Explore The House of Rimmon a drama in four acts by Henry Van Dyke

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The House of Rimmon

A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Benhadad: King of Damascus.

Rezon: High Priest of the House of Rimmon.

Saballidin: A Noble.

Hazael: Courtier

Izdubhar: Courtier

Rakhaz: Courtier

Shumakim: The King’s Fool.

Elisha: Prophet of Israel.

NAAMAN: Captain of the Armies of Damascus.

RUAHMAH: A Captive Maid of Israel.

Tsarpi: Wife to Naaman.

Khamma: Attendants of Tsarpi.

Nubta: Attendants of Tsarpi.

Soldiers, Servants,
Citizens, etc., etc.

Scene: Damascus
and the Mountains of Samaria.

Time: 850 B.
C.

ACT I

Scene I

Night,
in the garden of Naaman at
Damascus. At the left the palace, with softly gleaming lights and music
coming from the open latticed windows. The garden is full of oleanders,
roses, pomegranates, abundance of crimson flowers; the air is heavy
with their fragrance: a fountain at the right is plashing gently:
behind it is an arbour covered with vines. Near the centre of the
garden stands a small, hideous image of the god Rimmon. Beyond the
arbour rises the lofty square tower of the House of Rimmon, which casts
a shadow from the moon across the garden. The background is a wide,
hilly landscape, with the snow-clad summit of Mount Herman in the
distance. Enter by the palace door, the lady Tsarpi,
robed in red and gold, and followed by her maids, Khamma and Nubta. She
remains on the terrace: they go down into the garden, looking about,
and returning to her.

Khamma:There’s
no one here; the garden is asleep.

Nubta:The
flowers are nodding, all the birds abed,—Nothing
awake except the watchful stars!

Khamma:The
stars are sentinels discreet and mute:How
many things they know and never tell!

Tsarpi: [Impatiently.]Unlike
the stars, how many things you tellAnd
do not know! When comes your master home?

Nubta:Lady,
his armour-bearer brought us word,—At
moonset, not before.

Tsarpi: He
haunts the campAnd
leaves me much alone; yet I can passThe
time of absence not unhappily,If
I but know the time of his return.An
hour of moonlight yet! Khamma, my mirror!These
curls are ill arranged, this veil too low,—So,—that
is better, careless maids! Withdraw,—But
bring me word if Naaman appears!

Khamma:Mistress,
have no concern; for when we hearThe
clatter of his horse along the street,We’ll
run this way and lead your dancers downWith
song and laughter,—you shall know in time.

[Exeunt Khamma and Nubta laughing, Tsarpi descends
the steps.]

Tsarpi:My
guest is late; but he will surely come!The
man who burns to drain the cup of love,The
priest whose greed of glory never fails,Both,
both have need of me, and he will come.And
I,—what do I need? Why everythingThat
helps my beauty to a higher throne;All
that a priest can promise, all a manCan
give, and all a god bestow, I need:This
may a woman win, and this will I.

[Enter Rezon quietly
from the shadow of the trees. He stands behind Tsarpi and
listens, smiling, to her last words. Then he drops his mantle of
leopard-skin, and lifts his high priest’s rod of bronze, shaped at one
end like a star.]

Rezon:Tsarpi!

Tsarpi: [Bowing low
before him.] The
mistress of the house of NaamanSalutes
the master of the House of Rimmon.

Rezon:Rimmon
receives you with his star of peace,For
you were once a handmaid of his altar. [He lowers
the star-point of the rod, which glows for a moment with rosy light
above her head.]And
now the keeper of his temple asksThe
welcome of the woman for the man.

Tsarpi: [Giving him
her hand, but holding off his embrace.]No
more,—till I have heard what brings you hereBy
night, within the garden of the oneWho
scorns you most and fears you least in allDamascus.

Rezon: Trust
me, I repay his scornWith
double hatred,—Naaman, the manWho
stands against the nobles and the priests,This
powerful fool, this impious devoteeOf
liberty, who loves the people moreThan
he reveres the city’s ancient god:This
frigid husband who sets you belowHis
dream of duty to a horde of slaves:This
man I hate, and I will humble him.

