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Such is Life
(The door opens noisily and a rough voice outside calls, "Water jug!" The King hastily sets the jug outside the door and returns inside the cell. The door slams shut, but is reopened immediately and the jailer enters.)
THE JAILER.
Zounds and death, Gigi, how did you smash the jug? Silence, you dog! There's a hole in the jug. It was sound yesterday. I'll pitch into you so that your face will bleed! You take me for your servant because lately I haven't watched you so closely. You'll get it now so that your hair will turn white! Show your work!
(The King produces the unfinished straw mat.)
THE JAILER.
That your day's work! You won't get a bit of bread until you finish five times that amount! (Throwing the mat down at his feet.) There!–Now I'll inspect your cell. Look out for yourself! I won't let you out of this hole alive!
(Putting his hands behind him, he goes step by step along the wall from door to window, examining it from top to bottom, and turning around now and then at the prisoner, who stands motionless in the middle of the cell.) What does that spider web mean up there? The fourth disciplinary punishment for eight days! (Turning around.) You still know the seven disciplinary punishments by heart?–Hey, Gigi?
THE KING.
I know them by heart.
THE JAILER.
First disciplinary punishment?
THE KING.
Deprivation of privileges.
THE JAILER.
I'll smash that lute of yours to bits; you fritter away your working hours with it!–Second disciplinary punishment?
THE KING.
Deprivation of work.
THE JAILER.
Then see how you will spend your time! In eight days you won't be able to stand on your legs!–Third disciplinary punishment?
THE KING.
Deprivation of a soft bed at nights.–My bed is as hard as if it were stuffed with pebbles!
THE JAILER.
Silence! This rascal would like to sleep in the hay. –Fourth disciplinary punishment?
THE KING.
Reduction of rations.
THE JAILER.
Bread and water from to-day for eight days!–Do your hear?!–Fifth disciplinary punishment?
THE KING.
Imprisonment in darkness.
THE JAILER.
Sixth disciplinary punishment?
THE KING.
Imprisonment in fetters.
THE JAILER.
By that you must understand you are chained all awry, so that after the first hour all the devils you have in your body say good-bye to you! Seventh disciplinary punishment?
THE KING.
Flogging.
THE JAILER.
(Having reached the window.) You shall shed your hide here yet! You, you thief, shall clamber up and down the Jacob's ladder until you fall dead. (He passes in front of the King, leaves the cell and shuts the door from the outside.)
THE KING.
(Looks after him in surprise. Then quite calmly, with quiet deliberation, he turns toward the door.) What does it mean? Where have I made a mistake? For a whole year I believed that in the course of a year I had educated this beast into a human being. Suddenly, after all that trouble, he drops back again into the animal kingdom.–Or did I dream?–It is impossible entirely that the jug should have been broken. I drank out of it this morning. He will break it now outside and then show me the pieces. Will he let me go thirsty today? Will he let me thirst?–I fear worse!–At any rate I shall receive him with a look that will make his eyes sink to the ground. (Bracing himself.) Help me, kingly majesty, in order that the fellow may realize his baseness of his own accord!–(Listening.) He's coming!–A duel without weapons, man against man!
(The door opens noisily. Princess Alma enters, clad as in the preceding act and carrying a jug with both her hands. The door closes loudly behind her.)
THE KING.
(With the fright of immoderate joy.) Alma?! My child!–Oh, beastly spite!
ALMA.
O Father, I cannot embrace you now! I bring you this jug of wine.
THE KING.
(Struggling for breath, with both hands at his breast.) Oh, satanic cruelty!–(Takes the jug from her and sets it to one side.) Whence come you, my child? For twelve months I've thirsted for a sight of you! You are living yet, you are whole and well. Speak, how is it with you among miserable mankind?
ALMA.
We have only a few minutes! At last I have been able to bribe the jailer, and from now on he will let me visit you once a week. Tell me quickly how I can lighten your sufferings.
THE KING.
My sufferings?–Yes! What a father I am to throw my child unprotected upon the world! That is my sorrow!–Otherwise, I thank God daily that He has separated me from mankind by these six-foot walls, so that I am safe from them!
ALMA.
