Robert Peters: Ludwig of Bavaria
The events leading to Ludwig's death, on June 13, 1886, were as turbulent as any in his life. Once he was declared insane, a host of officials attempted to arrest him, arriving at Neuschwanstein in a brutal rainstorm, only to find themselves beaten off by a ferocious old Baroness armed with an umbrella. The officials were arrested by Ludwig's men and imprisoned. For several hours, they remained under threats of execution.
Realizing that his removal from the throne was at best a matter of hours, Ludwig asked for poison. But his servant refused to fetch any. It was, in fact, his valet Mayr who betrayed him and allowed him to be taken prisoner on the staircase leading to the castle tower.
After an eight-hour ride in heavy rain, Ludwig was incarcerated at Schloss Berg, his rooms fixed with spyholes. All potential suicide weapons were removed. Ludwig seemed in good spirits. The next day, he persuaded the alienist, Dr. Bernhard von Gudden, who was primarily responsible for assembling the evidence for Ludwig's reputed insanity, to walk with him along Lake Starnberg, in a heavy downpour. The two men never returned alive: both were found drowned. The exact events of the tragedy have never been resolved. One theory is that Ludwig had a heart attack and that Gudden drowned trying to save him. Another is that Ludwig drowned Gudden and then himself. Amid great pomp and circumstance Ludwig's funeral occured on June 19, 1886. He was forty years old.
He was succeeded by his insane brother Otto: but since the latter was entirely incapable of ruling, his uncle Prince Luitpold served as Regent from 1886-1912.
Ludwig of Bavaria: a play For: Paul Trachtenberg, Robert Cohen, and Paul Vangelisti
Wo gegen mich selber
ich sehnend mich wandte,
aus Ohnmachtschmerzen
schaumend ich aufschoss,
wütender Sehnsucht
sengender Wunsch
den shrecklichen Willen mir schuf,
in den Trümmern der eignen Welt
meine ew'ge Trauer zu enden...("Wotan," Die Walküre, 111:3)
(I turned on myself in agony.
Enraged, I transcended my brutal sorrows.
My virulent aches and desires prompted my decision:
I would terminate my sorrow
in my own ruins.)
(PROPS: 2 six-foot, backless benches painted gold or covered with carpeting or cloth. Must not be of plastic or metal. A large oval floor or hanging mirror, stage left, half turned towards audience. Two eight-foot candelabra, either real or simulated. A pair of white gloves on front bench.)
PROLOGUE (Optional)
(AS AUDIENCE ENTERS THE THEATRE THEY DISCOVER ACTOR ON STAGE APPLYING HIS MAKEUP. AS ACTOR FINISHES, HE MAKES THE FOLLOWING REMARKS, THEN DISAPPEARS, TAKING MAKEUP PARAPHERNALIA WITH HIM.)
Ludwig is a figure out of time, spectral.
In his conflicts, we find reflections of those in our own natures. In him they were writ large.
He was a giant in height and temperament, intensely and superbly iconoclastic. He despised and mocked the insipidities of politicians, and generals. When his officials came to find him in order to lead his troops during the Franco-Prussian War, they were unable to locate him for several days; he was found dressed as Barbarossa the ancient Teuton, and with his cousin and lover Paul Taxis, dressed as Lohengrin, was sailing on a lake in a swan boat. An orchestra, hidden in the bushes, was playing Wagner's Lohengrin.
He revered Louis XIV, of France, the Sun King, and frequently dressed as Louis, complete with wig and jewelled cape. His last castle, Herrenchiemsee, was an imitation of Versailles Palace.
Much of the wealth of Bavaria Ludwig spent in the pursuit of beauty, with the building of castles and the patronage of Richard Wagner's music. He saw himself as Wagner's co-creator. He built Bayreuth and made Wagner's Ring cycle possible.
A passion for art dominated Ludwig's life, even as he grew obese and riddled with disease.
His eccentricities, and his ultimate destruction, were the result of gigantic dualisms at war in his nature: sexuality vs. spirituality, beauty vs. ugliness, and passion vs. reason.
Nearly all of what you will now hear occurred in Ludwig's life, including the hosting of his horse Cosa Rara to dinner.
(MUSIC UP. OPENING OF BRUCKNER'S "SEVENTH SYMPHONY.")
(ENTERS IN THE DARK, IN FULL COSTUME STANDS AT REAR STAGE FACING AUDIENCE AND AGAINST THE STRAINS OF THE BRUCKNER BEGINS TO SING "O TANNENBAUM " LIGHTS UP SLOWLY. BRUCKNER FADES)
O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum
Wie treu sind deine Blätter
Sie sind so griün in Sommerzeit,
Und auch im Winter, wenn es schneit.
O Tannenbaum. O Tannenbaum,
wie treu sind deine Blatter.
(WALKS ENERGETICALLY TO APRON OF STAGE. TEFFLOTH'S BAVARIAN COURT MUSIC UP. PLAYS THROUGHOUT SPEECH.)
