The Princess. I suppose you think it is rouge?—No, Sir, it is nothing but pleasure at meeting you.

The King. Flatterer! And I went pale at the sight of you.

The Princess. Perhaps your conscience—?

The King. I am sorry to say my conscience had nothing to do with it. But this morning I have been meeting so many people that are suffering from indigestion that, when I saw your Highness walking quickly along—

The Princess. Make your mind easy! My reason for my morning walk is to keep my fat down. Later in the day I ride—for the same reason. I live for nothing else now.

The King. It is a sacred vocation!

The Princess. Because it is a royal one?

The King. Do you attribute your sanctity to me? Wicked Princess!

The Princess. Both my sanctity and any good fortune I enjoy. It is nothing but my relationship to your Majesty that induces the tradespeople to give me unlimited credit.

The King. You don't feel any awkwardness about it, then?

The Princess. Not a bit! The good folk have to maintain many worse parasites than me!—By the way, talking of parasites, is it true that you have pensioned off all your lords-in-waiting and their hangers-on?

The King. Yes.

The Princess. Ha, ha, ha! But why did you make the special stipulation that they should live in Switzerland?

The King. Because there is no court in Switzerland, and—

The Princess. And so they could not fall into temptation again! I have had many a good laugh at the thought of it. But it has its serious side too, you know; because your Majesty cannot dispense with a court.

The King. Why not?

The Princess. Well, suppose some day you are "joined in the bonds of holy matrimony," as the parsons so beautifully put it?

The King. If I were, it would be for the sake of knowing what family life is.

The Princess. Like any other citizen?

The King. Precisely.

The Princess. Are you going to keep no servants?

The King. As many as are necessary—but no more.

The Princess. Then I must secure a place as chambermaid in your Majesty's household as soon as possible. Because if my financial circumstances are inquired into there will be nothing else left for me but that!

The King. You have too sacred a vocation for that, Princess!

The Princess. How pretty! Your Majesty is a poet, and poets are allowed to be enthusiastic about ideals. But the people are poets too, in their way; they like their figure-head to be well gilded, and don't mind paying for it. That is their poetry.

The King. Are you certain of that?

The Princess. Absolutely certain! It is a point of honour with them.

The King. Then I have to weigh my honour against theirs! And my honour forbids me—for the honour of my people and their poetry—to keep up my palaces, my guards, and my court any longer! Voila tout!

The Princess. My dear King, certain positions carry with them certain duties!

The King. Then I know higher duties than those!—But, Princess, here are we two seriously discussing—

The Princess. Yes, but there is something at the bottom of it that is not to be laughed away. All tradition and all experience proclaim it to be the truth that a king—the kingly majesty—should be a dignity apart; and should be the ultimate source of law, surrounded with pomp and circumstance, and secure behind the fortified walls of wealth, rank, and hereditary nobility. If he steps out of that magic circle, the law's authority is weakened.

The King. Has your Royal Highness breakfasted yet?

The Princess. No. (Bursts out laughing.)

The King. Because, if you had, I should have had great pleasure is giving you a lesson in history; but on an empty stomach that would be cruel.

The Princess. Do you know—you used to be such an entertaining king, but this last year you have become so tedious!

The King. Most beautiful of princesses! Do you really mean to say that I rise and fall in your estimation according as I have my pretty royal gew-gaws on or not?

The Princess. In my estimation?

The King. Or in any one's? You know the story of "The Emperor's New Clothes"?

The Princess. Yes.

The King. We don't keep up that pretence any longer.

The Princess. But will every one understand?

The King. You understand, don't you?

The Princess. The people or I—that is all the same, I suppose! You are very flattering.

The King. Heaven forbid that I should lump your Royal Highness together with the common herd; but—

The Princess. We have already had proof of the fact that your Majesty does not hold the same place in every one's estimation that you do in mine, at all events!

The King. If I occupy a place of honour in your Royal Highness's heart, your Royal Highness may be certain that—

The Princess. I will interrupt you to save you from speaking an untruth! Because the way to attain to a place of honour in your Majesty's heart is not to admire you as I do, but, on the contrary, to shout out: "I despise you!"—Au revoir!

The King. You wicked, terrifying, dangerous—

The Princess.—omniscient and ubiquitous Princess! (Makes a deep curtsey, and goes away.)

The King (calling after her). In spite of everything, my heart goes with you—

The Princess.—to show me the door! I know all about that! (To the COUNTESS.) Come, Countess! (Goes out. FALBE, an old gentleman in civilian dress, has come in from the side to which the KING'S back is turned.)

The King. How the devil did she—?

Falbe (coming up behind him). Your Majesty!

The King (turning quickly). Ah, there you are!

Falbe. Yes, sir—we have been walking about in the park for some time; your Majesty was engaged.

The King. Not engaged—I was only deadening thoughts by gossiping. My anxiety was too much for me. So they have come?—both of them?

Falbe. Both of them.

The King. Can I believe it! (Appears overcome.) But—you must wait a moment! I can't, just at this moment—. I don't know what has come over me!

Falbe. Are you unwell, sir? You look so pale.

The King My nerves are not what they should be. Is there any water near here?

Falbe (pointing, in astonishment). Why, there is the fountain, Sir!

The King. Of course! Of course!—I don't seem able to collect my thoughts. And my mouth is as dry as—. Look here, I am going that way (points); and then you can—you can bring the ladies here.—She is here! She is here! (Goes out to the left, and turns round as he goes.) Don't forget to lock the gates of the inner park!

Falbe. Of course not, Sir. (Goes out to the right, and returns bringing in the BARONESS MARC and CLARA.) His Majesty will be here in a moment. (Goes out to the right.)

Clara. You must stay near enough for me to be able to call you.

Baroness. Of course, my dear. Compose yourself; nothing can happen.

Clara. I am so frightened.

Baroness. Here is the King! (The KING comes in and bows to them.)

The King. Excuse me, ladies, for having kept you waiting. I am very grateful to you both for coming.

Baroness. We only came upon your Majesty's solemn promise—

The King.—which shall be inviolable.

Baroness. I understand that you wish to speak to Miss Ernst alone?

The King. Your ladyship need only go up to the top of that little slope. (Points.) I can recommend the view from there.

Baroness. The interview will not be a long one, I suppose?

The King. If it is, I give your ladyship permission to come and interrupt us. (The BARONESS goes out. The KING turns to CLARA.) May I be permitted to thank you again—you especially—for having been so good as to grant me this interview?

Clara. It will be the only one.

The King. I know that. You have not condescended to answer one of my letters—

Clara. I have not read them.

The King.—so there was nothing left for me but to address myself to the Baroness. She was obliged to listen to me, Miss Ernst.

Clara (trembling). What has your Majesty to say to me?

The King. Indeed, I can't tell it you in a single sentence. Won't you sit down? (CLARA remains standing.) You must not be afraid of me. I mean you no harm; I never could mean you any harm.

Clara (in tears). Then what do you call the persecution that I have endured for more than a year?

The King. If you had condescended to read a single one of my long and many letters you would have known I call it a passion that is stronger than—. (CLARA turns to go. The KING continues anxiously.) No, Miss Ernst, by everything you hold dear, I beg you not to leave me!

Clara. Then you must not insult me!

The King. If that is an insult your terms are very hard.

Clara. Hard? No, but what you have done to me is hard! (Bursts into tears.)

The King. Don't cry, Miss Ernst! You don't know how you hurt me!

Clara (angrily). Do you know what it means to try and ruin a young girl's reputation?

The King. I repeat that you are doing me an injustice

Clara. An injustice?—Good God! Do you know who I am?

The King (taking of his hat respectfully). You are the woman I love.

Clara (quietly and with dignity). Your Majesty has solemnly promised not to insult me.

The King. As sure as there is a heaven above us I will not, and could not, insult you! But I will obey your wishes.

Clara. When a king says such a thing as—as you did just now, to a poor little governess, it is more than an insult! It is so cowardly, so base! And to think that you could have the heart to do it after what you have done to my father!

The King. Your father?—I?

Clara. Do you really not know who I am?

The King I don't understand—

Clara. Whose daughter I am, I mean?

The King. I only know that your father's name is Ernst. (Suddenly.) Surely your father is not—?

Clara. Professor Ernst.

The King. The republican?

Clara (slowly). Yes. (A pause.) I may remind your Majesty that he was sentenced for high treason. And why? Because he warned the young men at the university against the bad example set by the King! (A pause.) He was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. In escaping from his prison he broke both his legs; and now he lives in exile—a cripple—supported by what money I am able to earn. (A pause.) You have ruined his life—and now you are trying to ruin mine too!

The King. I beg of you—!

Clara. I am ashamed of my tears. It is not compassion for myself or for my father that makes them flow; it is the heartless injustice of it all that overcomes me.

The King. God knows, if only I could atone for the injustice—! But what can I do?

Clara. You can let me alone, so that I may do my work in peace; that is what you can do! Neither he nor I ask for more than that—of you!

The King. I must do more than that!

Clara. No! Can you not understand that a girl who is persecuted by the king's attentions cannot be a governess? All you will achieve will be to rob me and my father of our bread!—Oh, God!

The King. But my intention is not to—

Clara (interrupting him). And you are not even man enough to be ashamed of yourself!

The King. Yes, you may say what you please to me!

Clara. I have nothing more to say to you. I have said what I have to say. (Turns to go.)

The King. No, don't go! You have not even heard me yet. You don't even know what I want to beg of you!

Clara. My dishonour.

The King (vehemently). You misunderstand me utterly! If you had only read a single one of my letters you would have known that there is standing before you a man whom you have humbled. Ah, don't look so incredulous! It is true, if there is any truth in anything. You don't believe me? (Despairingly.) How am I to—! A man who has risked your contempt for more than a year, and has been faithful to you without even being allowed to see you or exchange a word with you—who has had no thought for anything or any one else—is not likely to be doing that out of mere idleness of heart! Do you not believe that, either?

Clara. No.

