The House of Rimmon

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