Bavaria is not Prussia. I loathe Prussia. Prussia is as foreign to me as Persia. (TONE OF SPOILED CHILD. POINTS TO MOTHER SEATED AT IMAGINARY BANQUET TABLE.) Mother, Richard Wagner is from Leipzig. He is not a Prussian. I must meet Herr Wagner. I shall bless him. He shall bless me.
Count von Bismarck is a stupid Junker. He is a Prussian. (GESTURES TOWARDS THE COUNT OPPOSITE HIM AT THE TABLE.) Mother, why do you seat me beside him at this horrid state dinner? (MIMES SPREADING NAPKIN ON HIS LAP.)
(STARTLED, AND PLEASED.) A servant with a grand leg grazes my shoulder. I stare at the thrushes on my plate. (PICKS UP BIRD.)
"Count," I say. (PRETENDS TO TALK THROUGH MEGAPHONE TO THE OLD COUNT.) "I feel like drinking money. Prussia is as foreign to me as Persia."
He's flustered, rancid.
I hope he sleeps well after his dinner.
(PUTS HAND TO EAR, AS IF LISTENING TO THE OLD COUNT TURNS TO AUDIENCE AND MIMICS WHA T HE HAS JUST HEARD.)"Be loyal to the Wittelsbachs, Prince. They've ruled Bavaria for centuries."
That's his advice.
(SHRUGS SHOULDERS IN FRUSTRATION.)
My mother down the table chatters prose.
A Count from Somewhere picks his nose.
I raise my glass above my head for a servant to fill.
He obeys my will.
(INCREASINGLY VEXED.) If I had a flute I'd play it. If I knew an obscene jest I'd say it.
(PASSIONATELY, TO HIS FATHER, WHOM HE SEES OUT IN THE AUDIENCE.)Father, Father. Live long so I won't be king! Prussia, Prussia! Prussia is as foreign to me as Persia!
(ONCE THE SPEECH IS FINISHED, HE WHIRLS AS IF HE HAS FORGOTTEN SOMETHING. CIRCLES TO REAR OF STAGE, PEERS OUT, LIKE A CHILD, FROM BEHIND CANDELABRUM. CARESSES CANDELABRUM THROUGHOUT THE SPEECH. BEGINS TALKING TO AUDIENCE, BUT GROWS INCREASINGLY SELF-ABSORBED.)
I would watch the young gardener
through the mullioned window,
waft him kisses, sketch
with my finger the valleys of his back muscles.
Tempests whirled his name: "Friedrich. Friedrich."
I fell asleep tangling his hair.
The roses were his to tend.
(HE IS DRAWN TO APRON OF STAGE WHERE HE LOOKS DOWN, IMAGINING THE DROWNED BODY.)
He's dead now. Found drowned near the castle,
in the lake we avoid since it is so scummed over.
They pole him out of the water, into a boat.
They remove his shirt, trousers, and coat.
Mother orders the flutists to play
to divert us from the horror in the court.
(HE SEEMS TO TAKE THE DROWNED MAN UP IN HIS OWN ARMS AND AS HE DELIVERS THE NEXT LINE MIMES PLACING THE BODY DOWN ON THE FRONT BENCH.)
Father forbids me to visit the shed to view his body.
The slab he lies on, face up, sweats in moonlight.
My legs near his. My arms stroke his. (MIMES THESE ACTIONS, GROWING INCREASINGLY SEXUAL. KNEELS AT BENCH.)
The undertaker has not glued his eyes.
His hair is stuck with algae, feathers, leaves.
I slip through his veins. No pain.
I stroke the iced marble of his hand.
I believe I can turn his neck. It cracks.
His lips open. (MIMES KISSING THE MOUTH.)
A wash of suet sweetens my breath!
(LOOKS OUT AT AUDIENCE, WITH ARMS STRETCHED STRAIGHT OUT AT HIS SIDES.)
This stone shed is a living house! (LIES FACE DOWN ON BENCH.) This my nude body grabs death, swims with it, reviles it, shafts it!
The roses were his to tend.
(DIM LIGHTS. MUSIC: BERLIOZ'S "MARCHE FUNEBRE" DURING ENTIRE EULOGY TO THE DEAD FATHER. LUDWIG, KNEELING AT BENCH IMAGINES CORTEGE TRANSPIRING IN FRONT OF STAGE.)
Father, your coffin winds through the streets.
Your shroud is stitched with gold, your lips
sewn cold. The people grieve.
I am afraid, Father. I am not a natural man.
(NOW IMAGINES FATHER LYING ON BENCH, AS ON A BIER.)
I forgive your beatings, Father. You'd say they're laid up in Heaven. I now wear your rings, the rubies and opals of state.
Your velvet liveries, sables, equipages of gold, the black horses drawing your catafalque now are mine.
Plumes of fire! Grief-lyres jangled!
Father! (RISES. STANDS TALL, BUT WITH PAIN IN HIS VOICE.) I am the King! I am not a natural man! (MUSIC OUT.)
