_The Same_. King Witte, _the_ Chancellor _and other councillors and
nobles_. Hans Lorbass _stands guard at the door, spear in hand, at
ease._
_King_ [_embraces the_ Queen _and kisses her on the forehead. Comes
forward with her, but turns back irritably_]. What do you want?
_Chancellor_. My lord, while thou didst tread the forest paths,
following the hunt, a fierce onslaught of new trouble came swooping
down upon our land.
_King_. Trouble, always trouble! Mouldy, gray and blear, it lives far
longer than one's whole life! Must you, even in the daytime, din your
night-song in my ears?
_Chancellor_. This time--
_King_ [_mocking_]. "This time "--I wager the state will crack in
pieces! [_Turning to the_ Queen.] If they had naught at which to fear,
I should have naught at which to laugh!
_Queen_. Dear one--!
_King_. Hush! It makes me glow with anger, only to look upon these gray
countenances, gloomy as the grave, full of foreboding, heavy with woes,
and yet with that little glint of malice in their half-lowered lids.
Must I suck in these complaints that fall drop by drop upon me? I might
lay about me recklessly--but what am I to dare it?
_Queen_. All art thou, all darest thou, all hearts bow before thee!
Canst thou not guess their dumb entreaties, not understand their timid
longings? Look, they give thee so much, they give with open hands;
their love enfolds thee, blooms everywhere for thee to pluck! Go down
among them, then, step into their hearts, and speak, I beg thee,
graciously and kindly.
_King_ [_softened_]. I will try, thanks to thee! Speak, as thou knowest
me: why does this anger and this curse fall daily and hourly over me?
My friends, mislike me not for my impatience, for one thing I know
right well, that I stand deeply in your debt. And now, speak!
_Chancellor_. My lord, I speak--not trembling, for long necessity has
wonted us to terrors as to daily bread--of the fate which I have long
seen approaching, and which now stands thirsting for blood before us.
Duke Widwolf--
King [_starting_]. Duke Widwolf!
_Chancellor_. Is mustering an army!
King [_feigning calmness_]. What then?
_Chancellor_. He makes his boast that when the ice on the northern sea
has turned to sheeted foam, he will descend with full a hundred ships
and fall upon us like an avenging spirit.
_King_. The avenging spirit is a worthy part for him to play.
_Chancellor_. Still thou knowest this once he serves a righteous cause.
_King_. What sayest thou?
_Chancellor_. Is not this realm, O King, forfeit to him as a reward of
victory?
_King_. May the word choke thee! As a reward of victory? Oh, stands it
so with you, my lords? Do you stare at me? What means the scorn that
lurks in your eyes? Have I been here too long? Do you already rue your
act?
_Chancellor_. We rue it not, my King!
_King_. Say yes, say yes! Why so much pains with one who lay in the
dust, whom you so mercifully raised up that everyone might value me as
he chose, not as he must? Was it that I should fawn upon you, stroke
and caress and flatter you, and die, instead of that one death I owed
you, a thousand daily deaths?
_Chancellor_. Thou hast seen no hatred in us. A reflection of thine own
feeling has deluded thee.
_Coelestin_. And if thou hast heard the word guilt, it was but thus: let
me be guilty with thee! [Queen _nods gratefully to him._]
_King_. Very fine! Quite beautiful! Accept my thanks! Hans! Come here
and tell me what thou sayest to all this.
_Hans Lorbass_ [_comes forward boldly_]. Lord Chancellor and Lord House
Marshal, you nobles, councillors, and wise men all, who let yourselves
be plagued with doubts like flea-bites,--if you permit it I will say
one thing to you: between sin and punishment, between right and wrong,
between hate and love, and good and bad, between sand and sea, and
swamp and stone, between flesh of women and dead men's bones, between
desire and possession, between field and furrow,--he goes, a man of
men, straight through,--looking to neither right nor left!
_King_ [_with a smile of satisfaction_]. Good words, for which we shall
reward him. Yes, if you all thought with him, then I might bravely, out
of the fulness of-- Enough! We each do what befits us and what it was
decreed that we should do. We can no more. Time came upon us undesired
and unasked,--even to-day. Each of us drags listlessly our weight of
humanity unto the grave. Farewell my lords.... Lay by your letters. I
will prove, as it stands I will-- Yes, and give your wisdom air, my
dear friends, for it grows musty! [Coelestin, _the_ Chancellor, _and the
other nobles go out._] Hans, stay!
_King_. Well, my wife?
_Queen_. Thou lookest at me so earnestly.
_King_. I am smiling.
_Queen_. Yet sorrow looks from all thy features. My friend, I fear that
thou canst never learn to yield thyself up to this country.
