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Sunday
Today’s Gospel reading is the salacious story of Salomé, which has fascinated such artists as Gustave Flaubert, Oscar Wilde, Aubrey Beardsley, Richard Strauss, and countless painters. While I’ve long been an Oscar Wilde enthusiast, I read his one-act play for the first time yesterday and am still processing it.
First, for those who need a reminder, here’s the story as Mark tells it:
For Herod himself had sent men who arrested John, bound him, and put him in prison on account of Herodias, his brother Philip’s wife, because Herod had married her. For John had been telling Herod, “It is not lawful for you to have your brother’s wife.” And Herodias had a grudge against him, and wanted to kill him. But she could not, for Herod feared John, knowing that he was a righteous and holy man, and he protected him. When he heard him, he was greatly perplexed; and yet he liked to listen to him. But an opportunity came when Herod on his birthday gave a banquet for his courtiers and officers and for the leaders of Galilee. When his daughter Herodias [a.k.a. Salomé] came in and danced, she pleased Herod and his guests; and the king said to the girl, “Ask me for whatever you wish, and I will give it.” And he solemnly swore to her, “Whatever you ask me, I will give you, even half of my kingdom.” She went out and said to her mother, “What should I ask for?” She replied, “The head of John the baptizer.” Immediately she rushed back to the king and requested, “I want you to give me at once the head of John the Baptist on a platter.” The king was deeply grieved; yet out of regard for his oaths and for the guests, he did not want to refuse her. Immediately the king sent a soldier of the guard with orders to bring John’s head. He went and beheaded him in the prison, brought his head on a platter, and gave it to the girl. Then the girl gave it to her mother. When his disciples heard about it, they came and took his body, and laid it in a tomb.
In Wilde’s version it’s not Herodias the wife calling the shots but Salomé. Wilde has her fall in love with John out of what appears to be a spiritual hunger. As a material girl living in a material world, she is experiencing a terrifying lack. Either there are no gods (“The Romans have driven them out,” one character observes) or religion has become static and legalistic. Her father, meanwhile, is lecherous and her mother vengeful. No wonder she seeks out the imprisoned John the Baptist (a.k.a. Jokanaan):
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.
Although the imprisoned John is foul and in rags, Salomé finds a deep beauty in him:
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.
As a pampered princess, where she goes wrong is in thinking that what she longs for must be possessed. Her desire to kiss John becomes an obsession:
Salomé: 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.
Her young and handsome Syrian guard, who is in love with her, is so appalled at her preference that he kills himself. And she, when balked of her desire, chooses the only way she can think of to get what she wants:
Herod: What would you have them bring thee in a silver charger? Tell me. Whatsoever it may be, they shall give it you. My treasures belong to thee. What is it, Salomé?
Salomé [rising]: I ask of you the head of Jokanaan.
When Herod offers her anything else, from precious jewels to half his kingdom, she is resolute. After all, she has come to learn just how empty wealth and power are. Sadly, she does not realize that what she desires cannot be possessed. And this in spite of the fact that John has told her where she needs to look:
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?
And later:
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 He talketh with His disciples. Kneel down on the shore of the sea, and call unto Him by His name. When He cometh to thee (and to all who call on Him He cometh), bow thyself at His feet and ask of Him the remission of thy sins.
Salomé’s tragedy is that she doesn’t follow John’s advice but, blinded by her material understanding of the world, destroys the only man who tells her about a way out. In the end, she is ordered killed by her horrified and uncomprehending father.
Previous posts on Salomé
Carol Anne Duffy: Salomé the Morning After
Anne Killigrew: Salomé, a Female Revenge Fantasy
Tim Winton: This House Is Filling with Light