The King. Well, then, there must surely be some general truths that you, as Ernst's daughter, cannot refuse to believe! Let me ask you if you can understand how a man becomes what I was at the time when I repeatedly insulted you. You must know, from your father's books, in what an unnatural atmosphere a king is brought up, the soul-destroying sense of self-importance which all his surroundings foster, until, even in his dreams, he thinks himself something more than human; the doubtful channels into which his thoughts are forced, while any virtues that he has are trumpeted abroad, and his vices glossed over with tactful and humorous tolerance. Don't you think that a young king, full of eager life, as I was, may plead something in excuse of himself that no other man can?

Clara. Yes, I admit that.

The King. Then you must admit that the very position he has to assume as a constitutional monarch is an acted lie. Think what a king's vocation is; can a vocation of that sort be hereditary? Can the finest and noblest vocation in the world be that?

Clara. No!

The King. Then suppose that he realises that himself; suppose that the young king is conscious, however dimly and partially, of the lie he is living—and suppose that, to escape from it, he rushes into a life of pleasure. Is it not conceivable that he may have some good in him, for all that? And then suppose that one morning, after a night of revelling, the sun shines into his room; and he seems to see upon the wall, in letters of fire, some words that were said to him the night before—true words (CLARA looks up at him in surprise)—the words: "I despise you!" (CLARA gives a start.) Words like that can burn out falsehood. And he, to whom they are said, may long to hear again the tones of the voice that spoke them. No man has ever hated what has given him new life. If you had read a single one of the letters which I felt impelled to write even if they were refused acceptance—you would not have called it persecution. (CLARA does not answer.) And, as for my persecution of your father—I am not going to make any excuses for myself; I will only ask you to remember that a king has no control over the law and its judgments. I feel the sincerest respect for your father.

Clara. Thank you.

The King. And it is just part of the falsehood I was speaking of, that he should be condemned for saying of me what I have said a thousand times of myself!

Clara (softly). Dare I believe that?

The King. Ah, if only you had read one of my letters! Or even the little book of poems I sent you last! I thought that, if you would not receive my letters, perhaps a book—

Clara. I do not accept anonymous gifts.

The King. I see you are on your guard—although I don't admit that the poems were mine! May I read it to you?

Clara. I don't understand—.

The King. One that I marked—for you. It will prove to you what you refuse to believe.

Clara. But if the poem is not yours?

The King. The fact that I have marked it shows that its sentiments apply to me. Will you let me read it to you? (CLARA looks up.) Do not be too much surprised, Miss Ernst! (Takes a slim volume from his pocket.) I found this somewhere. (Turns over the leaves.) It won't take long to read. May I?

Clara. If only I understood—

The King.—why I want to read it? Simply for the reason that you have forbidden me to speak to you—or to write to you; but not, as yet, to read to you! (CLARA smiles. A pause.) Do you know—a little event has just happened in my life?—and yet not such a little one, after all!

Clara. What is that?

The King. I have seen you smile for the first time.

Clara. Your Majesty!

The King. But, Miss Ernst, is it an insult, too, to see you smile?

Clara (smiling). If I consent to hear the poem, shall not the Baroness—

The King.—hear it also? With pleasure; but not at the same time! Please! Because I am a very bad reader. You can show it to the Baroness afterwards, if you like. (CLARA smiles.) May I?

Clara. You are sure there is nothing in it that—

The King. You can interrupt me, if you think fit. It is called "The Young Prince;" and it is about—no, I won't tell you what it is about unless you will be so good as to sit down, so that I can sit down too. If I stand up I shall be sure to begin declaiming, and I do that shockingly badly!—You can get up again when you like, you know! (CLARA smiles and sits down. The KING sits down beside her.) Now, then! "The Young Prince." (To himself.) I can scarcely breathe. (He begins to read.)

Full fed with early flattery and pride—

(Breaks off.) Excuse me, Miss Ernst! I don't feel—

Clara. Is your Majesty not well?

The King. Quite well! It is only—. Now, then!

Full fed with early flattery and pride, His sated soul was wearied all too young; Honour and kingly pomp seemed naught to him But whimsies from the people's folly sprung.

From such pretence he fled to what was real— Fair women's arms, laughter and love and pleasure, All the mad joy of life; whate'er he craved, He found was given him in double measure.

Whate'er he craved—until one day a maiden To whom he whispered, like a drunken sot, "I'd give my life to make thee mine, my sweeting!" Turned from him silently and answered not.

He sought by every means to win her to him; But when his love with cold contempt was met, It was as if a judgment had been spoken Upon his life, and doom thereon were set.

His boon companions left him; in his castles None seemed to be awake but he alone, Racked with remorse, enshrouded in the darkness Of dull despair, yet longing to atone.

Then through the darkness she appeared! and humbly, Emboldend by her gentleness of mien, He sued once more: "If only thou wouldst listen! If still 'twere not too late—"

(His emotion overcomes him, and he stops suddenly, gets up, and walks away from CLARA. She gets up, as he comes back to her.) Excuse me! I had no intention of making a scene. But it made me think of—. (Breaks of again overcome by emotion, and moves a little way from her. There is a pause as he collects himself before returning to her.) As you can hear, Miss Ernst, it is nothing much of a poem—not written by a real poet, that is to say; a real poet would have exalted his theme, but this is a commonplace—

Clara. Has your Majesty anything more to say to me? (A pause.)

The King. If I have anything more to say to any one, it is to you.

Clara. I beg your pardon.

The King. No, it is I should beg yours. But I am sure you do not wish me to lie to you.

Clara (turning her head away). No.

The King. You have no confidence in me. (Control, his emotion.) Will you ever, I wonder, come to under stand that the only thing I crave for now is—one person's confidence!

Clara. Any one who speaks as your Majesty has done to-day surely craves for more than that.

The King. More than that, yes; but, first of all, one person's confidence.

Clara (turning away). I don't understand—

The King (interrupting her, with emotion). Your life has not been as empty and artificial as mine.

Clara. But surely you have your task here to fill it with?

The King. I remember reading once about the way a rock was undermined, and the mine filled with gunpowder with an electric wire leading to it. Just a slight pressure on a little button and the great rock was shattered into a thousand pieces. And in the same way everything is ready here; but the little pressure—to cause the explosion—is what I am waiting for!

Clara. The metaphor is a little forced.

The King. And yet it came into my mind as unconsciously as you broke off that twig just now. If I do not get what I lack, nothing can be accomplished—there can be no explosion! I shall abandon the whole thing and let myself go under.

Clara. Go under?

The King. Well, not like the hero of a sensational novel—not straight to the bottom like a stone—but like a dreamer carried off by pixies in a wood, with one name ever upon my lips! And the world would have to look after itself.

Clara. But that is sheer recklessness.

The King. I know it is; but I am reckless. I stake everything upon one throw! (A pause.)

Clara. Heaven send you may win.

The King. At least I am daring enough to hope that I may—and there are moments when I almost feel certain of victory!

Clara (embarrassed). It is a lovely morning—

The King.—for the time of year; yes. And it is lovelier here than it is anywhere else!

Clara. I cannot really understand a course of action which implies a want of all sense of responsibility—

The King. Every one has their own point of view. A scheme of life, to satisfy me, must have its greatest happiness hidden away at its core; in my case that would be to have a house of my own—all to myself, like any other citizen—from which I should go away to my work, and come back to as to a safe refuge. That is the button on the electric wire, do you understand? It is the little pressure on it that I am waiting for. (A pause.)

Clara. Have you read my father's book, Democratic Monarchy?

The King. Yes.

Clara. He wrote it when I was a child; and so I may say that I grew up amongst ideas like—like those I have heard from you to-day. All the friends that came to our house used to talk to me about it.

The King. Then no doubt you heard the crown prince talked about, too!

Clara. I think I heard his name oftener mentioned at home than any one's. I believe the book was written expressly for you.

The King. I can feel that when I read it. If only I had been allowed to read it in those days! Do you remember how in it your father maintains, too, that all reform depends on the beating down of the hedge that surrounds royalty?—on a king's becoming, as he says, "wedded to his people" in the fullest sense of the word, not irregularly or surreptitiously? No king can share his people's thoughts if he lives apart from them in a great palace, married to a foreign princess. There is no national spirit behind a complicated court life of outlandish ceremonial.

Clara (turning away her head). You should have heard how vehemently my father used to assert those ideas.

The King. And yet he abandoned them.

Clara. Became a republican, you mean?

The King. Yes.

Clara. He was so disappointed. (A pause.)

The King. I sometimes wonder every one isn't a republican! It must come to that in the end; I can see that. If only royalties nowadays thought seriously enough about it to realise it!

Clara. It is made so difficult for them by those who surround them.

The King. Yes, you see, that is another reason why any such reform must begin at home. Do you think that a king, who went every day to his work from a home that was in every respect like that of one of his people, could fail in the long run?

Clara. There are so many different kinds of homes.

The King. I mean a home that holds love instead of subservience—comfort instead of ceremony-truth instead of flattery; a home where—ah, well, I need not teach a woman what a home means.

Clara. We make them what they are.

The King. Surely; but they are especially what women make them. (A pause.)

Clara. The sun is quite strong now.

The King. But it can scarcely pierce through the screen of leaves here.

Clara. When the sun shines down like this and the leaves tremble—

The King. The sunshine seems to tremble too.

Clara. Yes, but it makes one feel as if everything were trembling—even deep down into our hearts!

The King. That is true.—Yes, its homes are the most precious things a nation makes. Their national characteristics mean reverence for their past and possibilities for their future.

Clara. I understand better now what you meant.

The King. When I said I wanted to begin at the beginning?

Clara. Yes. (A pause.)

The King. I cannot do otherwise. My heart must be in my work.

Clara (smiling). My father had his heart in his work, too.

The King. Forgive me—but don't you think it was just the want of an object in his life that led your father to push his theories too far?—an object outside himself, I mean?

Clara. Perhaps. If my mother had lived—. (Stops.)

The King.—he might have taken it differently; don't you think so?

Clara. I have sometimes thought so. (A pause.)

The King. How still it is! Not a sound!

Clara. Yes, there is the fountain.

The King. That is true; but one ends by hardly hearing a continuous sound like that.

Clara. There is a tremulousness in that too. (Looks round her.)

The King. What are you looking for?

Clara. It is time to look for the Baroness.

The King. She is up on that slope. Shall I call her? Or—perhaps you would like to see a fine view?

Clara. Yes.

The King. Then let us go up to her together! (They go.)



