count me in,
Queen:
count me in, me too,
Stranger:
count me in, me too and me too
because it can’t happen otherwise.
Thorn Rose:
Me too, for clearly without me
it does not happen.
Stranger:
it does not happen No, it does not.
Thorn Rose:
But it can happen—
Stranger:
But it can happen— —yes, yes, it can.
Thorn Rose:
The longer we talk, the colder
our soup gets, so let’s break off here
and together go to dinner.
May I please have your arm?
Everyone:
Thus the affair came to an end
pleasantly and in wedded bliss.
* A chambermaid.
† Appetite comes with the eating.
CINDERELLA
A garden behind a house.
Cinderella:
I will not cry so that they scream
at me for crying. My crying,
not their screaming, is what’s awful.
When their hate doesn’t make me cry,
the hate is good and sweet like cake.
It would be a jealous black cloud
blotting out the sun if I cried.
No, if I cried, I’d feel the hate
so hard it wouldn’t be content
with mere tears. It would take my life,
a monster like that would eat me
dead. Its highly poisonous nature
is so lovely to me, the blithe
creature who never cries, who knows
no tears save only those of joy,
of only mindless happiness.
There is an imp inside my head
and he knows nothing of sadness.
Whenever they make me cry, there
cries this jolly sense inside me.
When they hate me, my joy loves them
that cannot even hate the hate.
When they come for me blind with rage,
with poison arrows of their wrath,
I smile like so. My presence shines
like the sun to theirs. Its bright ray
may not touch them, but in a flash
it will dazzle their wicked hearts.
And I, since I’m always occupied,
I really have no time for crying,
only laughter! Work laughs. Hands laugh.
They do. This soul laughs with a joy,
with what should win over the souls
of others no matter how stubborn.
Come heart, laugh my troubles away.
She wants to go. Her sister, in the window above.
First Sister:
That thing acts as if she were worth
looking at, standing there stock-still,
like a pillar in the sunlight,
splendor to the eye only she sees.
Get your lazy hide to the kitchen.
Do you no longer remember
your scant responsibilities?
Cinderella:
I’m going already, calm yourself.
Some reverie overwhelmed me
as I was on my way just now.
I was thinking of how pretty
you are, your darling sister too,
how you wear such pretty faces,
how it makes me more envious.
Forgive me and let me humbly
take my leave now.
She exits.
First Sister:
What a silly stupid dreamer.
We’re way too soft on her. The fake
secretly laughs us off, pulling
her sad face when we surprise her
laughing at us behind our backs.
From now on, I’ll give her the whip
for being so lazy on the sly.
That apron wraps her up in such
a dusty, black cloud. Then she dreams,
the hypocrite, who even now
stands idle. I will shortly go
and see that she gets back to work.
She closes the window.
Change of scene. A room in the royal palace.
Prince:
What makes me so melancholy?
Is my mind taking leave of me?
Is my life oppressed by remorse?
Is it in my nature to grieve?
Grief is sweet joy’s adversary,
which I feel when I’m miserable.
But from where intrudes this sly shame
on my abandoned wits? Neither
wit nor its friend insight can tell.
I simply bear it in silence
while it weighs on me.—Ah, music!*
Whose voice sounds so serenely clear?
Whatever it is, I kiss it
kissing me so impossibly.
In this sweet kiss lies tranquil calm.
Grief has fled. I hear nothing more
than this sound. I feel nothing more
than this lovely dance’s lesson
with my limbs. Could melancholy
dance with so light a step? Well there,
it’s flown out the door and I feel
wonderfully happy once more.
The Fool?
Fool:
It’s the Fool indeed and ever
the fool, it’s the fool of the realm,
the world’s fool and that dear sweet fool
who’d be nothing if not foolish,
the paragon of foolery,
a fool on Monday and likewise
Saturday night, a fool all told,
a fool for himself and for his lord,
a right humble fool for his lord.
Prince:
Now tell me something, what is grief?
Fool:
It is a fool, and who admits
it himself is no less a fool.
That you are its fool I can tell
by that bittersweet face of yours.
Oy, even your youth calls you fool
and so happens the fool himself.
Prince:
Is there not a cause for my grief?
