THE HOUSE OF RIMMON

A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS

BY

HENRY VAN DYKE

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

1908

COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY

HENRY VAN DYKE

All rights reserved

Published in October

THE HOUSE OF RIMMON

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

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! To-day 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

To-morrow 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 wide-spread 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.]

HAZAEL: [A lean, crafty man.]

Fear is a hot fire.

RAKHAZ: [A fat, pompous man.]

SABALLIDIN: [Young and frank.]

Cannot Naaman drive them back?

RAKHAZ: [Puffing and blowing.]

SABALLIDIN:

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

HAZAEL:

RAKHAZ:

IZDUBHAR:

HAZAEL:

RAKHAZ:

IZDUBHAR:

SABALLIDIN:

[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:

SHUMAKIM: [Balancing himself in front of them and chuckling.]