Oscar Wilde

by Leonard Cresswell Ingleby

Apart from all questions of stage technique, Wilde had the incomparable gift of finding le mot juste, of conveying a portrait in half-a-dozen words. Could anything give one a more distinct portrait of Herod than Salomé's description of his "mole's eyes under his shaking eyelids," or would it be possible to explain Herod's passion for his stepdaughter in fewer words than her soliloquy: "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." There is not a word wasted or misplaced, there is not a superfluous syllable.

I have spoken of the influence of Flaubert or his language, but there was in Wilde a thoroughly Eastern love of colour which found its expression in sensuous richness of sound, jewelled words, wonderfully employed to effect a contrast with the horror in which he seemed to take a strange delight. The rich, decorative phrases only enhance the constant presence of the weird and macabre, while in its turn the horror gives an almost painful lustre to the words.

The play has been assailed as immoral, but this certainly is not so. The setting of an Eastern drama is not that of a Western, and the morals and customs of the East are no more to be judged by a Western standard than the Court of Herod to be compared with that of Edward the Seventh.

The play deals frankly with a sensuous episode, and if the author has introduced the proper atmosphere he is only doing in words what every artist does in painting. Compare "Salomé" with Shakespeare's one Eastern play, "Cleopatra," and though the treatment may be a little more modern, a trifle more decadent, the same non-morality rather than immorality is to be found in the principal characters.

I fancy that a great deal of the prejudice still existing in England against the play is due to the illustrations of the late Aubrey Beardsley. Beardsley was a personal friend of mine, and it, therefore, pains me to have to frankly confess that, clever and decorative as his drawings undoubtedly are, they are unhealthy in this instance, unhealthy and evil in suggestion. I can imagine no more pruriently horrible nightmare than these pictures of foul-faced, satyrlike men, feminine youths and leering women. The worst of Beardsley's women is that, in spite of their lubricity, they grow on one, and now and then one suddenly traces in their features a likeness to really good women one has known. It is as though something Satanic had been worked into the ripe-lipped face of a girl. Such as these might have been the emissaries of Satan who tempted anchorites of old to commit unpardonable sins. Moreover, many of the illustrations have nothing whatever to do with the text. I may be wrong, but I cannot for the life of me see what connection there is between "Salomé," the play, and "The Peacock Skirt" or "The Black Cape." Nor can I see the object of modernising the "Stomach Dance," save to impart an extra dose of lubricity into the subject. The leit motif of all Beardsley's art was to epater les bourgeois, to horrify the ordinary stolid Philistine, and he would hesitate at nothing, however outré, to attain this end. In these drawings he surpassed himself in that respect, and one can only wonder that a publisher was found daring enough to publish them. The subject is a painful one to me, but I should not have been doing my duty as a critic of the play had I not remarked upon it. An edition from which the drawings are omitted can, however, be bought to-day.

I have already commented on the vagueness of the directions as to the setting of the scene, and it may not be out of place to quote here a letter I have received from a well-known stage-manager on the subject. "You ask me how I would set the scene in question in accordance with the printed directions, and I reply frankly that I should be puzzled to do so even were the scene to consist of the banqueting hall with the balustraded terrace built up above it. The whole action of the piece takes place on the terrace, from which the actors are supposed to overlook the banqueting hall, so that the latter apartment need not be in view of the audience, but the gigantic staircase on the R. I confess fogs me. Where does it lead to, and, save for Herod's exit at the end of the play, of what use is it? It only lumbers up the stage, and looks out of place (to my mind, at anyrate) on a terrace.

"By the cistern I presume the author means a well, though how on earth the actor who plays Jokanaan is going to manage to scramble in and out of it with dignity so as not to provoke the hilarity of the audience is beyond my ken. I note that in the production of the opera at Dresden the printed directions were utterly ignored."

As has already been stated, "Salomé" was first written in French and subsequently translated into English by a friend of Oscar Wilde.

Reading it in the language in which it was originally written, one fact stands out pre-eminent—the work is that of a foreigner. The French, though correct and polished, is not virile, living French. It is too correct, too laboured; the writer does not take any liberties with his medium. The words have all the delicacy of marble statuary but lack the breath of life. I think it was Max Beerbohm who once said of Walter Pater (heaven forbid that I should agree with him) that he wrote English as though it were a dead language, and that is precisely what is the matter with Wilde's French. One longs for a tournure de phrase, a maniement de mots that would give it a semblance of native authorship. It is like a Russian talking French, and altogether too precise, too pedantically grammatical.

I believe the play was revised by Marcel Schwab, but although he may have corrected an error here and there he would hardly have liked to tamper with the text itself.