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 time 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
some knave, me who came upon you,
that you dare speak in such a way?
Explain to the high crown right now
how you came here, right here, here and
now. Spit it out! Hey! Will I get
that stammering confession soon,
running circles around my ears?
Prince:
I neither wear a red face, nor
would I stammer as you believe.
Calm yourself down, Father, be still.
I have an announcement to make,
to you, the realm, the world. I am
engaged.
King:
How so?
Prince:
Yes, yes, engaged in every sense,
as one’s words can only convey,
a vow to pledge, so I’m engaged.
King:
Well! To whom?
Prince:
To a miracle who will not
be a miracle. A creature
such that only a girl can be,
but yet like a girl unheard of.
An image before which magic
takes a knee and rubs its blind eyes.
The divine is in the picture,
so it moves, has life, and belongs
to me as I to it. It’s a bond,
my father, not to be broken.
Blood was shared, and in ours no one
will see the sweetest love end.
King:
Come, Chancellor, come!
Prince:
Allow me to kiss your hand, let
love fall down and beg at your feet.
She’s the one I want to be mine,
who’s worth the throne in every sense.
She will be an embellishment
to our dynasty, a sweet joy
in old age. O chase this sunlight
not from the snow of your white head!
This girl you will warm to, and she’ll
enchant you as she enchants me.
King:
Silence, you have no idea
what I think where it concerns you.
Listen up, my son, I can wear
the face of a bull and I would
rather not have you on my horns.
Step aside, here in the black, so
we can have a word in the dark,
quietly resolve our discord.
Prince:
Don’t you want to see her?
King:
I came with her in my mind’s eye,
already caught up in this dream.
I feel quite well disposed toward her,
but don’t take this to mean that now
I’m no longer opposed to you.
Step to the side here and you will
learn my fatherly intentions.
They step back into the gallery so that only their heads
can
be seen.
Cinderella (upon awaking):
Now I would love to know if I
can feel around with these hands.
If it’s a dream, there is nothing.
For dreams, even if they please us,
they just aren’t worth getting up for.
I want to move this foot—like so—
and now this hand, and now the head.
The gallery above, from which
that sweet man leaned over to me,
is really and truly there, though
I don’t remember and can’t ask
how a prince came to bow to me.
Be what it will, this thing is not
so quick to be utterly doomed.
Maybe it never happened then.
I only just dreamt about it
in a dream while falling asleep.
But this head and that smile happened
as if in some reality
that was mine before sleep. Sleep has
made me mistrustful and timid.
It has ruined the game in which
I was so blissfully forlorn.
Now I’ll take a few steps and see
if I can still walk. My eyes go
around in a circle and see
everything spic-and-span, indeed
mysterious not in the least,
as I had wanted it. Well, this has,
everything thus far said, has time.
The sisters come.
Both sisters enter.
First Sister:
Hey, Cinderella!
Second Sister:
“Here,” she will say. “I’ll be right there.”
That will be her sorry excuse.
Cinderella:
Don’t be angry for I’m here now.
On my knees if you so desire,
kissing you hand and foot. Never
have I been so quick and ready
to serve, so happy to obey.
Please tell me what I am to do.
Second Sister:
Tie up the shoe here on my foot.
First Sister:
Go to the shoemaker for me.
Cinderella:
I will gladly jump for you soon,
but there’s a tie that binds me here.
And when I’m so bound, my zeal flies
away for the sister who makes
me go. Then upon my return,
only weariness shall stand
in my place to serve you anew.
You will never see me weary
so long as you don’t allow it.
Second Sister:
That is really laced up too tight,
you lazy clod, here! Take that!
She pushes her away.
First Sister:
Leave, make off with you, and don’t you
dawdle on the streets and corners.
Cinderella exits.
Prince (in the gallery):
Doesn’t that vain pair of sisters
brood there like hate and resentment?
How slender they are—beautiful
if their natures were not ravaged
by ignorance, livid envy.
Yes, like sinister clouds, they blow
around this sweet, sunny image,
their little sister, who is wholly
intimidated by their power
and no more knows to help herself.
This ought to be a fairy tale
for children—and grown-ups as well—
the two towers of fashion there
and their little deer they despise,
despised for being so beautiful.
Where would it flee? It’s fit to make
the leap only too well, I think.
That it flee from me I dread always.
Hey there, you sisters!
First Sister (looking around):
What does this big brute want?
