The House of Rimmon

By Henry van Dyke Jr.

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Dramatis Personae

Benhadad, King of Damascus
Rezon, High Priest of the House of Rimmon
Saballidin, A Noble of Damascus
Hazael, Courtier of Damascus
Izdubhar, Courtier of Damascus
Rakhaz, Courtier of Damascus
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, Attendant of Tsarpi
Nubta, Attendant of Tsarpi
Soldiers, Servants, Citizens, etc., etc.

Scene: Damascus and the Mountains of Samaria.

Time: 850 BC.

The House of Rimmon

A Drama in Four Acts

Act I

Scene I

Night, in the garden of Naaman at Damascus. At the left, on a slightly raised terrace, 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. Back of 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 a high road passing over the mountains toward the snow-clad summits of Mount Hermon 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, And nothing wakes 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 tell And do not know! When comes your master home?
Nubta	Lady, his armour-bearer brought us word An hour ago, the master will be here At moonset, not before.
Tsarpi	He haunts the camp And leaves me much alone; yet I can pass The 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 warn me if your master should appear.
Khamma	Mistress, have no concern; for when we hear The clatter of his horse along the street, We’ll run this way and lead your dancers down With 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! Hunger and thirst will bring him to my feet. 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 everything That helps my beauty to a higher throne; All that a priest can promise, all a man Can 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, at the other like a thunderbolt.
Rezon	Tsarpi!
Tsarpi	The mistress of the house of Naaman Salutes the keeper of the House of Rimmon.
	She bows low before him.
Rezon	Rimmon receives you with his star of peace;
	He lowers the star-point of the rod, which glows for a moment with rosy light above her head.
	And I, his chosen minister, kneel down Before your regal beauty, and implore The welcome of the woman for the man.
Tsarpi	Giving him her hand, but holding off his embrace. Thus Tsarpi welcomes Rezon! Nay, no more! Till I have heard what errand brings you here By night, within the garden of the man Who hates you most and fears you least in all Damascus.
Rezon	Rising, and speaking angrily. Trust me, I repay his scorn With double hatred⁠—Naaman, the man Whom the King honours and the people love, Who stands against the nobles and the priests, Against the oracles of Rimmon’s House, And cries, “We’ll fight to keep Damascus free!” This powerful fool, this impious devotee Of liberty, who loves the city more Than he reveres the city’s ancient god: This frigid husband who sets you below His 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 apart From me, ev’n while he holds me in his arms, By something that I cannot understand, Nor supple to my will, nor melt with tears, Nor quite dissolve with blandishments, although 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 these, the eyes Of Tsarpi; and by this, the rod of Rimmon.
Tsarpi	Speak clearly; tell your plan.
Rezon	You know the host Of the Assyrian king has broken forth Again to conquer us. Envoys have come From Shalmaneser to demand surrender. Our king Benhadad wavers, for he knows His weakness. All the nobles, all the rich, Would purchase peace that they may grow more rich: Only the people and the soldiers, led By Naaman, would fight for liberty. Blind fools! Today the envoys came to pay Their worship to our god, whom they adore In Nineveh as Asshur’s brother-god. They talked with me in secret. Promises, Great promises! For every noble house That urges peace, a noble recompense: The king, submissive, kept in royal state And splendour: most of all, honour and wealth Shall crown the House of Rimmon, and his priest⁠— Yea, and his priestess. For we two will rise Upon the city’s fall. The common folk Shall suffer; Naaman shall sink with them In wreck; but I shall rise, and you shall rise Above me! You shall climb, through incense-smoke, And days of pomp, and nights of revelry, Glorious rites and ecstasies of love, 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; Or purchase him with love’s delights to yield This point⁠—I care not how⁠—and afterwards The future shall be ours.
Tsarpi	And if I fail?
Rezon	I have another shaft. The last appeal, Before the king decides, is to the oracle Of Rimmon. You shall read the signs! A former priestess of his temple, you Shall be the interpreter of heaven, and speak A word to melt this brazen soldier’s heart Within his breast.
Tsarpi	But if it flame instead?
Rezon	I know the way to quench that flame. The cup, The parting cup your hand shall give to him! What if the curse of Rimmon should infect That wine with sacred venom, secretly To work within his veins, week after week Corrupting all the currents of his blood, Dimming his eyes, wasting his flesh? What then? Would he prevail in war? Would he come back To 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 bless Whatever they decree; their will makes right; And this is for the glory of the house Of 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 this Plotted beneath Thy pure and silent stars! Was it for this that I was brought away Captive from Israel’s blessed hills to serve A heathen mistress in a land of lies? Ah, treacherous, shameful priest! Ah, shameless wife Of one too noble to suspect thy guilt! The very greatness of his generous heart Betrays him to their hands. What can I do? Nothing⁠—a slave⁠—hated and mocked by all My fellow-slaves! O bitter prison-life! I smother in this black, betraying air Of lust and luxury; I faint beneath The shadow of this House of Rimmon. God Have 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 before 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 Israel In this strange country? O my heart would break With grief in every note of that dear music.
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 Him Who 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. These three years past I have attended her.
Naaman	Whence comest thou? Thy voice is like thy mistress, but thy looks Have 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 lord Ride through our highlands, when Samaria Was allied with Damascus to defeat Asshur, our common foe.
Naaman	O glorious days, Crowded with life! And thou rememberest them?
Ruahmah	As clear as yesterday! Master, I saw Thee riding on a snow-white horse beside Our king; and all we joyful little maids Strewed 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 friends That fought for freedom stand apart, rivals For Asshur’s favour, like two jealous dogs That snarl and bite each other, while they wait The master’s whip, enforcing peace. The days When nations would imperil all to keep Their liberties, are only memories now. The common cause is lost⁠—and thou art brought, The captive of some mercenary raid, Some profitable, honourless foray, 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 god Who pities not his people, will not save. My heart is sick with doubt of him. But thou Shalt hold thy faith⁠—I care not what it is⁠— Worship thy god; but keep thy spirit free. 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 go Tomorrow to the council. Seek the King And speak with him in secret; but avoid The audience-hall.