ACT III

SCENE I

(SCENE. An open place in the town. It is evening, and the square is badly lit. On the right is the club, a large building, standing alone; lights are shining from all its windows. Steps lead from the door, above which is a balcony. The square is full of people. In the background, standing on the lowest step of the pedestal of an equestrian statue, is a BALLAD SINGER, singing to the accompaniment of his guitar. Cigars, oranges, and other wares are being sold by hawkers. The singer's voice is heard before the curtain rises. The crowd gradually joins him in the refrain which he repeats after each verse of his ballad.)

The Ballad Singer (sings).

The Princeling begged and begged and begged Her love, on bended knee. The Maid said craftily, "Nay, nay, I doubt your high degree!"

Refrain.

She knew the might, the might, the might Of love's distracting hour; How royalty, with all its pomp, Will curtsey to its power.

The Princeling said: "Consent, my dear, And you shall marry me." The Maiden answered mockingly, "Over the left, maybe!"

"Nay, as my Queen, enchanting maid, And that this very day!" The Maiden answered him, "Gadzooks!" And fainted right away.

Recovering, she sighed, "My Lord, Princesses will be wroth; On every side they sit and wait To plight to you their troth."

He answered, "Bosh!"—"But what of those Who counselled you before?" "Whom do you mean?"—"Your ministers!" "I'll show them to the door!"

"But think, my dear—your generals, Your nobles, court, and priest; They'll try to drag you from my side Or shun us as the pest."

"Nay, be not feared! I'll make you more By dozens at a word, Who'll bow and grovel if they be To rank and place preferred."

"But think of the republicans! My father!—what if he—?" "The cock that crows the loudest, then, Prime minister shall be!"

"Suppose the people stoutly swear They'll none of me?"—"Nay, nay, An order here, a title there, And all will homage pay."

"Then I am yours!"—"Hurrah!" He holds Her tight his arms between; "Nay, not so fast, my kingly love! Not till I am your Queen!"

She knew the might, the might, the might Of love's distracting hour; How royalty, with all its pomp, Will curtsey to its power.

An Old Gentleman (to another). What is going on here?

Second Old Gentleman. I don't know. I have only just come.

A Workman. Why, the King is coming past here with her!

First Old Gentleman. Coming past here with her? To hold a court at the palace?

The Workman. Yes.

Second Old Gentleman (taking a pinch of snuff). And I suppose those fellows in the club mean to make a demonstration?—hiss them, or something of that sort?

The Workman. So they say.

First Old Gentleman. Have they decided not to attend the court then?

A Dandy. Unanimously decided.

A Woman. It's filthy!

The Dandy. I beg your pardon?

The Woman. I say that those fellows in there will condescend to seduce our daughters, right enough; but they won't condescend to marry them. But, you see, the King does.

The Workman. I am not sure it wouldn't be better if he didn't.

The Woman. Well, I know people who say that she is quite a respectable person.

The Dandy. I imagine that you have not read the newspapers?

First Old Gentleman. Hm!—one has to be a little careful as to how far one believes the newspapers.

Second Old Gentleman (offering him his snuff-box). I am delighted to hear you say that! There is such a lot of slander flying about. That bawdy ballad just now; for instance.

The Woman. Yes, that's poking fun at him—I know that.

The Dandy. You had better take care what you are saying, my good woman!

The Woman. Ah, I only say what I know.

(FLINK appears on the steps of the statue beside the BALLAD SINGER.)

Flink. Stop your stupid songs! I want to speak!

Voice in the Crowd. Who is that?

Flink. You don't know me. I have never made public speeches—and least of all to street mobs.

Voice in the Crowd. Why are you doing it now, then?

Flink. Because I have been charged with a message to you! (The members of the club rush to the windows and on to the balcony and steps. Uproar.)

Voice in the Crowd. Be quiet! Let us hear him!

Flink. Listen to me, good people! You don't know me. But you used to know a tall chap, with long white hair and a big hat, who often made speeches to you. I mean Professor Ernst.

Voice in the Crowd. Three cheers for Professor Ernst. (Cheers.)

Flink. He was sent to prison, as you know, for high treason; escaped from prison, but broke his legs. Now he is living in exile, hopelessly crippled.

Voice in the Crowd. He got a pardon.

Another. No one knows where he is.

Flink. I know where he is. He has charged me to deliver a message to you to-day.

Voices from the Club. Bravo!

Voices from the Crowd. Has he! Bravo, Ernst!

Voices from the Club. Be quiet, down there!

Flink. He made me promise that, on the day on which his daughter was to be presented at the palace as the King's betrothed, I would stand up in some public place where she would pass by, and say that it was being done against her father's will and in spite of his urgent entreaties and commands. (Loud cries of "Bravo!" from the club. A voice in the crowd: "That is just what we thought!") I am charged to announce publicly that he despises her for it and sends her his curse! (Fresh cries of "Bravo!" from the club. Voices in the crowd: "That's shocking!"—"No, he was quite right;" etc., etc. Uproar.) Quiet, good people!

A Young Man in the Crowd. May I be allowed to ask a question? (Shouts of "Yes!" and "No!" and laughter are heard.)

Flink. By all means.

The Young Man. Did not Professor Ernst himself advocate a king's doing just what our King has done?

Voices in the Crowd. Hear, hear!

Flink. Yes, and in return was thrown into prison and is now an incurable cripple. No one has been more cruelly treated by the King's hirelings. And now here is his daughter willing to become Queen!

Count Platen (from the club balcony). I don't see why you want to blame her! No; what I say is, that it is our dissolute King's fault altogether! (Renewed uproar. Cries of: "Turn him out!" from the club.)

Flink. I had something more to say about those who—. But make those fellows at the club be quiet first.

A Voice. They are fighting over there! (Laughter. Wild uproar is heard from the club, amidst which COUNT PLATEN'S voice is heard shouting: "Let me be! Let me alone!"—and other voices: "Don't let him go out!"—"He is drunk!" Eventually COUNT PLATEN comes out on to the steps, hatless and dishevelled.)

Count Platen. I'm going to make a speech to you! I am better than that crew in there! (Cries of "Bravo!") What I say is, that the King is coming past here directly with a woman. (Applause, and laughter. Every one crowds towards him. The police try to pull him down. A free fight ensues.) Hiss them when they come! (Cries of "Throw him down!"—"Bravo!"—"Hurrah!") I, Count Platen, tell you to do so! Hiss him, howl at him, make a regular hullabaloo when he comes! I, Count Platen, tell you to! (Cries of "Three cheers for Count Platen!" are mingled with cries of "Three cheers for the King!" There is a general tumult. COUNT PLATEN is hustled up and down the steps, and tries to go on making his speech every time he comes up.) He is defiling the throne!—He wants to marry a traitor's daughter! Shame! I, Count Platen, say so! Here I stand—! (A trumpet-call is heard; then cries of "Here is the King!"—"No, it's the cavalry!"—"The cavalry are coming!"—"Clear the square!" A shot is heard, followed by a scream; the people take to their heels as another trumpet-call is heard. Curtain.)

SCENE II

(SCENE.—A room in the BARONESS' house. The BARONESS is sitting reading. A MAID enters and brings her a card.)

Baroness (looking at the card). The Minister of the Interior!—Show him in! (GRAN comes in.) I am glad to see you back, your Excellency!—You have found him, then?

Gran. Yes, we have discovered him.

Baroness. And spoken to him?

Gran. Yes.

Baroness. May I send for his daughter?

Gran. For heaven's sake

Baroness. What is the matter?

Gran. He is a dying man.

Baroness. What!

Gran. The King desires me to tell you that he has ordered a special train to be ready at 10 o'clock, so that as soon as the court is over she can go to her father. The King will accompany her.

Baroness. That is kind of him!

Gran. Then you will get ready everything that she needs for a night's journey?

Baroness. Yes.

Gran. And without her being aware of it? The King does not wish her to know anything of her father's condition till after the court.

Baroness. The court is to be held, then?

Gran. The court is to be held. After it is over, His Majesty will tell her the news himself.

Baroness. I am thankful for that.—But what did Professor Ernst say? Why has he not answered his daughter's letter? Why has he hidden from her? Is he really irreconcilable?

Gran. Irreconcilable? He hates her!

Baroness. Good heavens!

Gran. And not only her, but every one that has made common cause with the King—every one!

Baroness. I suppose it was to be expected.—But won't you sit down?

Gran (bows, but remains standing). I had a talk with his doctor before I saw him. He had some hesitation about letting me in. It was a fortnight since his patient had been able to move. But when I told him my errand, and that I had come from the King, he let me see him.

Baroness. How did he look? He was a fine man once.

Gran. He was sitting in a big chair, a mere paralysed wreck of a man. But when he saw me and realised who I was—and probably, too, what my errand was—he found the strength not only to move, but to seize both his crutches and raise himself on them! I shall never forget his gaunt ashen-grey face, the feverish gleam in his sunken eyes, his unkempt hair and beard—

Baroness. He must have looked terrible!

Gran. He was like a creature from beyond the grave—with an eternity of hatred in his eyes!

Baroness. Oh, my God!

Gran. When at last I could find my voice, I gave him his daughter's greeting, and asked if she might come and see him. A dark look came into his eyes, and his face flushed for a moment, as he gasped out: "May she be—." He could not finish the sentence. His crutches slipped from his grasp and he fell down, blood pouring from his mouth. The doctor rushed to him; and for a long time we thought he was dead.

Baroness. But he came round?

Gran. I waited an hour or two before I started back. Then the doctor told me that he had recovered consciousness, but that the end could certainly not be far off—perhaps not twenty-four hours.

Baroness. It must have been a shock to you.

Gran. It was.

Baroness. But what did he mean by: "May she be—"

Gran. That is what I have been wondering.

Baroness. He cannot do her any harm, can he?

Grad. He may give her the same reception that he gave me; if she goes.

Baroness, Even if the King is with her?

Gran. All the more then!

Baroness. Oh, that would be horrible! But it won't prevent her going.

Gran. Let us hope so!

Baroness. I am certain of it! She has extraordinary strength of character—just like her father's.

Gran. Yes, that is the one thing I rely on.

Baroness. What do you mean? Your words sound so despondent!