Second Sister:
Look you, you are too crude for us.
Go about your nasty business,
rouse your dogs, clutch your big skewer,
go shoot a rabbit to death. Here’s
no place for such an ill-bred boy.
Prince:
Yes, indeed, all is good!
First Sister:
Leave the fool to himself, sister.
They speak to each other. Cinderella enters unnoticed.
Prince (softly):
You nightingale, you lovely dream,
you, above every fantasy,
a sublime apparition, see
how quick my hands come together
in their veneration of you.
The language must be a weasel
falling headlong when it wishes
that it didn’t lack words for her,
but it can see her poverty.
The wonder of her seals its lips:
in this way does love hold its breath.
Cinderella (smiling):
Hush—you throat-clearer—hush!§
Prince:
My father desires to see you
on his lap as his crowned child.
Cinderella:
Is he an older man? Is he
the country’s king?
Prince:
Yes, indeed he is. I’m his son.
Just now he called me a rascal,
who leads him around by his big nose.
Now he’s smiling and shedding tears
that stream down his big round full cheeks.
But when I asked him why he cried,
suddenly I’m a rapscallion,
a man ignorant of honor,
a thief of supreme majesty,
a perfect criminal. So I
keep quiet, quiet as a mouse,
and do not disturb his sleep
while he dreams of your elegance.
Cinderella:
And if he does, will he not still
admit being a rascal to you?
Prince:
Absolutely.
Cinderella:
Now hide yourself.
The Prince returns to his previous position.
Cinderella:
Laugh quietly my angels, who
hover in the air around me;
they point out at the heads up there,
the ones above this gallery,
which are somewhat half visible.
Just look at that gigantic crown
that deserves such a hearty laugh.
Look at that knotted knitted brow.
Now behold the head of a youth
and think hard about who it is;
the Prince, assuredly, it is not.
His head perhaps, but it’s not, too;
because surely a half a head
cannot be taken for the head.
The nice thing about this charade
is that you must laugh in silence,
quite softly so that no one hears,
especially not my sisters,
who exist apart from laughter,
who would be taken aback, and
yet don’t feel it. Indeed, there is
someone sleeping in the great hall.
It’s as if empathy were packed
in a matchbox. I am tired too
from putting all this into words.
This gallery column right here
will do as my little cradle.
She leans on a column.
Fairy Tale, fantastically garbed, appears from behind the Prince’s and the King’s back.
Fairy Tale (whispering):
Cinderella!
Cinderella (stepping forward):
Well, now what’s this? Who are you? Speak!
Fairy Tale:
I am Fairy Tale, from whose lips
everything spoken here resounds,
from whose hand these images’ charm,
which here enchant, take flight, and go,
that can wake your feelings of love
with sweet gifts intended for you.
Observe, these dresses will make you
the most beautiful young lady,
place the hand of the Prince in yours.
Look at the way this one sparkles,
how this one flashes. Precious stones,
pearls, corals readily desire
to adorn your breast, to fetter
gracefully neck and arm. Take them,
and do take it, the entire outfit.
She lets the dress fall to the ground.
If it should feel too tight on you,
don’t worry, an elegant dress
presses itself tight to one’s limbs,
eagerly fitting the body.
Now, let us move on to the shoes.
I believe that you have small feet,
very petite, the kind he likes.
Won’t you be wanting shoes as well?
She holds them up high.
Cinderella:
You’re blinding me.
Fairy Tale:
I came here to put fear in you.
The people don’t believe in me,
but so what when just my nearness
makes them think a little again.
These shoes are silver but as light
as swan’s down. I simply ask you
to hold them nimbly in your hands.
She throws them into Cinderella’s hands.
Cinderella:
Oh!
Fairy Tale:
Don’t taunt your sisters with them.
Be noble with such noble splendor
while comporting yourself just so,
as your nature obligates you.
Cinderella:
O, I promise you.
Fairy Tale:
You are a dear, sweet child worthy
of this fairy tale. Do not kneel!
I beg you, if I am dear to you,
kneel for her, whom I kneel before.
Cinderella (kneeling):
No, let me. Gratefulness surely
feels itself divinely enriched.
Fairy Tale:
It is due to your mother that
I come to you. Such a woman
as lovely as her lives no more,
ornamented by such virtue
that virtue was made lovelier
than her, the loveliest—alive
no longer save, perhaps, in you.