Fool:
You are its cause, the soil from which
it gaily blooms. You are the scales
on which it weighs itself, the bed
on which it lies stretched out. There is
no other reason save yourself.
Prince:
How then can I escape this grief
when I am such a pool of it,
what I would dare call: grief itself?
Fool:
Does a fool have to tell you this?
Should foolishness be so lofty,
may I ask, over the head of
a well-bred man? Why? Admit it,
this thing ill suits that wit of yours.
Prince:
I have whipped my wit, I flog it
like a tired lazy dog no more.
Now it’s dead and it will never
wag its little tail anymore.
Fool:
I think it’s right that we switch clothes.
You are a fool and as a fool
I take you by the ear. Next slap
yourself on the head, call yourself
stupid, and then you must stoop low
to my jokes that ridicule you.
Is this what you want? Have you had
enough of majesty—really?
Prince:
I’d be happy to give them up.
However, for your cap and bells,
I cannot exchange my burden
that I would gladly throw away.
Fool:
Go hunting. A spirited steed,
the exultant call of the horns—
such glories this pastime contains,
to slay the thing that you mean here,
inconsolable grief, that is.
Prince:
Very well, I take your counsel
no more, no less than my father
takes his from his wise chancellor
when his own wisdom seems lacking.
Come, follow me. I shall exit
this scene like an old-fashioned prince
in a classic play. Today, Fool,
you are a fool in the best sense.
He exits.
Fool:
By the devil, that I can believe,
and for me it would be easy.
It doesn’t lack in flattery.
At heart, I am very flattered.
A prince well proves himself a fool
taking care not to be a fool.
I, who am not a prince, am lord
in the proper sense of the word,
for I am a master of wit.
My wit prevails over my lord,
who fell from his wit as my wit
raised him up to his princely state.
A prince with no fool is that wit
which will flop over and over.
I am buffoonery enthroned
above his station and scorning
a prince so in need of his fool.
And thus am I his fool indeed,
that I am for his foolishness.
Come, Fool, and let’s follow the fool.
He exits.
Change of scene. An avalanche in the forest.† The Prince on horseback.
Prince:
Down into the plain and raging,
like a storm-swollen stream. Trees fall
before the eyes. The heavens reel.
The world’s a joyous chase, a game
preserve for noble hunters, whose
minds range above earthly pursuits.
What cheer I feel, what sweet pluck,
how happy I am. This courage
makes my heavy soul feel light,
like a bird feels on the wing.
Right now, I feel like a painting—
lifeless, and yet so full of life,
fully in control, yet excited,
bitter and sweet. This carefree chase
is, indeed, the very image
of noble courage, which I serve now
with all my heart while forgetting
what’s so heartfelt. The forest is
my passion. It is my ballroom
where arms and legs feel joyfully
exercised. The trees are the rugs
and pillows at my father’s court.
How wonderfully they wrap me.
No dream could be more beautiful.
No picture sweeter than this art
a benevolent goddess painted herself.
Today was time spent like a warrior,
a moment so exquisitely fulfilled.
It’s a joy that goes by all too soon.
Change of scene. A large room with a gallery connected by a flight of stairs. Cinderella and the First Sister.
Cinderella:
Look down at my devotion.
Look, look. O my every feeling
is ready to be at your service.
It is like a dress-shop box
opened to show a gift within,
like a new fur to keep you warm.
O how warmly my heart serves you.
I beg you, boldly strike my hand
if even for a second I don’t
toe the line with the bat of your eye.
But this can never be for my one,
my sweetest joy is to serve you.
First Sister:
You stupid kitchen wench, not worth
the flogging you’d get from the whip.
Cinderella:
I’m always at your feet. I could
kiss your hand, that gentle hand,
the one that never strikes me
save for rightful punishment.
With your eyes, you regard me
like the sun. And I am the soil
that thrives on its merciful kiss,
on which nothing else ever can
as it lovingly blooms to you.
But, alas, loving I am not.
Indeed, I am devoid of love—
only my sister is the fairest,
yet not so beautiful as kind.
She is prettier than kindness.
What joy there to be at her feet,
devoted, to be her servant.
First Sister:
Stop prattling so much. The time spent
talking could be spent doing some work,
to put forth devoted effort.
Now take your hand off my dress!
Cinderella:
If I must serve devotedly
and I mustn’t require a hand,
with what shall I do my work?