Tsarpi:I
think I hate him too. He stands apartFrom
me, ev’n while he holds me in his arms,By
something that I cannot understand.He
swears he loves his wife next to his honour!Next?
That’s too low! I will be first or nothing.

Rezon:With
me you are the first, the absolute!When
you and I have triumphed you shall reign;And
you and I will bring this hero down.

Tsarpi:But
how? For he is strong.

Rezon: By
this, the handOf
Tsarpi; and by this, the rod of Rimmon.

Tsarpi:Your
plan?

Rezon: You
know the host of NinevehIs
marching now against us. Envoys comeTo
bid us yield before a hopeless war.Our
king is weak: the nobles, being rich,Would
purchase peace to make them richer still:Only
the people and the soldiers, ledBy
Naaman, would fight for liberty.Blind
fools! To-day the envoys came to me,And
talked with me in secret. Promises,Great
promises! For every noble houseThat
urges peace, a noble recompense:The
King, submissive, kept in royal stateAnd
splendour: most of all, honour and wealthShall
crown the House of Rimmon, and his priest,—Yea,
and his priestess! For we two will riseUpon
the city’s fall. The common folkShall
suffer; Naaman shall sink with themIn
wreck; but I shall rise, and you shall riseAbove
me! You shall climb, through incense-smoke,And
days of pomp, and nights of revelry,Unto
the topmost room in Rimmon’s tower,The
secret, lofty room, the couch of bliss,And
the divine embraces of the god.

Tsarpi: [Throwing
out her arms in exultation.]All,
all I wish! What must I do for this?

Rezon:Turn
Naaman away from thoughts of war.

Tsarpi:But
if I fail? His will is proof againstThe
lure of kisses and the wile of tears.

Rezon:Where
woman fails, woman and priest succeed.Before
the King decides, he must consultThe
oracle of Rimmon. This my handsPrepare,—and
you shall read the signs preparedIn
words of fear to melt the brazen heartOf
Naaman.

Tsarpi: But
if it flame instead?

Rezon:I
know a way to quench that flame. The cup,The
parting cup your hand shall give to him!What
if the curse of Rimmon should infectThat
sacred wine with poison, secretlyTo
work within his veins, week after weekCorrupting
all the currents of his blood,Dimming
his eyes, wasting his flesh? What then?Would
he prevail in war? Would he come backTo
glory, or to shame? What think you?

Tsarpi: I?—I
do not think; I only do my part.But
can the gods bless this?

Rezon: The
gods can blessWhatever
they decree; their will makes right;And
this is for the glory of the HouseOf
Rimmon,—and for thee, my queen. Come, come!The
night grows dark: we’ll perfect our alliance.

[Rezon draws
her with him, embracing her, through the shadows of the garden. Ruahmah,
who has been sleeping in the arbour, has been awakened during the
dialogue, and has been dimly visible in her white dress, behind the
vines. She parts them and comes out, pushing back her long, dark hair
from her temples.]

Ruahmah:What
have I heard? O God, what shame is thisPlotted
beneath Thy pure and silent stars!Was
it for this that I was brought awayA
captive from the hills of IsraelTo
serve the heathen in a land of lies?Ah,
treacherous, shameful priest! Ah, shameless wifeOf
one too noble to suspect thy guilt!The
very greatness of his generous heartBetrays
him to their hands. What can I do!Nothing,—a
slave,—hated and mocked by allMy
fellow-slaves! O bitter prison-life!I
smother in this black, betraying airOf
lust and luxury; I faint beneathThe
shadow of this House of Rimmon. GodHave
mercy! Lead me out to Israel.To
Israel!

[Music and
laughter heard within the palace. The doors fly open and a flood of men
and women, dancers, players, flushed with wine,
dishevelled, pour down the steps, Khamma and Nubta with
them. They crown the image with roses and dance around it. Ruahmah is
discovered crouching beside the arbour. They drag her out beside the
image.]

Nubta: Look!
Here’s the Hebrew maid,—She’s
homesick; let us comfort her!

Khamma: [They put
their arms around her.]Yes,
dancing is the cure for homesickness.We’ll
make her dance.

Ruahmah: [She slips
away.] I
pray you, let me go!I
cannot dance, I do not know your measures.

Khamma:Then
sing for us,—a song of Israel!