Naaman	Why, what is this? Thy wits Are wandering. Why dost thou ask this thing Impossible! My honour is engaged To speak for war, to lead in war against The 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 words Persuade 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 they Of 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 dream Of Israel! For thou shall see thy home Among the hills again.
Ruahmah	Master, good night, And may thy slumber be as sweet and deep As if thou camped at snowy Hermon’s foot, Amid the music of his waterfalls And watched by winged sentries of the sky. There friendly oak-trees bend their boughs above The weary head, pillowed on earth’s kind breast, And unpolluted breezes lightly breathe A song of sleep among the murmuring leaves. There the big stars draw nearer, and the sun Looks forth serene, undimmed by city’s mirk Or smoke of idol-temples, to behold The waking wonder of the widespread world, And life renews itself with every morn In purest joy of living. May the Lord Deliver thee, dear master, from the nets Laid for thy feet, and lead thee out, along The open path, beneath the open sky! Thou shall be followed always by the heart Of one poor captive maid who prays for thee.
	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 upset in the midst of the sea and leave you hanging in the air.
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 processions 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 crooked little 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 self. 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 crosses the hall slowly 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 of my brother king, The Son of Asshur. Are my counsellors At hand? Where are the priests of Rimmon’s House?
	Gongs sound. Rezon comes in from the rear, 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.
	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 failed me yet! I am in doubt⁠—but stay thou close to me While 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 oh 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, The king who reigns at Nineveh And takes his tribute from a thousand cities, Unto Benhadad, monarch in Damascus! The conquering Bull has come out of the north; The south has fallen before him, and the west His 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 word Of our Damascus, and the many folk That do inhabit her and make her great? What of the soldiers who have fought for us? The people who have sheltered ’neath our shield?
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 us The 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 fury Nobles 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. Grant us leave And safe conveyance, that we may return Unto our master. He will wait three days To 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 host is weakened, and our old allies Have left us. Can we face this raging Bull Alone, 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 wise And 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 horn Of 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 brides And clay and rubble. Let the city go, But save the cornerstones that float the ship! Have I not spoken well?
Benbadad	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 power And thunders on to subjugate the world. Oppose her, and we fight with Destiny; Submit to her demands, and we shall ride With her to victory. Therefore return This bloody horn, the symbol of wild war, With words of soft refusal, and accept The golden yoke, Assyria’s gift of peace.
Naaman	Starting forward eagerly. There is no peace beneath a conqueror’s yoke, My King, but shame and heaviness of heart! For every state that barters liberty To win imperial favour, shall be drained Of her best blood, henceforth, in endless wars To make the empire greater. Here’s the choice: We fight today to keep our country free, Or else we fight forevermore to help Assyria bind the world as we are bound. I am a soldier, and I know the hell Of war! But I will gladly ride through hell To save Damascus. Master, bid me ride! Ten thousand chariots wait for your command; And twenty thousand horsemen strain the leash Of patience till you let them go; a throng Of spearmen, archers, swordsmen, like the sea Chafing against a dike, roar for the onset! O master, let me launch your mighty host Against 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; He reigns in secret and his will is law; 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 served Within the temple in her maiden years, Shall be the mouthpiece of the mighty god, Today’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, sewn 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 alone shall 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 God Shall 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 terrible As that which lights a bosom-fire for him Who gives away his honour, to prolong A craven life whose every breath is shame! If I betray the men who follow me, The city that has put her trust in me, The country to whose service I am bound, What king can shield me from my own deep scorn, What god release me from that self-made hell? The tender mercies of Assyria I know; and they are cruel as creeping tigers. Give up Damascus, and her streets will run Rivers of innocent blood; the city’s heart, That mighty, labouring heart, wounded and crushed Beneath the brutal hooves of the wild Bull, Will cry against her captain, sitting safe Among the nobles, in some pleasant place. I shall be safe⁠—safe from the threatened wrath Of unknown gods, but damned forever by The men I know⁠—that is the curse I fear.
Benhadad	Speak not so high, my son. Must we not bow Our 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 powers About us, working mortal weal and woe Beyond the force of mortal 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 manifest In blind decrees of sheer omnipotence, That punish where no fault is found, and smite The poor with undeserved calamity, And pierce the undefended in the dark With arrows of injustice, and foredoom The innocent to burn in endless pain, I will not call this fierce almightiness Divine. Though I must bear, with every man, The burden of my life ordained, I’ll keep My soul unterrified, and tread the path Of truth and honour with a steady heart! But if I err in this; and if there be Divinities whose will is cruel, unjust, Capricious and supreme, I will forswear The favour of these gods, and take my part With man to suffer and for man to die. Have ye not heard, my lords? The oracle Proclaims to me, to me alone, the doom Of 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 King Upheld in honour on his ancient throne⁠— O what’s the cost of this? I’ll gladly pay Whatever gods there be, whatever price They ask for this one victory. Give me This 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 vow Forgive 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 pledge At Rimmon’s altar. He must take the cup Of soldier-sacrament, and bind himself By thrice-performed libation to abide The 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 death Within that cup. It is an offering To 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 bears My 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.

