Though the book is named after him, Wilfred of Ivanhoe begins the novel displaced. The Norman Conquest of 1066 cut him off from his Saxon roots when it replaced the native English nobility with a ruling class imported from France. His father Cedric disowned him for adopting Norman habits and fashions. And he has lost the land granted to him by his friend and patron, King Richard, because Richard’s treasonous brother Prince John gave the castle of Torquilstone and its associated land to his own follower, Reginald Front-de-Boeuf. But by the end of the book, Ivanhoe will be reconciled with his father, the usurping Front-de-Boeuf will have relinquished his castle in his death, and Richard I will be well on his way towards acknowledging and restoring the rights of the Saxon natives in his kingdom. In this series of restitutions, the book seems to suggest that, on the whole, people get what they deserve: the righteous are restored while the villainous are punished. The usurper moves aside and the righteous inherit the kingdom and its rewards.
However, the stories of Isaac and Rebecca, a Jewish father and daughter whose lives become deeply entangled with Ivanhoe’s, complicates this simple and supposedly happy ending. Subject to racism, prejudice, and persecution, the book realistically portrays the suffering which seemed to be the sad birthright of medieval European Jewish people. Yet, the beautiful, generous, kind, and courageous Rebecca possesses a nobility and moral clarity that make her the center of the book’s moral universe. Her story reminds readers that injustice and suffering are as much a part of life as just rewards, if not more. Still, her refusal to succumb to the abuse she suffers from Sir Brian, Lucas de Beaumanoir, and others, suggests the power of courage and integrity not just to bring rewards (as in Ivanhoe’s case) but to be their own rewards. Although she ends the story exiled from the England of her birth, she does so of her own free will. In this way, she claims both her right to exist and her right to make a way in the world on her own terms. And even though her ending lacks the simplicity of Ivanhoe’s—despite her virtue, she clearly isn’t properly rewarded—leaving England with her dignity intact allows the book to claim that ultimately, virtue is not only its own reward but the greatest inheritance a person can hope for.
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Inheritance and Displacement Quotes in Ivanhoe
What I have applied to language, is still more justly applicable to sentiments and manners. The passions, the sources from which these must spring in all their modifications, are generally the same in all ranks and conditions, all countries and ages; and it follows, as a matter of course, that the opinions, habits of thinking, and actions, however influenced by the particular state of society must still, upon the whole, bear a strong resemblance to each other. Our ancestors were not more distinct from us, surely, than Jews are from Christians; they had “eyes, hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions;” were “fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer” as ourselves. The tenor, therefore, of their affections and feelings must have borne the same general proportion to our own.
“By St Dunstan,” answered Gurth, “thou speakest but sad truths; little is left to us but the air we breathe, and that appears to have been reserved with much hesitation, clearly for the purpose of enabling us to endure the tasks they lay upon our shoulders. The finest and fattest is for their board; the loveliest is for their couch; the best and bravest supply their foreign masters with soldiers, and whiten distant land with their bones, leaving few here who have either will or power to protect the unfortunate Saxon. God’s blessing on our master Cedric, he hath done the work of a man in standing in the gap; but Reginald Front-de-Boeuf is coming down to this country in person, and we shall soon see how little Cedric’s trouble will avail him.”
“I would soon have beat him into courtesy,” observed Brian; “I am accustomed to deal with such spirits: Our Turkish captives are as fierce and intractable as Odin himself could have been; yet two months in my household, under the management of my master of slaves, has made them humble, submissive, serviceable, and observant of your will. Marry, sir, you must beware of the poison and the dagger, for they use either with free will when you give them the slightest opportunity.”
“Aye, but,” answered Prior Aymer, “every land hath its own manners and fashions; and, besides that beating this fellow could procure us no information could respecting the road to Cedric’s house, it would have been sure to have established a quarrel betwixt you and him had we found our way thither.”
While Isaac thus stood an outcast in the present society, like his people among the nations, looking in vain for welcome or resting place, the Pilgrim who sat by the chimney took compassion upon him, and resigned his seat, saying briefly, “Old man, my garments are dried, my hunger is appeased, thou art both wet and fasting.” So saying, he gathered together, and brought to a flame, the decaying brands which lay scattered on the ample hearth; took form the larger board a mess of pottage and seethed kid, placed it upon the small table at which he himself had supped, and without waiting the Jew’s thanks, went to the other side of the hall;—whether from unwillingness to hold more close communication with the object of his benevolence, or from a wish to draw near to the upper end of the table, seemed uncertain.
