 | The Hebrew |  |
SCENE I.
—Cedric's Hall: Cedric and the Palmer.Cedric.
Tell me not, Palmer; I must curse these Normans;
'Tis all I can; we bear the name and form
Of Saxons, not the heart—else—to your tale;
You spoke of good King Richard—Though a Norman,
He loves his Saxons—to thy story—Oh!
That noble Richard! While he pines in chains
Of Austria's forging, here his brother, John,
Ambitious of his throne, makes factious part
With Templars, tatter'd soldiers, and a crew
Of honorable beggars, such as live
Conjecture says not how—But to your tale.
Palmer.
My story is of Ivanhoe—
Cedric
(interrupting him).
My son!
A father's curse,—
Palmer.
Curse not thy son.
Cedric.
I do.
Palmer.
Curse not thy son, old man;—he loves thee well.
Cedric.
It has not seem'd so; I will tell thee, Palmer;
Thou art a Saxon, and wilt understand me.
He lov'd a Jewess—that was sin enough;
He did deny to leave her at my bidding;
That was a sin a father could not pardon;
I banish'd him my house, my blood, the land.
Palmer.
My life the pledge,
Her soul is spotless as the vestal beam
10
Upon the brooks of earth.
Horn without: Oswald enters.
Oswald.
My Lord, the Prior Aymer, and the Knight
Brian de Bois Guilbert, request, for them
And for their train, your shelter.
Cedric.
Normans both!
Palmer.
But yet thy door should not be bolted 'gainst them;
For hospitality is as the sun,
That shines on all, on weeds as on the flow'rs,
Or else on nothing shines.
Cedric.
You chide me well.
Go, bring them in.
Oswald goes out, and re-enters, conducting the Prior Aymer, Brian, and their train.
Cedric.
To hearth and table welcome.
Prior.
Right noble Cedric, we do thank thee well.
All seat themselves at the great table, except the Palmer, who places himself in a corner by the fire.
Our way was to the tourney, which the Prince
To morrow holds at Ashby, but the night
Clos'd in upon us. Our noble host, you join
The tournament?
Cedric.
Such is my purpose, father.
Brian.
'Twill be a day for after times to talk of;
The valours of our island will be there,
No carpet warriors,—men,—whose hands and hearts
Are temper'd as their swords—'Twill be a day
Of blows, and blood, and death.
Oswald enters.
Oswald.
The wealthy Jew,
Isaac of York, craves shelter.
Cedric.
Bring him in.
Brian.
A Jew sit with a Templar!
Prior.
Or with me,
A Father of the Church?
11
And hath he then
No feeling of the tempest? Will the rains
Spare him, that drench the Christian? Or these winds,—
Will they pass over him as o'er the oak
That bends, yet feels them not.
Prior.
Noble host,
'Tis he, whose daughter did bewitch your son.
Palmer.
His love is not their crime—their mis'ry rather.
I pity the old man.
Brian.
By Paul! He comes!
How the dog crouches! Oh! he'd play the part
Of kind humility. But dæmon Pride
Burns in that dark wild eye, and mocks the show
His habit would put on.
Enter Isaac.
Isaac.
Your pardon, pray:
The storm is cold and wet, and growing night
Made the few miles that lie 'twixt me and home
A weary way—I mean my brother's home;
For there I would abide to-morrow's tourney,
Which being done, I shall return to York,
To mine own dwelling.
Ced.
Well; be seated, Jew.
Prior.
Not here.
Brian.
Nor here.
Isaac.
O ye, twelve tribes! What evil is in me,
Poor way-worn man, that I'm cast forth of all
As dead flesh from the living bone?
Palmer.
Old man,
My vest is dry; my hunger full; thou art
Both wet and fasting. Sit.
Isaac.
And is it so?
I did not think to weep—O, noble youth,
I thank thee with my tears.
Brian.
A pilgrim thou!
Shame of thy habit—Dost touch hands with Jews?
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Thou hast done worse, for thou hast touch'd the earth
In combat with young Ivanhoe.—So fame
Reports from Palestine.
Palmer.
And truly.
Brian.
Slave!
Cedric.
Blood must not stain my hospitable board.
Brian speaks aside to his Saracens.
Prior.
Let the Jew go; his presence is a stone
To whet the knife of discord.
Cedric.
Say not so.