Act II

Time: A week later.

The forecourt of the House of Rimmon. At the back the broad steps and double doors of the shrine: above them the tower of the god, its summit invisible. Enter various groups of citizens, talking, laughing, shouting: Rakhaz, Hazael, Shumakim and others.

First Citizen	Great news, glorious news, the Assyrians are beaten!
Second Citizen	Naaman is returning, crowned with victory. Glory to our noble captain!
Third Citizen	No, he is killed. I had it from one of the camp-followers who saw him fall at the head of the battle. They are bringing his body to bury it with honour. O sorrowful victory!
Rakhaz	Peace, my good fellows, you are ignorant, you have not been rightly informed, I will misinform you. The accounts of Naaman’s death are overdrawn. He was killed, but his life has been preserved. One of his wounds was mortal, but the other three were curable, and by these the physicians have saved him.
Shumakim	Balancing himself before RAKHAZ* in pretended admiration.* O wonderful! Most admirable logic! One mortal, and three curable, therefore he must recover as it were, by three to one. Rakhaz, do you know that you are a marvelous man?
Rakhaz	Yes, I know it, but I make no boast of my knowledge.
Shumakim	Too modest, for in knowing this you know what is unknown to any other in Damascus!
	Enter, from the right, Saballidin* in armour: from the left, Tsarpi with her attendants, among whom is Ruahmah.*
Hazael	Here is Saballidin, we’ll question him; He was enflamed by Naaman’s fiery words, And rode with him to battle. Good, my lord, We hail you as a herald of the fight You helped to win. Give us authentic news Of your great general! Is he safe and well? When will he come? Or will he come at all?
	All gather around him, listening eagerly.
Saballidin	He comes but now, returning from the field Where he hath gained a crown of deathless fame! Three times he led the charge; three times he fell Wounded, and the Assyrians beat us back. Yet every wound was but a spur to urge His valour onward. In the last attack He rode before us as the crested wave That heads the flood; and lo, our enemies Were broken like a dam of river-reeds, Burst by the torrent, scattered, swept away! But look! the Assyrian king in wavering flight Is lodged like driftwood on a little hill, Encircled by his guard, and stands at bay. Then Naaman, followed hotly by a score Of whirlwind riders, hammers through the hedge Of spearmen, brandishing the golden yoke: “Take back this gift,” he cries; and shatters it On Shalmaneser’s helmet. So the fight Dissolves in universal rout: the king, His chariots and his horsemen melt away; Our captain stands the master of the field, And saviour of Damascus! Now he brings, First to the king, report of this great triumph.
	Shouts of joy and applause.
Ruahmah	Coming close to Saballidin, But what of him who won it? Fares he well? My mistress would receive some word of him.
Saballidin	Hath she not heard?
Ruahmah	But one brief message came: A tablet saying, “We have fought and conquered,” No word of his own person. Fares he well?
Saballidin	Alas, most ill! For he is like a man Consumed by some strange sickness: wasted, wan⁠— His eyes are dimmed so that scarce can see; His ears are dulled; his fearless face is pale As one who walks to meet a certain doom Yet will not flinch. It is most pitiful⁠— But you shall see.
Ruahmah	Yea, we shall see a man Who took upon himself his country’s burden, dared To hazard all to save the poor and helpless; A man who bears the wrath of evil powers Unknown, and pays the hero’s sacrifice.
	Enter Benhadad* with courtiers.*
Benhadad	Where is my faithful servant Naaman, The captain of my host?
Saballidin	My lord, he comes.
	Trumpet sounds. Enter company of soldiers in armour. Then four soldiers bearing captured standards of Asshur. Naaman follows, very pale, armour dinted and stained; he is blind, and guides himself by cords from the standards on each side, but walks firmly. The doors of the temple open slightly, and Rezon appears at the top of the steps. Naaman lets the cords fall, and gropes his way for a few paces.
Naaman	Kneeling. Where is my King? Master, the bearer of thy sword returns. The golden yoke thou gavest me I broke On him who sent it. Asshur’s Bull hath fled Dehorned. The standards of his host are thine! Damascus is all thine, at peace, and free!
Benhadad	Holding out his arms. Thou art a mighty man of valour! Come, And let me fold thy courage to my heart.
Rezon	Lifting his rod. Forbear, O King! Stand back from him, all men! By the great name of Rimmon I proclaim This man a leper! On his brow I see The death-white seal, the fingerprint of doom! That tiny spot will spread, eating his flesh, Gnawing his fingers bone from bone, until The impious heart that dared defy the gods Dissolves in the slow death which now begins. Unclean! unclean! Henceforward he is dead: No human hand shall touch him, and no home Of men shall give him shelter. He shall walk Only with corpses of the selfsame death Down the long path to a forgotten tomb. Avoid, depart, I do adjure you all, Leave him to god⁠—the leper Naaman!
	All shrink back horrified. Rezon retires into the temple; the crowd melts away, wailing: Tsarpi is among the first to go, followed by her attendants, except Ruahmah, who crouches, with her face covered, not far from Naaman.
Benhadad	Lingering and turning back. Alas, my son! O Naaman, my son! Why did I let thee go? Thou art cast out Irrevocably from the city’s life Which thou hast saved. Who can resist the gods? I must obey the law, and touch thy hand Never again. Yet none shall take from thee Thy glorious title, captain of my host! I will provide for thee, and thou shalt dwell With guards of honour in a house of mine Always. Damascus never shall forget What thou hast done! O miserable words Of crowned impotence! O mockery of power Given to kings, who cannot even defend Their dearest from the secret wrath of heaven! Naaman, my son, my son!
	Exit.
Naaman	Slowly, passing his hand over his eyes, and looking up. Am I alone With thee, inexorable one, whose pride Offended takes this horrible revenge? I must submit my mortal flesh to thee, Almighty, but I will not call thee god! Yet thou hast found the way to wound my soul Most deeply through the flesh; and I must find The way to let my wounded soul escape!
	Drawing his sword. Come, my last friend, thou art more merciful Than Rimmon. Why should I endure the doom He sends me? Irretrievably cut off From all dear intercourse of human love, From all the tender touch of human hands, From all brave comradeship with brother-men, With eyes that see no faces through this dark, With ears that hear all voices far away, Why should I cling to misery, and grope My long, long way from pain to pain, alone?
Ruahmah	At his feet. Nay, not alone, dear lord, for I am here; And I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee!
Naaman	What voice is that? The silence of my tomb Is broken by a ray of music⁠—whose?
Ruahmah	Rising. The one who loves thee best in all the world.
Naaman	Why that should be⁠—O dare I dream it true? Tsarpi, my wife? Have I misjudged thy heart As cold and proud? How nobly thou forgivest! Thou com’st to hold me from the last disgrace⁠— The coward’s flight into the dark. Go back Unstained, my sword! Life is endurable While there is one alive on earth who loves us,
Ruahmah	My lord⁠—my lord⁠—O listen! You have erred⁠— You do mistake me now⁠—this dream⁠—
Naaman	Ah, wake me not! For I can conquer death Dreaming this dream. Let me at last believe, Though gods are cruel, a woman can be kind. Grant me but this! For see⁠—I ask so little⁠— Only to know that thou art faithful⁠— Only to lean upon the thought that thou, My wife, art near me, though I touch thee not⁠— O this will hold me up, though it be given From pity more than love.
Ruahmah	Trembling, and speaking slowly. Not so, my lord! My pity is a stream; my pride of thee Is like the sea that doth engulf the stream; My love for thee is like the sovran moon That rules the sea. The tides that fill my soul Flow unto thee and follow after thee; And where thou goest I will go; and where Thou diest I will die⁠—in the same hour.
	She lays her hand on his arm. He draws back.
Naaman	O touch me not! Thou shall not share my doom.
Ruahmah	Entreat me not to go. I will obey In all but this; but rob me not of this⁠— The only boon that makes life worth the living⁠— To walk beside thee day by day, and keep Thy foot from stumbling; to prepare thy food When thou art hungry, music for thy rest, And cheerful words to comfort thy black hour; And so to lead thee ever on, and on, Through darkness, till we find the door of hope.
Naaman	What word is that? The leper has no hope.
Ruahmah	Dear lord, the mark upon thy brow is yet No broader than my little fingernail. Thy force is not abated, and thy step Is firm. Wilt thou surrender to the enemy Before thy strength is touched? Why, let me put A drop of courage from my breast in thine. There is a hope for thee. The captive maid Of Israel who dwelt within thy house Knew of a god very compassionate, Long-suffering, slow to anger, one who heals The sick, hath pity on the fatherless, And saves the poor and him who has no helper. His prophet dwells nigh to Samaria; And I have heard that he hath brought the dead To life again. We’ll go to him. The King, If I beseech him, will appoint a guard Of thine own soldiers and Saballidin, Thy friend, to convoy us upon our journey. He’ll give us royal letters to the king Of Israel to make our welcome sure; And we will take the open road, beneath The open sky, tomorrow, and go on Together till we find the door of hope. Come, come with me!
	She grasps his hand.
Naaman	Drawing back. Thou must not touch me!
Ruahmah	Unclasping her girdle and putting the end in hand. Take my girdle, then!
Naaman	Kissing the clasp of the girdle. I do begin to think there is a God, Since love on earth can work such miracles!
	Curtain.

