The Illustrated Salomé in English & French (with Active Table of Contents), Page 2

  THE YOUNG SYRIAN. How beautiful is the Princess Salomé tonight!

  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 banquetting-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 tonight!

  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 tonight.

  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 someone.

  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 Csesar.

  THE CAPPADOCIAN. I have never seen Caesar.

  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 believe only 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 newborn child shall put his hand upon the dragons' lair and 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 russet 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 rive
rs, and the sirens have left the rivers, and are lying beneath the leaves in the forests.

  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 the 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 thing 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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow 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. The moon 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 incestuous-ness, 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 Judaea.

  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 Judaea, 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, 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, the 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 thread 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.