Isaac.
Kind Saxon, yes; 'tis fitting I should go;
Better the old man die, if death indeed
Be in the storm, than so much blood of youth
Should flow in riot.
Palmer.
Templar, I have mark'd thee;
The Jew goes not alone.
Brian
(contemptuously.)
And who art thou?
Palmer.
I am—the Palmer; one who, in the lack
Of thy philosophy, thinks man is man,
Whate'er his faith, his habit, or his speech.
Come, Jew, I'll be thy safety.
Isaac.
Noble youth!
How shall I thank thee? Hate, and scorn, and blows,
Are our sad portion—thou—men say I love
My gold too well—it may be so; I'm old,
And age will freeze the heart as winter locks
The bounty of the brook: yet shine the sun,
Twill melt the ice; thy kindness is a sun—
I feel it at my heart.
Brian.
Base renegade!
Prior.
Vile infidel!
Brian.
Forth! Forth!
Isaac.
I pity thee;
The poor old Jew—the dog—worse if worse be,
Whom thy scorn spits upon, thy hatred loathes,
Doth pity thee! think, Christian, what thou art,
When one so poor, so beaten, so forlorn,
Can say, I pity thee.
Brian.
Die, villain!
13
Hold!
Cedric keeps back Brian, who had drawn upon Isaac.
Isaac.
Oh, valour nobly shown, and wise as noble!
For is it not a valour most discreet,
That knows to safely choose its foe, and makes
Its secure war on hands that lack the sword,
Or swords that lack the hand?
Brian.
Unloose me, sirs.
Isaac.
Hark how the lion roars!
Palmer.
No more, old man.
Prior.
Go forth, I say.
Isaac.
But this, and I am gone.
Prior.
Be wise, and fear.
Isaac.
What should I fear? I've broke
The bread of Cedric;—drank his wine—I'm safe
In hospitality.
Cedric.
'Tis true;—He stays.
Brian.
Thou money-bag—thou thing, whose Midas-touch
Turns all to gold,—
Isaac.
And what art thou?—A cypher,—
That swells the social number though itself
Is merely nothing.—What seed hast thou sown?
What harvest reap'd?—What things of profit made?
What merchandize exchang'd?—Thou hast set up
A false god, Honour, at whose shrine man's blood
Is pour'd in sacrifice by night and day;
Thy worship is a murder;—and thy life
Is nothing but that worship.
Cedric.
Jew, no more.
Isaac.
I was too rash—Say 'twas the fault of age,
And pardon it; the dryest wood is still
The quickest to the spark.
Cedric.
No more of strife.
Oswald, conduct the Jew to his repose.
Isaac.
O noble Cedric! you have waken'd here
A feeling that I thought was not; so long,
So dully it had slumber'd.—Well, I see
Impatience kindles in your eye—Good night!
Thou'lt not sleep harder that an old man's pray'r
14
My very soul, breathes forth an orison
For thy felicity. Blest be thy night,
And oh, thy day more blessed. Fare thee well.
(Exit Isaac.
Prior.
Let us to bed; the night is growing old,
And we must forth with early morn to Ashby,
To Prince John's tournament.
(Aside to Brian.
Brian, be calm.
Brian.
(to him)
Yes; for I mind me of an after game—
I'll pull the bravest feather from the wing
Of this same infidel.
Prior.
The parting cup,
And then to rest, good host.
Cedric.
Be't as you say.
Prior.
The toast be mine—the fairest of the fair!
Although a Jewess, to her health—Rebecca—
All.
Rebecca!
Prior.
Now, good night.
Cedric.
Lights, knaves—Myself
Will be your servant.
All go out except the Palmer—Gurth enters.
Palmer.
How to save the Jew!
For sav'd he must be at what ever price—
Ha! honest Gurth—
The Jew and I must forth.
Undo the postern gate.
Gurth.
Ay, marry! when—
At your good bidding?
Palmer.
Ay, at mine.
The Palmer draws back his cowl.
Gurth.
How!
Palmer.
Silence; walls have ears.
Gurth.
But yet no tongues
To tell what they do hear.
Palmer.
Where sleeps the Jew?
Gurth.
In the north tower.
Palmer.
And I?
15
I' the room below.
Palmer.
I know it well—the light—when all's still, come.
Gurth and the Palmer go out on different sides.
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