Ruahmah:How
can I sing the songs of IsraelIn
this strange country? O my heart would break!

A Servant:A
stubborn and unfriendly maid! We’ll whip her.

[They
circle around her, striking her with rose-branches; she sinks to her
knees, covering her face with her bare arms, which bleed.]

Nubta:Look,
look! She kneels to Rimmon, she is tamed.

Ruahmah: [Springing
up and lifting her arms.]Nay,
not to this dumb idol, but to HimWho
made Orion and the seven stars!

All:She
raves,—she mocks at Rimmon! Punish her!The
fountain! Wash her blasphemy away!

[They push
her toward the fountain, laughing and shouting. In the open door of the
palace Naaman appears,
dressed in blue and silver, bareheaded and unarmed. He comes to the top
of the steps and stands for a moment, astonished and angry.]

Naaman:Silence!
What drunken rout is this? Begone,Ye
barking dogs and mewing cats! Out, all!Poor
child, what have they done to thee?

[Exeunt all
except Ruahmah,
who stands with her face covered by her hands. Naaman comes
to her, laying his hand on her shoulder.]

Ruahmah: [Looking up
in his face.] Nothing,My
lord and master! They have harmed me not.

Naaman: [Touching
her arm.]Dost
call this nothing?

Ruahmah: Since
my lord is come!

Naaman:I
do not know thy face,—who art thou, child?

Ruahmah:The
handmaid of thy wife.

Naaman: Whence
comest thou?Thy
voice is like thy mistress, but thy looksHave
something foreign. Tell thy name, thy land.

Ruahmah:Ruahmah
is my name, a captive maid,The
daughter of a prince in Israel,Where
once, in olden days, I saw my lordRide
through our highlands, when SamariaWas
allied with Damascus to defeatOur
common foe.

Naaman: And
thou rememberest this?

Ruahmah:As
clear as yesterday! Master, I sawThee
riding on a snow-white horse besideOur
king; and all we joyful little maidsStrewed
boughs of palm along the victors’ way,For
you had driven out the enemy,Broken;
and both our lands were friends and free.

Naaman: [Sadly.]Well,
they are past, those noble days! The daysWhen
nations would imperil all to keepTheir
liberties, are only memories now.The
common cause is lost,—and thou art brought,The
captive of some mercenary raid,Some
skirmish of a gold-begotten war,To
serve within my house. Dost thou fare well?

Ruahmah:Master,
thou seest.

Naaman: Yes,
I see! My child,Why
do they hate thee so?

Ruahmah: I
do not know,Unless
because I will not bow to Rimmon.

Naaman:Thou
needest not. I fear he is a godWho
pities not his people, will not save.My
heart is sick with doubt of him. But thouShalt
hold thy faith,—I care not what it is,—Worship
thy god; but keep thy spirit free. [He takes
the amulet from his neck and gives it to her.]Here,
take this chain and wear it with my seal,None
shall molest the maid who carries this.Thou
hast found favour in thy master’s eyes;Hast
thou no other gift to ask of me?

Ruahmah: [Earnestly.]My
lord, I do entreat thee not to goTo-morrow
to the council. Seek the KingAnd
speak with him in secret; but avoidThe
audience-hall.

Naaman: Why,
what is this? Thy witsAre
wandering. My honour is engagedTo
speak for war, to lead in war againstThe
Assyrian Bull and save Damascus.

Ruahmah: [With
confused earnestness.]Then,
lord, if thou must go, I pray thee speak,—I
know not how,—but so that all must hear.With
magic of unanswerable wordsPersuade
thy foes. Yet watch,—beware,—

Naaman: Of
what?

Ruahmah: [Turning
aside.]I
am entangled in my speech,—no light,—How
shall I tell him? He will not believe.O
my dear lord, thine enemies are theyOf
thine own house. I pray thee to beware,—Beware,—of
Rimmon!

Naaman: Child,
thy words are wild:Thy
troubles have bewildered all thy brain.Go,
now, and fret no more; but sleep, and dreamOf
Israel! For thou shalt see thy homeAmong
the hills again.