Act III

Scene I

Time: A month later: dawn.

Naaman’s tent, on high ground among the mountains near Samaria: the city below. In the distance, a wide and splendid landscape. Saballidin and soldiers on guard below the tent. Enter Ruahmah in hunter’s dress, with a lyre slung from her shoulder.

Ruahmah	Peace and good health to you, Saballidin. Good morrow to you all. How fares my lord?
Saballidin	The curtains of his tent are folded still: They have not moved since we returned, last night, And told him what befell us in the city.
Ruahmah	Told him! Why did you make report to him. And not to me? Am I not captain here, Entrusted by the King’s command with care Of Naaman’s life, until he is restored? ’Tis mine to know the first of good or ill In this adventure: mine to shield his heart From every arrow of adversity. What have you told him? Speak!
Saballidin	Lady, we feared To bring our news to you. For when the king Of Israel had read our monarch’s letter, He rent his clothes, and cried, “Am I a god, To kill and make alive, that I should heal A leper? Ye have come with false pretence, Damascus seeks a quarrel with me. Go!” But when we told our lord, he closed his tent, And there remains enfolded in his grief. I trust he sleeps; ’twere kind to let him sleep! For now he doth forget his misery, And all the burden of his hopeless woe Is lifted from him by the gentle hand Of slumber. Oh, to those bereft of hope Sleep is the only blessing left⁠—the last Asylum of the weary, the one sign Of pity from impenetrable heaven. Waking is strife: sleep is the truce of God! Ah, lady, wake him not. The day will be Full long for him to suffer, and for us To turn our disappointed faces home On the long road by which we must return.
Ruahmah	Return! Who gave you that command? Not I! The King made me the leader of this quest, And bound you all to follow me, because He knew I never would return without The thing for which he sent us. I’ll go on Day after day, unto the uttermost parts Of earth, if need be, and beyond the gates Of morning, till I find that which I seek⁠— New life for Naaman. Are ye ashamed To have a woman lead you? Then go back And tell the King, “This huntress went too far For us to follow; she pursues the trail Of hope alone, refusing to forsake The quarry: we grew weary of the chase; And so we left her and retraced our steps, Like faithless hounds, to sleep beside the fire.” Did Naaman forsake his soldiers thus When you went forth to hunt the Assyrian Bull? Your manly courage is less durable Than woman’s love, it seems. Go, if you will⁠— Who bids me now farewell?
Soldiers	Not I, not I!
Saballidin	Lady, lead on, we’ll follow you forever!
Ruahmah	Why, now you speak like men! Brought you no word Out of Samaria, except that cry Of impotence and fear from Israel’s king?
Saballidin	I do remember while he spoke with us A rustic messenger came in, and cried “Elisha saith, let Naaman come to me At Dothan, he shall surely know there is A God in Israel.”
Ruahmah	What said the King?
Saballidin	He only shouted “Go!” more wildly yet, And rent his clothes again, as if he were Half-maddened by a coward’s fear, and thought Only of how he might be rid of us. What comfort could there be for him, what hope For us, in the rude prophet’s misty word?
Ruahmah	It is the very word for which I prayed! My trust was not in princes; for the crown, The sceptre, and the purple robe are not Significant of vital power. The man Who saves his brother-men is he who lives His life with Nature, takes deep hold on truth, And trusts in God. A prophet’s word is more Than all the kings on earth can speak. How far Is Dothan?
Soldier	Lady, ’tis but three hours’ ride Along the valley northward.
Ruahmah	Near! so near? I had not thought to end my task so soon! Prepare yourselves with speed to take the road. I will awake my lord.
	Exeunt all but Saballidin* and Ruahmah. She goes toward the tent.*
Saballidin	Ruahmah, stay!
	She turns back.
	I’ve been your servant in this doubtful quest, Obedient, faithful, loyal to your will⁠— What have I earned by this?
Ruahmah	The gratitude Of him we both desire to serve: your friend⁠— My master and my lord.
Saballidin	No more than this?
Ruahmah	Yes, if you will, take all the thanks my hands Can hold, my lips can speak.
Saballidin	I would have more.
Ruahmah	My friend, there’s nothing more to give to you, My service to my lord is absolute. There’s not a drop of blood within my veins But quickens at the very thought of him; And not a dream of mine but he doth stand Within its heart and make it bright. No man To me is other than his friend or foe. You are his friend, and I believe you true!
Saballidin	I have been true to him⁠—now, I am true To you.
Ruahmah	And therefore doubly true to him! O let us match our loyalties, and strive Between us who shall win the higher crown! Men boast them of a friendship stronger far Than love of woman. Prove it! I’ll not boast, But I’ll contend with you on equal terms In this brave race: and if you win the prize I’ll hold you next to him: and if I win He’ll hold you next to me; and either way We’ll not be far apart. Do you accept My challenge?
Saballidin	Yes! For you enforce my heart By honour to resign its great desire, And love itself to offer sacrifice Of all disloyal dreams on its own altar. Yet love remains; therefore I pray you, think How surely you must lose in our contention. For I am known to Naaman: but you He blindly takes for Tsarpi. ’Tis to her He gives his gratitude: the praise you win Endears her name.
Ruahmah	Her name? Why, what is that? A name is but an empty shell, a mask That does not change the features of the face Beneath it. Can a name rejoice, or weep, Or hope? Can it be moved by tenderness To daily services of love, or feel the warmth Of dear companionship? How many things We call by names that have no meaning: kings That cannot rule; and gods that are not good; And wives that do not love! It matters not What syllables he utters when he calls, ’Tis I who come⁠—’tis I who minister Unto my lord, and mine the living heart That feels the comfort of his confidence, The thrill of gladness when he speaks to me⁠— I do not hear the name!