(LIES ON BENCH, ON HIS BACK, AS IF IN HIS BATH. ALMOST FOPPISHLY ELEGANT.)
Lying amid the dissolving bath crystals
while my man-servant deftly bathes me,
I fall into a sort of coma, sweet as a religious trance.
Beneath the rhythmic sponge, perfumed with Kiki,
I am St. Sebastian.
(SITS UP.) As the water grows cloudier and the crystals evaporate amid the steam, I am St. Theresa .I would no doubt become the Blessed Virgin herself, but that (GETS UP. IS IRRITATED.) my bath grows gradually cold. (Adapted from Ronald Firbank)
(TURNS TOWARDS AUDIENCE WITH MUCH VIGOR, STERNNESS.)
My obligations as King do not include
my presenting myself to crowds, no matter
how adoring or starved for celebrities.
I am no gilt statue to be propped in a carriage
and cheered. I am no freak,
although I know the legends that crop up
with the gaminess of exotic mushrooms.
My chest, too, I hear, is legendary,
is a Gothic structure complete with scaffolding
and a painter who decorates (RUBS HIS RIBS.) the vaultings and rib-spaces.
I don't direct his hand.
I shall continue to attend to affairs of state,
consultations on budgets, appointments, decrees. But, in private, if I choose to dress as a Pasha, strike attitudes as Louis XIV, have my soldiers dance naked together, or chew calf-hearts raw, that's my affair. (ALMOST FRIGHTENINGLY AUTOCRATIC.)
(WALK5 TO MIRROR. SAYS THE FIRST TWO LINES, THEN RETURNS T0 HARANGUE AUDIENCE.)
You'll never see Ludwig. I merely
reflect your own faces back to you.
I am increasingly a non-ceremonious King.
But, I warn you, I am not a weak King.
(SITS ON BENCH. TAKES UP GLOVES AND PUTS THEM ON AS HE RECITES. CHARMS THE AUDIENCE THROUGHOUT.)
Though I ride my white charger as well as any officer, I am out of place among the generals. (LAUGHS.) Their opinion of me is that I should cut my hair. My opinion of them would char your ears.
When I am obliged to wear my uniform during rainstorms, I shall insist on carrying my helmet in one hand, my umbrella in the other. I have no intention of spoiling my coiffure for anyone.
If I don't have my hair curled every day, how can you expect me to enjoy my food?
To play at chivalry and combat as medieval knights is refreshing and sane. Such activities are a form of play enactment designed to inculcate noble feelings towards a great past. To fight wars in the modern manner is barbarous and disgusting. I command a new Leonardo da Vinci to invent weapons capable of mowing down whole regiments at once, in a few moments, shortening the agony. If we must wage war by machinery, let us proceed to slaughter one another until sick of the carnage we return to settling our differences by individual combat. I am ready anywhere, anytime, to meet Otto von Bismarck or Louis Napoleon. Just let the field be dry, so that my uniform won't be muddied if I should fall.
The Parisians, I hear, are impressed with me as a pacifist. One of their newspapers says that I am not "wicked" King Ludwig -- the only thing I have accompanied my troops on is the piano. I am proud of this reputaion.
Wherever I see a handsome young soldier on duty at the Residenz who looks fatigued, I delight in upsetting his officers by ordering a sofa brought for him. Sometimes I award the youth a special ring to commemorate the occasion.
War? War? (RAUCOUS LAUGHTER. GETS UP) I hate war! I won't have a war! Tell the generals I am off to Schloss Berg, (STARTS RUNNING IN CIRCLE TO REAR OFSTAGE, STOPS AT MIRROR.) or to the Roseninsel, or to some other spot where they will never find me!
("OVERTURE" TO LOHENGRIN BEGINS AS LUDWIG GLIMPSES WAGNER WHO HAS ENTERED. HE WELCOMES WAGNER, GESTURING FOR HIM TO SIT AT END OF BENCH. HE BEHAVES IN A NERVOUS, BOYISH MANNER.)
So, at last, you are here. Please, be seated, Herr Wagner. I kiss your hands. Now, before we settle terms, I'll peel an orange for you. They were shipped here on a camel, from Jerusalem. I have a large supply, luscious bits of the sultry sun for you.
Your fingers on the keyboard, your head bowed intent on a cadenza. Outside the window, afternoon snow, late, tumultuous. (ECSTATIC. NEXT LINE TO AUDIENCE.) We have been here over six hours -- the velvet drapes, the peacock, the ferns, the fire, the rosewood of the piano (SMOOTHS HAND OVER BENCH.) intensified by the flames.
Each note you score, each chord thrust past its fumbling, sutures the world, healing what was rent, is once again made whole.
(OUT MUSIC.)
(STAYS BEHIND BENCH THROUGHOUT SPEECH.) I am vexed, though, Wagner, that as you create and I observe -- yes, inspiring you... I can't see your hands, as Apollo must ... or the years clanging down immense corridors.
Alas, my eyes are jellies. My ears thrum
from being too near flamboyant trumpet voluntaries.