Ruahmah: Master,
good-night.And
may thy slumber be as sweet and deepAs
if thou camped at snowy Hermon’s foot,Amid
the music of his waterfalls.There
friendly oak-trees bend their boughs aboveThe
weary head, pillowed on earth’s kind breast,And
unpolluted breezes lightly breatheA
song of sleep among the murmuring leaves.There
the big stars draw nearer, and the sunLooks
forth serene, undimmed by city’s mirkOr
smoke of idol-temples, to beholdThe
waking wonder of the wide-spread world.There
life renews itself with every mornIn
purest joy of living. May the LordDeliver
thee, dear master, from the netsLaid
for thy feet, and lead thee out alongThe
open path, beneath the open sky!

[Exit Ruahmah: Naaman stands
looking after her.]

Scene II

Time: The
following morning

The
audience-hall in Benhadad’s palace.
The sides of the hall are lined with lofty columns: the back opens
toward the city, with descending steps: the House of Rimmon with its
high tower is seen in the background. The throne is at the right in
front: opposite is the royal door of entrance, guarded by four tall
sentinels. Enter at the rear between the columns, Rakhaz, Saballidin, Hazael, Izdubhar.

Izdubhar: [An excited
old man.]The
city is all in a turmoil. It boils like a pot of lentils.
The people are foaming and bubbling round and round like beans in the
pottage.

Hazael: [A lean,
crafty man.]Fear
is a hot fire.

Rakhaz: [A fat,
pompous man.]Well
may they fear, for the Assyrians are not three days distant. They are
blazing along like a waterspout to chop Damascus down like a pitcher of
spilt milk.

Saballidin: [Young and
frank.]Cannot
Naaman drive them back?

Rakhaz: [Puffing and
blowing.]Ho!
Naaman? Where have you been living? Naaman is a broken reed whose claws
have been cut. Build no hopes on that foundation, for it will run away
and leave you all adrift in the conflagration.

Saballidin:He
clatters like a windmill. What would he say, Hazael?

Hazael:Naaman
can do nothing without the command of the King; and the King fears to
order the army to march without the approval of the gods. The High
Priest is against it. The House of Rimmon is for peace with Asshur.

Rakhaz:Yes,
and all the nobles are for peace. We are the men
whose wisdom lights the rudder that upholds the chariot of state. Would
we be rich if we were not wise? Do we not know better than the rabble
what medicine will silence this fire that threatens to drown us?

Izdubhar:But
if the Assyrians come, we shall all perish; they will despoil us all.

Hazael:Not
us, my lord, only the common people. The envoys have offered favourable
terms to the priests, and the nobles, and the King. No palace, no
temple, shall be plundered. Only the shops, and the markets, and the
houses of the multitude shall be given up to the Bull. He will eat his
supper from the pot of lentils, not from our golden plate.

Rakhaz:Yes,
and all who speak for peace in the council shall be enriched; our heads
shall be crowned with seats of honour in the procession of the Assyrian
king. He needs wise counsellors to help him guide the ship of empire
onto the solid rock of prosperity. You must be with us, my lords
Izdubhar and Saballidin, and let the stars of your wisdom roar loudly
for peace.

Izdubhar:He
talks like a tablet read upside down,—a wild ass braying
in the wilderness. Yet there is policy in his words.

Saballidin:I
know not. Can a kingdom live without a people or an army? If we let the
Bull in to sup on the lentils, will he not make his breakfast in our
vineyards?

[Enter other
courtiers following Shumakim,
a hump-backed jester, in blue, green and red, a wreath of poppies
around his neck and a flagon in his hand. He walks unsteadily, and
stutters in his speech.]

Hazael:Here
is Shumakim, the King’s fool, with his legs full of last night’s wine.

Shumakim: [Balancing
himself in front of them and chuckling.]Wrong,
my lords, very wrong! This is not last night’s wine, but a draught the
King’s physician gave me this morning for a cure. It sobers me
amazingly! I know you all, my lords: any fool would know you. You,
master, are a statesman; and you are a politician; and you are a
patriot.

Rakhaz:Am
I a statesman? I felt something of the kind about me. But what is a
statesman?

Shumakim:A
politician that is stuffed with big words; a fat man
in a mask; one that plays a solemn tune on a sackbut full o’ wind.

Hazael:And
what is a politician?

Shumakim:A
statesman that has dropped his mask and cracked his sackbut. Men trust
him for what he is, and he never deceives them, because he always lies.

