What's going on?

1 Well, it's a dance. Her step-father, seriously Numero Uno, asks her to dance. She refuses. He asks again, and again. He offers big, big money. He swears that he will give her what she asks for, up to half the kingdom (just to see her dance). So we listen to the preparatory music, and then she dances.

2 Now on a stage a seven-minute (or so) solo dance is a challenge. It's probably a particular challenge to opera singers. So far as I have seen, the performer can go round in circles, can go from side to side, and from front to back. Clothes on, clothes off? A question, and we're all waiting for the answer. Years ago Maria Ewing took off seven coverings and then stood naked, hands in the air. All in the cause of the development of the narrative, you understand. You see if Salomé was dressed for the part then it does look as if she expected the lascivious old step-dad to ask her, doesn't it? And not only that because it also looks as if she was prepared and knew what to do. It wasn't the first time she had danced for the old sod. Oh, no. Just listen to Herodias.

3 So she's dancing. Everyone is looking on. There's no talking on stage. And there's no talking in the auditorium. So what about the opera? What's going on? A mid-opera entertainment, according to the fashion of the ballet in La Traviata? What do we learn from these seven minutes, about seven percent of the total performance-time? Read on.

4 Yesterday evening, we learned what was going on. The on-stage onlookers were removed from our sight as the stage revolved. Undistracted, we watched the young woman and her step-father. We watched as she put on a dress and, with his help, took it off. We watched as he watched her and as they joined. A private display, a private pleasure. Lest we failed to read the performance, the backdrops explained. The libation too told us about soiling, about who had been soiled. So we learned that the invitation to 'Dance for me, Salomé' was not a first invitation. No, indeed. There had been previous dances, previous displays, previous pleasures. The presentation of the dance made sense. It was part of the development of the opera.

4.1 And it made things so much easier for the dancer. Instead of being required to perform a solo dance for seven minutes, the actor was now part of a duet, both members of the duet having a contribution to make to the developing story of a step-father's abuse of his power over his step-daughter.

5 Now, think afresh about the relationship between Salomé and the Baptist. Think afresh.

Preparing for Salomé

We are about to visit a shocking opera, shocking even for the worldly-wise. After all, the central line of the narrative is the abuse of a young girl by her father. Herod, most worldly-wise, is so keen that she should dance for him that he offers her anything she asks for, even half his kingdom. Of course, it will not have been the first time that she has danced for him. He knows what to expect; he knows that, if she does dance, the performance will be worth the price. And remember, she will dance for him in public. Herod's court is that sort of place.

Alongside the eroticism place the Baptist. The profane and the sacred. From the depths the Baptist thunders against the lasciviousness of the court. It is the young woman, brought up in the court, abused there, who responds. The one-sided contest begins. The young woman is armed with bare flesh and the prospect of unconstrained eroticism. The Baptist is armed with the certainties of the Word. Of course, it is the young woman, so lightly armed, who loses. Both lose, the Baptist his head, the young woman her life.

And we are to witness the contest, played out within the cruelities of the court.

Another fine bike ride

1 In Westerham, in the sun. In the sun, sitting outside a café, by a table on which rested a pot of tea, scones, butter, and jam. Yes, you’ve guessed. We were on our Sunday bike ride. A Sunday ride with a difference. At 0900, the time when a Forest Row Bike Club member, is preparing to leave the house, it was cold. A well-prepared biker was a well-covered one. No shorts, you understand.

2 Still, for some of us, as we awaited the main body, there was time to notice East Court, the Town offices, as it stood in the sunlight. A house, just as well sited on the rise, must have been enveloped in sunshine. And the large pig who came to the fence, and whose nose was tickled by one of us, also seemed to be at ease in the sun. Sunshine, bright light, bare trees, and a penetrating cold as we rolled down the first of the hills – we were on the way which would lead, eventually, to that time in the sun in Westerham.

3 Besides the cold, we had the ice to worry about. Once or twice, it made sense to walk carefully where it would have been impossible to ride carefully. Still, the swans on the lake seemed to be at ease with the lake. For a moment, it was possible to believe that the three of them had been caught in the ice, that they were waiting for the sun to bring them back to life.

4 Along familiar and unfamiliar lanes and narrow roads somewhere in Surrey, then in East Sussex, and then in Kent – a Three Counties ride. Easy riding, in the sun, the initial coldness having given away to a comfortable warmth, whilst moving. A horse was ahead, with a groomed tail that almost reached the ground. What a fine animal. Along the road by a reservoir. Bird-watchers on either side. One elderly man walked along with a large tripod and telescope; he was followed by an elderly woman – an evident pair – with the binoculars. The herons, meanwhile, just got on with whatever they were doing.

5 A T-junction. Doleful choices: Ide Hill to the left, a steep hill; York hill to the right, a steeper hill. Of course, our way was to the right. There was a long lead to the hill itself. We climbed about 100 metres, with the bulk of the rise being concentrated in a short horizontal distance. A large cog on the back wheel enabled one elderly rider to climb slowly to the point where the top was visible; from there, the only way really was up for to hesitate, to falter was to fall into the road.

6 To Westerham, to take our places, in the sun, outside the café. Churchill sat before us. He was 65 when he became Prime Minister (and Minister of Defence) in May 1940. Two years later, in late 1942, he was flown from London to Alexandria in a bomber, from there to Teheran, and on to Moscow. And back again. Long, noisy journeys for a man in his late 60s, but he carried them off well. He also had a 15-hour flight in a flying boat, an altogether different flying experience. He insisted, by the way, on being served his meals according to his ‘stomach time’. Beyond him, with his back to us, General Wolfe faced the oncoming traffic with a sword held high in the air. For the French, the loss of Quebec, in 1759, was a decisive event in the destruction of the French empire in North America. (The Peace Treaty, 1763, allowed the French to keep two small islands off Newfoundland, two islands which remain French to this day.)

7 For two of the group, the return journey began with a climb up Crockham Hill, then the vibrant swoop down the other side. To Edenbridge, to Marsh Green, to Dormansland, and the sharp climb up to East Grinstead. Fortyone good miles, 65 km. What another fine ride we were lead into. Many thanks to our leader.