The House of Rimmon

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.

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!

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 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.

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!

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!