You can see from my appearance, Father, how good people are to me. I am still in the service of the notary. Only tell me what I may bring you to strengthen you! What frightful torments you must have endured here!
THE KING.
No, no, my child! Do not bring me anything unfamiliar into this solitude! You don't know how time passes here with the speed of the wind. In the beginning I scratched seven hundred and thirty marks on that wall, to have the daily joy of rubbing one of them out. But soon I had to blot them out by the week or by the month. And now I see with dread how quickly they grow less and less, so that the last will soon be gone and I will have to seek refuge once more under overhanging rocks and contend with wolves for their booty!–But do not let my words sadden you! You cannot guess how the jailer prepared me for your coming!
ALMA.
I think with silent horror of how fiendishly he will torment you!
THE KING.
How you imagine things! To do that he would have to be more than the weak earthworm he is. No cruelty can keep pace with my callousness. Do you know, he has shed tears of compassion here without having heard the least complaint from me! Who could so degenerate as not to be thankful when his better self finds unexpected recognition!–He could not help begrudging me the joy of seeing you again, my child. But the cowardly anxiety which springs from his calling is responsible for that. The poor man is so jealous of the ridiculous little authority vested in him by his bunch of keys that the kindness he has shown me to-day makes him afraid of becoming entirely superfluous. But didn't you suffer need in order to buy the good will of this rascal?
ALMA.
Speak not of me, Father. Time is passing and I don't know how I can help you!
THE KING.
Really, I don't know either! Were I an abler man, my fate might perhaps seem more pitiable to me. Poor as I am, I only tremble at the moment when those iron doors shall protect me no longer, when those barred windows shall prevent them reaching me, when I shall stand again among people with whom I have no mutual understanding and from whose activities I am excluded more than ever by the sentence of the law.–If you only knew how painlessly this solitude heals the gaping wounds of the soul. The judge thought he was adding to my punishment when he sentenced me to solitary confinement. How deeply I have thanked him that I do not have to live here in association with other men!
ALMA.
(Bursting into tears.) Lord God in Heaven! Then you don't want to see me here again!
THE KING.
(Caressingly.) I repay your sacrifice with discontent and ill humor. Thoughts become heavy and sluggish when a man continues talking to himself day in and day out.–Only this I ask of you; when freedom is restored to me, leave me to my fate—not forever, only until I show myself worthy of your greatness of soul.
ALMA.
Oh nevermore! Do not ask me ever to leave you! It is impossible that the future should be as bad as the past!
THE KING.
Not for you. I believe that gladly.
ALMA.
Melancholy has mastered you in this gloom. Your proud heart is almost ready to break. Nothing can be read in your face of the quiet peace you pretend to feel.
THE KING.
I have not seen my face for a year, but I can imagine how ugly it has grown. How my looks must wound your feelings!
ALMA.
Oh, do not talk like that, father!
THE KING.
But you know my imperturbable nature. And now you come in, the only thing to make my happiness complete. It is only to reward you richly and splendidly that I would become a king again.
ALMA.
I hear the jailer! Tell me how I can lighten your sufferings!
THE KING.
(Sinks down on the stool exhausted, half to himself:) What do I lack? How frightful this prison would become if the pleasures of life were admitted here! How can I desire here a beautiful woman, where I cannot even conjure up a recollection of beauty! My couch there is shut during the day. There is no other resting-place, and I lie down there at night as weary as if I had ploughed an acre. And in the morning the clanging bell wakes me from dreams more serene than those I dreamed as a child. (As the door is opened.) When you see me again, my child, you will hear no more complaints. You shall feel as happy with me as if you were outside in your sunny world. Farewell!
ALMA.
Farewell, Father! (She leaves the cell. The door clangs behind her.)
THE KING.
A whole long year vet!–(He goes toward the wall.) I will just count the marks again and see how many remain to be rubbed out.
Scene Two
NIGHT. A WASTE(Enter the King, Princess Alma, with her father's lute on her back, and a circus rider.)
THE KING.
Have we much further to go, brother, before we come to the place where the beggars' fair is to be held?
THE CIRCUS RIDER.
We shall be there by midnight, at the latest. The real fair does not begin until then. This must be the first time you have made this pilgrimage to the gallows?
THE KING.
It is only a few moons since we joined the strollers, but, nevertheless, we have danced at many a witches' sabbath.