_King_. Yield thyself, thou sayest. Belie thyself,--it is the same. To
me it is a polished farce, at which I play and play and play myself
quite out, entangled sleepily in fog and mist. But sometimes comes a
wandering south wind, and plays faintly with its wings upon my wearied
soul, striking vague and half-audible dream tones.
_Queen_. Thou torturest thyself.
_King_. And thee, my wife,--forgive! I look at thee and know that thou
hast long hung in imploring anguish on my neck; it shames me, for see,
I love thee!
_Queen_ [_repeats half dreamily_]. I love thee.
_The Voice of the Young Prince_. Papa.
_King_. Art thou still awake, my son?
_The Voice of the Young Prince_. Papa, may I come in?
_King_. Thou mayst. [_Enter the young_ Prince _with_ Anna Goldhair.]
_The Young Prince_ [_running to the_ King]. Papa, papa!
_King_. My boy, didst thou do well to leave thy bed and run with such
haste to thy playfellow?
_Queen_. He begged me, and I let him.
_King_. So then. [_To himself._] Now calm, quite calm!
_The Young Prince_ [_running to the door_]. Hans, did they shoot much?
_King_. Thy name is Anna with the golden hair?
_Anna Goldhair_ [_shyly_]. They call me Goldhair--but--
_King_. Let it be, it is true. [_To the_ Prince.] Come here!
_The Young Prince_. Yes, father.
_King_. Listen! If thou hast that in thee that seethes and bubbles and
strives to burst out, then smother it! When others take to themselves
the cream from off thy cup of life, do not curse and slay them! Smile
and be calm,--quite calm, there still remains in my breast, I fear, a
little of that former passion and unrest; I will employ it to shield
this calmness of thine.
_The Young Prince_. Have I been bad, father? When thou lookest at me
so, I am afraid.
_Queen_. Come!
_The Young Prince_. The father is angry.
_Queen_. The father jests.
_The Young Prince_. Good night!
_King_. Good night!
_Queen_. I cannot find the key that harmonizes with thy mood; though
once I knew how to resolve into harmony all the dissonance in the
world. Perhaps the knowledge will come back again.
_King_. Perhaps.
_Queen_. And good night! [_They clasp hands. The_ Queen, _the_ Prince,
_and_ Anna Goldhair _go out._]
_King_. No statue stands in the cathedral gates as stony as thou art.
Hatred grazes thee, envy seeks to belittle thy worth. But thou smilest
not. Thou movest in silent resignation, so tense, so ... Say, how canst
thou?
_Hans Lorbass_. I serve.
_King_. Is that the reason?
_Hans Lorbass_. A servant has no choice. Else had I torn from off its
nail my spear which the worms are conquering, burnished my shield and
mail, and with a shout of righteous anger which has gnawed its chain
for years, I would leap forth--where? Thou knowest, master!
_King_ [_smiling bitterly_]. What use? He serves a righteous cause.
_Hans Lorbass_. Master, I will not look longer upon this farce! Lay
about thee, kindle flames, slay, torture, make a harvest of the
people,--but laugh and feel thyself a man once more!
_King_. A man? A husband! That is the word! That is my office. And my
virtue. Wouldst thou soar? Then load a burden on thy back. Art thou
hungry? Then toss away thy food. Dost thou hear thy heart clamor within
thee after freedom? Seek a prison, and lay thee down therein.
_Hans Lorbass_. Dost thou hate her so?
_King_. Hate her? Her--from whose soul a mildness like honey drops on
mine? Her, in whose golden beauty the loveliness about her pales to a
shadow? If I knew a blot which she had hidden from me, a single grain
of dust upon the mirror of her soul, a single pretext however bald or
hollow, then I should have a weapon with which to pierce my shame, to
free me from this need of speaking out my humility--oh, might I hate
her, my God, it would be well for me! But at that glance of sorrowing
goodness with which she smiles on all our faults, all trace of defiant
courage dies in me, and I am weaponless because she is.
_Hans Lorbass_. Then come, escape!
_King_ [_smiling wearily_]. True, the door stands open.
_Hans Lorbass_. And when we have once passed the border, thou canst
learn to forget.
_King_. Perhaps! It may be! But can I learn to hope again? I went forth
a conqueror; joyous self-confidence was my companion on the way--my
bright horizon stretched itself to the boundless heavens. And now? I
wear a sickly crown, which did not fall to me as victor, but fell upon
me as I fell myself; and this fall has so sweated it to me that neither
help of hands nor curses, but only death itself can tear it from my
head.
_Hans Lorbass_. Well, at least thou hast it; thou hast a crown, thou
art king.