[T]here was no race existing on the earth, in the air, or the waters, who were the object of such unintermitting, general, and relentless persecution as the Jews of this period. Upon the slightest and most unreasonable pretences [… or] absurd and groundless [accusations], their persons and property were exposed to every turn of popular fury; for Norman, Saxon, Dane, and Briton, however adverse these races were to each other, contended which should look with greatest detestation upon a people, whom it was accounted a point of religion to hate, to revile, to despise, to plunder, and to persecute. […] It is a well-known story of King John that he confronted a wealthy Jew in one of the royal castles, and daily caused one of his teeth to be torn out, until, when the jaw of the unhappy Israelite was half disfurnished, he consented to pay a large sum, which was the tyrant’s object to extort from him.
“Ay,” answered Isaac, “but if the tyrant lays hold on them as he did to-day and compels me to smile while he is robbing me—O daughter, disinherited and wandering as we are, the worst evil that befalls our race is, that when we are wronged and plundered, all the world laughs around, and we are compelled to suppress our sense of injury and to smile tamely, when we should revenge bravely.”
“Think not thus of it, my father,” said Rebecca; “we also have advantages. These Gentiles, cruel and oppressive as they are, are in some sort dependent on the dispersed children of Zion, whom they despise and persecute. Without the aid of our wealth, they could neither furnish forth their hosts in war, nor their triumphs in peace; and the gold which we lend them returns with increase to our coffers.”
Cedric and Athelstane were both dressed in the ancient Saxon garb, which, although not unhandsome in itself […] was so remote in shape and appearance from that of the other guests, that Prince John took great credit to himself […] for refraining from laughter. […] Yet, in the eye of sober judgement, that short close tunic and long mantle of the Saxons was a more graceful, as well as a more convenient dress, than the garb of the Normans, whose under garment was a long doublet, so loose as to resemble a shirt or waggoner’s frock, covered by a cloak of scanty dimensions, neither fit to defend the wearer from cold or from rain, and the only purpose of which seemed to be to display as much fur, embroidery, and jewellery work, as the ingenuity of the tailor could contrive to lay upon it.
No spider ever took more pains to repair the shattered meshes of his web, than did Waldemar Fitzurse to reunite and combine the scattered members of Prince John’s cabal. Few of these were attached to him from inclination, and none from personal attachment. It was therefore necessary […to] open to them new prospects of advantage, and remind them of those which they presently enjoyed. To the young and wild nobles, he held out the prospect of unpunished license and uncontrolled revelry; to the ambitions, that of power, and to the covetous, that of increased wealth and extended domains. The leaders of the mercenaries received a donation in gold; an argument most persuasive to their minds, and without which all others would have proved in vain. Promises were still more liberally distributed than money by this active agent; […] nothing was left undone that could determine the wavering, or animate the disheartened.
Beside this fountain were the ruins of a very small chapel, of which the roof had partly fallen in. […] The ribs of two of these arches remained, though the roof had fallen down betwixt them; over the others it remained entire. The entrance to this ancient place of devotion was under a very low round arch, ornamented by several courses of that zig-zag moulding, resembling shark’s teeth, which appears so often in the more ancient Saxon churches. A belfry rose above the porch on four small pillars, within which hung the green and weather-beaten bell […].
The whole peaceful and quiet scene lay glimmering in twilight before the eyes of the traveller, giving him good assurance of lodging for the night; since it was a special duty of those hermits who dwelt in the woods to exercise hospitality toward benighted or bewildered passengers.
Both the Saxon chiefs were made prisoners at the same moment, and each under circumstances expressive of his character. Cedric, the instant that an enemy appeared, launched at him his remaining javelin, which, taking better effect than that which he had hurled at Fangs, nailed the man against an oak-tree that happened to be close behind him. Thus far successful, Cedric spurred his horse against a second, drawing his sword at the same time, and striking with such inconsiderate fury, that his weapon encountered a thick branch which hung over him, and he was disarmed by the violence of his own blow. He was instantly made prisoner, and pulled from his horse by two or three of the banditti who crowded around him. Athelstane shared his captivity, his bridle having been sized, and he himself forcibly dismounted, long before he could draw his weapon, or assume any posture of effectual defense.
