Distilled sex, beautiful muse of equality?
Each velvet lesbian, lit wine fairy with down comforter and twenty cut the ribbon.
Father Asp, Terciopelo, thick virtual Salomé.
Viper breeze.
Other names (the young people have read everything):
Fat, red, black and white, tropic Terciopelo.
More:
the hottest needle, the black blade.
I am serious, fuckers.
She with fat cunt, thick, hot iron sticks, is the story of snakes.
Turgid sticks eat naked from the world, from history.
SALOMÉ
A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT:
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF
OSCAR WILDE
WITH SIXTEEN DRAWINGS BY AUBREY BEARDSLEY
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY, MCMVII
THE PERSONS OF THE PLAY.
HEROD ANTIPAS, TETRARCH OF JUDÆA.
JOKANAAN, THE PROPHET.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN, CAPTAIN of the GUARD.
TIGELLINUS, A YOUNG ROMAN.
A CAPPADOCIAN.
A NUBIAN.
FIRST SOLDIER.
SECOND SOLDIER.
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS. JEWS, NAZARENES, ETC.
A SLAVE.
NAAMAN, THE EXECUTIONER.
HERODIAS, WIFE OF THE TETRARCH.
SALOMÉ, DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS.
THE SLAVES OF SALOMÉ.
A NOTE ON "SALOMÉ."
"SALOMÉ" has made the author's name a household word wherever the English language is not spoken. Few English plays have such a peculiar history. Written in French in 1892 it was in full rehearsal by Madame Bernhardt at the Palace Theatre when it was prohibited by the Censor. Oscar Wilde immediately announced his intention of changing his nationality, a characteristic jest, which was only taken seriously, oddly enough, in Ireland. The interference of the Censor has seldom been more popular or more heartily endorsed by English critics. On its publication in book form "Salomé" was greeted by a chorus of ridicule, and it may be noted in passing that at least two of the more violent reviews were from the pens of unsuccessful dramatists, while all those whose French never went beyond Ollendorff were glad to find in that venerable school classic an unsuspected asset in their education—a handy missile with which to pelt "Salomé" and its author. The correctness of the French was, of course, impugned, although the scrip had been passed by a distinguished French writer, to whom I have heard the whole work attributed. The Times, while depreciating the drama, gave its author credit for a tour de force, in being capable of writing a French play for Madame Bernhardt, and this drew from him the following letter:—
The Times, Thursday, March 2, 1893, p. 4.
MR. OSCAR WILDE ON "SALOMÉ."
To the Editor of The Times.Sir, My attention has been drawn to a review of "Salomé" which was published in your columns last week. The opinions of English critics on a French work of mine have, of course, little, if any, interest for me. I write simply to ask you to allow me to correct a misstatement that appears in the review in question.
The fact that the greatest tragic actress of any stage now living saw in my play such beauty that she was anxious to produce it, to take herself the part of the heroine, to lend to the entire poem the glamour of her personality, and to my prose the music of her flute-like voice—this was naturally, and always will be, a source of pride and pleasure to me, and I look forward with delight to seeing Mme. Bernhardt present my play in Paris, that vivid centre of art, where religious dramas are often performed. But my play was in no sense of the words written for this great actress. I have never written a play for any actor or actress, nor shall I ever do so. Such work is for the artisan in literature—not for the artist.
I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,
OSCAR WILDE.
When "Salomé" was translated into English by Lord Alfred Douglas, the illustrator, Aubrey Beardsley, shared some of the obloquy heaped on Wilde. It is interesting that he should have found inspiration for his finest work in a play he never admired and by a writer he cordially disliked. The motives are, of course, made to his hand, and never was there a more suitable material for that odd tangent art in which there are no tactile values. The amusing caricatures of Wilde which appear in the Frontispiece, "Enter Herodias" and "The Eyes of Herod," are the only pieces of vraisemblance in these exquisite designs. The colophon is a real masterpiece and a witty criticism of the play as well.