You have what’s sweetest about her,
something that makes women divine,
this alluring serenity
which exists in a noble mind,
this inexpressible something
before which brave men kneel. Be still.
Put on that dress now in silence.
Slip into the palace tonight.
You know the rest of the story.
It’s been dreamt long enough. This scene
must come to life now. To wonder
shall bring fear. And the fairy tale
goes on until its end, its home.
She exits.
Cinderella:
Now quick, lest the sisters catch me
too soon and suffer my lost time
too late. Some whim would rather still
linger here, but a lucky girl
can no longer marry a knave,
she who must flee with her rich things,
hide them. Some whim would rather still
smile here, and yet this happiness,
this smiling, is laughing me onward.
Hurry, lest the Prince see me like this!
She exits.
Prince:
Hey, Cinderella!
King:
The night has come, let us go home.
Prince:
I must be here forever.
Three girls dressed as pages appear.
First Page:
How funny I feel in these clothes.
They have made me look like a boy.
Second Page:
Mine tingles. It snags. It itches.
It’s an unnameable feeling.
It kisses my entire body.
First Page:
As I pulled them on over me,
a fire blasted me in the face.
I wear them now, but I don’t know
how I will ever keep them on.
Third Page:
I feel like doing what boys will do.
I want to jump, to laugh, to twirl
my arms and my legs to and fro
and yet I can’t. Like a sin they
are squeezing my fair young body,
they are causing me to grow stiff.
First Page:
But not even for a kingdom
would I not love to feel such fear.
To me they hurt so well and so
pleasurably at the same time.
Second Page:
When the heavens and the earth lay
one atop the other, they’d feel
half so tightly pressed together
compared to this attire and me.
First Page:
Girls, the Prince calls.
Prince:
What do you want? Why are you here?
First Page:
To grace the scene the way your dream
and the fairy tale desire it.
For decoration we have draped
the gallery in precious cloth.
Now we’ll spray perfume everywhere
to fill the room with its scent.
Now we’ll light the candelabra
and make the night as bright as day.
If you still have further orders,
tell us.
Second Page:
Shall we assemble the people
to applaud this celebration?
Prince:
No, it’s not that kind of party,
not what you think, needing people,
one that is framed by their shouting.
We’ll have a party with ourselves,
a totally silent party,
where the public voice gets nothing
to trumpet and the world nothing
to concern itself. Heedlessness
celebrates here, a festive mood
filling our hearts, without worry.
Nor would we make much of a crowd
for any bothersome fellow,
since we would have no need of pomp
or vain splendor, which here never
has to see to our happiness.
I feel such silent happiness,
such a sweet and holy feeling,
that to think about a party
feels reprehensible to me.
I already felt festive here,
even before you brought candles
to light the feast. An anxious joy,
who’s half ashamed and half happy,
who’s an untold bundle of nerves,
who doubts in her success, she is
the party-giver here.
Third Page:
Just this slender column’s to do,
my lord, spinning me like a bride.
Prince:
Now do me this favor and leave.
For your service, accept my thanks.
First Page:
These are well-bred pages, taking
leave when there is no longer need.
Second Page:
Come away. This Prince’s page is
only a dream.
The pages exit.
Prince:
I conduct myself in a dream
so much now, I can handily
submit to a foreign power.
Is what I see before my eyes
my possession? Am I indeed
not set up as though in a game?
Haven’t I sat here long enough,
while nothing will move me forward?
I really think I am going mad
and all this, what is around me,
seems no less through the agency
of magic. However, as said,
I want domination, shackles.
My blood, although it is princely,
feels very well under such bonds,
more than well. I would love to shout,
I’d love to shout with such a voice
that the echo would fade away
above the whole world. O how nice
bondage is here that otherwise
darkens the place in which it reigns.
I have never felt so anxious
for the miraculous image
that comes when the story’s over.
The end of this thing here must be
a miracle, for it makes me
suffer to wait so. Hey, Father!
King:
This is getting painful. Come home.
Prince:
My home will be forever here.
I feel every single moment
like a kiss. The passage of time
touches my cheeks caressingly,
my senses draw toward this perfume.
I will cling to this world here
as she to me. I will not come
away, not ever.
King:
And what if I order you now?
Prince:
You’ve neither say nor power here.
I give myself the final word.
I confer the power on me
that says not to listen to you.