Would it only get done in thoughts
on the fly, then this filthy hand
that angers you won’t be required.
My yearning would put your clothes on,
wait on you with the finest things.
Then my heart would be a servant,
one just gentle enough, perhaps.
So a joy for work works for you—
wouldn’t that surely work for you?
First Sister:
Would you shut up for once. And who
likes hearing all this chatter too.
Cinderella:
And who would—indeed—and my tongue
must work in a hurry with my hand
so that happiness keeps them both
out of breath. This way when a word
pops out of my mouth and would tempt
my hand, when such lures from the tongue
its abundance, my merry words
soon double what hands can do, like
words with fingers. Hand and voice kiss,
both married in the dearest way.
First Sister:
Both of them are lazy. And you,
their mistress, are as well. That’s why
you must always get a beating.
Off with you now.
She exits.
Cinderella (calling to her):
Beat me, beat me.
The Prince appears above in the gallery.
Prince:
I don’t know how I came into
this fairy tale. I only asked
for a drink the way hunters do.
However, these rooms here are such
eyes can’t see, the mind not easily
grasp. A glow floats upon the wall.
The scent of yellow roses spreads forth.
Like a soul it comes and goes
and solemnly takes my hand.
I stand still as if enchanted.
This thing clings to my senses.
Then this narrow space reopens.
The roof sways. This gallery dances
softly underfoot. What’s going on?
Ah, below is some sweet presence.
I will accept what this thing is
even if I can’t understand it.
Cinderella:
Whichever way I spin round
makes me act the wrong way.
This heart’s a ball in play!
And, like little balls, feelings roll
this way and that just for fun.
I, who should stop them,
am the object of this game.
This scares me, but at the same time
I have so little to worry about.
I laugh, but in my laughter
something’s serious, ominous,
which makes me laugh anew.
The seriousness it gives my work
is such frightful fun it would make
even bitter fate smile, which, I think,
isn’t easy. No, when I cried
my cares and troubles laughed at me.
I’d rather laugh them both away
into a dear and touching thing.
There’s still plenty of time left
to cry once ti
me itself cries.
Prince (leaning over the railing):
Are you a fairy tale, fair child?
Are your feet and hands such
that if I touched them their beauty
would disappear into thin air?
I beg of you as one who pleads
for mercy. Are you an image
and only appear as such?
Cinderella:
Sir! I am Cinderella.
See the dirt on my dress? It says so
as clear as does my mouth.
Prince:
You’re an angel. Tenderness,
as if embarrassed by that word’s
meaning, stammers you’re an angel.
What else could you be?
Cinderella:
A silly little thing
properly embarrassed,
who’d like to know who you are.
Prince:
You give and receive my answer
at the very moment you ask.
Cinderella:
No, don’t tell me. You’re a prince,
a king’s son. I can see that
in this lost creature who no longer
fits in our time. An ermine cape
is draped over your shoulders.
You carry a sword and lance
no longer in style. That’s what I see.
But I could be mistaken.
A king’s son, you are surely.
Prince:
Surely, just as you are to me
a bride.
Cinderella:
Did you say that I am your bride?
O don’t say that! It hurts me to see
myself mocked and so tenderly misloved
by such a well-meaning young man.
Prince:
I can already see a crown
shimmering, pressed into your hair,
an image before which art stands
aloof and love looks at a loss.
Cinderella:
Why did you come here then and how?
Prince:
This the fairy tale tells you last,
when on the dear fairy tale’s lips
this silence lies, when voice and sound,
color and noise, and waterfall
and lake and forest have faded.
When this happens, at once just how
will spring into your eyes. But then
why I am here I do not know.
Pity and tenderness are sly
spirits, indeed, whose work cannot
be divined. So simply be still.
Submit yourself to the stern fate
that has befallen you. It will
all come to an explanation.
Cinderella falls into contemplative sleep.
The King and Chancellor appear above in the gallery.
King:
Look, we have snared the griffin bird.‡
Now have I got my claws on you,
you rascal, you good-for-nothing.
Seeing it’s my son angers me.
Prince:
Hush, Father, don’t trouble yourself.
King:
I am not troubled by this son,
who stands there like a red-faced boy
at my reproach. Are you facing
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