Izdubhar:Why
do you call me a patriot?

Shumakim:Because
you know what is good for you; you love your country as you love your
pelf. You feel for the common people,—as the wolf feels for the sheep.

Saballidin:And
what am I?

Shumakim:A
fool, master, just a plain fool; and there is hope of thee for that
reason. Embrace me, brother, and taste this; but not too much,—it will
intoxicate thee with sobriety.

[The
hall has been slowly filling with courtiers and soldiers; a crowd of
people begin to come up the steps at the rear, where they are halted by
a chain guarded by servants of the palace. A bell tolls; the royal door
is thrown open; the aged King totters across the hall and takes his
seat on the throne with the four tall sentinels
standing behind him. All bow down shading their eyes with their hands.]

Benhadad:The
hour of royal audience is come.I’ll
hear the envoys. Are my counsellorsAt
hand? Where are the priests of Rimmon’s house?

[Gongs sound. Rezon comes
in from the side, followed by a procession of priests in black and
yellow. The courtiers bow; the King rises; Rezon takes
his stand on the steps of the throne at the left of the King.]

Benhadad:Where
is my faithful servant Naaman,The
captain of my host?

[Trumpets
sound from the city. The crowd on the steps divide; the chain is
lowered; Naaman enters,
followed by six soldiers. He is dressed in chain-mail with a silver
helmet and a cloak of blue. He uncovers, and kneels on the steps of the
throne at the King’s right.]

Naaman: My
lord the King,The
bearer of thy sword is here.

Benhadad: [Giving Naaman his
hand, and sitting down.] Welcome,My
strong right arm that never me failed yet!I
am in doubt,—but stay thou close to meWhile
I decide this cause. Where are the envoys?Let
them appear and give their message.

[Enter
the Assyrian envoys; one in white and the other in red; both with the
golden Bull’s head embroidered on their robes. They come from the
right, rear, bow slightly before the throne, and take the centre of the
hall.]

White Envoy: [Stepping
forward.]Greeting
from Shalmaneser, Asshur’s son,Who
rules the world from Nineveh,Unto
Benhadad, monarch in Damascus!The
conquering Bull has led his army forth;The
south has fallen before him, and the westHis
feet have trodden; Hamath is laid waste;He
pauses at your gate, invincible,—To
offer peace. The princes of your court,The
priests of Rimmon’s house, and you, the King,If
you pay homage to your Overlord,Shall
rest secure, and flourish as our friends.Assyria
sends to you this gilded yoke;Receive
it as the sign of proffered peace.

[He lays a
yoke on the steps of the throne.]

Benhadad:What
of the city? Said your king no wordOf
our Damascus, and the many folkThat
do inhabit her and make her great?What
of the soldiers who have fought for us?

White Envoy:Of
these my royal master did not speak.

Benhadad:Strange
silence! Must we give them up to him?Is
this the price at which he offers usThe
yoke of peace? What if we do refuse?

Red Envoy: [Stepping
forward.]Then
ruthless war! War to the uttermost.No
quarter, no compassion, no escape!The
Bull will gore and trample in his furyNobles
and priests and king,—none shall be spared!Before
the throne we lay our second gift;This
bloody horn, the symbol of red war.

[He lays a
long bull’s horn, stained with blood, on the steps of the throne.]

White Envoy:Our
message is delivered. We returnUnto
our master. He will wait three daysTo
know your royal choice between his gifts.Keep
which you will and send the other back.The
red bull’s horn your youngest page may bring;But
with the yoke, best send your mightiest army!

[The Envoys retire,
amid confused murmurs of the people, the King silent, his head, sunken
on his breast.]

Benhadad:Proud
words, a bitter message, hard to endure!We
are not now that force which feared no foe:Our
old allies have left us. Can we face the BullAlone,
and beat him back? Give me your counsel. [Many speak
at once, confusedly.]What
babblement is this? Were ye born at Babel?Give
me clear words and reasonable speech.