Forgive me, Father, in me is
a rebellious, youthful impulse,
one you had too when you were young.
I’ll stay and wait here till life stirs.
King:
Well must I too. But this hand has
yet to be extended, has yet
to forgive you for your speech.
Prince:
It is so infinitely dear
to forgive, so sweet to the one
who does so over and over.
That you’d likely forgive me
I knew for certain.
King:
What blather!
Prince:
I will forget that this strikes me
as very strange, so that even
anticipation keeps silent
and her conduct is still concealed
by a question. Yes, I am here
in a place so well beloved
that I can perhaps be patient.
But I am bothered by one thought:
Just where is Cinderella now?
Eh? What if she doesn’t return?
What if she totally forgot
just where her empathy belongs?
This is improbable but not
unlikely. That which is likely
is a wide world, and that a thing
happened was already likely,
even while seeming unlikely,
is almost beyond my grasp too.
And what is likely beyond me
is still as good as being likely.
So be it. I will get a grip
on myself. It befits someone,
especially men, to be proud.
But what is the fear in pride then,
what affects it so? And such pride,
what could it be worth to yourself?
No, I wish to weep, that this child
far from me so long has a chance.
I want to think that only this
will ever be.
King:
I fear while I stand here idle,
my state totters. Let it sink
into chaos. The fairy tale
draws to an end and tickles
my fancy; afterward will I
be the divine order once more.
Government enjoys its sleep too,
and the father of the law is
only human.
Prince:
I would willingly hold my breath
to hear her step all the better.
Yet she has such a light footstep
that even this inkling can’t tell
when she approaches. O, she draws
near, here to this impatient sense,
whose muscles tear themselves apart
to feel her near. The way being near
can be so sweet when it concerns
the lover, and how brutal she is
when something bad intrudes on us.
Here only something lovely should
really be intruding, and yet
this is never the way of love.
She’s silent where she must forget;
she doesn’t have this loud echo
that signals falsehood. O, she is
rich, and words aren’t necessary
to remember her by; surely,
O surely this dearest creature
cannot be far. My feeling says
this with spirit. Just the patience
to not evade who bides her time
is the one thing I think about.
I must stand here, standing as firm
as if some word could order me.
Lovers happily wait. To dream
of the beloved makes time fly.
What is time but just a quarrel
of impatience now becalmed?
What’s that shining there upon me?
He comes down from the gallery.
King:
I don’t know what is the matter,
why I’m married to silence here.
I’m too old for marriage. Reason
scolds me, points its finger at me,
laughing out loud, but what’s so wrong?
Of course I’m old and have a right
to be foolish. The indulgence
goes very sprightly with white hair
in general. I indulge my son
to play the guardian bravely.
Out of caprice, which at my age,
you know, limps behind. I’ll drop it,
as the spirit of youth would want.
I’m falling asleep—fatigue sits
well in my silver hair, like sleep
to a mind old and head-shaking.
Prince (below, with a shoe in his hand):
I see this thing as a portent
to approaching glory and love.
It’s a shoe for a shapely foot.
It speaks of a pleasing nature
as if it had a mouth, a gift
for eloquence. And these fine jewels
do not belong to her sisters,
who have turned to stone over there.
Where would they get such a foot too,
so narrowly shaped for this shoe?
Just whom could it belong to then?
I don’t want to face this question.
It scares me. Could it really be?
Does it belong to the girl? No,
I torture myself needlessly.
Who would give her silver and gold,
who would give her such royal jewels?
And yet some inkling speaks to me
of Cinderella, which reveals
her strange behavior, her distance,
her style. Magic, as I well know,
is a possibility here.
I want to want it, for I can’t
hold it, cannot get a grasp.
He climbs up the staircase reflectively, stalking Cinderella above in a maid’s dress, carrying the Fairy Tale’s gifts in her arms.
Cinderella:
Could you still be here yet, my Prince?
Prince:
I am still here, my charming child,
only to behold you once more.
What have you there?
Cinderella:
See, it’s a beautiful dress! Look
greedily at this majesty.
Such would bring joy to a king’s eye.
Prince:
Who gave you that?
Cinderella:
O that wouldn’t interest you much.
I don’t even know exactly.
It’s enough this sweet thing is mine
and that I can put it on now
if I wanted to. But—
Prince:
But—
Cinderella:
I no more do.
Prince:
What has made you so strangely cold?