_King_. King am I? Wilt thou mock me? Dost thou think I am so besotted
as not to know my state? Yea, I might be king, were not the youth
already ripening to maturity for whom I guard his throne from harm
until he occupies it!
_Hans Lorbass_. But every man holds what he has and hopes to have, in
security, in pawn, as it were, for his children.
_King_. Yes, for his own, not for a stranger's.
_Hans Lorbass_. Then get some of thy own.
_King_. To beg their bread? Thou knowest that in this whole kingdom of
which I am king, there is not a single crust of bread, not a rag, that
I may call my own. It is all his.
_Hans Lorbass_. What is in thy head?
_King_. Say naught! A man may wear his shame, may panting draw it
draggled after him, and yet in spite of it he can hunger, thirst, and
draw his sword. But when he must say to himself besides: thou hast
squandered thy own happiness in shameful dalliance,--to whom then, dare
he show his face? Yes, thou canst do all!... Yet one thing thou canst
not do: thou never canst give back to the world its face of bloom. The
great festal day that lay red and golden over all the earth, on which I
closed my eyes when I lay down to rest, which roused me to joyous labor
with its fanfare, which cast on toil itself a glorious light,--that,
thou canst never bring back to me. Never.... Never again. The
spring-time gleams to-day in vain. In vain the blossoms crowd to show
their splendor to me, in vain do autumn's golden apples bow to my hand.
Another hand will pluck them, while I descend my narrow path, hedged in
with poverty, weighed down with despair, shut in with duties as with
graves, and see my own grave stretched across the end. Thus I go on and
on, so quietly,--yet all the time I stifle in my throat a cry, a
shriek,--oh, save me from my daily burden, friend!
_Hans_ [_to himself_]. A last hope,--but dare I venture it? I must.
Lest he languish and slip hither beneath my eye. [_Aloud._] Master, if
thou cherishest a grief, thou hast then forgot the talisman--
_King_. The what?
_Hans Lorbass_ [_watching him_]. The feathers thou didst once possess.
_King_ [_feeling in his breast. Angrily_]. Be still.
_Hans Lorbass_. Since thou still wearest them on thy heart, why--
_King_. Be still, I tell thee, churl!
_Hans Lorbass_ [_bursts out_]. Cursed be the churl that dog-like yields
himself to thee. Yet I will be thy dog, that I may howl, for at least I
have that right.
_King_. No one shall speak of them,--neither I nor thou. The door is
closed upon the past. All is done, is spent, and these feathers are
nothing but a mark of my violent downfall, a monument to my dead
longing.
_Hans Lorbass_. It is dead, then? It lives and cries aloud,--so loud
that even the deaf could hear! Have courage, wield the magic power, and
call thy unknown bride to thee.
_King_. Here?
_Hans Lorbass_. Where else? I trust in the charm thou hast wrung from
the witch-wife. I remember it well. [_Repeating_] "The first of the
feathers"--no, it is burned. [_Repeating_] "The second feather, mark it
well, shall bring her to thee in love; for when thou--burnest--it"--
[_Stops._]
_King_. "Alone in the dying glow, she must wander by night and appear
before thee."
_Hans Lorbass_. Well?
_King_ [_in great agitation_]. The thought thou hast thrown out in
faring jest, has lain a last hope, deep within my hearts shrinking
depths.
_Hans Lorbass_. Why hast thou when so devil-ridden, not yielded to the
strain?
_King_. Hast thou forgot what else she said?
_Hans Lorbass_. What she said--she spoke of the third feather.
_King_ [_repeating_]. "Until the third has perished in the flame, thy
hand stretched forth shall bless her"--
_Hans Lorbass_ [_going on_]. "but the third burning brings her death"--
_King_. Suppose she should come now and vanish again?
_Hans Lorbass_. But why?
_King_. Ask thyself what it means--my hand stretched forth shall bless
her--if I have and hold her? Would fate withdraw her gift a second time
and leave me no security? Does a new misery lie in wait behind the dark
disguise of these words? Thus I have delayed the deed, hoping I might
be new-redeemed, by my own strength, without the laming weakness of
enchantment, to see and win the woman of whom my soul has dreamed. All
that is past.... The broken pinion can no longer unfurl itself....
[_listening._] I hear laughter outside. What is it?
_Hans Lorbass_ [_lifting the curtain_]. Only our maidens, who sport
outside, modest and chaste as their land's innocence.
_King_. I will employ this hour of rest, while they dance there beneath
the birches, to set the charm to work, and call my long-dead happiness
as guest. Now go!
_Hans Lorbass_. Thou knowest, master, danger often comes from business
such as this.
