_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 pa.s.sion 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 Lorba.s.s_. I serve.

_King_. Is that the reason?

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. 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 Lorba.s.s_. 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 Lorba.s.s_. 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 G.o.d, 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 Lorba.s.s_. Then come, escape!

_King_ [_smiling wearily_]. True, the door stands open.

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. And when we have once pa.s.sed 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 Lorba.s.s_. 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 Lorba.s.s_. But every man holds what he has and hopes to have, in security, in p.a.w.n, as it were, for his children.

_King_. Yes, for his own, not for a stranger's.

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. 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 Lorba.s.s_. 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 Lorba.s.s_ [_watching him_]. The feathers thou didst once possess.

_King_ [_feeling in his breast. Angrily_]. Be still.

_Hans Lorba.s.s_. Since thou still wearest them on thy heart, why--

_King_. Be still, I tell thee, churl!