Who clouded the lake of your soul
with silt, so that it looks so dark?
Cinderella:
I myself, and so just be still,
please put aside your noble wrath.
There will be no more hurting here.
Only—
Prince:
What? Tell me, love!
Cinderella:
Only that something still pains me:
among all these lovely things here
something is still missing. I must be
missing the left shoe—ah, that’s it,
that’s it, of course.
Prince:
Well, of course—and is this one yours?
Cinderella:
How can you ask? It is just like
its brother here on the table.
So then I have this splendid gift
in full, and so I can go forth.
Prince:
Wearing that around your body,
right, that around your fair body?
Cinderella:
No, don’t!
Prince:
What’s gotten into you suddenly?
Cinderella:
So suddenly—what is it then?
Prince:
That you don’t love me anymore?
Cinderella:
I don’t know whether I love you.
Yet again it’s clear I love you,
for what kind of girl would not love
the high station and manliness,
the nobility, the fine cast?
I love your majesty that is
so patient and awaits my own.
I am touched that you, you alone
have shown such compassion for me.
Something touches me to the quick.
I’m nervous all of a sudden.
I stand utterly, miserably
exposed here. The least little breeze
will blow my heart into a storm,
to be so still soon afterward,
the same way it lies outspread now,
just like a peaceful, sunlit lake.
Prince:
Does your heart really feel like this?
Cinderella:
Like this and different. What one word
might express. Our language sounds
far too crude for expressing this.
Music is required to better
say this over and over. It,
it is playing.
Music.
Prince:
Listen, what lovely dance music.
Desire rises, swells inside me,
and I can no longer bear it,
that we stand here ever longer,
dithering. Come, let me lead you
in dance. Our ball begins here now,
with our own magic power. Drop
that silver-heavy burden, come.
Cinderella:
In this dress, my lord, full of filth
and covered with stains? So you want
to dance with a kitchen apron,
hold on tight to its soot and dust?
I would be thinking otherwise,
before I did such a thing.
Prince:
Not me.
He carries her down the steps. When he is below:
A princely pair dances.
They dance. After a few rounds, the music stops.
Cinderella:
Look, look!
Prince:
Like it’s telling us to be still.
Cinderella:
It wants this too. It’s a very
sensitive creature, not wanting
its sound to be lost in the dance.
It proves our imagination
is alive: we dance in a dream
as well as if it were real. In this case
a dance doesn’t want to be danced,
to make noise. Empathy can dance,
too without foot and without sound.
Quiet, for we must listen, it’s
what the music wants of us too!
The music begins anew.
Prince:
Listen, as sweet as any dream.
Cinderella:
Yes, it is a dream, so subtly
causing the dream to stir in us.
O, how it can’t bear a wide room.
It escapes into the silence,
where it moves nothing but the air
slowly back and forth. Let us sink
completely into its substance.
Thereafter we will forget what
we must forget. Let us seek out
the trail that leads to empathy,
the one we lost in our vulgar
passions. It will not be easy
to find this sweetness. It requires
infinite patience, like a sense
rarely achieved. It’s so easy,
like when we wish to comprehend
the incomprehensible. Come,
let’s rest serene.
Prince:
Your words ring as sweet as music.
Cinderella:
Hush, don’t disturb me in this thought
that, half resolved, gives me such pain.
Once it gets out, I’ll be happy
and cheerful, as you prefer me.
But it will never leave its cell,
this sense of being forsaken, which
I feel rising up in my heart.
It will fade away like a sound,
faint, guilty; and the memory
will never die. A part remains
with me until, perchance, there comes
some freak thing to save me from it.
Prince:
So what is this thought of yours then?
Cinderella:
Nothing, nothing at all—a whim.
When we hang on to a scruple
for much too long—something stupid—
yet that provides us with no end,
since a beginning, middle, end
are all but shifting things, never
with any sense, never, ever
knowing one’s heart. The end is:
I will be happy with you now.
Prince:
How you move me, and how you charm
me with your impulsivity,
which, with every indication,
has this noble bearing. We will
forget who and just what we are,
share happiness, like the anguish
we sincerely shared. You’re quiet?
Cinderella:
Rather the captured nightingale,
one who sits trembling in the snare,
forgetting the song she would sing.
Prince:
You sweet-talk me!
Cinderella:
I’m all yours, so frightfully yours
that you must lend me your body
to hide myself deep inside it.