_King_. Danger--for whom?
_Hans Lorbass_. Let me stay with thee! Crouched in the farthest
corner--
_King_. The charm says it must be done alone.
_Hans Lorbass_. Well then! I will hold a watch outside. [_Goes out._]
The King [_alone. Looks about distrustfully, then draws the feathers
from his corselet, puts one back and goes toward the fireplace with the
other_]. The fire dies down? Then thou canst strive to brighten it, as
thou hast the flames of my will.... Too late! Naught but this lazy,
luke-warm heap of sodden ashes. What is to be done now?--The torch,
a-flicker there! Though thy dim mocking glimmer has often frightened me
in the forest it smiles alluringly at me now. And look, above, the
parchments which so long have made my life a hell--now I know how to
use you! Out of the paper sorrows of my country I will kindle for
myself a glad new morning,--a new sun shall rise for me in their light!
[_He hurls the torch among the rolls and they take fire._] And now!
[_He tosses the feather into the flames. A violet lightning flashes
high above the stone chimney-piece. A light peal of thunder follows,
with a long roll like the noise of rattling chains. The door on the
right has sprung open. As the_ King _stares wildly about, the_ Queen
_enters, at first not seen by him, and stands with closed eyes near the
door._]
_King_ [_turning round_]. What wilt thou here?
_Queen_ [_opening her eyes_]. Didst thou not call?
_King_. I--call thee?... But hush!... No, nothing, nothing! No shadow
climbs the starred blue sky ... no light ... only the moon laughs in
the green water, and laughs ... and laughs.... The world is drained
quite empty. Thou hast done well, Maria ... thou holdest thy watch
faithfully. No spy could have done better.
_Queen_. I came because thou--
_King_. Hast called me? Was that it? I knew it well.
_Queen_. And if thou hadst not called--
_King_. Thou wouldst still have come, to see that no thief was gliding
up the steps of thy throne [_aside_] alone, alas, alone--a thief of
fortune, such as pious women like thyself, whose longings form but to
be granted, brew spectre-like in their porridge pots. Wouldst thou not?
_Queen_. For God's sake, what burns there?
_King_. My manhood! Let it burn, child, let it burn! While I sat
piously amid thy flock, there came a flame of piety upon me, burning
more fiercely than myself, and burned and burned, until I was consumed
with piety.... But thou, woman, that thou mayst know how in this dark
hour thou hast snatched the cup of freedom from my longing lips,--I ask
thee, woman, what have I done to thee? What have I done, that thy
love-longing--I will not mock, else I had said love-lust--should force
me, who was naught to thee, to grovel in the dust here at thy feet?
Now hast thou what thou wilt. Here stands thy spouse, the second
father of thy son,--thy mock, thy love potion and thy sleeping-draught,
catch-poll of the great, butt of the small, and to both a vent for
every scorn. Yes, gaze upon me in my pride! This am I, this hast thou
made of me!--speak, then, and stand not staring into space! Strike
back, defend thyself; that is the way with happy married folk.... Well?
_Queen_. Witte, Witte!
_King_. Well?
_Queen_. Witte, Witte!
_King_. So piteously thou callest me, child! Thus piteously stands thy
image in my soul's midst.
_Queen_. No more.
_King_. Well, then?
_Queen_. It is past. It must be past. Alas, how many a night have I
pictured myself thy happiness, thy refuge, thy solace,--oh, pardon me!
I had so much love to give to thee, so wholly lay my trembling soul
within thy hand, such streams of light and glory leaped and played
about me,--how could I know that what was so precious and so dear to me
was naught at all to thee? Now I know how I have deceived myself; it
grieves me sorely, and for many a year must I endure and sorrow. But to
thee I grant the one gift left for me to give,--thy freedom. Take it,
but ah, believe, I love thee!
_King_. Shall I be free, Maria?
_Queen_. Free; and more than that; thou shalt be happy. I shall know
thee so glad, so radiant, so buoyantly poised heaven-high above all
black necessity, whether here or far away, so unfalteringly turned
toward the light upon the eagle wing of thy desire, that a reflection
of thy radiance shall laugh into my lonely darkness.
_King_ [_takes her head between his hands and gazes at her steadily_].
Listen, Maria! Should I say: I thank thee,--how raw 'twould sound!...
And yet I feel thy meaning; as I drank in thy words, there slipped away
and fell from my breast a ... Maria, thou art weeping!
_Queen_ [_smiling_]. What slipped away, what fell? Thou art silent
again.