Gran. I mean what is perfectly true—that everything will depend upon her strength of character.

Baroness. What about the King, then?

Gran. I could say a great deal on that topic, Baroness; but (bows) you must excuse me—I haven't time now.

Baroness. How are the elections going?

Gran. They are going well—if nothing happens now?

Baroness. What could happen?

Gran. The situation is very strained; one must expect anything.

Baroness. Are you anxious, your Excellency?

Gran. I must beg leave to retire now. (A MAID comes in.)

Maid (to GRAN). The Inspector of Police, who came with your Excellency, wishes to know if he may speak to your Excellency.

Gran. I will come at once. (To the BARONESS.) There is rioting going on in the town, not far from here—in front of the club.

Baroness (in alarm). What?—Isn't the King coming along that way?

Gran. Don't be afraid! We have taken our precautions—Good-bye! (Goes out.)

Baroness.—He has quite alarmed me—everything seems to come at the same time! She has had a suspicion that there was something amiss with her father; I have noticed that, but she hasn't wanted to speak about it. (CLARA comes in, dressed for the court.) Ah, there you are, my dear! Quite ready?

Clara. Quite.

Baroness (looking at her). Well, I daresay there have been royal brides more elaborately dressed, but I am sure there has never been one more charming. (Kisses her.)

Clara. I think I hear a carriage?

Baroness. I expect it is the King!

Clara. I am afraid it is too early yet—but all the same I hope it is he!

Baroness. Do you feel afraid?

Clara. No, no—it is not that at all; it is something—something that you don't—a kind of feeling as if—as if some one were haunting me; and I know who it is. I only feel secure when the King is with me. I hope it may be he coming. (Goes to the window.)

(The MAID comes in.)

Maid. A lady wishes to speak to you, Miss Ernst—

Baroness. A lady?

Clara. Didn't she give her name?

Maid. She is veiled—and very handsomely dressed.

Clara (with decision). No! I can see no one.

Baroness. No one that we do not know. (To the MAID.) You ought to know that.

Maid (hesitatingly). But I think it is—. (The door opens and the PRINCESS comes in.)

Baroness. What does this mean? Clara! leave us, my dear.

Princess (drawing aside her veil). Do you know me?

Clara and Baroness. The Princess!

Princess. Are you Clara Ernst?

Clara. Yes.

Princess (haughtily, to the BARONESS). Leave us alone! (The BARONESS goes out.) Before going to the palace I wanted to come here—even at the risk of meeting the King.

Clara. He has not come yet. (A long pause.)

Princess. Have you thought well over what you are going to do?

Clara. I think so.

Princess. I don't think you have. Have you read what the papers say about it—every one of them—to-day?

Clara. No. The King has advised me not to.

Princess. But the letters that have been sent to you? I know letters have been written to you.

Clara. The King has advised me not to read them either. He takes all the letters.

Princess. Do you know that they are rioting in the streets close to here?

Clara (in alarm). No!

Princess. You will be received with hisses, hooting—perhaps with stone throwing. You didn't expect anything like that, did you?

Clara. No.

Princess. What shall you do?

Clara (after a moment, quietly). I shall go with the King.

Princess. A nice road you are dragging him along, truly! And I assure you that the farther you go along it, the worse it will become. You cannot possibly have prepared yourself for all that you will have to go through.

Clara. I think I have.

Princess (in surprise). What do you mean? How?

Clara (bending her head). I have prayed to God.

Princess. Pshaw! I mean that you cannot have considered the misery into which you are dragging the King—and the disgrace and trouble you are bringing upon all his people. (CLARA is silent.) You are young still; your heart cannot be altogether hardened yet, whatever your past may have been.

Clara (proudly). I have no reason to be ashamed of my past.

Princess. Indeed? What sort of a past has it been, then?

Clara. One full of suffering, princess—and of work. (A pause.)

Princess. Do you know what the King's past has been?

Clara (drooping her head). Ah, yes.

Princess. Yours will be tarred with the same brush—no matter what it really has been.

Clara. I know that. He has told me so.

Princess. Really!—After all, is it a sacrifice you are making for his sake? Do you love the King?

Clara (faintly). Yes.

Princess. Then listen to me. If you loved the King, you would have made a real sacrifice for him. We are women, you and I; we can understand these things without many words. But such a sacrifice does not consist in consenting to be his queen.

Clara. It is not I that wished it.

Princess. You have allowed yourself to be persuaded?—Well, you are either deceiving yourself, my girl, or you are deceiving him. Perhaps you began with the one and are ending with the other. Anyway, it is time you had your eyes opened as to which of you it is that is making the sacrifice. Do you not know that, on your account, he is already the target for general contempt? (CLARA bursts into tears.) If that makes you repent, show it—show it by your deeds!

Clara. I repent of nothing.

Princess (in astonishment). What state of mind are you in, then?

Clara. I have suffered terribly. But I pray God for strength to bear it.

Princess. Don't talk nonsense! The whole thing is a horrible confusion of ideas—half remorse and half cant—the one so mixed up with the other in your mind that you cannot disentangle them. But, believe me, others feel very sure that sacred things and—and what I won't call bluntly by its name, go very ill together! So don't waste those airs on me; they only irritate me!

Clara. Princess, don't be cruel to me. I am suffering, all the same.

Princess. Why on earth do you want to go any farther with the affair? If you aren't clear about it, take advice! Your father is opposed to it, isn't he?

Clara. Yes. (Throws herself into a chair.)

Princess. He has hidden himself away from you. You don't know where he is, or how he is—though you know he is crippled and ill. And, meanwhile, here you are in full dress, with a rose in your hair, waiting to set out to a court at the palace! Are you willing to pass through contemptuous rioting crowds, and over your sick father's body, to become queen? What callous levity! What a presumptuous mixture of what you think is love, duty, sacrifice, trial—with an unscrupulous ambition—! The King? Are you depending on him? He is a poet. He loves anything unusual or sensational. Resistance stimulates him; and that is what drives him into believing that his love will be unending. When you have been married a week, it will be all over. If he had not met with resistance, it would have been all over before this. I know the King better than you; for I know his faithlessness. It is like his love—unending! It hurts you to hear that, does it? Well, it hurts one's eyes to look at the sun. But I can tell you about these things. The only reason I had for coming was to tell you what I know. And now that I have seen you, I can tell you that I know one thing more—and I will tell you what it is. If you actually allow the King, with his ardent temperament, to stray into a path which will lead to the ruin of his career, your action will, in the fullness of time, recoil so appallingly upon your own head that it will kill you. I know you are one of those that faithlessness, remorse and contempt would kill.—Don't look so beseechingly at me; I cannot retract a word of what I have said. But I can tell you now what I had decided upon before I came. I will look after your future. I am not rich; but, as sure as I stand here before you, you shall live free from care—you shall have everything that you need—for the rest of your life. I want no thanks! I do it for the sake of the King, and for the sake of the country to which I belong. It is my duty. Only get up now and come with me to my carriage. (Offers CLARA her hand.)

Clara. If it were as easy as that, I should have done it long, long ago.

Princess (turns away. Then comes back). Get up. (Pulls her on to her feet.) Do you love the King?

Clara. Do I love him? I am a motherless child, and have lived alone with a father who has been constantly persecuted on account of his principles; I shared his ideals from a very early age, and I have never abandoned them since. Then one day I was given the chance of making these ideals real. "What I long to do, you shall accomplish!" he said. There is something great about that, Princess—something all-powerful—a call from God Himself. Of that I am certain.

Princess. It is merely a rhapsody of the King's—nothing else!

Clara. Then I will make it real and live it! I have given my whole soul to it, and have strengthened his to the same end. It has been my ideal all my life.

Princess. And you believe that it will last?

Clara. Yes.

Princess. Then let me beg you to believe this, too—it will last until he has attained his end.

Clara. If you mean our marriage, let me tell you that that is not our end.

Princess (in surprise). What is, then?

Clara. Our end is to accomplish something together. That task shall be consecrated and ennobled by our love. Yes, you may look at me! Those were his own words.

Princess. That answer!—That thought!—But what certainty have you?

Clara. Of what?

Princess. That you did not put the thought into his mind?—and that the fire in his soul may not flicker out?

Clara. If I needed any assurance, I should find it in the fact that he changed his whole life for my sake; he waited for me for more than a year. Has he ever done that for any one before? I am sure he has never needed to! (The PRINCESS winces.) It is those who have seduced that "ardent" temperament of his—you called it that yourself—that are to blame, and not I, Princess! (A pause.) I checked him to the best of my power when he came to me as he was wont to go to others. (A pause.) Indeed it is no sacrifice to become his wife. When one loves, there is no question of sacrifice. But the position in which I now stand exposes me to more suspicion than the humblest of his subjects, to more scorn than if I were his mistress. Think how you have spoken to me to-day yourself, Princess! (A pause.) It is no sacrifice to endure such things for the man one loves. It was not I that used the word "sacrifice," either; and as for the sacrifice you implied that I ought to have made, I don't wish to understand what you meant by that, even though I am a woman as well as you! But if you knew, Princess, how hard a fight I have been through before I found the strength to cast in my lot with his, against my father's wish and against you all—you would not have spoken to me about making a sacrifice. At all events you would not have spoken to me as you have done to-day; because you are not cruel, and I know that at bottom you mean me well. (A longer pause.)

Princess. This is more serious than I knew.—Poor child, your disappointment will be all the more serious.

Clara. Not with him!

Princess (half to herself). Is it possible he can be so changed? Was that what was needed to secure a hold on him—? (To CLARA.) Is he coming here to fetch you?

Clara. Yes.

Princess. What does he want to hold this court for? What is the good of throwing down this challenge to all the dignitaries of his kingdom?—especially if, after all, he means to live the life of an ordinary citizen?

Clara. He wished it.

Princess. An exciting episode in his rhapsody! Why did you not dissuade him?

Clara. Because I agree with him.

Princess. Perhaps you don't fully realise what it means?—what humiliation the King will have to undergo?

Clara. I only know that it seems to me that these things should be done openly, and that he has plenty of courage.

Princess. That is mere bravado. Are you going in that dress?—to court in that dress? (CLARA is silent.) I say it is mere bravado.

Clara. I have no better dress.

