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.