Saballidin	And yet, be sure There’s danger in this error⁠—and no gain!
Ruahmah	I seek no gain; I only tread the path Marked for me daily by the hand of love. And if his blindness spared my lord one pang Of sorrow in his black, forsaken hour⁠— And if this error makes his burdened heart More quiet, and his shadowed way less dark, Whom do I rob? Not her who chose to stay At ease in Rimmon’s House! Surely not him! Only myself? And that enriches me. Why trouble we the master? Let it go⁠— Tomorrow he must know the truth⁠—and then He shall dispose of me e’en as he will!
Saballidin	Tomorrow?
Ruahmah	Yes, for I will tarry here, While you conduct him to Elisha’s house To find the promised healing. I forebode A sudden danger from the craven king Of Israel, or else a secret ambush From those who hate us in Damascus. Go, But leave me twenty men: this mountain-pass Protects the road behind you. Make my lord Obey the prophet’s word, whatever he commands, And come again in peace. Farewell!
	Exit Saballidin. Ruahmah* goes toward the tent, then pauses and turns back. She takes her lyre and sings.*
	Song. Above the edge of dark appear the lances of the sun; Along the mountain-ridges clear his rosy heralds run; The vapours down the valley go Like broken armies, dark and low. Look up, my heart, from every hill In folds of rose and daffodil The sunrise banners flow. O fly away on silent wing, ye boding owls of night! O welcome little birds that sing the coming-in of light! For new, and new, and ever-new, The golden bud within the blue; And every morning seems to say: “There’s something happy on the way, And God sends love to you!”
Naaman	Appearing at the entrance of his tent. O let me ever wake to music! For the soul Returns most gently then, and finds its way By the soft, winding clue of melody, Out of the dusky labyrinth of sleep, Into the light. My body feels the sun Though I behold naught that his rays reveal. Come, thou who art my daydawn and my sight, Sweet eyes, come close, and make the sunrise mine!
Ruahmah	Coming near. A fairer day, dear lord, was never born In Paradise! The sapphire cup of heaven Is filled with golden wine: the earth, adorned With jewel-drops of dew, unveils her face A joyful bride, in welcome to her king. And look! He leaps upon the Eastern hills All ruddy fire, and claims her with a kiss. Yonder the snowy peaks of Hermon float Unmoving as a wind-dropt cloud. The gulf Of Jordan, filled with violet haze, conceals The rivers winding trail with wreaths of mist. Below us, marble-crowned Samaria thrones Upon her emerald hill amid the Vale Of Barley, while the plains to northward change Their colour like the shimmering necks of doves. The lark springs up, with morning on her wings, To climb her singing stairway in the blue, And all the fields are sprinkled with her joy!
Naaman	Thy voice is magical: thy words are visions! I must content myself with them, for now My only hope is lost: Samaria’s king Rejects our monarch’s message⁠—hast thou heard? “Am I a god that I should cure a leper?” He sends me home unhealed, with angry words, Back to Damascus and the lingering death.
Ruahmah	What matter where he sends? No god is he To slay or make alive. Elisha bids You come to him at Dothan, there to learn There is a God in Israel.
Naaman	I fear That I am grown mistrustful of all gods; Their secret counsels are implacable.
Ruahmah	Fear not! There’s One who rules in righteousness High over all.
Naaman	What knowest thou of Him?
Ruahmah	Oh, I have heard⁠—the maid of Israel⁠— Rememberest thou? She often said her God Was merciful and kind, and slow to wrath, And plenteous in forgiveness, pitying us Like as a father pitieth his children.
Naaman	If there were such a God, I’d worship Him Forever!
Ruahmah	Then make haste to hear the word His prophet promises to speak to thee! Obey it, my dear lord, and thou shalt lose This curse that burdens thee. This tiny spot Of white that mars the beauty of thy brow Shall melt like snow; thine eyes be filled with light. Thou wilt not need my leading any more⁠— Nor me⁠—for thou wilt see me, all unveiled⁠— I tremble at the thought.
Naaman	Why, what is this? Why shouldst thou tremble? Art thou not mine own?
Ruahmah	Turning to him. Surely I am! But take me, take me now! For I belong to thee in body and soul; The very pulses of my heart are thine. Wilt thou not feel how tenderly they beat? Wilt thou not lie like myrrh between my breasts And satisfy thy lonely lips with love? Thou art opprest, and I would comfort thee While yet thy sorrow weighs upon thy life. Tomorrow? No, today! The crown of love Is sacrifice; I have not given thee Enough! Ah, fold me in thine arms⁠—take all!
	She takes his hands and puts them around her neck; he holds her from him, with one hand on her shoulder, the other behind her head.
Naaman	Thou art too dear to injure with a kiss⁠— Too dear for me to stain thy purity, Or leave one touch upon thee to regret! How should I take a gift may bankrupt thee, Or drain the fragrant chalice of thy love With lips that may be fatal? Tempt me not To sweet dishonour; strengthen me to wait Until thy prophecy is all fulfilled, And I can claim thee with a joyful heart.
Ruahmah	Turning away. Thou wilt not need me then⁠—and I shall be No more than the faint echo of a song Heard half asleep. We shall go back to where We stood before this journey.
Naaman	Never again! For thou art changed by some deep miracle. The flower of womanhood hath bloomed in thee⁠— Art thou not changed?
Ruahmah	Yea, I am changed⁠—and changed Again⁠—bewildered⁠—till there’s nothing clear To me but this: I am the instrument In an Almighty hand to rescue thee From death. This will I do⁠—and afterward⁠—
	A trumpet is blown, without.
	Hearken, the trumpet sounds, the chariot waits. Away, dear lord, follow the road to light!