Princess. What do you mean? Surely the King can—? Are you jesting?

Clara (shyly). I do not allow the King to give me anything; not until—.

Princess. Doesn't he pay your expenses here, then? (Looks round the room.)

Clara. No.

Princess. It is the Baroness?

Clara. She and I. We are both poor.

Princess. Ah, yes—she has lost her post now, hasn't she?

Clara. On my account—yes. And you, Princess, who have known her—for she was once your governess—can you really suppose that she would have been faithful to me if she did not trust me and feel that this was right? You treated her so contemptuously when you came in.

Princess. I seem to have broken in upon the most incomprehensible romance!—Then you love the King? (CLARA nods her head.) He knows how to love, and make a woman happy! He is a dazzling creature!—We shall see now whether you are to suffer for all the hearts he has broken. You are not the first woman he has loved.

Clara. Princess!

Princess. Yes, let that sink into your mind! Your happiness is embroidered with tears!

Clara. It is cruel of you to reproach me with it.

Princess. Forgive me! I really did not mean that.—But there is still time to put on a more suitable dress. If you dare accept no gifts from the King—you might from some one else? A King's bride is a King's bride after all, you know!

Clara. He told me I should not need anything more than this.

Princess. Not in his eyes, I dare say. But we women know a little better!—If it were only a necklace? Will you accept this one? (Begins to unfasten hers.)

Clara. I knew you were kind.—But I daren't.

Princess. Why not?

Clara. Because—because people would think that—. (Bursts into tears. A pause.)

Princess. Listen, my child. The whole thing is sheer lunacy; but—as it cannot be altered—as soon as the court assembles I shall take my place at your side and not leave you till it is all over. Tell the King that! Good-bye!

Clara (going towards her). Princess!

Princess (kisses her, and whispers). Haven't you allowed him to kiss you, either?

Clara (in a whisper). Yes, I have.

Princess (kissing her once snore). Love him! (The sound of carriage wheels is heard. The BARONESS comes in.)

Baroness. I hear the King's carriage.

Princess. I don't wish to meet him. (Stretches out her hand to the BARONESS.) Baroness! (Points to the door through which the BARONESS has come in.) Can I get out that way?

Baroness. Yes. (She takes the PRINCESS out. A moment later the MAID ushers in the KING, who is dressed in plain clothes and wearing no decorations.)

The King. Clara!

Clara. My friend! (They embrace.)

The King. What does it mean?

Clara. What?

The King. The Princess' carriage here?

Clara. She told me to greet you. She has just gone, and—

The King. And—?

Clara. She said as soon as the court assembled she would take her place beside me and stay there till we left the palace.

The King. Is it possible?

Clara. It is true.

The King. You have conquered her! I know she could be conquered—she has a heart, as well as a head! It is a good omen!—So she offered to do that! What will our precious nobility have to say to that?

Clara. They are about the streets, aren't they?

The King. Ah, then you know?

Clara. I know, too, that there has been rioting outside the club.

The King. You know that too?—and are not afraid?

Clara. Perhaps I might have been—but there is something else that I am more afraid of. (Draws closer to the KING.)

The King. What is that?

Clara. You know. (A pause.)

The King. Have you been uneasy about him to-day too?

Clara. All day—incessantly. Something must have happened.

The King. Well, now I can tell you where he is.

Clara (eagerly). At last! Have you found him?

The King. Gran has been to see him.

Clara. Thank God! Is it far from here?

The King. This evening, immediately after the court, you and I will both start for there in a special train. We shall be there early to-morrow.

Clara (throwing her arms round his neck). Thanks, thanks! How good you are! Thanks! How is he? Is he ill!

The King. Yes.

Clara. I knew it? And implacable?

The King. Yes.

Clara. I feel it! (Nestles closer in his arms.)

The King. Are you afraid?

Clara. Yes!

The King. Dear, when you see him perhaps your fear will go.

Clara. Yes, only let me see him! Whatever he says, let me see him!

The King. Within twelve hours from now you shall! And I shall be with you.

Clara. The finest thing about you is your kindness. Oh, I am so glad you have come! I could not endure my fears any longer.

The King. There are dissensions going on about you!

Clara. Oh!—(Nestles in his arms again.)

The King. Bear up!—It will soon be over.

Clara. I believe it will. Yes, I know it will.—Let me walk about a little! (The KING walks up and down with her.)

The King. And turn our thoughts to something else! Do you know where I have come from?

Clara. Where?

The King. From our little house in the park.

Clara. Why, we drove past it yesterday!

The King. You will feel only one person's presence there! Wherever you go, you will be surrounded by the thoughts I have had of you there. If you look out of the window, or go out on to the balcony—on every rock, by each turn of the stream—on the lawns, under the trees, among the bushes—everywhere you will find a thousand thoughts of you hidden. Breathe the words "my darling girl," and they will all come clustering round you!—Let us sit down.

Clara. It is all like a fairy tale.

The King. And I am the latest fairy prince! (He sits down and draws her on to his knee.) And you are the little maid who comes, led by good fairies, to the enchanted castle to wake him. He has been kept asleep by wicked spells for many, many years.

Clara. For many, many years!

The King. I am not really I, nor you you. The monarch was bewitched long ago. He was turned into a wild beast who gave reign to his passion by night and slept by day. And now the maiden of humble degree has become a woman and freed him from the spells.

Clara. Really! Ah, you are so clever at inventing things to cheat my fears away from me. And you always succeed. But after all, you know, I have no strength and no courage; I am so weak.

The King. You have more strength than I!—more than any one I have ever known.

Clara. No, don't say that; but—you may be sure of this!—if I did not feel that I had some strength I would never try to throw in my lot with yours.

The King. I will explain to you what you are! Some people are tremendously more spiritual, more delicately constituted than others; and they are a hundred times more sensitive. And they fancy that is weakness. But it is just they who draw their strength from deeper sources, through a thousand imperceptible channels. You will often find them with heads erect and valiant when others have gone under; they merely bend before the storm, with supple strength, when others break under it. You are like that!

Clara. You are very ingenious when you start explaining me!

The King. Well, listen to this! At the time when I was behaving so badly to you, your terror, every time I approached you, was so piteous that it was always before my eyes and rang in my ears like a cry of agony from a wounded heart. It is true! It filled me with terror, too. Do you call that weakness, to feel things so intensely that another person is influenced by your feelings against his will?

Clara. No.

The King. And then, when I found you again—the way you listened to me—

Clara (stopping him with a kiss). Don't let us talk about it now!

The King. What shall we talk about, then? It is a little too early to start yet.—Ah, I have it! We will talk about the impression you will make this evening when you come forward through the brightly lit rooms, radiant against the background of ugly calumny! That was prettily put, wasn't it? "Is that she?" they will think. And then something will come into their eyes that will cheat them into thinking that pearls and gold are strewn over your hair, over your dress, over your—

Clara (putting her hand over his mouth). No, no, no! Now I am going to tell you a little story!

The King. Tell away!

Clara. When I was a child, I saw a balloon being filled one day, and there was a horrible smell from the gas. Afterwards, when I saw the gleaming balloon rising in the air, I thought to myself: "Ah, that horrid smell was something burning; they had to burn it for the balloon to be able to rise." And after that, every time I heard anything horrid said about my father, I felt as if something was burning inside me, and I thought of the balloon and imagined I could smell the smell. And then all at once I imagined I saw it rising; the horrid part was burnt, and it was able to mount aloft! I assure you that balloon was a good genius to me. And now, years afterwards, when I have been a target for calumny myself—and you for my sake—I have felt just the same thing. Every word has burned; but I have got over it in a moment, and risen high, high above it all! I never seem to breathe so pure an atmosphere as a little while after something cruel has been said of me.

The King. I shall certainly set to work and abuse you at once, if it has such delightful results! I will begin with a selection from to-day's papers: "You Aspasia! You Messalina! You Pompadour! You Phylloxera, that are eating into our whole moral vine-crop! You blue-eyed curse of the country, that are causing panics in the money-market, overthrowing ministries, and upsetting all calculations in the elections! You mischievous hobgoblin, who are pouring gall into the printers' ink and poison into the people's coffee, filling all the old ladies' heads with buzzing flies, and the King's Majesty with a million lover's follies!" Do you know that, besides all the harm you are doing to-day, you are hastening a revolution by ten years? You are! And no one can be sure whether you haven't been pursuing the same wicked courses for the last hundred years or more! All our royal and noble ancestors are turning in their graves because of you! And if our deceased queens have any noses left—

Clara (interrupting him). The Baroness! (They get up. The BARONESS comes in wearing a cloak over her court dress and carrying CLARA'S cloak over her arm.)

Baroness. I must take the liberty of disturbing you. Time is up!

The King. We have been killing it by talking nonsense.

Baroness. And that has put you in a good humour?

The King (taking his hat). In the best of humours! Here, my darling (fastens CLARA'S cloak about her shoulders), here is the last scandalous bit of concealment for you! When we take it off again, you shall stand radiant in the light of your own truth. Come! (Gives her his arm, and they go trippingly up to the back of the room. Suddenly the phantom of an emaciated figure leaning on crutches appears in their path, staring at them. His hair and beard are in wild disorder, and blood is pouring from his mouth. CLARA gives a terrified scream.)

The King. In Heaven's name, what is it?

Clara. My father!

The King. Where? (To the BARONESS.) Go and see! (The BARONESS opens the doors at the back and looks out).

Baroness. I can see no one.

The King. Look down the corridor!

Baroness. No—no one there, either! (CLARA has sunk lifelessly into the KING'S arms. After one or two spasmodic twitchings of her hands, her arms slip away from him and her head falls back.)

The King. Help, help!

The Baroness (rushing to him with a shriek). Clara!

Curtain.



ACT IV

(SCENE.—A room in GRAN's house; the same as in Act I, Scene II. GRAN is standing at his desk on the right. FLINK comes in carrying a pistol-case, which he puts down upon the table.)

Gran. You?

Flink. As you see. (Walks up and down for a little without speaking.)

Gran. I haven't seen you since the day the King was here.

Flink. No.—Have you taken your holidays?

Gran. Yes; but, anyway, I am likely to have perpetual holidays now! The elections are going against us.

