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 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. 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 that 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 the fishers have found in the twilight of the sea, the coral that they keep for 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! Speak not such words to him. I cannot suffer them. . . . Princess, Princess, speak not 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 beating of the wings of the angel of death, and hath he not come, the angel of death?
Salomé Let me kiss thy mouth.
Jokanaan Daughter of adultery, there is but one who can save thee. It is He of whom I spake. Go seek Him. He is in a boat on the sea of Galilee, and