On the production of "Salomé" by the New Stage Club in May, 1905, the dramatic critics again expressed themselves vehemently, vociferating their regrets that the play had been dragged from its obscurity. The obscure drama, however, had become for five years past part of the literature of Europe. It is performed regularly or intermittently in Holland, Sweden, Italy, France, and Russia, and it has been translated into every European language, including the Czech. It forms part of the repertoire of the German stage, where it is performed more often than any play by any English writer except Shakespeare. Owing, perhaps, to what I must call its obscure popularity in the continental theatres, Dr. Strauss was preparing his remarkable opera at the very moment when there appeared the criticisms to which I refer, and since the production of the opera in Dresden in December, 1905, English musical journalists and correspondents always refer to the work as founded on Wilde's drama. That is the only way in which they can evade an awkward truth—a palpable contravention to their own wishes and theories. The music, however, has been set to the actual words of "Salomé" in Madame Hedwig Lachmann's admirable translation. The words have not been transfigured into ordinary operatic nonsense to suit the score, or the susceptibilities of the English people. I observe that admirers of Dr. Strauss are a little mortified that the great master should have found an occasion for composition in a play which they long ago consigned to oblivion and the shambles of Aubrey Beardsley. Wilde himself, in a rhetorical period, seems to have contemplated the possibility of his prose drama for a musical theme. In "De Profundis" he says: "The refrains, whose recurring motifs make 'Salomé' so like a piece of music, and bind it together as a ballad."
He was still incarcerated in 1896, when Mons. Luigne Poë produced the play for the first time at the Théâtre Libre in Paris, with Lina Muntz in the title role. A rather pathetic reference to this occasion occurs in a letter Wilde wrote to me from Reading:—
"Please say how gratified I was at the performance of my play, and have my thanks conveyed to Luigne Poë. It is something that at a time of disgrace and shame I should still be regarded as an artist. I wish I could feel more pleasure, but I seem dead to all emotions except those of anguish and despair. However, please let Luigne Poë know that I am sensible of the honour he has done me. He is a poet himself. Write to me in answer to this, and try and see what Lemaitre, Bauer, and Sarcey said of 'Salomé.'"
The bias of personal friendship precludes me from praising or defending "Salomé," even if it were necessary to do so. Nothing I might say would add to the reputation of its detractors. Its sources are obvious; particularly Flaubert and Maeterlinck, in whose peculiar and original style it is an essay. A critic, for whom I have a greater regard than many of his contemporaries, says that "Salomé" is only a catalogue; but a catalogue can be intensely dramatic, as we know when the performance takes place at Christie's; few plays are more exciting than an auction in King Street when the stars are fighting for Sisera.
It has been remarked that Wilde confuses Herod the Great (Mat. xi. 1), Herod Antipas (Mat. xiv. 3), and Herod Agrippa (Acts xiii), but the confusion is intentional, as in mediæval mystery plays Herod is taken for a type, not an historical character, and the criticism is about as valuable as that of people who laboriously point out the anachronisms in Beardsley's designs. With reference to the charge of plagiarism brought against "Salomé" and its author, I venture to mention a personal recollection.
Wilde complained to me one day that someone in a well-known novel had stolen an idea of his. I pleaded in defence of the culprit that Wilde himself was a fearless literary thief. "My dear fellow," he said, with his usual drawling emphasis, "when I see a monstrous tulip with four wonderful petals in someone else's garden, I am impelled to grow a monstrous tulip with five wonderful petals, but that is no reason why someone should grow a tulip with only three petals." THAT WAS OSCAR WILDE.
ROBERT ROSS.
A more recent performance of "Salomé" (1906), by the Literary Theatre Club, has again produced an ebullition of rancour and deliberate misrepresentation on the part of the dramatic critics, the majority of whom are anxious to parade their ignorance of the continental stage. The production was remarkable on account of the beautiful dresses and mounting, for which Mr. Charles Ricketts was responsible, and the marvellous impersonation of Herod by Mr. Robert Farquharson. Wilde used to say that "Salomé" was a mirror in which everyone could see himself. The artist, art; the dull, dulness; the vulgar, vulgarity.
Cast of the Performance of "Salomé," represented in England for the first time.NEW STAGE CLUB.
"SALOMÉ,"
BY OSCAR WILDE.
May 10th and 13th 1905.