Rakhaz: [Pompously.]O
King, I am a reasonable man!And
there be some who call me very wiseAnd
prudent; but of this I will not speak,For
I am also modest. Let me plead,Persuade,
and reason you to choose for peace.This
golden yoke may be a bitter draught,But
better far to fold it in our arms,Than
risk our cargoes in the savage hornOf
war. Shall we imperil all our wealth,Our
valuable lives? Nobles are few,Rich
men are rare, and wise men rarer still;The
precious jewels on the tree of life,Wherein
the common people are but bricksAnd
clay and rubble. Let the city go,But
save the corner-stones that float the ship!Have
I not spoken well?

Benhadad: [Shaking his
head.] Excellent
well!Most
eloquent! But misty in the meaning.

Hazael: [With cold
decision.]Then
let me speak, O King, in plainer words!The
days of independent states are past:The
tide of empire sweeps across the earth;Assyria
rides it with resistless powerAnd
thunders on to subjugate the world.Oppose
her, and we fight with Destiny;Submit
to her demands, and we shall rideWith
her to victory. Therefore acceptThe
golden yoke, Assyria’s gift of peace.

Naaman: [Starting
forward eagerly.]There
is no peace beneath a conqueror’s yoke!For
every state that barters libertyTo
win imperial favour, shall be drainedOf
her best blood, henceforth, in endless warsTo
make the empire greater. Here’s the choice,My
King, we fight to keep our country free,Or
else we fight forevermore to helpAssyria
bind the world as we are bound.I
am a soldier, and I know the hellOf
war! But I will gladly ride through hellTo
save Damascus. Master, bid me ride!Ten
thousand chariots wait for your command;And
twenty thousand horsemen strain the leashOf
patience till you let them go; a throngOf
spearmen, archers, swordsmen, like the seaChafing
against a dike, roar for the onset!O
master, let me launch your mighty hostAgainst
the Bull,—we’ll bring him to his knees!

[Cries of
“war!” from the soldiers and the people; “peace!” from the courtiers
and the priests. The King rises, turning toward Naaman, and
seems about to speak. Rezon lifts
his rod.]

Rezon:Shall
not the gods decide when mortals doubt?Rimmon
is master of the city’s fate;We
read his will, by our most ancient-faith,In
omens and in signs of mystery.Must
we not hearken to his high commands?

Benhadad: [Sinking
back on the throne, submissively.]I
am the faithful son of Rimmon’s House.Consult
the oracle. But who shall read?

Rezon:Tsarpi,
the wife of Naaman, who servedWithin
the temple in her maiden years,Shall
be the mouth-piece of the mighty god,To-day’s
high-priestess. Bring the sacrifice!

[Gongs
and cymbals sound: enter priests carrying an altar on which a lamb is
bound. The altar is placed in the centre of the hall. Tsarpi follows
the priests, covered with a long transparent veil of black, sown with
gold stars; Ruahmah, in
white, bears her train. Tsarpi stands
before the altar, facing it, and lifts her right hand holding a knife. Ruahmah steps
back, near the throne, her hands crossed on her breast, her head bowed.
The priests close in around Tsarpi and
the altar. The knife is seen to strike downward. Gongs and cymbals
sound: cries of “Rimmon, hear us!” The circle of
priests opens, and Tsarpi turns
slowly to face the King.]

Tsarpi: [Monotonously.]Black
is the blood of the victim,Rimmon
is unfavourable,Asratu
is unfavourable;They
will not war against Asshur,They
will make a league with the God of Nineveh.Evil
is in store for Damascus,A
strong enemy will lay waste the land.Therefore
make peace with the Bull;Hearken
to the voice of Rimmon.

[She turns
again to the altar, and the priests close in around her. Rezon lifts
his rod toward the tower of the temple. A flash of lightning followed
by thunder; smoke rises from the altar; all except Naaman and Ruahmah cover
their faces. The circle of priests opens again, and Tsarpi comes
forward slowly, chanting.]

Chant:

Hear
the words of Rimmon! Thus your Maker speaketh:I,
the god of thunder, riding on the whirlwind,I,
the god of lightning leaping from the storm-cloud,I
will smite with vengeance him who dares defy me!He
who leads Damascus into war with Asshur,Conquering
or conquered, bears my curse upon him.Surely
shall my arrow strike his heart in secret,Burn
his flesh with fever, turn his blood to poison.Brand
him with corruption, drive him into darkness;He
shall surely perish by the doom of Rimmon.