I have banished all trumpets from the court.
I can't hear your sounds as you do!
(ENRAPTURED. ALL SPOKEN FROM BEHIND BENCH.) My passion matches the Alps! In splendor creative I am Vesuvius! I am equal to the most magificent spruce in the Schwarzwald! I am Byron! I am Werther! I am Louis XIV! I am Friedrich Schiller! My incredible double (BOWS TOWARDS WAGNER.) is Richard Wagner!
(COMES DOWN TO EDGE OF STAGE. DIRECTLY TO AUDIENCE.)
Did you know that Schopenhauer says that Reason is feminine? How refreshing! I had assumed that Intuition was feminine, not that Reason was. If the fact that Reason "Gives only after it has received" makes it female, I can see how the woman must be entered by the male before she can "give."
The whole idea is peculiar.
I am pondering this because of something Wagner (LOOKS BACK AT WAGNER.) said, or rather implied, that my lingering so much in the music room while he composes is very feminine. Alas, Richard has not the slightest interest in the erotic turn of my wrist, as I display it towards him. He will leave the piano shortly, and I crave that he come over, thrust back my lace, and kiss my wrist, nay, bite it out of his passion.
(ALL SAID DOWNSTAGE FACING AUDIENCE.) Oh, isolated deserts of Diane, Artemis, Hecate, and Selene! I am the Moon's child! I am the Moon King engendered of swans!
Tristan, your flesh slides into mine. Mine slides into yours. I am Isolde! You are Isolde!
On hearing the Overture again, I am ravished afresh. Not once do I touch myself, nor do I soil my fingers when I wipe the nacreous fluid from my chest with silk.
I am purified! (MUSIC FROM LOHENGRIN UP.) Lohengrin laves me all over with incredible sound! My nerves are on the mark! I am twisted and twisted back again! Lohengrin! Lohengrin! Lohengrin!
(UP FULL WHITE, THEN BLACK. MUSIC CONTINUES FOR HALF A MINUTE OR SO.)
(SEATED ON FRONT BENCH. MIMES WRITING LETTER.)
My dearest Cousin Elisabeth, Dove: I have proposed to Sophie, as you once urged me to do. Though she is your younger sister, you must know that she will never usurp you in my affections. Your marriage prevents my ever enjoying such bliss with you, you selfish adorable creature. Sophie is attractive, slim and is an enthusiast of my own Richard Wagner. She sings, and already knows several of the Master's arias by heart. When you see her you might suggest that she try wearing her ash-blond hair other than plaits. I should like her to appear a bit older than she is. Also, Dove, I am wondering if there isn't a subtle way of hinting that she develop a keener sparkle in her eyes. It has been the fashion recently for women to go about absolutely expressionless, as though they've just risen from the tomb. She may take these suggestions quite amiss. You must come here soon, Dove, and you shall spend impossible days alone, with your Eagle, riding over the mountains. Your ever-loving cousin, Ludwig.
(SEEMS CAUGHT UNAWARES BY A VISION OF HIS LOVER, COUNT PAUL VON THURN UND TAXIS, IN AUDIENCE. STAYS SEATED.)
Paul Taxis, loving body, spirit, friend,
to the Greeks sex was augury.
I say this now, for the Greeks have blessed me
with mania. And I see it as a blessing.
When I stroke your thigh, Paul, and move upwards, silken,
I define my Soul.
Your body heat translates into winged stallions
of blues, orchids, wines.
As for now, let this suffice:
my brain shatters with sound.
I run screaming your name. (TENDER, BURSTING WITH LOVE.)
(STILL SEATED. MIMES WRITING A LETTER. AFTER A FEW SENTENCES DROPS THE ILLUSION.)
Sophie, dear Sophie, it's been over a month since our formal engagement and the ball where you looked so splendid in your brocade, velvet, and lace, and where I graced you in my new cavalry uniform. (IMAGINES SOPHIE IN AUDIENCE, FAR LEFT OF TAXIS.) I felt that we were actors in a dramatic tableau? Did you? But when I turned to take your arm -- you were standing beside that pot of palms, remember? -- your eyes were frightened.
Sophie, I am truly sorry that I abandoned you at the reception: I wanted desperately to see the last act of Schiller's play. Forgive my impetuous departure.
Also, you must understand that at the Opera, for me to sit near anyone who chatters is a gross violation of my sensibilities. That I don't, therefore, invite you (or anyone else) to my box is no sign of my lessening affection for you.
(JOYOUS.) I have been much preoccupied with my cousin Paul Taxis of late, on the Roseninsel, and have been constitutionally unable to see you. We are installing much machinery for casting the moon and moonlight on the walls. (MIMES MOON, FALLS, BlRDS.) We are hoping that by pushing water up into a large trough, it will tumble realistically as a falls near my bed. Also, a series of wires attached to a metal drum revolving, will imitate the exact calls of day and night birds.
There is a decor for dreams. It is crucial that I create this appropriate decor. I shall use the mechanical ingenuity of the age for enriching my dreams, not for fighting wars.