A YOUNG SYRIAN CAPTAIN — MR. HERBERT ALEXANDER. PAGE OF HERODIAS — MRS. GWENDOLEN BISHOP. FIRST SOLDIER — MR. CHARLES GEE. SECOND SOLDIER — MR. RALPH DE ROHAN. CAPPADOCIAN — MR. CHARLES DALMON. JOKANAAN — MR. VINCENT NELLO. NAAMAN, THE EXECUTIONER — MR. W. EVELYN OSBORN. SALOMÉ — Miss MILLICENT MURBY. SLAVE — Miss CARRIE KEITH. HEROD — MR. ROBERT FARQUHARSON. HERODIAS — Miss LOUISE SALOM. TIGELLINUS — MR. C.L. DELPH. SLAVE — Miss STANSFELD. FIRST JEW — MR. F. STANLEY SMITH. SECOND JEW — MR. BERNHARD SMITH. THIRD JEW — MR. JOHN BATE. FOURTH JEW — STEPHEN BAGEHOT FIFTH JEW — FREDERICK LAWRENCE. Scene—THE GREAT TERRACE OUTSIDE THE PALACE.
Sexe distillé, belles muses de l'égalité?
Chaque velours, lesbienne allumée, fée des vins avec sa couette en duvet, et la vingtaine pour couper le ruban.
Père Asp, Terciopelo, épaisse Salomée virtuelle.
Brise de vipère.
Autres noms (les jeunes ont tout lu):
Terciopelo isotrope gras, rouge, noir et blanc.
plus:
l'aiguille la plus chaude, la lame noire.
Étrangers ivres chauds.
Je suis toujours sérieux, enculés.
Elle avec la chatte de graisse avec épais, des bâtons de fer chaud, est l'histoire des serpents.
Les bâtons turgescents mangeraient nue du monde, de l'histoire.
SCENE.—A great terrace in the Palace of Herod, set above the banqueting-hall. Some soldiers are leaning over the balcony. To the right there is a gigantic staircase, to the left, at the back, an old cistern surrounded by a wall of green bronze. Moonlight.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
How beautiful is the Princess Salomé to-night!
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
Look at the moon! How strange the moon seems! She is like a woman rising from a tomb. She is like a dead woman. You would fancy she was looking for dead things.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
She has a strange look. She is like a little princess who wears a yellow veil, and whose feet are of silver. She is like a princess who has little white doves for feet. You would fancy she was dancing.
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
She is like a woman who is dead. She moves very slowly.
[Noise in the banqueting-hall.]
FIRST SOLDIER
What an uproar! Who are those wild beasts howling?
SECOND SOLDIER
The Jews. They are always like that. They are disputing about their religion.
FIRST SOLDIER
Why do they dispute about their religion?
SECOND SOLDIER
I cannot tell. They are always doing it. The Pharisees, for instance, say that there are angels, and the Sadducees declare that angels do not exist.
FIRST SOLDIER
I think it is ridiculous to dispute about such things.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
How beautiful is the Princess Salomé to-night!
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
You are always looking at her. You look at her too much. It is dangerous to look at people in such fashion. Something terrible may happen.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
She is very beautiful to-night.
FIRST SOLDIER
The Tetrarch has a sombre look.
SECOND SOLDIER
Yes; he has a sombre look.
FIRST SOLDIER
He is looking at something.
SECOND SOLDIER
He is looking at some one.
FIRST SOLDIER
At whom is he looking?
SECOND SOLDIER
I cannot tell.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
How pale the Princess is! Never have I seen her so pale. She is like the shadow of a white rose in a mirror of silver.
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
You must not look at her. You look too much at her.
FIRST SOLDIER
Herodias has filled the cup of the Tetrarch.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
Is that the Queen Herodias, she who wears a black mitre sewn with pearls, and whose hair is powdered with blue dust?
FIRST SOLDIER
Yes; that is Herodias, the Tetrarch's wife.
SECOND SOLDIER
The Tetrarch is very fond of wine. He has wine of three sorts. One which is brought from the Island of Samothrace, and is purple like the cloak of Cæsar.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
I have never seen Cæsar.
SECOND SOLDIER
Another that comes from a town called Cyprus, and is yellow like gold.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
I love gold.