[All are
terrified and look toward Naaman,
shuddering. Ruahmah alone
seems not to heed the curse, but stands with her eyes fixed on Naaman.]

Ruahmah:Be
not afraid! There is a greater GodShall
cover thee with His almighty wings:Beneath
his shield and buckler shalt thou trust.

Benhadad:Repent,
my son, thou must not brave this curse.

Naaman:My
King, there is no curse as terribleAs
that which lights a bosom-fire for himWho
gives away his honour, to prolongA
craven life whose every breath is shame!If
I betray the men who follow me,The
city that has put her trust in me,What
king can shield me from my own deep scornWhat
god release me from that self-made hell?The
tender mercies of AssyriaI
know; and they are cruel as creeping tigers.Give
up Damascus, and her streets will runRivers
of innocent blood; the city’s heart,That
mighty, labouring heart, wounded and crushedBeneath
the brutal hooves of the wild Bull,Will
cry against her captain, sitting safeAmong
the nobles, in some pleasant place.I
shall be safe,—safe from the threatened wrathOf
unknown gods, but damned forever byThe
men I know,—that is the curse I fear.

Benhadad:Speak
not so high, my son. Must we not bowOur
heads before the sovereignties of heaven?The
unseen rulers are Divine.

Naaman: O
King,I
am unlearned in the lore of priests;Yet
well I know that there are hidden powersAbout
us, working mortal weal and woeBeyond
the force of mortals to control.And
if these powers appear in love and truth,I
think they must be gods, and worship them.But
if their secret will is manifestIn
blind decrees of sheer omnipotence,That
punish where no fault is found, and smiteThe
poor with undeserved calamity,And
pierce the undefended in the darkWith
arrows of injustice, and foredoomThe
innocent to burn in endless pain,I
will not call this fierce almightinessDivine.
Though I must bear, with every man,The
burden of my life ordained, I’ll keepMy
soul unterrified, and tread the pathOf
truth and honour with a steady heart!Have
ye not heard, my lords? The oracleProclaims
to me, to me alone, the doomOf
vengeance if I lead the army out.“Conquered
or conquering!” I grip that chance!Damascus
free, her foes all beaten back,The
people saved from slavery, the KingUpheld
in honour on his ancient throne,—O
what’s the cost of this? I’ll gladly payWhatever
gods there be, whatever priceThey
ask for this one victory. Give meThis
gilded sign of shame to carry back;I’ll
shake it in the face of Asshur’s king,And
break it on his teeth.

Benhadad: [Rising.]Then
go, my never-beaten captain, go!And
may the powers that hear thy solemn vowForgive
thy rashness for Damascus’ sake,Prosper
thy fighting, and remit thy pledge.

Rezon: [Standing
beside the altar.]The
pledge, O King, this man must seal his pledgeAt
Rimmon’s altar. He must take the cupOf
soldier-sacrament, and bind himselfBy
thrice-performed libation to abideThe
fate he has invoked.

Naaman: [Slowly.] And
so I will.

[He comes
down the steps, toward the altar, where Rezon is
filling the cup which Tsarpi holds. Ruahmah throws
herself before Naaman,
clasping his knees.]

Ruahmah: [Passionately
and wildly.]My
lord, I do beseech you, stay! There’s deathWithin
that cup. It is an offeringTo
devils. See, the wine blazes like fire,It
flows like blood, it is a cursed cup,Fulfilled
of treachery and hate.Dear
master, noble master, touch it not!

Naaman:Poor
maid, thy brain is still distraught. Fear not,But
let me go! Here, treat her tenderly! [Gives her
into the hands of Saballidin.]Can
harm befall me from the wife who bearsMy
name? I take the cup of fate from her.I
greet the unknown powers; [Pours
libation.]I
will perform my vow; [Again.]I
will abide my fate; [Again.]I
pledge my life to keep Damascus free.

[He drains
the cup, and lets it fall.]

CURTAIN.

< < < The First Bird o’ Spring
The House of Rimmon Act 1 – Act 2 – Act 3 – Act 4

> > >

American Literature – Children Books – American Poetry – Henry Van Dyke – Poems by Henry Van Dyke

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Drama in 4 acts: “The House of Rimmon” by Henry Van Dyke