Fairy Tales Read online

  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