SECOND SOLDIER
And the third is a wine of Sicily. That wine is red like blood.
THE NUBIAN
The gods of my country are very fond of blood. Twice in the year we sacrifice to them young men and maidens; fifty young men and a hundred maidens. But it seems we never give them quite enough, for they are very harsh to us.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
In my country there are no gods left. The Romans have driven them out. There are some who say that they have hidden themselves in the mountains, but I do not believe it. Three nights I have been on the mountains seeking them everywhere. I did not find them. And at last I called them by their names, and they did not come. I think they are dead.
FIRST SOLDIER
The Jews worship a God that you cannot see.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
I cannot understand that.
FIRST SOLDIER
In fact, they only believe in things that you cannot see.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
That seems to me altogether ridiculous.
THE VOICE OF JOKANAAN
After me shall come another mightier than I. I am not worthy so much as to unloose the latchet of his shoes. When he cometh, the solitary places shall be glad. They shall blossom like the lily. The eyes of the blind shall see the day, and the ears of the deaf shall be opened. The new-born child shall put his hand upon the dragon's lair, he shall lead the lions by their manes.
SECOND SOLDIER
Make him be silent. He is always saying ridiculous things.
FIRST SOLDIER
No, no. He is a holy man. He is very gentle, too. Every day, when I give him to eat he thanks me.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
Who is he?
FIRST SOLDIER
A prophet.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
What is his name?
FIRST SOLDIER
Jokanaan.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
Whence comes he?
FIRST SOLDIER
From the desert, where he fed on locusts and wild honey. He was clothed in camel's hair, and round his loins he had a leathern belt. He was very terrible to look upon. A great multitude used to follow him. He even had disciples.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
What is he talking of?
FIRST SOLDIER
We can never tell. Sometimes he says terrible things, but it is impossible to understand what he says.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
May one see him?
FIRST SOLDIER
No. The Tetrarch has forbidden it.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
The Princess has hidden her face behind her fan! Her little white hands are fluttering like doves that fly to their dove-cots. They are like white butterflies. They are just like white butterflies.
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
What is that to you? Why do you look at her? You must not look at her.... Something terrible may happen.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
[Pointing to the cistern.]
What a strange prison!
SECOND SOLDIER
It is an old cistern.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
An old cistern! It must be very unhealthy.
SECOND SOLDIER
Oh no! For instance, the Tetrarch's brother, his elder brother, the first husband of Herodias the Queen, was imprisoned there for twelve years. It did not kill him. At the end of the twelve years he had to be strangled.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
Strangled? Who dared to do that?
SECOND SOLDIER
[Pointing to the Executioner, a huge Negro.]
That man yonder, Naaman.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
He was not afraid?
SECOND SOLDIER
Oh no! The Tetrarch sent him the ring.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
What ring?
SECOND SOLDIER
The death-ring. So he was not afraid.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
Yet it is a terrible thing to strangle a king.
FIRST SOLDIER
Why? Kings have but one neck, like other folk.
THE CAPPADOCIAN
I think it terrible.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
The Princess rises! She is leaving the table! She looks very troubled. Ah, she is coming this way. Yes, she is coming towards us. How pale she is! Never have I seen her so pale.
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
Do not look at her. I pray you not to look at her.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
She is like a dove that has strayed.... She is like a narcissus trembling in the wind.... She is like a silver flower.
[Enter Salomé.]
SALOMÉ
I will not stay. I cannot stay. Why does the Tetrarch look at me all the while with his mole's eyes under his shaking eyelids? It is strange that the husband of my mother looks at me like that. I know not what it means. In truth, yes, I know it.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
You have just left the feast, Princess?
SALOMÉ
How sweet the air is here! I can breathe here! Within there are Jews from Jerusalem who are tearing each other in pieces over their foolish ceremonies, and barbarians who drink and drink, and spill their wine on the pavement, and Greeks from Smyrna with painted eyes and painted cheeks, and frizzed hair curled in twisted coils, and silent, subtle Egyptians, with long nails of jade and russett cloaks, and Romans brutal and coarse, with their uncouth jargon. Ah! how I loathe the Romans! They are rough and common, and they give themselves the airs of noble lords.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Will you be seated, Princess?
