Fairy Tales Read online

  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 nobl
e 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