Act 3 — Scene II

Ah, here already, Vashti, at my poor Request, who dared defy a despot king's Command to come before him and his lords? Your beauty, radiant and spotless, grows Each hour of exiled life more potent still Than when it hurled an oriental crown, With all its flashing jewels, in the face Of brutal Xerxes rather than unveil Unto a drunken court of lustful eyes. Uncrowned, deposed, you are, yet thrice a queen!

The sting, the sting of your envenomed words!

Forgive me, dear, I do not mock your fate; No word of mine is spoke in scorn. I would Exchange the royal robe and crown I wear For just one hour of virtuous freedom that Belongs to you.

I can not understand!

I know; 'tis my misfortune, and I called You to the palace that I might explain. Yet every word seems cruel mockery. I do not blame you that your cheek, as chaste As lilies, blushes at my seeming shame. Yet, Vashti, can you not believe I need Your sympathy? I crave your high respect?

You must an explanation.

Well, did you Not sacrifice a queenship for the gem That every woman holds above a throne? How can we estimate your loss? The pomp That follows majesty; the crooking knee; Ten thousand minions at your beck and call; A thousand sycophantic, fawning lords; A hundred gleaming jeweled chandeliers; The radiance and rich magnificence Of court; long hours of revel and of wine; And then above the splendor and the show God's finger writing on the wall! Is this The precious price that you have paid?

This is The price.

Sweet friend, I thank you. Yes, your loss Has been my gain! Yet what reward have I? How I do hate the crown that you did spurn! O how I love the pearl of greatest price! God pardon my great sin! Vashti, I am A daughter of Rebecca and the blood Of Rachel pulses in my veins! Beyond The northern hills, within a valley green, A shepherd watches o'er his flocks to-night Beside a starlit stream, and dreams of her Who gave the promise of her hand when life Was young and all the earth was pure and fair. His love was constant as the northern star, And mine was like the needle pointing true. That day is but a sad remembrance now. I never knew the ones who gave me life. My uncle, Mordecai, who sits in state Beside the king instructed me in love And knowledge of my people. Every night, As well as every day, like Daniel, I Was taught to pray, my window open toward Jerusalem. God softened Cyrus' heart Because of Daniel's prayer. But, Vashti, you Must know from Persian Gulf to Caspian Sea, The sons of Jacob still in exile groan Beneath a tyrant's yoke. I hear the wail Of Rachel weeping for her children still; I hear my lover playing on his flute, Who waits the coming of a faithless bride! But Mordecai has stayed the hand of Death!

And you did eat your heart to save your blood?

You comprehend at last? Your sympathy, O Vashti, I must have, if not respect, Else can I not return unto the king. [Vashti weeps.] There, there, I thank you, sister, friend, proud queen! The tears that glitter on your cheeks are worth A diadem of sparkling Indian stones. But weep no more—your hand—for Esther's heart Can now endure, since Vashti understands! The stars are twinkling in the northern skies; They shimmer on the stream beyond the hills; The shepherd's reed is wailing on the breeze; The revels in the palace now begin; The call has come; I must no longer stay. The daughter of a Benjamite will lay Her heart upon the altar of her blood. Hear you the crimson riot in my veins? 'Tis Rachel's voice! I would that you could know! ······· Forgive me, Vashti, for my brain's distraught! The lights die out beyond the palace walls. The stars are hid.... I can no longer hear The wailing flute.... Return unto your hut. Ahasuerus calls with mantling wine. My place is yonder by the king. I go!

The last word has been spoken The last true song been sung; My country's heart is broken, The poet's harp unstrung.

Ahafid seems to harp upon his strings.

It seems Ahasuerus means to drink The cup of revel to its bitter lees.

The deeper in the cup he goes The sweeter is the wine that flows; The closer to the lees, he thinks, The purer is the wine he drinks.

Messengers from every province bring Reports of mutterings and dangerous Revolt. But Xerxes, heedless still, declares This night shall dim the glories of the past.

The lower in the lamp the oil The fewer are the days of toil. The brighter burns the wick of life, The sooner end the days of strife. 'Tis not for oil that Xerxes cares, But brilliancy of flame that flares.

I hate the Hebrews and their Jewish God; I hate Jehovah for his jealous love, But Mordecai refuses to attend The feast. The God of Israel must save Us now, or Persia perish utterly. My hand will pen no ribald verse This revel to adorn; Ye gods, inspire my tongue to curse The day the king was born.

The more he swears the less he sings, Then welcome is this news he brings; For listening to his song is worse Than hearing old Ahafid curse.

Persia's heart is beating low, Thinking of the long ago, When the king that wore the crown Was a prince of great renown; When her name without a peer Did inspire the world with fear; But to-night her sovereign's lust Trails her banner in the dust. Now my life is ebbing fast, Dreaming of the glorious past; Feeling all the shame and smart, Dying of a broken heart.