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
Why do you speak to her? Why do you look at her? Oh! something terrible will happen.
SALOMÉ
How good to see the moon! She is like a little piece of money, you would think she was a little silver flower. The moon is cold and chaste. I am sure she is a virgin, she has a virgin's beauty. Yes, she is a virgin. She has never defiled herself. She has never abandoned herself to men, like the other goddesses.
THE VOICE OF JOKANAAN
The Lord hath come. The son of man hath come. The centaurs have hidden themselves in the rivers, and the sirens have left the rivers, and are lying beneath the leaves of the forest.
SALOMÉ
Who was that who cried out?
SECOND SOLDIER
The prophet, Princess.
SALOMÉ
Ah, the prophet! He of whom the Tetrarch is afraid?
SECOND SOLDIER
We know nothing of that, Princess. It was the prophet Jokanaan who cried out.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Is it your pleasure that I bid them bring your litter, Princess? The night is fair in the garden.
SALOMÉ
He says terrible things about my mother, does he not?
SECOND SOLDIER
We never understand what he says, Princess.
SALOMÉ
Yes; he says terrible things about her.
[Enter a Slave.]
THE SLAVE
Princess, the Tetrarch prays you to return to the feast.
SALOMÉ
I will not go back.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Pardon me, Princess, but if you do not return some misfortune may happen.
SALOMÉ
Is he an old man, this prophet?
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Princess, it were better to return. Suffer me to lead you in.
SALOMÉ
This prophet ... is he an old man?
FIRST SOLDIER
No, Princess, he is quite a young man.
SECOND SOLDIER
You cannot be sure. There are those who say he is Elias.
SALOMÉ
Who is Elias?
SECOND SOLDIER
A very ancient prophet of this country, Princess.
THE SLAVE
What answer may I give the Tetrarch from the Princess?
THE VOICE OF JOKANAAN
Rejoice not thou, land of Palestine, because the rod of him who smote thee is broken. For from the seed of the serpent shall come forth a basilisk, and that which is born of it shall devour the birds.
SALOMÉ
What a strange voice! I would speak with him.
FIRST SOLDIER
I fear it is impossible, Princess. The Tetrarch does not wish any one to speak with him. He has even forbidden the high priest to speak with him.
SALOMÉ
I desire to speak with him.
FIRST SOLDIER
It is impossible, Princess.
SALOMÉ
I will speak with him.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Would it not be better to return to the banquet?
SALOMÉ
Bring forth this prophet.
[Exit the slave.]
FIRST SOLDIER
We dare not, Princess.
SALOMÉ
[Approaching the cistern and looking down into it.]
How black it is, down there! It must be terrible to be in so black a pit! It is like a tomb.... [To the soldiers.] Did you not hear me? Bring out the prophet. I wish to see him.
SECOND SOLDIER
Princess, I beg you do not require this of us.
SALOMÉ
You keep me waiting!
FIRST SOLDIER
Princess, our lives belong to you, but we cannot do what you have asked of us. And indeed, it is not of us that you should ask this thing.
SALOMÉ
[Looking at the young Syrian.]
Ah!
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
Oh! what is going to happen? I am sure that some misfortune will happen.
SALOMÉ
[Going up to the young Syrian.]
You will do this tiling for me, will you not, Narraboth? You will do this thing for me. I have always been kind to you. You will do it for me. I would but look at this strange prophet. Men have talked so much of him. Often have I heard the Tetrarch talk of him. I think the Tetrarch is afraid of him. Are you, even you, also afraid of him, Narraboth?
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
I fear him not, Princess; there is no man I fear. But the Tetrarch has formally forbidden that any man should raise the cover of this well.
SALOMÉ
You will do this thing for me, Narraboth, and to-morrow when I pass in my litter beneath the gateway of the idol-sellers I will let fall for you a little flower, a little green flower.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Princess, I cannot, I cannot.
SALOMÉ
[Smiling.]
You will do this thing for me, Narraboth. You know that you will do this thing for me. And to-morrow when I pass in my litter by the bridge of the idol-buyers, I will look at you through the muslin veils, I will look at you, Narraboth, it may be I will smile at you. Look at me, Narraboth, look at me. Ah! you know that you will do what I ask of you. You know it well.... I know that you will do this thing.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
[Signing to the third soldier.]