(SUDDENLY STRUCK BY PAUL'S IMAGE IN THE AUDIENCE.) Paul Taxis oils his body! Candles, behind him, in a row! Am I thinking of Sophie now? Can I smell her perfume?
(MIMES WRITING LETTER...FASTER THAN BEFORE.)
Dear Sophie, I shall visit you shortly and bring my Mother's crown to fit on you. Just this once, order your Lady-in-Waiting to let us alone, and not, as usual, sit concealed behind a screen or pot of palms spying on us. You have already seen the crown, I believe, and you will further enhance its delicate facets.
Yes, another thing: we must postpone our wedding for at least a month, since both my father and grandfather were married then. I am sorry for this postponement.
(RISES. AT EDGE OF STAGE.)
A damsel and a dulcimer
I fantasize a monster
A facade and a fanfare
Brocade and a marblestair
All on our wedding.
A clipped piece of fingernail
A spider from a berrypail
Sweat from a coat-of-mail
Bacteria from a weasel's tail
Gifts at our wedding.
(TO AUDIENCE.)
Where you will be sitting
toad-women will be knitting
a chastity-belt for splitting
our marriage in two
(BACKS UP. SEEMS LOST. CAN'T FIND HIS WAY OFF STAGE.)
Sophie, my Intended, we are maddened by the moon!
Sophie, my cousin, we shall marry soon!
My father is eating human flesh in his tomb! The ringed worm is in panic, he can't find a home!
Sophie, my Intended (VOICE IN CRESCENDO.), wearemaddenedbythemoon!
(RUNS OFF STAGE.)
(BLACK.)
(MUSIC PLAYS FOR 2 OR 3 MINUTES: OVERTURE TO RHEINGOLD. MUSIC CONTINUES THROUGHOUT LUDWIG'S READING OF HIS LETTER TO WAGNER. HE IS DISCOVERED SEATED.)
4 November 1867. My dearest Wagner. Hohenschwangau is utterly beautiful in the blizzard raging now. I am alone here in this castle where I spent so much of my boyhood and youth. I am rid of people, clamor, the ugly faces of suffering, the balls, audiences, reviews. There is peace. A great swan's wing soothes me. I feel so intimate with ice. My mother who was such a misery to me this past summer, is far off. So too is Sophie! I have broken our engagement! Married to her I should have been miserable. Suicide is preferable. The gloomy picture vanishes. The nightmare dissolves.
Before me stands your bust. My one friend whom I shall love unto death! You are with me everywhere. I take courage and endurance from you. I would suffer and die for you. I wish to die for you. I am exalted writing this letter. The whirling snow echoes the creative rhythms of our twined souls. In Valhalla, the ancient gods, over rich draughts of mead, rejoice in us. My adored one! For whom I live! For whom I die!
Your Own LUDWIG
(MUSIC OUT.)PS: (PUSHES ON HIS TEETH.) I am having considerable trouble with my teeth. Almost always they pain. I have dreams where they fall out in clusters, as though they are made of bad plaster.
(GOES DOWNSTAGE. INTIMATE WITH AUDIENCE: HE FEELS THEY ARE AS AMUSED AS HE IS BY THE EVENTS HE RECITES.)
Once the gossips give out
that I'm not about
to marry Sophie, or indeed any woman,
For the good of the State
(here I must divagate)
certain ladies of note
learn their lesson by rote
and decide to rescue Bavaria.
if the King's gone astray --
it's the theme of the day --
then they'll appear contractual.
And by wiles if not wit,
by halter, bridle, or bit
they'll seduce this noble,
but misguided homosexual.
One such creature of bifoliate gender
was Lily von Bulyowski, the actress Hungarian
who as Mary Stuart overwhelmed the Bavarians.
I sent her hot notes full of fervent quotes
from Schiller and Shakespeare, signed Romeo.
And despite her charms, I avoided her arms,
and once alone on the Roseninsel,
our midnight walk took the form of a talk
not of the heart but the theater.
Poor Lila was distressed to find her silk dress a mess --
we'd wandered for hours in a soaked meadow --
she decided that I was a miserable smeer
and resumed her career playing Meyerbeer.
There were others I might name both creaking and virginal who sought to spare me that fate worse than death, the love of men noble and seminal. None of these succeeded where the others had failed. Perhaps if they'd worn whiskers and coats of mail?
(REMEMBERS HE HAS DOLLMAN, ETC. WAITING IN THE PALACE, SO HE RUSHES UP-STAGE. HE EMPLOYS LITERAL GESTURES TO SUGGEST DETAILS. HE VISUALIZES THE SCENE, AND MUST CONVINCE AUDIENCE THAT HE DOES. DOLLMAN IS UP-STAGE RIGHT. PFISTERMEISTER IS OFF THE APRON STAGE-LEFT. ARCHITECT IS IN THE AUDIENCE TO THE RIGHT.)