Flink (walking about). So I hear. The clerical party and the reactionaries are winning.

Gran. That would not have been so, but for her unhappy death—. (Breaks off, and sighs.)

Flink. A judgment from heaven—that is what the parsons say, and the women, and the reactionaries—

Gran.—and the landlords. And they really believe it.

Flink (stopping). Well, don't you believe it?

Gran (after a pause). At all events I interpret it differently from—

Flink.—from the parson? Naturally. But can any one doubt the fact that it was the finger of fate?

Gran. Then fate assumed her father's shape?

Flink. Whether her father appeared to her at the moment of his death or not (shrugs his shoulders) is a matter in which I am not interested. I don't believe in such things. But that she was suffering pangs of conscience, I do believe. I believe it may have brought painful visions before her eyes.

Gran. I knew her pretty well, and I will answer for it she had no guilty conscience. She was approaching her task with enthusiasm. Any one that knew her will tell you the same. With her the King was first and foremost.

Flink. What did she die of, then? Of enthusiasm?

Gran. Of being overwrought by the force of her emotions. Her task was too great for her. The time was not ripe for it. (Sadly.) Our experiment was bound to fail.

Flink. You condemn it when you say that!—But with her last breath she called out: "My father!" And, just at that moment, he died, fifty miles away from her. Either she saw him, or she imagined she saw him, standing before her. But his bloodstained, maltreated, crippled form standing in the way of her criminal advance towards the throne—is that not a symbol of maltreated humanity revolting against monarchy at the very moment when monarchy wishes to atone! Its guilt through thousands of years is too black. Fate is inflexible.

Gran. But with what result? Are we rid of monarchy yet?

Flink. We are rid of that treacherous attempt to reconcile it with modern conditions. Thank God it emerges, hand in glove with the parsons and reactionaries, none the worse for its temporary eclipse.

Gran. So everything is all right, I suppose?

Flink. For the moment—yes. But there used to exist here a strong republican party, which enjoyed universal respect, and was making extraordinary progress. Where is it now?

Gran. I knew that was why you came.

Flink. I have come to call you to account.

Gran. If I had been in your place I would not have acted so, towards a defeated and wounded friend.

Flink. The republican party has often been defeated—but never despised till now. Who is to blame for that?

Gran. None of us ever think we deserve contempt.

Flink. A traitor always deserves it.

Gran. It is but a step from the present state of things to a republic; and we shall have to take that step in the end.

Flink. But at least we can do so without treachery.

Gran. I honestly believe that what we did was right. It may have miscarried the first time, and may miscarry a second and a third; but it is the only possible solution.

Flink. You pronounced your doom in those words.

Gran (more attentively). What do you mean by that?

Flink. We must make sure that such an attempt will not be made again.

Gran. So that is it.—I begin to understand you now.

Flink. The republican party is broken up. For a generation it will be annihilated by contempt. But a community without a republican party must be one without ideals and without any aspirations towards truth in its political life—and in other respects as well! That is what you are responsible for.

Gran. You pay me too great a compliment.

Flink. By no means! Your reputation, your personal qualities and associations are what have seduced them.

Gran. Listen to me for a moment! You used to overrate me in the hopes you had of me. You are overrating me now in your censure. You are overrating the effects of our failure—you never seem to be able to do anything but overshoot your mark. For that reason you are a danger to your friends. You lure them on. When things go well you lure them on to excess of activity; when things go ill, you turn their despondency into despair. Your inordinate enthusiasm obscures your wits. You are not called upon to sit in judgment upon any one; because you draw the pure truths that lie hidden in your soul into such a frenzied vortex of strife that you lose sight of them; and then they have so little of truth left in them that in your hands they can be answerable for crimes.

Flink. Oh, spare me your dialectics!—because any skill you have in them, I taught you! You cannot excuse your own sins by running over the list of mine; that is the only answer I have to make to you! I don't stand before you as the embodiment of truth; I am no braggart. No; but simply as one who has loved you deeply and now is as deeply offended by you, I ask this question of your conscience: What have you done with the love we had for one another? Where is the sacred cause we both used to uphold? Where is our honour—our friends—our future?

Gran. I feel respect for your sorrow. Can you not feel any for mine? Or do you suppose that I am not suffering?

Flink. You cannot act as you have done without bringing unhappiness upon yourself. But there are others to be considered besides you, and we have the right to call you to account. Answer me!

Gran. And is it really you—you, my old friend—that propose to do that?

Flink. God knows I would sooner some one else did it! But none can do it so fitly as I—because no one else has loved you as I have. I expected too much of you, you say? The only thing I wanted of you was that you should be faithful! I had so often been disappointed; but in you and your quiet strength I thought I had splendid security that, as long as you lived, our cause would bear itself proudly and confidently. It was your prestige that brought it into being; your wealth that supported it. It did not cry aloud for the blood of martyrs!—You were the happiness of my life; my soul renewed its strength from yours.

Gran. Old friend—!

Flink. I was old, and you were young! Your nature was a harmonious whole—it was what I needed to lean upon.

Gran. Flink, my dear old friend—!

Flink. And now, here you stand—a broken man, and our whole cause broken with you; all our lives broken—at least mine is—

Gran. Don't say that!

Flink. You have destroyed my faith in mankind—and in myself, for I see what a mistake I made; but it will be the last I shall make! I took you to my heart of hearts—and now, the only thing I can do is to call you to account!

Gran. What do you want me to do? Tell me!

Flink. We must stand face to face—armed! You must die! (A pause.)

Gran (without seeming greatly surprised). Of the two of us, it will go hardest with you, old friend.

Flink. You think your aim will be the surer of the two? (Goes towards the table.)

Gran. I was not thinking of that—but of what your life would be afterwards. I know you.

Flink (opening the pistol-case). You need not be anxious! My life afterwards will not be a long one. What you have done has robbed me of anything to live for in this generation, and I don't aspire to live till the next. So it is all over and done with! (Takes up the pistols.)

Gran. Do you mean here—?

Flink. Why not? We are alone here.

Gran. The King is asleep in the next room. (Points to the door near his desk.)

Flink. The King here?

Gran. He came here to-night.

Flink. Well, it will wake him up; he will have to wake up some time, any way.

Gran. It would be horrible! No!

Flink. Indeed? It is for his sake you have betrayed me. You did that as soon as ever you met him again. He has bewitched you. Let him hear and see what he has done! (Holds out the pistols.) Here!

Gran. Wait. What you have just said brings a doubt into my mind. Is not revenge, after all, the motive for what you are doing?

Flink. Revenge?

Gran. Yes. Don't misunderstand me; I am not trying to shuffle out of it. If I were free to choose, I would choose death rather than anything else. The King knows that, too. But I ask because there ought to be some serious reason for anything that may happen. I am not going to stand up and face a sentiment of revenge that is so ill-grounded.

Flink (laying the pistols down). I hate the man who has led you astray—that is true. When I was giving you the reasons why I took upon myself the task of calling you to account, perhaps I forgot that. I hate him. But the instrument that carries out a sentence is one thing; the sentence itself is quite another. You arc sentenced to death because you have betrayed our cause—and because you say that you were right to do so. The world shall learn what that costs. It costs a man's life.

Gran. So be it!

Flink. The pistols are loaded. I loaded them myself. I imagine that you still have trust in my honour?

Gran (with a smile). Indeed I have.

Flink. One of them has a blank cartridge in it; the other is fully loaded. Choose!

Gran. But what do you mean? Suppose I were to—?

Flink. Don't be afraid! Heaven will decide! You will not choose the fully loaded one!—We shall stand face to face.

Gran. You are settling everything—the sentence, the challenge, the choice of weapons, the regulations for the duel—!

Flink. Are you dissatisfied with that?

Gran. By no means! You are quite welcome! We are to have no seconds? So be it. But the place?

Flink. The place? Here!

Gran. Horrible!

Flink. Why? (Holds out the two pistols to him. The door to the left is opened softly. ANNA looks in, sees what is going on, and rushes with a pitiful attempt at a scream to GRAN, putting her arms round him protectingly, and caressing him with every sign of the utmost terror.)

Gran (bending down and kissing her). She is right! Why should I die for the sake of dull theories, when I can hold life in my arms as I do now? A man who is loved has something left, after all. I won't die!

Flink. If you were not loved, my friend, you might be allowed to live. A cry of sorrow will be heard throughout the land, from the King's palace to the meanest hovel, when you have been shot. And that is just why I must do it! The louder the cry of sorrow, the greater will be the silence afterwards. And in that silence is to be found the answer to the question "Why?" The people will not allow themselves to be cheated any longer.

Gran. Horrible! I won't do it! (Lifts ANNA in his arms as if she were a child.)

Flink (going up to him). It is no mere theory that you are facing. Look at me!

Gran. Old friend—must it be?

Flink. It must. I have nothing else left to do.

Gran. But not here.

Flink. Since it cannot be here, then come out into the park. (Puts the pistols into their case.) You owe me that.

Gran (to ANNA). You must go, my dear!

Flink (putting the pistol-case under his arm). No, let her stay here. But you come! (They all three move towards the door. ANNA will not let GRAN go, and there is a struggle until he, half commanding and half entreating, persuades her to stay behind. The two men go out, shutting the door after them. She throws herself against the door, but it has been locked on the outside. She sinks down to the floor in despair, then gets up, as if struck by a sudden idea, rushes into the room on the right, and almost immediately re-appears, dragging the KING after her. He is only half-dressed and has no shoes on.)

The King. What is it? (A shot is heard.) What is it? (ANNA pulls him to the door. He tries to open it, but in vain. She rushes to the window, with the KING after her. Meanwhile the door is opened from outside, and FALBE comes in, evidently overcome with emotion.) What is it, Falbe? (ANNA runs out.)

Falbe. His Excellency the Minister of the Interior—

The King. Well, what of him?

Falbe.—has been assassinated!

The King. The Minister of the Interior?—Gran?

Falbe. Yes.

The King. Gran?—What did you say?

Falbe. He has been assassinated!

The King. Gran? Impossible!—Where? Why? I heard his voice only just now, here!

Falbe. That fellow shot him—the grey-haired fellow—the republican

The King. Flink? Yes, I heard his voice here too!

Falbe. It was in the park! I saw it myself!