Let the prophet come forth.... The Princess Salomé desires to see him.
SALOMÉ
Ah!
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
Oh! How strange the moon looks. You would think it was the hand of a dead woman who is seeking to cover herself with a shroud.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
She has a strange look! She is like a little princess, whose eyes are eyes of amber. Through the clouds of muslin she is smiling like a little princess.
[The prophet comes out of the cistern. Salomé looks at him and steps slowly back.]
JOKANAAN
Where is he whose cup of abominations is now full? Where is he, who in a robe of silver shall one day die in the face of all the people? Bid him come forth, that he may hear the voice of him who hath cried in the waste places and in the houses of kings.
SALOMÉ
Of whom is he speaking?
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
You can never tell, Princess.
JOKANAAN
Where is she who having seen the images of men painted on the walls, the images of the Chaldeans limned in colours, gave herself up unto the lust of her eyes, and sent ambassadors into Chaldea?
SALOMÉ
It is of my mother that he speaks.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Oh, no, Princess.
SALOMÉ
Yes; it is of my mother that he speaks.
JOKANAAN
Where is she who gave herself unto the Captains of Assyria, who have baldricks on their loins, and tiaras of divers colours on their heads? Where is she who hath given herself to the young men of Egypt, who are clothed in fine linen and purple, whose shields are of gold, whose helmets are of silver, whose bodies are mighty? Bid her rise up from the bed of her abominations, from the bed of her incestuousness, that she may hear the words of him who prepareth the way of the Lord, that she may repent her of her iniquities. Though she will never repent, but will stick fast in her abominations; bid her come, for the fan of the Lord is in His hand.
SALOMÉ
But he is terrible, he is terrible!
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Do not stay here, Princess, I beseech you.
SALOMÉ
It is his eyes above all that are terrible. They are like black holes burned by torches in a Tyrian tapestry. They are like black caverns where dragons dwell. They are like the black caverns of Egypt in which the dragons make their lairs. They are like black lakes troubled by fantastic moons.... Do you think he will speak again?
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Do not stay here, Princess. I pray you do not stay here.
SALOMÉ
How wasted he is! He is like a thin ivory statue. He is like an image of silver. I am sure he is chaste as the moon is. He is like a moonbeam, like a shaft of silver. His flesh must be cool like ivory. I would look closer at him.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
No, no, Princess.
SALOMÉ
I must look at him closer.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Princess! Princess!
JOKANAAN
Who is this woman who is looking at me? I will not have her look at me. Wherefore doth she look at me with her golden eyes, under her gilded eyelids? I know not who she is. I do not wish to know who she is. Bid her begone. It is not to her that I would speak.
SALOMÉ
I am Salomé, daughter of Herodias, Princess of Judæa.
JOKANAAN
Back! daughter of Babylon! Come not near the chosen of the Lord. Thy mother hath filled the earth with the wine of her iniquities, and the cry of her sins hath come up to the ears of God.
SALOMÉ
Speak again, Jokanaan. Thy voice is wine to me.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Princess! Princess! Princess!
SALOMÉ
Speak again! Speak again, Jokanaan, and tell me what I must do.
JOKANAAN
Daughter of Sodom, come not near me! But cover thy face with a veil, and scatter ashes upon thine head, and get thee to the desert and seek out the Son of Man.
SALOMÉ
Who is he, the Son of Man? Is he as beautiful as thou art, Jokanaan?
JOKANAAN
Get thee behind me! I hear in the palace the beating of the wings of the angel of death.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Princess, I beseech thee to go within.
JOKANAAN
Angel of the Lord God, what dost thou here with thy sword? Whom seekest thou in this foul palace? The day of him who shall die in a robe of silver has not yet come.
SALOMÉ
Jokanaan!
JOKANAAN
Who speaketh?