Herr Dollman: (THE KING SEES DOLLMAN AS WEAK AND FOPPISH.) The cupid over the window in the diningroom was to have adorned the chimney piece. Why have you substituted a Bacchus and Venus? And the arms of those chairs were to curve more, as the style demands. Also, the deities above the door and on the ceiling are to be gilt, not white. However, the three peacocks forming the Kiosk throne are magnificent.
(TURNS. DISCOVERS WOODCARVER. HE IS PLEASED WITH THE MAN.) Woodcarver, I am delighted with your carving of the 50 swans in the walnut of the Grand Staircase. I am particularly thrilled with the intricacy of the crowns you have carved above each bird.
Herr von Heckel: (SITS. HE HAS CONTEMPT FOR H.) In your painting of Lohengrin, the ship comes too far forward. And Lohengrin's neck should be less tilted -- he looks as if he were beseeching his Lord for a drink of water.
Also, it's absurd to fashion the chain leading from the ship to the swan of roses rather than gold, and I'm shocked you don't see this. If a storm should arise, Herr von Heckel, where would you chain of filthy roses be?
(SNIDE, THEN VERY ANGRY. SPEAKS OVER SHOULDER.) Herr Secretary, why do you interrupt me? There is no more money in the treasury for Herr Wagner? Absurd! I command you to send him a draft immediately in any amount whatsoever he requires. (RISES AND SPINS AROUND FACING P.) If the treasury is empty, Herr von Pfistermeister, go to Switzerland and rob banks.
(HAS RESPECT FOR ARCHITECT, BUT IS FIRM.) Architect: I cannot abide your failure to carry out my express wishes concerning all details of my castle. Be assured that I care exceedingly that backs and undersides be exact and correct. If you choose to violate my wishes, as you obviously are doing, I shall dismiss you. I am pained that nowhere in this benighted state is there a single person other than myself whom I can trust. I expect also, Architect, that you keep abreast of any changes I desire, no matter how minuscule in the total scheme of this castle. If I decide that a two-foot column beneath a stair is to be Byzantine rather than Gothic, so must it be. If I decide that it must be raised, and arabesqued rather than painted, so must it be.
I am not, you understand, a temperamental king wishing he were an artist. Nor am I asserting my creative temperament willfully over yours the practical and the executive. I am, in fact, your King, and I am to be obeyed down to the final flagstone, rivet, and pin! (POUNDS ONE HAND AGAINST THE OTHER, FOR EMPHASIS.)
(MUSIC: VOGEL: BAVARIAN COURT MUSIC, PLAYED THROUGHOUT SPEECHES TO HORNIG. MUSIC OUT AT OTHER TIMES. KING IS SEATED. BOUNCES TO GIVE IMPRESSION HE IS RIDING IN HIS SLEIGH.)
It's essential, Hornig, protocol,
that you dismount bare-headed, approach my sleigh,
brush the flakes from my face, adjust my robe, and, if I choose, peel an
orange for me.
There, there, I don't believe you've covered my wrist properly.
See that birch tree? It whips out our theme, Hornig, moist, musical: Lovers are never chilly.
Do you feel greasy death beneath your thumbnail?
Pass me a goblet of wine.
(RISES.) Halt this carriage. (MUSIC OUT.) Summon that young farmer (SEEN AT REAR OF AUDIENCE, RIGHT.) working in the field, binding sheaves. No, no, the brown one, stripped to the waist. Summon him. (PAUSE.) Welcome, son. Rise. Rise. Don't kneel. Here's a ruby. Take it. Take it. For your beauty revives and excites me on this tedious journey. (YOUTH DISAPPEARS ON HIM.)
(ENVISIONS WEASELS IN FRONT OF THE STAGE.) Do you see those weasels, Hornig? They're ravenous. Nothing I throw to them (APPEARS TO RIP OFF PIECES OF HIS BODY.) veal, fowl, or venison -- diverts them from my jugular.
(MOVES DOWNSTAGE: VERY INTERIOR -- MADNESS.)
Three peasant babies in the snow.
(GRIMACING.) Gute Nacht. Grüss Gott.
Three peasant babies drinking blood.
(GRIMACING.) Totenblasse. Totenblasse.
Where is their mother? Where is she?
(GRIMACES.) Den Geist aufgeben. Den Geist aufgeben.
She's coughed up her lungs in a purple flood.
(GRIMACES.) Gute Nacht. Grüss Gott.
(SPEEDS UP DELIVERY.) An old woman is beating clothes on a rock with a stick.
Miceheads emerge from her pocket
where they have been nibbling chocolate.
From her thatched house a cuckoo calls.
Are the children safe?
Will the stag with the stars in his antlers
fetch them home
clinging to his shaggy haunches?
If only Hans had worn his coat,
and Heide her pinafore.
The old woman knows they'll return
for the spires of a castle glimmer
where the king sits eating his dinner
and elves slaver
over the blood they are sucking from weasels.
(GRIMACES.) Gute Nacht. Grüss Gott. (GLARES AT AUDIENCE THEN SITS DOWN ON APRON OF STAGE, READY FOR HIS PICNIC.)