The King. Saw it yourself? Wretch! (Rushes out.)

Falbe. How could I prevent a madman—? (Follows the KING. The door stands open, and through it a man is seen running past, calling out: "Where?" Others follow him, and amidst the sound of hurrying feet, cries are heard of "Good God!"—"In the park, did you say?"—"A doctor! Fetch a doctor!"—"Who did it?"—"That fellow running towards the river!"—"After him! After him!"—"Fetch a barrow from the works!"—After a while the KING returns alone, looking distracted. He stands motionless and silent for some time.)

The King. What a happy smile there was on his face! Just as she smiled!—Yes, it must be happiness! (Hides his face in his hands.) And he died for me too! My two only—. (Breaks down.) So that is the price they have to pay for loving me!—And at once! At once!—Of course! Of course! (The sound of the crowd returning is heard, and cries of: "This way!"—"Into the blue room!" Women and children come streaming in, all in tears, surrounding ANNA and the men that are carrying GRAN'S body, and follow them into the room on the left. Cries are heard of: "Why should he die?"—"He was so good!"—"What had he done to deserve it!"—"He was the best man in the world!")

The King. "He was the best man in the world!" Yes. And he died for my sake! That means something good of me!—the best possible! Are they two together now, I wonder? Oh, let me have a sign!—or is that too much to ask? (The crowd come out again, sobbing and weeping, and cries are heard of: "He looks so beautiful and peaceful!"—"I can't bring myself to believe it!" When they see the KING, they hush their voices, and all go out as quietly as they can. When they have gone out, the MAYOR's voice is heard asking: "Is he in here?" and an answer: "No, in the blue room, over there." Then the GENERAL'S voice: "And the murderer escaped?"—An answer: "They are looking for him in the river!"—The GENERAL'S voice: "In the river? Did he jump into the river?"—The PRIEST's voice: "Shocking!" A few moments later the GENERAL with BANG, the MAYOR, and the PRIEST come in from the other room. They stop on seeing the KING, who is standing at the desk with his back to them, and whisper.)

The General. Isn't that the King?

The Others. The King?

The Mayor. Is the King back? He must have come in the night!

Bang. Let me see!—I know him personally.

The General (holding him back). Of course it is the King.

The Mayor. Really?

Bang. I recognise him by his agitation! It is he.

The General. Hush! Let us go quietly out again! (They begin to move off.)

The Mayor. He is grieved. Naturally.

Bang. First of all her death; and then this—!

The Priest. It is the judgment of heaven!

The King (turning round). Who is that? What? (Comes forward.) Who said that? (They all stop, take off their hats and bow.) Come back! (They come back hastily.) Who said: "It is the judgment of heaven"?

The General. Your Majesty must forgive us—we were just taking a little stroll; I am here to spend Christmas with my friend Mr. Bang, who has a factory here—a branch of his works—and we happened to meet the Mayor and the Priest, and we joined company—and were strolling along when we heard a shot. A shot. We did not think anything more about it till we came nearer here and saw people running, and heard a great outcry and disturbance. Great disturbance—yes. We stopped, of course, and came to see what it was. Came to see what it was, of course. And they told us that the Minister of the Interior—

The King. What is all that to me! (The GENERAL bows.) Who said: "It is the judgment of heaven"? (No one speaks.) Come, answer me!

The Mayor. It was the Priest—I fancy.

The King (to the PRIEST). Haven't you the courage to tell me so yourself?

The General. Probably our reverend friend is unaccustomed to find himself in the presence of royalty.

The Priest. It is the first time that—that I have had the honour of speaking to your Majesty—I did not feel self-possessed enough, for the moment, to—

The King. But you were self-possessed enough when you said it! What did you mean by saying it was "the judgment of heaven"?—I am asking you what you meant by it.

The Priest. I really don't quite know—it slipped out—

The King. That is a lie! Some one said: "First of all her death, and then this." And you said: "It is the judgment of heaven."

The Mayor. That is quite right, your Majesty.

The King. First of all her death? That meant the death of my betrothed, didn't it?

Bang and The Priest. Yes, your Majesty.

The King. "And then this" meant my friend—my dear friend! (With emotion.) Why did heaven condemn these two to death? (A pause.)

The General. It is most regrettable that we should, quite involuntarily, have disturbed your Majesty at a moment when your Majesty's feelings are, naturally, so overcome—

The King (interrupting him). I asked you why heaven condemned these two to death. (To the VICAR.) You are a clergyman; cudgel your brains!

The Priest. Well, your Majesty, I was thinking that—I meant that—that heaven had in a miraculous way checked your Majesty—

The General. "Ventured to check" would be more suitable, I think.

The Priest.—from continuing in a course which many people thought so unfortunate—I mean, so fatal to the nation, and the church; had checked your Majesty—

The General (in an undertone). Ventured to check.

The Priest.—by taking away from your Majesty the two persons who—the two persons who—in the first place the one who—

The King. The one who—?

The Priest. Who was—

The King. Who was—? A harlot that wanted to sit on the throne?

The Priest. Those are your Majesty's word, not mine. (Wipes his forehead.)

The King. Confess that they express what you meant!

The Priest. I confess that I have heard—that people say—that—

The King. Pray to heaven that for a single day your thoughts may be as pure as hers were every day. (Bursts into tears. Then says impetuously.) How long have you been a clergyman?

The Priest. Fifteen years, your Majesty.

The King. Then you were already ordained at the time when I was leading a dissolute life. Why did you never say anything to me then?

The Priest. My most gracious King—

The King. God is the only "most gracious King"! Do not speak blasphemy!

The Priest. It was not my duty to—

The General. Our friend is not a court chaplain. He has merely a parish in the town here—

The Mayor. And his work lies chiefly among the factory hands.

The King. And so it is not your duty to speak the truth to me—but to attack my dear dead friends by prating about heaven's judgment and repeating vile lies? Is that your duty?

The Mayor. I only had the honour to know one of the—the deceased. Your Majesty honoured him with your friendship; the greatest honour a subject can enjoy. I should like to say that one would rarely find a nobler heart, a loftier mind, or more modest fidelity, than his.

The General. I should like, if I may make so bold, to make use of the opportunity chance has afforded me of associating myself with my sovereign's sorrow, a sorrow for which his whole people must feel the deepest respect, but especially those who, in consequence of their high position, are more particularly called upon to be the pillars of the monarchy; to use this opportunity, I say—and to do so, I know, as the representative of many thousands of your Majesty's subjects—to voice the sympathy, the unfeigned grief, that will be poured forth at the news of this new loss which has wrung your Majesty's heart—a loss which will reawaken consternation in the country and make it more than ever necessary to take the severest possible measures against a party to which nothing is sacred, neither the King's person nor the highest dignities of office nor the inviolability of the home—a party whose very existence depends on sedition and ought no longer to be tolerated, but ought, as the enemy of the throne and of society, to be visited with all the terrors of the law, until—

The King. What about compassion, my friend?

The General. Compassion?

The King. Not for the republicans—but for me!

The General. It is just the compassion which the whole nation will feel for your Majesty that compels me, in spite of everything, to invoke the intervention of justice at this particular crisis! Terror—

The King.—must be our weapon?

The General. Yes! Can any one imagine a more priceless proof of the care that a people have for their King, than for the gravely anxious tones of their voice to be heard, at this solemn moment, crying: Down with the enemies of the throne!

The King (turning away). No, I haven't thews and sinews for that lie!

The Mayor. I must say I altogether agree with the General. The feeling of affection, gratitude, esteem—

The General.—the legacy of devotion that your Majesty's ancestors of blessed memory—

The King (to the Priest). You, sir—what does my ancestors being "of blessed memory" mean?

The Priest (after a moment's thought). It is a respectful manner of alluding to them, your Majesty.

The King. A respectful lie, you mean. (A pause. ANNA comes out of the room on the left and throws herself at the KING'S feet, embracing his knees in despairing sorrow.) Ah, here comes a breath of truth!—And you come to me, my child, because you know that we two can mourn together. But I do not weep, as you do; because I know that for a long time he had been secretly praying for death. He has got his wish now. So you must not weep so bitterly. You must wish what he wished, you know. Ah, what grief there is in her eyes! (Sobs.)

(The GENERAL signs to the others that they should all withdraw quietly, without turning round. They gradually do so; but the KING looks up and perceives what they are doing.)

The General. Out of respect for your Majesty's grief, we were going to—

The King. Silence! With my hand on the head of this poor creature, who used to trust so unassumingly and devotedly to his goodness of heart, I wish to say something in memory of my friend. (ANNA clings to him, weeping. The others come respectfully nearer, and wait.) Gran was the richest man in the country. Why was it that he had no fear of the people? Why was it that he believed that its salvation lay in the overthrow of the present state of affairs?

Bang. Mr. Gran, with all his great qualities, was a visionary.

The King. He had not inherited all of his vast fortune; he had amassed a great part of it himself.

Bang. As a man of business, Mr. Gran was beyond all praise.

The King. And yet a visionary? The two things are absolutely contradictory.—You once called me "the padlock on your cash-box."

Bang. I allowed myself, with all respect, to make that jest—which, nevertheless, was nothing but the serious truth!

The King. Why did he, who has met his death, consider that the security for his cash-box came from those below him, as long as he did what was right, and not from those above him? Because he understood the times. No question of selfishness stood in the way of his doing that.—That is my funeral oration over him!—(To ANNA.) Get up, my dear! Did you understand what I was saying? Do not weep so! (She clings to him, sobbing.)

The Priest. He was a very great man! When your Majesty speaks so, I fully recognise it. But your Majesty may be certain that, though we may not have been so fortunate as to see so far ahead and so clearly—though our mental horizon may be narrow—we are none the less loyal to your Majesty for that, nor less devoted! It is our duty as subjects to say so, although your Majesty in your heaviness of heart seems to forget it-seems to forget that we, too, look for everything from your Majesty's favour, wisdom and justice. (Perspires freely.)