Prince:
I shall offer you a kingdom—
Cinderella:
No, no!
Prince:
—a villa, in which you will dwell.
It is tucked deep in a garden.
Your view will come to rest on trees,
on flowers, the dense greenery,
on ivy garlanding the wall,
on a sky that sends you sunlight
more gorgeous than any other
as it pierces chinks in the leaves.
Moonlight there is more sensitive,
the tips of the pine trees tickle
it raw and tender. The birdsong
is to your ears a recital
inexpressibly beautiful.
As its mistress you will wander
through the art of the garden,
upon paths that, as though they had
empathy, part ways and rejoin
suddenly. Fountains brighten you,
the dreamer, whenever you dwell
in your thoughts too much. All of this
will come running to wait on you
and simply when it pleases you,
all feeling according to you,
all cheerfully subservient.
Cinderella:
You are teasing me. Isn’t it,
isn’t it true that I would feel
myself borne by hands? By your hand,
there is no doubt I’d be clinging
utterly and blissfully so.
But these dresses, which you see here,
I’m terribly in love with them.
I would have to put them aside,
no more to be Cinderella—
Prince:
Then you will have handmaidens and
wardrobes full of gorgeous dresses.
Cinderella:
Don’t I have that?
Prince:
All day long in silence you would
be left to yourself. Only when
desire drove you from the garden
to people and to greater noise,
as it met your stillness, would you
find in the palace murmuring
enough delight, glitter, splendor,
music, dance, frolic, what you will.
Cinderella:
This again would make for something
like a very pleasant and lovely
contrast to my solitude then.
Do you think so?
Prince:
Of course.
Cinderella:
How I love you. I cannot find,
in that wide, open, infinite
land of gratitude, one small word
to thank you. So let me, in place
of every way to express thanks,
kiss you, like so. O that was sweet.
Good, now that it is at an end.
Prince:
An end? To what?
Cinderella:
This leaping comes to an end now,
this dance with me. I’m not for you.
I am still engaged to myself.
Memory reminds me I’ve not
yet dreamed this love through to the end,
that something floats around me here,
something here, something that gives me
still much more to do. Don’t you see
the quiet sisters over there,
hard as stone, watching us amazed?
I feel sorry for them, although
they’re not worth feeling sorry for.
But that is not being true, it is
only said for my sake really.
I love them, who worked me so hard
and stern. I love the punishment
that was undeserved, those foul words,
so as to keep smiling brightly.
I get endless satisfaction.
It occupies me all day long,
gives me cause to leap and to see,
to think and to dream. And that is
the reason I am such a dreamer.
I was betrothed to you too soon.
You deserve someone better.
The fairy tale never tells this.
Prince:
The fairy tale wants it. It’s clear,
the fairy tale will see us wed.
Cinderella:
A wide-awake fairy tale is
inside this dreaming creature here.
And I couldn’t dream at your side!
Prince:
But, but—!
Cinderella:
No, not where I would be displayed
like I was a bird in a cage.
I couldn’t take that, not being able
to kiss.
Prince:
But if you want to see it fly,
should you not expend some effort
to chase after it? You only dream
when you have to catch a dream.
Cinderella:
How nice you understand me. True,
so true.
Prince:
Now, now, compose yourself. I know
you’re now going to put this dress on
that the fairy tale chose for you.
You were born to have such sweet things
and you can’t escape these fetters,
these ten thousand too many whims
that all rise up inside of you.
May I conduct you toward the door?
They stand up.
See, it would be a shame for you.
This fineness you have inside you
ordains that you will be my wife.
You cry?
Cinderella:
For I must follow you despite
the aforesaid and so gladly
will I follow you from now on.
Prince:
I ask very, very much.
Cinderella gathers up the dresses and exits.
Hey, Father!
King (from above):
What kind of a girl is that, son?
Prince:
Is she good enough now?
King:
As a goddess she shall ascend
to my throne. Her ennoblement
shall stir the land into music
and revelry. I’ll be right down
and proclaim it to our nation.
In the meantime she’ll come with you
amid rejoicing, which like incense
will lead, follow.
He exits.
Prince:
I’ll wait here until her return.
To Cinderella, who appears above in the gallery in her extravagant dress.
Ah, is it you?
Cinderella:
To serve you, lord.
Prince:
O dear, no! O how———
He leaps up the stairs toward her.
Cinderella:
Yes, yes.