“It may be so […] but I cannot look on that stained lattice without its awakening other reflections than those which concern the passing moment, or its privations. When that window was wrought, my dear friend, our hardy fathers knew not the art of making glass, or of staining it—The pride of Wolfganger’s father brought an artist from Normandy to adorn his hall with this new species of emblazonment, that breaks the golden light of God’s blessed day into so many fantastic hues. The foreigner came here, poor, beggarly, cringing, and subservient, ready to doff his cap to the meanest native of the household. He returned pampered and proud, to tell his rapacious countrymen of the wealth and the simplicity of the Saxon noble—a folly, oh Athelstane, foreboded of old, as well as foreseen, by those descendants of Hengist and his hardy tribes who retained the simplicity of their manners.
At this moment the door of the apartment flew open, and the Templar presented himself […]. “I have found thee,” he said to Rebecca; “thou shalt prove I will keep my word to share weal and woe with thee—There is but one path to safety […] up, and instantly follow me.”
“Alone,” answered Rebecca, “I will not follow thee […]—save my aged father—save this wounded knight.”
“A knight,” answered the Templar […], “a knight […] must encounter his fate […], and who recks how or where a Jew meets with his?”
“Savage warrior,” replied Rebecca, “rather will I perish in the flames than accept safety from thee!”
“Thou shalt not chuse, Rebecca—once didst thou foil me, but never mortal did so twice.”
So saying, he seized on the terrified maiden, who filled the air with her shrieks, and bore her out of the room in his arms […].
“O, assuredly,” said Isaac. “I have trafficked with the good fathers, and bought wheat and barley, and fruits of the earth, and also much wool. O, it is a rich abbey-stede, and they do live up on the fat, and drink the sweet wine upon the lees, these good fathers of Jorvaulx. Ah, if an out-cast like me had such a home to go to, and such incomings by the year and by the term, I would pay much gold and silver to redeem my captivity.”
“Hound of a Jew!” exclaimed the Prior, “no one knows better than thy own cursed self, that our holy house of God is indebted for the finishing of our chancel!”—
“And for the storing of your cellars in the last season with the due allowance of Gascon wine,” interrupted the Jew; “but it is small matters.”
“Nay, beshrew thee, man, up with thee! I am English-born, and love no such eastern prostrations—Kneel to God, and not to a poor sinner like me.”
“Ay, Jew,” said Prior Aymer, “kneel to God, as represented in the servant of his later, and who knoweth, with thy sincere repentance and due gifts to the shrine of Saint Robert, what grace thou mayest acquire for thyself and thy daughter Rebecca? I grieve for the maiden, for she is [beautiful…]. Also Brian de Bois-Guilbert is one with whom I may do much—bethink thee how thou canst deserve my good word with him.”
“Alas! alas!” said the Jew, “on every hand the spoilers arise against me […].”
“And what else should be the lot of an accursed race?” answered the Prior; “for what saith holy writ […]—I will give their women to strangers […] and their treasures to others.”
“And Richard Plantagenet,” said the King, desires no more fame than his good lance and sword may acquire him—and Richard Plantagenet is prouder of achieving an adventure, with only his good sword, and his good arm to speed, than if he led to battle a host of an hundred thousand armed men.”
“But your kingdom, my lord,” said Ivanhoe, “your kingdom is threatened with dissolution and civil war—your subjects menaced by every species of evil, if deprived of their sovereign in some of these dangers which it is your daily pleasure to incur, and from which you have but this moment narrowly escaped.”
I asked for wine—they gave me some, but it must have been highly medicated, for I slept yet more deeply than before, and wakened not for many hours. I found my arms swathed down—my feet tied so fast that mine ankles ache at the very remembrance—the place was utterly dark—the oubliette, as I suppose, of their accursed convent, and from the close, stifled, damp smell, I conceive it is also used as a place of sepulture. I had strange thoughts of what had befallen me, when the door of my dungeon creaked, and two villain monks entered. They would have persuaded me I was in purgatory, but I knew too well the pursy short-breathed voice of the Father Abbot.—Saint Jeremy! how different form that tone with which he used to ask me for another slice of the haunch!—the dog has feasted with me from Christmas to Twelfth-night.
