| Benhadad: | King of Damascus. | |
| Rezon: | High Priest of the House of Rimmon. | |
| Saballidin: | A Noble. | |
| Hazael | } | Courtiers. |
| Izdubhar | ||
| Rakhaz | ||
| 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 |
Soldiers, Servants, Citizens, etc., etc.
Scene: Damascus and the Mountains of Samaria.
Time: 850 B. C.
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 tell
And do not know! When comes your master home?
Nubta:
Lady, his armour-bearer brought us word,—
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 bring me word if Naaman appears!
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!
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.]
Rezon:
Tsarpi!
Tsarpi: [Bowing low before him.]
The mistress of the house of Naaman
Salutes 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 asks
The 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 here
By night, within the garden of the one
Who scorns you most and fears you least in all
Damascus.
Rezon:
Trust me, I repay his scorn
With double hatred,—Naaman, the man
Who stands against the nobles and the priests,
This powerful fool, this impious devotee
Of liberty, who loves the people 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.
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 hand
Of Tsarpi; and by this, the rod of Rimmon.
Tsarpi:
Your plan?
Rezon:
You know the host of Nineveh
Is marching now against us. Envoys come
To 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, led
By 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 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,
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 against
The lure of kisses and the wile of tears.
Rezon:
Where woman fails, woman and priest succeed.
Before the King decides, he must consult
The oracle of Rimmon. This my hands
Prepare,—and you shall read the signs prepared
In words of fear to melt the brazen heart
Of 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 infect
That sacred wine with poison, 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
A captive from the hills of Israel
To serve the heathen 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 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 Israel
In 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 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.
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
Our common foe.
Naaman:
And thou rememberest this?
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 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 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 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.
[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 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. 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 shalt 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.
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.
There 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!
[Exit Ruahmah: Naaman stands looking after her.]
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 counsellors
At 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 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 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 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?
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. We 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 old allies have left us. Can we face the 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 bricks
And 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 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 accept
The 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 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,
My King, we fight 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;
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 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 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,
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 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 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!
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.
Time: A week later
The fore-court 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 more than
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 wild words,
And rode with him to battle. Give us news,
Of your great captain! 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 leads the flood; and lo, our enemies
Were broken like a dam of river-reeds.
The flying King encircled by his guard
Was lodged like driftwood on a little hill.
Then Naaman, who led our foremost band
Of whirlwind riders, hammered through the hedge
Of spearmen, brandishing the golden yoke.
“Take back this gift,” he cried; and shattered it
On Shalmaneser's helmet. So the fight
Dissolved in universal rout; the King,
His chariots and his horsemen fled away;
Our captain stood 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 letter 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 he 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 dared to face the wrath of evil powers
Unknown, and hazard all to save his country.
[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! See, upon his brow,
This little mark, the death-white seal 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? I must obey.
Who can resist the gods? Yet none shall take
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!
O 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,
That thou 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 sovereign 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 shalt 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 finger-nail.
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, to-morrow, and go on
Together till we find the door of hope.
Come, come with me!