THE CIRCUS RIDER.
It seems to me, brother, somewhere you have unlearned marching. Otherwise you are a robust enough fellow.
THE KING.
(Sitting down on a boulder.) My heart beats against my ribs like a caged bird of prey. The road leads up-hill, that takes my breath!
THE CIRCUS RIDER.
We have plenty of time.–Your boy, brother, is very much better on his legs. It's a pity about him! With me he could learn something more profitable than singing street ballads to the lute. Everywhere, that's considered not much better than begging. Let him go with me, brother, if only for half a year! At any rate, it would not be worse for him than following in your footsteps, and I'll make a rider out of him after whom the circus managers will break their necks!
THE KING.
Don't take me for an ass, dear brother; how can you make my boy succeed as a circus rider when you yourself must trudge afoot!
THE CIRCUS RIDER.
You are as suspicious as if you had kegs full of gold at home, while from all appearances you don't remember when you had warm food last! You won't get anywhere that, way! To-night at the beggars' fair we shall meet at least half a dozen circus managers. They gather there to look for artists to appear with them. Then you will see, you poor devil, how they will contend for me and how one will outbid the other! Thank God, I am not so unknown as you, you gutter singers! And if I get my job again, I shall have horses enough for your merry boy to break his neck the first day, if he has the mind!
THE KING.
Tell me, brother, does one find theatre managers too at the beggars' fair?
THE CIRCUS RIDER.
Theatre managers too, certainly. The theatre managers come there from all over the country. Where else would they get their dancers and their clowns! Frankly, brother, it seems very doubtful to me your getting an engagement. You don't look as if you could act a farce.
THE KING.
But there is a higher art, called tragedy!
THE CIRCUS RIDER.
Tragedy, yes, I have heard that name!–I understand nothing about that art, dear brother. I only know that it is miserable poor pay.–(To Alma.) Now, my brave lad, doesn't your mouth water for better fodder?–Do you want to learn circus riding with me?
THE KING.
(Getting up.) Forward, brother, do not let us miss the beggars' fair. Fortune only offers us her hand once a year!
(Exeunt.)Scene Three
(Night. The gallows looms in the background. Forward, to the left, is a gigantic boulder, beneath a gnarled oak, which serves the performers as a stage. In front of it flickers a huge bonfire, about which are gathered the spectators, men, women and children, in fantastic raiment.)
(Chorus)
A THEATRE MANAGER.
(In a bass voice to an actor.) Show me what you have learned, my worthy young friend. Hic Rhodus hic salta! What is your act?
THE ACTOR.
I act the fool, honored master.
THE THEATRE MANAGER.
Then act the fool, young friend, but act him well! Difficile est satiram non scribere! My public is used only to the best!
THE ACTOR.
I will give you a sample of my art at once.
THE THEATRE MANAGER.
If you find favor in my eyes, young friend, you shall have a hundred soldi a month. Pacta exacta–boni amici! Go, young friend, and give your proof.
(The Actor mounts the rock. He is received with hand-clapping and cries of "bravo" by the spectators.)
THE ACTOR.
(Breaks first into laughter, then speaks the following lines, accompanying each couplet with a different kind of titter.)
Count Onofrio was a manAs stupid as a ram,And he had daughters sevenHe wanted paired up even.Their way no suitor bent his legs.Rotten eggs! Rotten eggs!THE AUDITORS.
(Have interrupted this effort several times with hisses and whistles. At the last words they pelt the actor with clumps of earth, while with shrill whistling they repeat the words.) Rotten eggs! Rotten eggs!
THE THEATRE MANAGER.
(Blaring out above the rest of the noise.) Down with the rascal! A page! The Lord God created him in wrath! Alea est jacta!
(The Actor leaves the rock.)
(Chorus.)
Nor believe not, human brood,That pursuit of idle dreams fills our whole existence;Lovers' ways are somewhat crudeWhen the night wind dead men's bones rattles with persistence!(The King, Princess Alma and a Procuress appear on the scene.)
THE PROCURESS.
Now, ballad singer, how much will you take for that pretty boy of yours?–Listen to the pleasant clang of the goldpieces in my pocket!
THE KING.