(FACES HORNIG, WHO IS TO HIS LEFT. GESTURES WHERE HE WANTS PICNIC CLOTH PLACED. HORNIG SPREADS CLOTH, THEN GOES DOWN INTO PIT BEFORE THE STAGE. LUDWIG IS BENIGN. OUTRAGEOUS.)
Unpack the wine, Hornig. Spread a cloth on the snow, there, near that spruce with the pitch-green branches. Portion the roast quail, the brisket, the potatoes, the mousse. Later serve the brandied coffee.
A proximity to ice improves your appetite.
So why are you shivering? The sun is beneficent.
Note the warmly-colored unicorns prancing on the table-
cloth, among the roses. They aren't cold. Why are you?
See the clouds below the peak,
that roiling, vicious purple.
Stop shivering! I command you!
Scoop out a snowdrift for your velvet cushion.
Pretend that we're sheik and loyal retainer
picnicking on the sand at Sarnarkand!
(HORNIG SEEMS TO HAVE VANISHED IN A CLOUD, LEAVING THE KING DESOLATE. LOOKS WITH AGITATION THROUGH THE AUDIENCE FOR HIIM. RISES, LOOKS AROUND THE STAGE, THEN FINDS HIM. GOES BEHIND CANDELABRUM AND LOOKS OUT AT HORNIG, MUCH AS HE DID EARLIER WITH THE YOUNG DROWNED GARDENER.)
In candlelight Hornig poses for me, first against blue silk, then against red. I'm wearing my robe embroidered with peacocks. Hornig's back is half-turned. His leg is raised. One foot rests on a stool near the candelabrum. "I love you," I whisper. "I love you." His buttocks are blue. His hairy thighs are magnificently turned. (KNEELS. INTENSE SEXUAL FEELING.) "Now!" I say. And he faces me. He smiles as I kneel.
My lips tremble at the fusion -- the torsion of my ugliness, his pulchritude. Hornig, you are a creature foaled in the Moon's house! (BRINGS FACE DOWN ON BENCH.) You are the scrotum of God made flesh!
(LOOKS UP, STARTLED. MIMES DIMENSIONS OF THE WALL.)
A wall enters a bedroom. It glides, stopping near my bed. It blocks my view of the Alps. On the wall, there's a black-haired Queen holding a broom, two brothers writhing in sodomy, some entrails draped neatly as the letter "L." "Mother," says the wall. (RISES. DRAWS WALL VIA MIMING WITH HANDS.) "I break a jug over your head. I beat you with your broom. I trample your breasts into sauasge."
(POINTING AT WALL.) "Father," says the wall, "I pull you from your coffin. I box your ears until you are deaf, then I disembowel you."
"Brother," says the wall, "I plunge into your body until I am bleeding. (SHOUTS.) I ejaculate chunks of marble."
On returning to bed
I glance in a mirror
and find to my horror
that my teeth have turned black.
My thumbs, when I probe, are covered with plaque.
(LIES DOWN ON BENCH, AS IF IN BED.) My days of smiling in public are over, except at night by dim candlelight when encircling a lover, or, when hugging myself, a grotesque delight!
(TURNS ON SIDE TO TALK TO HORNIG WHOM HE IMAGINES IS IN BED BESIDE HIM.)
Hornig, why do you choose this time to tell me of your betrothal? (DISTURBED, BUT STILL GENTLE.) Can't you see the rain? Must I point to it, encircle it with crayon?
Why do you tell me here?
Are her sweats, her slimes, on my lips now?
I would not have loved you here, had you not stroked me.
(TRIES TO EXCITE HORNIG.) Drink wine with me.
I won't force you again to kiss my body.
Drink. The wine will inflame your breath and excite you.
(REALIZES HE HAS DEMEANED HIMSELF SITS UP.)
I'll never again force you to love my misshapen body.
Go! Go! (WAVES HORNIG OFF STAGE.)
You are afraid.
I am not afraid.
(TO AUDIENCE, FROM THE BED.)
Love is a motion in the loins, or so I've assumed.
Love's pinions drag and flap in the missionary position.
In Love's mansion there is but one room.
Eros perfumes his genitals with civet every afternoon.
I am waiting, Endymion, to waft you to the moon.
Love wipes his fundament on the neck of a loon.
(RUSHES DOWN-STAGE. ALMOST SPEWS THESE WORDS.)
Flatulence and pyorrhea, headaches and diarrhea! A flabby paunch and a flabby ass, had best be jellied and kept under glass, or combined with goose liver into a pâté, (WITH LOW BOW TO AUDIENCE.) and served with mint sauce on Christmas day!
(SUDDENLY VERY INTERIOR.) My brain buzzes as if it owns the world: there's a goblet of embossed silver. Albrecht Dürer drank from it.
Hornig, do you know what I'm saying?
I forgive you for marrying.
I'm a wasp outside a stable
in love with bedrooms.
How else may I numb my aches?