Scene II1

The house of Elisha, upon a terraced hillside. A low stone cottage with vine-trellises and flowers; a flight of steps, at the foot of which is Naaman’s chariot. He is standing in it; Saballidin beside it. Two soldiers come down the steps.

First Soldier	We have delivered my lord’s greeting and his message.
Second Solider	Yes, and near lost our noses in the doing of it! For the servant slammed the door in our faces. A most unmannerly reception!
First Soldier	But I take that as a good omen. It is mark of holy men to keep ill-conditioned servants. Look, the door opens, the prophet is coming.
Second Soldier	No, by my head, it’s that notable mark of his master’s holiness, that same lantern-jawed lout of a servant.
	Gehazi loiters down the steps and comes to Naaman with a slight obeisance.
Gehazi	My master, the prophet of Israel, sends word to Naaman the Syrian⁠—are you he?⁠—“Go wash in Jordan seven times and be healed.”
	Gehazi turns and goes slowly up the steps.
Naaman	What insolence is this? Am I a man To be put off with surly messengers? Has not Damascus rivers more renowned Than this rude, torrent Jordan? Crystal streams, Abana! Pharpar! flowing smoothly through A paradise of roses? Might I not Have bathed in them and been restored at ease? Come up, Saballidin, and guide me home!
Saballidin	Bethink thee, master, shall we lose our quest Because a servant is uncouth? The road That seeks the mountain leads us through the vale. The prophet’s word is friendly after all; For had it been some mighty task he set, Thou wouldst perform it. How much rather then This easy one? Hast thou not promised her Who waits for thy return? Wilt thou go back To her unhealed?
Naaman	No! not for all my pride! I’ll make myself most humble for her sake, And stoop to anything that gives me hope Of having her. Make haste, Saballidin, Bring me to Jordan. I will cast myself Into that river’s turbulent embrace A hundred times, until I save my life Or lose it!
	Exeunt. The light fades: musical interlude. The light increases again with ruddy sunset shining on the door of Elisha’s house. The prophet appears and looks off, shading his eyes with his hand as he descends the steps slowly. Trumpet blows⁠—Naaman’s call;⁠—sound of horses galloping and men shouting. Naaman enters joyously, followed by Saballidin and soldiers, with gifts.
	Behold a man delivered from the grave By thee! I rose from Jordan’s waves restored To youth and vigour, as the eagle mounts Upon the sunbeam and renews his strength! O mighty prophet deign to take from me These gifts too poor to speak my gratitude; Silver and gold and jewels, damask robes⁠—
Elisha	Interrupting. As thy soul liveth I will not receive A gift from thee, my son! Give all to Him Whose mercy hath redeemed thee from thy plague.
Naaman	He is the only God! I worship Him! Grant me a portion of the blessed soil Of this most favoured land where I have found His mercy; in Damascus will I build An altar to His name, and praise Him there Morning and night. There is no other God In all the world.
Elisha	Thou needest not This load of earth to build a shrine for Him; Yet take it if thou wilt. But be assured God’s altar is in every loyal heart, And every flame of love that kindles there Ascends to Him and brightens with His praise. There is no other God! But evil Powers Make war against Him in the darkened world; And many temples have been built to them.
Naaman	I know them well! Yet when my master goes To worship in the House of Rimmon, I Must enter with him; for he trusts me, leans Upon my hand; and when he bows himself I cannot help but make obeisance too⁠— But not to Rimmon! To my country’s king I’ll bow in love and honour. Will the Lord Pardon thy servant in this thing?
Elisha	My son, Peace has been granted thee. ’Tis thine to find The only way to keep it. Go in peace.
Naaman	Thou hast not answered me⁠—may I bow down?
Elisha	The answer must be thine. The heart that knows The perfect peace of gratitude and love, Walks in the light and needs no other rule. Take counsel with thy heart and go in peace!
	Curtain.

Act IV

Scene I

The interior of Naaman’s tent, at night. Ruahmah alone, sleeping on the ground. A vision appears to her through the curtains of the font: Elisha standing on the hillside at Dothan: Naaman, restored to sight, comes in and kneels before him. Elisha blesses him, and he goes out rejoicing. The vision of the prophet turns to Ruahmah and lifts his hand in warning.

Elisha	Daughter of Israel, what dost thou here? Thy prayer is granted. Naaman is healed: Mar not true service with a selfish thought. Nothing remains for thee to do, except Give thanks, and go whither the Lord commands. Obey⁠—obey! Ere Naaman returns Thou must depart to thine own house in Shechem.
	The vision vanishes.
Ruahmah	Waking and rising slowly. A dream, a dream, a messenger of God! O dear and dreadful vision, art thou true? Then am I glad with all my broken heart. Nothing remains⁠—nothing remains but this⁠— Give thanks, obey, depart⁠—and so I do. Farewell, my master’s sword! Farewell to you, My amulet! I lay you on the hilt His hand shall clasp again: bid him farewell For me, since I must look upon his face No more forever!⁠—Hark, what sound was that?
	Enter soldier hurriedly.
Soldier	Mistress, an armèd troop, footmen and horse, Mounting the hill!
Ruahmah	My lord returns in triumph.
Soldier	Not so, for these are enemies; they march In haste and silence, answering not our cries.
Ruahmah	Our enemies? Then hold your ground⁠—on guard! Fight! fight! Defend the pass, and drive them down.
	Exit soldier. Ruahmah draws Naaman’s sword from the scabbard and hurries out of the tent. Confused noise of fighting outside. Three or four soldiers are driven in by a troop of men in disguise. Ruahmah follows: she is beaten to her knees, and her sword is broken.
Rezon	Throwing aside the cloth which covers his face. Hold her! So, tiger-maid, we’ve found your lair And trapped you. Where is Naaman, Your master?
Ruahmah	Rising, her arms held by two of Rezon’s* followers.* He is far beyond your reach.
Rezon	Brave captain! He has saved himself, the leper, And left you here?
Ruahmah	The leper is no more.
Rezon	What mean you?
Ruahmah	He has gone to meet his God.
Rezon	Dead? Dead? Behold how Rimmon’s wrath is swift! Damascus shall be mine: I’ll terrify The King with this, and make my terms. But no! False maid, you sweet-faced harlot, you have lied To save him⁠—speak.
Ruahmah	I am not what you say, Nor have I lied, nor will I ever speak A word to you, vile servant of a traitor-god.
Rezon	Break off this little flute of blasphemy, This ivory neck⁠—twist it, I say! Give her a swift despatch after her leper! But stay⁠—if he still lives he’ll follow her, And so we may ensnare him. Harm her not! Bind her! Away with her to Rimmon’s House! Is all this carrion dead? There’s one that moves⁠— A spear⁠—fasten him down! All quiet now? Then back to our Damascus! Rimmon’s face Shall be made bright with sacrifice.
	Exeunt forcing Ruahmah with them. Musical interlude. A wounded soldier crawls from a dark corner of the tent and finds the chain with Naaman’s seal, which has fallen to the ground in the struggle.
Wounded Soldier	This signet of my lord, her amulet! Lost, lost! Ah, noble lady⁠—let me die With this upon my breast.
	The tent is dark. Enter Naaman* and his company in haste, with torches.*
Naaman	What bloody work Is here? God, let me live to punish him Who wrought this horror! Treacherously slain At night, by unknown hands, my brave companions: Tsarpi, my best beloved, light of my soul, Put out in darkness! O my broken lamp Of life, where art thou? Nay, I cannot find her.
Wounded Soldier	Raising himself on his arm. Master!
Naaman	Kneels beside him. One living? Quick, a torch this way! Lift up his head⁠—so⁠—carefully! Courage, my friend, your captain is beside you. Call back your soul and make report to him.
Wounded Soldier	Hail, captain! O my captain⁠—here!
Naaman	Be patient⁠—rest in peace⁠—the fight is done. Nothing remains but render your account.
Wounded Soldier	They fell upon us suddenly⁠—we fought Our fiercest⁠—every man⁠—our lady fought Fiercer than all. They beat us down⁠—she’s gone. Rezon has carried her away a captive. See⁠— Her amulet⁠—I die for you, my captain.
Naaman	He gently lays the dead soldier on the ground, and rises. Farewell. This last report was brave; but strange Beyond my thought! How came the High Priest here? And what is this? my chain, my seal! But this Has never been in Tsarpi’s hand. I gave This signet to a captive maid one night⁠— A maid of Israel. How long ago? Ruahmah was her name⁠—almost forgotten! So long ago⁠—how comes this token here? What is this mystery, Saballidin?
Saballidin	Ruahmah is her name who brought you hither.
Naaman	Where then is Tsarpi?
Saballidin	In Damascus. She left you when the curse of Rimmon fell⁠— Took refuge in his House⁠—and there she waits Her lord’s return⁠—Rezon’s return.
Naaman	’Tis false!
Saballidin	The falsehood is in her. She hath been friend With Rezon in his priestly plot to win Assyria’s favour⁠—friend to his design To sell his country to enrich his temple⁠— And friend to him in more⁠—I will not name it.
Naaman	Nor will I credit it. Impossible!
Saballidin	Did she not plead with you against the war, Counsel surrender, seek to break your will?
Naaman	She did not love my work, a soldier’s task. She never seemed to be at one with me Until I was a leper.
Saballidin	From whose hand Did you receive the sacred cup?
Naaman	From hers.
Saballidin	And from that hour the curse began to work.
Naaman	But did she not have pity when she saw Me smitten? Did she not beseech the King For letters and a guard to make this journey? Has she not been the fountain of my hope, My comforter and my most faithful guide In this adventure of the dark? All this Is proof of perfect love that would have shared A leper’s doom rather than give me up. Can I doubt her who dared to love like this?
Saballidin	O master, doubt her not⁠—but know her name; Ruahmah! It was she alone who wrought This wondrous work of love. She won the King By the strong pleading of resistless hope To furnish forth this company. She led Our march, kept us in heart, fought off despair, Offered herself to you as to her god, Watched over you as if you were her child, Prepared your food, your cup, with her own hands, Sang you asleep at night, awake at dawn⁠—
Naaman	Interrupting. Enough! I do remember every hour Of that sweet comradeship! And now her voice Wakens the echoes in my lonely breast; The perfume of her presence fills my sense With longing. All my soul cries out in vain For her embracing, satisfying love, her eyes and called her my Ruahmah!
	To his soldiers. Away! away! I burn to take the road That leads me back to Rimmon’s House⁠— But not to bow⁠—by God, never to bow!