Just now a circus rider wanted to buy him from me. Leave me and my boy in peace! I didn't come to the beggars' fair for this. Besides, what can you want with my boy!
THE PROCURESS.
Don't think I am so stupid, ballad singer, that I can't see that your boy is a girl! The sweet child will find a mother in me, more full of love for her than any one in the wide, wide world. (To Alma.) Don't tremble so, my pretty little dove! I won't eat you! When one grows up with such a pretty figure and such a round, rosy face, with fresh cherry lips and dark glowing eyes, one sleeps beneath silken covers and not in the open fields. You will not have to play the lute with me. Only to be charming. What pleasanter life can sprightly young blood desire? You will meet ministers of state and barons at my house; you will only have to chose. Have you ever been kissed by a real baron? That tastes better than a tramp's unshaven face!–Look here, ballad singer! Here are two undipped ducats. The girl belongs to me! It's a bargain!
THE KING.
Go snick up, you and your gold!–(To Alma.) That fool woman, in her stupidity, really takes you for a girl in boy's clothes! Why aren't you? If you were a girl, there would be no better opportunity than this to rid yourself of the bristly ballad singer! There is nothing worse than passing 'round the hat for pennies. Perhaps you have already gathered pennies thrown you by the compassionate foster-daughters of this worthy dame?! They always have a chance of being forced again into the exalted ranks of burghers' society as worthy members. Our star is not in the ascendant.
THE PROCURESS.
(To Alma.) Don't allow this vagabond to set your head whirling, for Heaven's sake, my dear! You don't know how cozy my house is! The whole day you can amuse yourself with a band of the liveliest companions. If the ballad singer won't sell you to me, let's run away from him. Don't be afraid of him! You will be as safe under my protection as if you were surrounded by a whole army corps.
ALMA.
(Wrenching herself from the Procuress grasp.) I will speak to him. (Goes from her to the King. With trembling voice.) Do you remember, my father, why we came to this beggars' fair?
THE KING.
I know, my child. (He mounts the rock and is received until dry coughs. Then he speaks in a clear tone, but with inward emotion.)
I am the ruler over all this land,By God anointed, but by no one known!And should I shriek until the mountains bentThat I am ruler over all this land,The very birds would chirp a mock at me!What profit then is this, my kingly thoughtWhen hungering I snap with eager teeth,As in the winter months the starving beasts?But not to make a plaint of all my woesCome I, my folk, to you!THE SPECTATORS.
(Break into shrill laughter, applaud stormily and cry loudly.) Da capo! Da capo!
THE KING.
(Anxiously and with embarrassment.) Kind audience! My specialty on the stage is great and serious tragedy!
THE SPECTATORS.
(Laughing loudly.) Bravo! Bravo!
THE KING.
(With all the force of his soul.) What I have just told you is to me the dearest, the holiest thing that I have kept in the depths of my soul until now!
THE SPECTATORS.
(Give vent to a new storm of approval, from out of which the words can be plainly heard:) A remarkable comedian! An unusual character actor!
THE THEATRE MANAGER.
(Who has mounted a rock back of the crowd in order to hear better.) Finish your monologue, my dear young friend! Or does your poor brain harbor only these few crumbs?–Si tacuisses, philosophus mansisses!
THE KING.
Very well, then! But I ask you from my heart, kind audience, to give my words the earnest meaning which belongs to them! How shall I succeed in moving your hearts, if you do not believe the plaints which come from my mouth!
THE SPECTATORS.
(Laugh and applaud enthusiastically.) What a pose he assumes!–And such droll grimaces!–Go on with your farce!
THE THEATRE MANAGER.
(Hissing.) Children! Children! Nothing is worse for the actor than applause! If you succeed in making him overvalue himself, the poor rogue will be capable only of the lowest kind of trash! Odi profanum vulgus et arceo! (To the King.) Continue, my son! It seems to me as if your parodies might amuse my enlightened public!
THE KING.
(Seeking by every means to invest his speech with earnestness.)
I am the ruler! To your knees with you!What mean these bursts of mad, indecent mirth!'Tis my own fault that here, in this my realm,None knows me more. My sentinels slumber,My doughty warriors serve another's wage.I lack that highest earthly might, the gold!Still, ever yet, was there a rightful kingWho spent his time in counting out his coin?That task he graciously accords to slaves!The farthing, soiled with sweat of tradesmen's toilWas never struck with an intent to smirchThe hands of those anointed of the Lord!THE SPECTATORS.