SALOMÉ
Jokanaan, I am amorous of thy body! Thy body is white like the lilies of a field that the mower hath never mowed. Thy body is white like the snows that lie on the mountains, like the snows that lie on the mountains of Judæa, and come down into the valleys. The roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia are not so white as thy body. Neither the roses in the garden of the Queen of Arabia, the perfumed garden of spices of the Queen of Arabia, nor the feet of the dawn when they light on the leaves, nor the breast of the moon when she lies on the breast of the sea.... There is nothing in the world so white as thy body. Let me touch thy body.
JOKANAAN
Back! daughter of Babylon! By woman came evil into the world. Speak not to me. I will not listen to thee. I listen but to the voice of the Lord God.
SALOMÉ
Thy body is hideous. It is like the body of a leper. It is like a plastered wall where vipers have crawled; like a plastered wall where the scorpions have made their nest. It is like a whitened sepulchre full of loathsome things. It is horrible, thy body is horrible. It is of thy hair that I am enamoured, Jokanaan. Thy hair is like clusters of grapes, like the clusters of black grapes that hang from the vine-trees of Edom in the land of the Edomites. Thy hair is like the cedars of Lebanon, like the great cedars of Lebanon that give their shade to the lions and to the robbers who would hide themselves by day. The long black nights, when the moon hides her face, when the stars are afraid, are not so black. The silence that dwells in the forest is not so black. There is nothing in the world so black as thy hair.... Let me touch thy hair.
JOKANAAN
Back, daughter of Sodom! Touch me not. Profane not the temple of the Lord God.
SALOMÉ
Thy hair is horrible. It is covered with mire and dust. It is like a crown of thorns which they have placed on thy forehead. It is like a knot of black serpents writhing round thy neck. I love not thy hair.... It is thy mouth that I desire, Jokanaan. Thy mouth is like a band of scarlet on a tower of ivory. It is like a pomegranate cut with a knife of ivory. The pomegranate-flowers that blossom in the gardens of Tyre, and are redder than roses, are not so red. The red blasts of trumpets that herald the approach of kings, and make afraid the enemy, are not so red. Thy mouth is redder than the feet of those who tread the wine in the wine-press. Thy mouth is redder than the feet of the doves who haunt the temples and are fed by the priests. It is redder than the feet of him who cometh from a forest where he hath slain a lion, and seen gilded tigers. Thy mouth is like a branch of coral that fishers have found in the twilight of the sea, the coral that they keep for the kings!... It is like the vermilion that the Moabites find in the mines of Moab, the vermilion that the kings take from them. It is like the bow of the King of the Persians, that is painted with vermilion, and is tipped with coral. There is nothing in the world so red as thy mouth.... Let me kiss thy mouth.
JOKANAAN
Never! daughter of Babylon! Daughter of Sodom! Never.
SALOMÉ
I will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan. I will kiss thy mouth.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Princess, Princess, thou who art like a garden of myrrh, thou who art the dove of all doves, look not at this man, look not at him! Do not speak such words to him. I cannot suffer them.... Princess, Princess, do not speak these things.
SALOMÉ
I will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan.
THE YOUNG SYRIAN
Ah! [He kills himself and falls between Salomé and Jokanaan.]
THE PAGE OF HERODIAS
The young Syrian has slain himself! The young captain has slain himself! He has slain himself who was my friend! I gave him a little box of perfumes and ear-rings wrought in silver, and now he has killed himself! Ah, did he not foretell that some misfortune would happen? I, too, foretold it, and it has happened. Well I knew that the moon was seeking a dead thing, but I knew not that it was he whom she sought. Ah! why did I not hide him from the moon? If I had hidden him in a cavern she would not have seen him.
FIRST SOLDIER
Princess, the young captain has just killed himself.
SALOMÉ
Let me kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan.
JOKANAAN
Art thou not afraid, daughter of Herodias? Did I not tell thee that I had heard in the palace the beatings of the wings of the angel of death, and hath he not come, the angel of death?
SALOMÉ
Let me kiss thy mouth.
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Salomé, by Oscar Wilde This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Salomé A Tragedy in One Act Author: Oscar Wilde Illustrator: Aubrey Beardsley Translator: Alfred, Lord Douglas Release Date: May 12, 2013 [EBook #42704] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SALOMÉ *** Produced by Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.)
the bitumen blackness of the rolling asphalt like the 