Scene II

Time: Three days later.

Inner court of the House of Rimmon; a temple with huge pillars at each side. In the right foreground the seat of the King; at the left, of equal height, the seat of the High Priest. In the background a broad flight of steps, rising to a curtain of cloudy gray, embroidered with two gigantic hands holding thunderbolts. The temple is in half darkness at first. Enter Khamma and Nubta, robed as Kharimati, or religious dancers, in gowns of black gauze with yellow embroideries and mantles.

Khamma	All is ready for the rites of worship; our lady will play a great part in them. She has put on her Tyrian robes, and all her ornaments.
Nubta	That is a sure sign of a religious purpose. She is most devout, our lady Tsarpi!
Khamma	A favourite of Rimmon, too! The High Priest has assured her of it. He is a great man⁠—next to the King, now that Naaman is gone.
Nubta	But if Naaman should come back, healed of the leprosy?
Khamma	How can he come back? The Hebrew slave that went away with him, when they caught her, said that he was dead. The High Priest has shut her up in the prison of the temple, accusing her of her master’s death.
Nubta	Yet I think he does not believe it, for I heard him telling our mistress what to do if Naaman should return.
Khamma	What, then?
Nubta	She will claim him as her husband. Was she not wedded to him before the god? That is a sacred bond. Only the High Priest can loose it. She will keep her hold on Naaman for the sake of the House of Rimmon. A wife knows her husband’s secrets, she can tell⁠—
	Enter Shumakim, with his flagon, walking unsteadily.
Khamma	Hush! here comes the fool Shumakim. He is never sober.
Shumakim	Laughing. Are there two of you? I see two, but that is no proof. I think there is only one, but beautiful enough for two. What were you talking to yourself about, fairest one!
Khamma	About the lady Tsarpi, fool, and what she would do if her husband returned.
Shumakim	Fie! fie! That is no talk for an innocent fool to hear. Has she a husband?
Nubta	You know very well that she is the wife of Lord Naaman.
Shumakim	I remember that she used to wear his name and his jewels. But I thought he had exchanged her⁠—for a leprosy.
Khamma	You must have heard that he went away to Samaria to look for healing. Some say that he died on the journey; but others say he has been cured, and is on his way home to his wife.
Shumakim	It may be, for this is a mad world, and men never know when they are well off⁠—except us fools. But he must come soon if he would find his wife as he parted from her⁠—or the city where he left it. The Assyrians have returned with a greater army, and this time they will make an end of us. There is no Naaman how, and the Bull will devour Damascus like a bunch of leeks, flowers and all⁠—flowers and all, my double-budded fair one! Are you not afraid?
Nubta	We belong to the House of Rimmon. He will protect us.
Shumakim	What? The mighty one who hides behind the curtain there, and tells his secrets to Rezon? No doubt he will take care of you, and of himself. Whatever game is played, the gods never lose. But for the protection, of the common people and the rest of us fools, I would rather have Naaman at the head of an army than all the sacred images between here and Babylon.
Khamma	You are a wicked old man. You mock the god. He will punish you.
Shumakim	Bitterly. How can he punish me? Has he not already made me a fool? Hark, here comes my brother the High Priest, and my brother the King. Rimmon made us all; but nobody knows who made Rimmon, except the High Priest; and he will never tell.
	Gongs and cymbals sound. Enter Rezon with priests, and the King with courtiers. They take their seats. A throng of Khali and Kharimati come in, Tsarpi presiding; a sacred dance is performed with torches, burning incense, and chanting, in which Tsarpi leads.
	Chant. Hail, mighty Rimmon, ruler of the whirl-storm, Hail, shaker of mountains, breaker-down of forests, Hail, thou who roarest terribly in the darkness, Hail, thou whose arrows flame across the heavens! Hail, great destroyer, lord of flood and tempest, In thine anger almighty, in thy wrath eternal, Thou who delightest in ruin, maker of desolations, Immeru, Addu, Barku, Rimmon! See we tremble before thee, low we bow at thine altar, Have mercy upon us, be favourable unto us, Save us from our enemy, accept our sacrifice, Barku, Immeru, Addu, Rimmon!
	Silence follows, all bowing down.
Rezon	O King, last night the counsel from above Was given in answer to our divination. Ambassadors must go forthwith to crave Assyria’s pardon, and a second offer Of the same terms of peace we did reject Not long ago.
Benhadad	Dishonour! Yet I see No other way! Assyria will refuse, Or make still harder terms. Disaster, shame For this gray head, and ruin for Damascus!
Rezon	Yet may we trust Rimmon will favour us, If we adhere devoutly to his worship. He will incline his brother-god, the Bull, To spare us, if we supplicate him now With costly gifts. Therefore I have prepared A sacrifice: Rimmon shall be well pleased With the red blood that bathes his knees tonight!
Benhadad	My mind is dark with doubt⁠—I do forebode Some horror! Let me go⁠—I am an old man⁠— If Naaman my captain were alive! But he is dead⁠—the glory is departed!
	He rises, trembling, to leave the throne. Trumpet sounds⁠—Naaman’s* call;⁠—enter Naaman, followed by soldiers; he kneels at the foot of the throne.*
	Half-whispering. Art thou a ghost escaped from Allatu? How didst thou pass the seven doors of death? O noble ghost I am afraid of thee, And yet I love thee⁠—let me hear thy voice!
Naaman	No ghost, my King, but one who lives to serve Thee and Damascus with his heart and sword As in the former days. The only God Has healed my leprosy: my life is clean To offer to my country and my King.