The King. It is very strange! My dear friend never said anything like that to me. (A pause.) He had the most prosperous business in the country. When I came to him and asked him to abandon it, he did so at once. And in the end he died for me. That is the sort of man he was. (To ANNA.) Go in to him, my dear! You are the very picture of dumb loyalty. Although I do not deserve to have such as you to watch by my side, still, for the sake of him who is dead, I shall have you to do so when I too—. (Breaks off.) Yes, yes, go in there now! I shall come. Do you understand? I shall come. (ANNA moves towards the other room.) There, that's it! (He repeats his words to her every time she looks back as she goes.) Yes, directly!—That's it!—In a very little while! Go now!

Bang. Excuse me, your Majesty, but it is terribly hot in here, and the affection of my heart which troubles me is attacking me painfully. Will your Majesty be pleased to allow me to withdraw?

The Mayor. With all respect, I should like to be allowed to make the same request. Your Majesty is obviously very much upset, and I am sure we are all unwilling that our presence—which, indeed, was unintentional and unsought by us—should augment a distress of mind which is so natural in one of your Majesty's noble disposition, and so inevitable considering the deep sense of gratitude your Majesty must feel towards a friend who—

The King (interrupting him). Hush, hush! Let us have a little respect for the truth in the presence of the dead! Do not misunderstand me—I do not mean to say that any of you would lie wilfully; but the atmosphere that surrounds a king is infected. And, as regards that—just a word or two. I have only a short time. But as a farewell message from me—

The Priest. A farewell message?

The King.—give my greeting to what is called Christianity in this country. Greet it from me! I have been thinking a great deal about Christian folk lately.

The Priest. I am glad to hear it!

The King. Your tone jars on me! Greet those who call themselves Christians—. Oh! come, come—don't crane your necks and bend your backs like that, as if the most precious words of wisdom were about to drop from my lips! (To himself.) Is it any use my saying anything serious to them? (Aloud.) I suppose you are Christians?

The General. Why, of course! Faith is invaluable—

The King.—in preserving discipline? (To the Mayor.) How about you?

The Mayor. I was taught by my parents, of blessed memory—

The King. Oh, so they are "of blessed memory" too, are they? Well, what did they teach you?

The Mayor. To fear God, honour the King—

The King.—and love the brotherhood! You are a public official, Mr. Mayor. That is what a Christian is, nowadays. (To BANG.) And you?

Bang. Of late I have been able to go so little to church, because of my cough. And in that unwholesome atmosphere—

The King.—you go to sleep. But you are a Christian?

Bang. Undoubtedly!

The King (to the Priest). And you are one, of course?

The Priest. By the grace of God I hope so!

The King (snapping his fingers). Yes, that is the regulation formula, my good fellow! You all answer by the card! Very well, then—you are a community of Christians; and it is not my fault if such a community refuses to take any serious interest in what really affects Christianity. Tell it from me that it ought to keep an eye on the monarchy.

The Priest. Christianity has nothing to do with such things. It concerns only the souls of men!

The King (aside). That voice. (Aloud.) I know—it does not concern itself with the air a patient breathes, but only with his lungs! Excellent!—All the same, Christianity ought to keep an eye on the monarchy. Ought to tear the falsehood away from it! Ought not to go in crowds to stare at a coronation in a church, like apes grinning at a peacock! I know what I felt at that moment. I had rehearsed it all once that morning already—ha, ha! Ask your Christianity if it may not be about time for it to interest itself a little in the monarchy? It seems to me that it scarcely ought any longer to allow monarchy, like a seductive harlot, to keep militarism before the people's eyes as an ideal—seeing that that is exactly contrary to the teachings of Christianity, or to encourage class divisions, luxury, hypocrisy and vanity. Monarchy has become so all-pervading a lie that it infects even the most upright of men.

The Mayor. But I don't understand, your Majesty!

The King. Don't you? You are an upright man yourself, Mr. Mayor—a most worthy man.

The Mayor. I do not know whether your Majesty is pleased to jest again?

The King. In sober earnest, I say you are one of the most upright of men.

The Mayor. I cannot tell your Majesty how flattered I am to hear your Majesty say so!

The King. Have you any decorations?

The Mayor. Your Majesty's government has not, so far, deigned to cast their eyes on me.

The King. That fault will be repaired. Be sure of that!

The General (to the Mayor). To have that from his Majesty's own mouth is equivalent to seeing it gazetted. I am fortunate to be able to be the first to congratulate you!

Bang. Allow me to congratulate you also!

The Priest. And me too! I have had the honour of working hand in hand with you, Mr. Mayor, for many years; I know how well deserved such a distinction is.

The Mayor. I feel quite overcome; but I must beg to be allowed to lay my thanks at your Majesty's feet. I trust I shall not prove unworthy of the distinction. One hesitates to make such confessions—but I am a candid man, and I admit that one of the chief aims of my ambition has been to be allowed some day to participate in—

The King (interrupting him).—in this falsehood. That just points my moral. As long as even upright men's thoughts run in that mould, Christianity cannot pretend to have any real hold on the nation. As for your decoration, you are quite sure to get one from my successor.—In a word, Christianity must tackle monarchy! And if it cannot tear the falsehood from it without destroying it, then let it destroy it!

The General. Your Majesty!

The King (turning to him). The same thing applies to a standing army, which is a creation of monarchy's. I do not believe that such an institution—with all its temptations to power, all its inevitable vices and habits—could be tolerated if Christianity were a living thing. Away with it!

The Priest. Really, your Majesty—!

The King (turning to him). The same applies to an established church—another of monarchy's creations! If we had in our country a Christianity worth the name, that salvation trade would stink in men's nostrils. Away with it!

The Mayor (reproachfully). Oh, your Majesty!

The King (turning on him). The same applies to the artificial disparity of circumstances that you prate about with tears in your eyes! I heard you once. Class distinctions are fostered by monarchy.

Bang. But equality is an impossibility!

The King. If you would only make it possible—which it can be made—even the socialists would cease to clamour for anything else. I tell you this: Christianity has destroyed ideals. Christianity lives on dogmas and formulas, instead of on ideals.

The Priest. Its ideals lead us away from earth to heaven—

The King. Not in a balloon, even if it were stuffed full of all the pages of the Bible! Christianity's ideals will lead to heaven only when they are realised on earth—never before.

The Priest. May I venture to say that Christianity's ideal is a pious life.

The King. Yes. But does not Christianity aim at more than that, or is it going to be content with making some few believers?

The Priest. It is written: "Few are chosen."

The King. Then it has given up the job in advance?

The Mayor. I think our friend is right, that Christianity has never occupied itself with such things as your Majesty demands of it.

The King. But what I mean is, could it not bring itself to do so?

The Priest. If it did, it would lose sight of its inner aim. The earliest communities are the model for a Christian people!

The King (turning away from him). Oh, have any model you like, so long as it leads to something!

The General. I must say I am astonished at the penetration your Majesty slows even into the deepest subjects.

Bang. Yes, I have never heard anything like it! I have not had the advantage of a university education, so I don't really understand it.

The King. And to think that I imagined that I should find my allies, my followers, in Christian people! One is so reluctant to give up all hope! I thought that a Christian nation would storm the strongholds of lies in our modern, so-called Christian communities—storm them, capture them!—and begin with monarchy, because that would need most courage, and because its falsehood lies deepest and goes farthest. I thought that Christianity would one day prove to be the salt of the earth. No, do not greet Christianity from me. I have said nothing, and do not mean it. I am what men call a betrayed man—betrayed by all the most ideal powers of life. There! Now I have done!

The General. But what does your Majesty mean? Betrayed? By whom? Who are the traitors? Really—!

The King. Pooh! Think it over!—As a matter of fact I am the only one that has been foolish.

Bang. Your Majesty, just now you were so full of vigour—!

The King. Don't let that astonish you, my friend! I am a mixture of enthusiasm and world-weariness; the scion of a decrepit race is not likely to be any better than that, you know! And as for being a reformer—! Ha, ha! Well, I thank you all for having listened to me so patiently. Whatever I said had no significance—except perhaps that, like the oysters, I had to open my shell before I died.—Good-bye!

The General. I really cannot find it in my heart to leave your Majesty when your Majesty is in so despondent a humour.

The King. I am afraid you will have to try, my gallant friend!—Don't look so dejected, Mr. Mayor!—Suppose some day serious-minded men should feel just as humiliated at such falsehoods existing as you do now because you have not been allowed to participate in them. I might perhaps be able to endure being king then! But as things are now, I am not strong enough for the job. I feel as if I had been shouldered out of actual life on to this strip of carpet that I am standing on! That is what my attempts at reform have ended in!

The Mayor. May I be allowed to say that the impression made on my mind by the somewhat painful scene we have just gone through is that your Majesty is overwrought.

The King. Mad, you mean?

The Mayor. God forbid I should use such a word of my King!

The King. Always punctilious!—Well, judging by the fact that every one else considers themselves sane, I must undoubtedly be the mad one. It is as simple as a sum in arithmetic.—And, in all conscience, isn't it madness, when all is said and done, to take such trifles so much to heart?—to bother about a few miserable superannuated forms that are not of the slightest importance?—a few venerable, harmless prejudices?—a few foolish social customs and other trumpery affairs of that sort?

The General. Quite so!

The Mayor. Your Majesty is absolutely right!

Bang. I quite agree!

The Priest. It is exactly what I have been thinking all the time.

The King. And probably we had better add to the list certain extravagant ideas—perhaps even certain dangerous ideas, like mine about Christianity?

The Priest (hastily and impressively). Your Majesty is mistaken on the subject of Christianity.

The Mayor. Christianity is entirely a personal matter, your Majesty.

The General. Your Majesty expects too much of it. Now, as a comfort for the dying—!

The King. And a powerful instrument of discipline.

The General (smiling). Ah, your Majesty!

Bang (confidentially). Christianity is no longer such a serious matter nowadays, except for certain persons—. (Glances at the PRIEST.)

The King. All I have to say on the head of such unanimous approval is this: that in such a shallow society, where there is no particular distinction between lies and truth, because most things are mere forms without any deeper meaning—where ideals are considered to be extravagant, dangerous things—it is not so very amusing to be alive.

The General. Oh, your Majesty! Really, you—! Ha, ha, ha!

The King. Don't you agree with me?—Ah, if only one could grapple with it!—but we should need to be many to do that, and better equipped than I am.

The General. Better equipped than your Majesty? Your Majesty is the most gifted man in the whole country!