God, I will—I will,So thou but aid my purpose—And beholdYou was just then dismounted, and presentedTo me the child wrapt in your mantle. WhatYou 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, flungMyself upon my knees and sobbed—my God,Now have I one out of the seven again!
FRIAR.
Nathan, you are a Christian! Yes, by GodYou are a Christian—never was a better.
NATHAN.
Heaven bless us! What makes me to you a ChristianMakes you to me a Jew. But let us ceaseTo melt each other—time is nigh to act,And though a sevenfold love had bound me soonTo this strange only girl, though the mere thought,That I shall lose in her my seven sonsA 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 tearHer from me.
FRIAR.
No most surely not.
NATHAN.
And he,That has not stronger claims than I, at leastOught to have earlier.