Benhadad	Starting toward him. O welcome to thy King! Thrice welcome!
Rezon	Leaving his seat and coming toward Naaman. Stay! The leper must appear before the priest, The only one who can pronounce him clean.
	Naaman turns; they stand looking each other in the face.
	Yea⁠—thou art cleansed: Rimmon hath pardoned thee⁠— In answer to the daily prayers of her Whom he restores to thine embrace⁠—thy wife.
	Tsarpi comes slowly toward Naaman.
Naaman	From him who rules this House will I receive Nothing! I seek no pardon from his priest, No wife of mine among his votaries!
Tsarpi	Holding out her hands. Am I not yours? Will you renounce our vows?
Naaman	The vows were empty⁠—never made you mine In aught but name. A wife is one who shares Her husband’s thought, incorporates his heart With hers by love, and crowns him with her trust. She is God’s remedy for loneliness, And God’s reward for all the toil of life. This you have never been to me⁠—and so I give you back again to Rimmon’s House Where you belong. Claim what you will of mine⁠— Not me! I do renounce you⁠—or release you⁠— According to the law. If you demand A further cause than what I have declared, I will unfold it fully to the King.
Rezon	Interposing hurriedly. No need of that! This duteous lady yields To your caprice as she has ever done; She stands a monument of loyalty And woman’s meekness.
Naaman	Let her stand for that! Adorn your temple with her piety! But you in turn restore to me the treasure You stole at midnight from my tent.
Rezon	What treasure? I have stolen none from you.
Naaman	The very jewel of my soul⁠—Ruahmah! My King, the captive maid of Israel, To whom thou didst commit my broken life With letters to Samaria⁠—my light, My guide, my saviour in this pilgrimage⁠— Dost thou remember?
Benhadad	I recall the maid⁠— But dimly⁠—for my mind is old and weary. She was a fearless maid, I trusted her And gave thee to her charge. Where is she now?
Naaman	This robber fell upon my camp by night⁠— While I was with Elisha at the Jordan⁠— Slaughtered my soldiers, carried off the maid, And holds her somewhere in imprisonment. O give this jewel back to me, my King, And I will serve thee with a grateful heart Forever. I will fight for thee, and lead Thine armies on to glorious victory Over all foes! Thou shalt no longer fear The host of Asshur, for thy throne shall stand Encompassed with a wall of dauntless hearts, And founded on a mighty people’s love, And guarded by the God of righteousness.
Benhadad	I feel the flame of courage at thy breath Leap up among the ashes of despair. Thou hast returned to save us! Thou shalt have The maid; and thou shalt lead my host again! Priest, I command you give her back to him.
Rezon	O master, I obey thy word as thou Hast ever been obedient to the voice Of Rimmon. Let thy fiery captain wait Until the sacrifice has been performed, And he shall have the jewel that he claims. Must we not first placate the city’s god With due allegiance, keep the ancient faith, And pay our homage to the Lord of Wrath?
Benhadad	Sinking back upon his throne in fear. I am the faithful son of Rimmon’s House⁠— And lo, these many years I worship him! My thoughts are troubled⁠—I am very old, But still a King! O Naaman, be patient! Priest, let the sacrifice be offered.
	The High Priest lifts his rod. Gongs and cymbals sound. The curtain is rolled back, disclosing the image of Rimmon; a gigantic and hideous idol, with a cruel human face, four horns, the mane of a lion, and huge paws stretched in front of him enclosing a low altar of black stone. Ruahmah stands on the altar, chained, her arms are bare and folded on her breast. The people prostrate themselves in silence, with signs of astonishment and horror.
Rezon	Behold the sacrifice! Bow down, bow down!
Naaman	Stabbing him. Bow thou, black priest! Down⁠—down to hell! Ruahmah! do not die! I come to thee,
	Naaman rushes toward her, attacked by the priests, crying “Sacrilege! Kill him!” But the soldiers stand on the steps and beat them back. He springs upon the altar and clasps her by the hand. Tumult and confusion. The King rises and speaks with a loud voice, silence follows.
Benhadad	Peace, peace! The King commands all weapons down! O Naaman, what wouldst thou do? Beware Lest thou provoke the anger of a god.
Naaman	There is no God but one, the Merciful, Who gave this perfect woman to my soul That I might learn through her to worship Him, And know the meaning of immortal Love. Whom God hath joined together, all the Powers Of hate and falsehood never shall divide.
Benhadad	Agitated. Yet she is consecrated, bound, and doomed To sacrificial death; but thou art sworn To live and lead my host⁠—Hast thou not sworn?
Naaman	Only if thou wilt keep thy word to me! Break with this idol of iniquity Whose shadow makes a darkness in the land; Give her to me who gave me back to thee; And I will lead thine army to renown And plant thy banners on the hill of triumph. But if she dies, I die with her, defying Rimmon.
	Cries of “Spare them! Release her! Give us back our Captain!” and “Sacrilege! Let them die!” Then silence, all turning toward the King.
Benhadad	Is this the choice? Must we destroy the bond Of ancient faith, or slay the city’s living hope! I am an old, old man⁠—and yet the King! Must I decide?⁠—O let me ponder it!
	His head sinks upon his breast. All stand eagerly looking at him.
Naaman	Holding her in his arms. Ruahmah, my Ruahmah! I have come To thee at last! And art thou satisfied?
Ruahmah	Looking into his face. Belovèd, my belovèd, I am glad Forever! Come what may, the only God Is Love⁠—and He will never part us.

Endnotes

Note that this scene is not intended to be put upon the stage, the effect of the action upon the drama being given at the beginning of Act IV. ↩

Colophon

The House of Rimmon
was published in 1908 by
Henry van Dyke Jr.

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