_King_. Look, what thou givest, thou Lady Bountiful, is not thine to
give. But thou hast given so freely of thy kindness, that at thy words
something like happiness itself flowers out of black necessity itself,
whose slave I am. I may not be free in very truth; but thou hast so
generously hidden my chains, so mercifully forborne all blame of my
weak struggle for self-redemption, that freedom's self seems near. I
welcome her, and feel new blood course through my tainted and
empoverished frame.
_Queen_. Why should I judge thee, and not rather love? For why else am
I thy wife?
_King_. Come here! Come to me! Sit down--nay, here!... How strange it
is! I thought to flee before thee, and only fled with all my pain
straight to thy arms.
_Queen_. So shouldst thou! And so long as thou needest me, so long will
I be at thy side.... But when thou sayest: "Enough! I ride abroad to
seek my happiness," then all silently will I vanish from thy path.
_King_. And thus thou gavest me thy life, without condition or return;
and with sweet service snatched me from the grave. But when I was whole
once more, I felt so confined within the hedge thy tenderness had built
about me, so twined about with thy gentle arms, so dazed by weakness
and by shame, that I seized eagerly, as on a penance, upon thy offered
throne. My deed seems voluntary now, and like a weak submission to the
fate that bore me, the faithless one, here to thy feet. Thou art no
less than I its victim,--then forgive me if for a moment I rebelled at
the sight of my last hope strewn to the winds.
_Queen_. We sit here hand in hand, and, third in our company sits
misery.
_King_ [_shaking his head_]. Nay, if a man has found a friend whose
voice is gentle, whose soul speaks harmony and keeps sweet accord with
his in that holy hour which turns our griefs to calm, whose love rings
true in sorrow and in joy,--such a man is far from deepest misery.
_Queen_. Thou speakest so gently now, and yet thou couldst speak so
cruelly before! Nay, I mean no reproach, no blame. I have hung so long
upon the hope of being thy happiness, that even the smallest change
upon thy face has become to me a consciousness of some fault of mine.
And when I saw a laugh in thine eye, a smile, or even a single friendly
beam, the whole broad world lay straightway in sunshine. Yet do not
tell me that I am too fond. It is not that ... or only a very, very
little. For look, I have a child; and my heart has the same gift for
him. Thou canst believe there was a struggle there. And just because I
yearned for thee so deeply, there fell a shadow over thine ... it was
the child's!
_King_. No.
_Queen_. I thought that he was dear to thee.
_King_. That he is. Yes.
_Queen_. How many times hast thou beguiled the time in play and frolic
with him, at all the little dreams that make his. Thou hast poured into
his the strength of thy own soul.
_King_. Let the child be. I love him, thou knowest it. A little
unwillingly, but what is that? He is not of my blood.... Let be. Speak
of thyself. With every word thou drawest a thorn out of my soul.
_Queen_. What shall I say? Am I so powerful, then? And yet--I am!
Thou gavest my power to me! Nay, before that--I learned it from a
gray-haired man. Still half a child, I owed my love to him; and gave
it, though as yet I knew not how to love.
[_The swinging maidens outside have begun to sing._]
_King_. Hark! What is that? Some one is singing. How their voices exult
together, as if they mocked the sound!... The air thrills as with the
tremulousness of virgin bells on Sunday from a far-off lonely height.
_Queen_ [_who has drawn aside the curtain. On the moonlit sward the
white-robed maidens are singing_]. Are they not fair, thy singing land,
thy moonlit house?
_King_. Come back! Let the curtain fall! Give me thy hand, and I will
drink therefrom a draught of deep forgetfulness. Lay it upon my burning
forehead, ah, so coolingly! So rests the snow upon the slopes in my
childhood's home.... My home ... what is it to me now?... A balmy wind
blows over me ... it rises from a blue flower-besprinkled spot, far,
far away, where happiness begins ... it seems so very long. I have not
slept. I think ... [_He sleeps._]
_Queen_ [_after she has tenderly pillowed and covered him_]. I hold
thee to my breast, beloved prisoner; at this hour thou art mine, even
if tomorrow thou wouldst tread me in the dust. Until tomorrow is a long
respite, to have thee and to hold thee, to give to thee a thousand
golden gifts--if thou desirest them. How many joyous fountains might
leap to the light of day from their deep sleep in my heart's depths.
Alas that no word breaks their enchantment! They must sink back again
from whence they came. Never will sunshine build its seven-hued bridge
between my dream and the reality, between to-day and happiness. Thou
wilt go from me, I must see but cannot hinder it; but tonight thou
still art mine,--I may protect the slumber of my sleeping child.
[_Before going out, she draws the curtain so that the moonlight streams
in_. Hans Lorbass, _spear in hand and quite motionless, is visible for
a moment, and steps aside at the approach of the_ Queen.]