(Breaking out into the wildest laughter.) Da capo! –Bravo!–Da capo!
A THEATRE MANAGER.
This man is a brilliant satirist! A second Juvenal!
THE KING.
(As before.)
I am the ruler!–He of you who doubtsLet him stand forth!–I'll prove my claim to him!I was not wont before to praise myself,But now the world has robbed me of that pride.To him who wears a dagger at his hipI'll teach the art of sinking it with graceInto his foeman's breast; so that the duel,From a rude spectacle of sweat and blood,Becomes as pleasant as an el fen danceAnd even death puts on a sweeter garb!–I am the ruler!–From the herd of barbsBring me the wildest of unbroken steeds;Nor trouble you with saddle nor with bit;Let him but feel my heels press in his flanksHe'll pant beneath me in the Spanish gaitAnd from that time be tractable to ride.I am the ruler! Come unto the feast!The world is distant with its petty ills,The evening star illuminates our meal,From distant arcades mellow songs arise.The guest may wander through the twilight greenWhere, from the shelter of a plashing fall,The sportive nymphs will lure him with their wiles.I am the king! Go fetch a maiden here!Let her be chaste as is the morning dew!I'll not awake her innocent alarms;I come a beggar with an empty scrip;Six steps away from her I'll stand. Warn her'Gainst wiles of Satan! 'Ere a star grows paleI'll move, not only body, but her son!Bring me the truest wife among them all!She soon shall doubt if loathing or if faithIs greater pander to the lusts of fleshAnd, doubtingly, shall offer me her lips.I am the king! What child is here as smallIn hands and feet, or even in his joints!With scorn I look upon you as you laugh,Your feet may jig, your hands may fan the air,The brains within your skulls are very stale!So be it!–Will the slimmest maiden hereVenture to dance with me in trial of skill?She never knew the bloody task of warAnd all her joints are quite as small as mine.(As nobody offers, to Alma.) Reach me a torch, my child!
(Alma takes a glowing brand from the bonfire and hands it to the King. Then, standing at the foot of the rock, she plays a melody on her lute.)
(The King gracefully and with dignity dances a few steps of a courtly torch dance, then throws the glowing brand back into the fire.)
(The Spectators give vent to prolonged applause.)
THE ACTOR.
(Rising from amid the spectators, in a tone of parody.)
I am the monarch over all this land–
THE SPECTATORS.
Down with the barber's assistant. He has no appreciation! Strike him to earth!
THE THEATRE MANAGER.
Quod licet Jovi, non licet bovi!–(To the King, who has left the rock.) I will engage you as ballet master and character actor and offer you a hundred soldi a month.
ANOTHER THEATRE MANAGER.
(Speaking in a falsetto voice.) Hundred soldi, hi, hi, hi? A hundred soldi will the skinflint give you?–I wave a hundred and fifty in your face, you rascal! What do you say, hi, hi, hi?–Will you now or won't you?
THE KING.
(To the First Theatre Manager.) Don't you think, honored master, that I am rather a tragedian than a comedian?
THE FIRST THEATRE MANAGER.
You haven't the least trace of talent as a tragedian; as character actor, on the contrary, there is no chance of it going ill with you again in this world. Believe me, my dear friend, I know these kings. I have eaten dinner with two of them at once! Your king's monologue is the caricature of a real king and will be valued as such.
THE SECOND THEATRE MANAGER.
Don't let yourself be hoodwinked by this horse dealer, you rascal! What does he know about comedy! I have studied my profession at the universities of Rome and Bologna. How about two hundred soldi, hi, hi, hi?
THE FIRST THEATRE MANAGER.
(Clapping the King on the shoulder.) I'll give you three hundred soldi, my dear young friend!
THE SECOND THEATRE MANAGER.
I'll give you four hundred soldi, you dirty rogue, hi, hi, hi!
THE FIRST THEATRE MANAGER.
(Giving the King his purse.) Here is my purse! Put it in your pocket and keep it as a souvenir of me!