My inflamed gums! The ball-bone
of my hip grinds glass! My gender's wrong!
If I could find that wretched vesicle,
(MIMES THE RIPPING.) I'd rip it forth and cast it to the weasels!
(SUDDENLY REMEMBERS HE HAS INVITED HIS HORSE TO DINNER, AND THAT HE MUST NOT BE LATE. BEGINNING OF BRUCKNER'S 8TH SYMPHONY PLAYS THROUGHOUT MOST OF SPEECH TO COSA RARA.)
Groom, why are you late?
Welcome. Cosa Rara, steed, friend. (GOES AROUND BEHIND BENCH TO SIT. FACES THE AUDIENCE.)
There there. Calm him, Groom. What are you doing
with that white tablecloth? Don't tie it
around his neck. He's a horse. He's not human.
That's why I need him.
Bring the candles closer.
Fine. That's fine, groom. Now depart.
Cosa Rara...your gilt tray, my priceless china...
If only Herr Wagner were here to dine with us.
At this moment, The Götterdämmerung is being performed in Venice:
Please be seated, Herr Wagner.
I kiss your hands.
Before roe settle terms
I'll peel an orange for you.
They upere shipped here on a eamel from Jerusalem . . .
Eat, Cosa Rara, eat.
Your oats were steeped in cognac and toasted. Heaps of Alpine clover dried and powdered, even glazed with sugar. Wheat-kernels plumped in Moselle! (OUT MUSIC.)
Alas! I am not hungry. My robe stifles me. My stomach sags over my belt. Horse, your eyes are as wild as mine. They mock the insipidities of the world. (LAUGHTER.) Let the politicians, the generals, the painted dowagers waffle and bob until they sink! Send them off to the stables without their wigs and dinner!
(WHEN KING LOOKS BACK HE FINDS THE HORSE LEAVING THE THEATER. HE STANDS AND CALLS AFTER HIM, PLEADINGLY.)
Cosa Rara, friend, stay the night. Stay the night!
(SEATED ON UP-STAGE BENCH.) I am bored! Life is catenary, a cable, strung between the Zugspitze of my passion and the contrary peak of my public obligation. A bullet would take longer to travel between my ears (PUTS HANDS TO EARS.) than most men's.
As for now, the cable swings firm over the chasm.
You may send messages along it if you wish.
They shall sizzle like lightning the full-length of my body.
(SEATED, TO AUDIENCE.) I have just eaten a dinner of veal and pheasant and pork and quail, washed down with quantities of Rhenish ale.
I am wretched at having to dine alone.
I lament the suet sheathing my bones.
I despise my need to fondle men, knowing
that I repel them.
"Beauty! Beauty! Beauty!"
The words bruise my lips, pummel my teeth.
Help me. Wagner! Help me!
(IN A TRANCE.) I wish I were a dahlia or a white marguerite plucked
on an amazing night of gauze and tulle.
I wish I were a mushroom, phallus
of the mountain, burgeoned through the mulch after
hours of tempest, grazed and shattered by a stag's hoof.
(DIRECTLY TO AUDIENCE.) I will confess that when I tire of reading, and am driven to hear a human voice, I summon a lackey or a postillion, and get him to tell me about his family. So, you see, my withdrawals are not entirely perversities.
(ABSTRACTED. SLOWLY REMOVES GLOVES.)
I have sifted through the ashes of my kingdom.
Not one of the embers is for me.
Not one of the hardy seeds is for me.
There's a tempest in the chimney.
A terrible snow-crystal sears my hand. (DROPS ROBE.)
(TRANCE-LIKE: A TOTALLY INTERIOR FEELING.)
A swan's magnificent trachea
coils within its sternum. Aroused
it sounds a canticle rung through
the twists and brass turns of a trumpet.
A swan carols . . . when . . .
(YANKS OFF WIG. GLARES ATAUDIENCE.)
Needle-like crystals interlace freezing my face.
(RUSHES TO MIRROR.) a nip here, a nip there.
Diseases ravage my body.
They escape detection, ignore
the dynamics of freezing.
The exact course descends
until the mass uniformly freezes.
It should reach my trachea shortly.
(IN PAIN. FEELS THAT THE AUDIENCE SHARES HIS PLIGHT. THERE IS SOME ANGER IN HIS VOICE, BUT NO SELF-PITY.)
Why can't animals sing?
What shall I bring to the picnic in the snow?
(TRIUMPHANTLY.) I am King of the Night! I am King of Ice!
(MOVES TO APRON, RIGHT. SIEGFRIED'S FUNERAL MUSIC BEGINS.)
Mist soaks the fields.
On the horizon a king booms
clouds of sound. Cloud-bastions
of hail, beaten, envelop him.
He re-emerges, mailed,
his tarn-helm winged, his breast-plate
scarlet, and in his gloved hand, raised toward Heaven,
the Holy Grail.
A globe is in my hands.
It's burning.
I thrust it choked in blood,
beneath my ribs.
I stagger to rise.
Wagner! Wagner! Wagner!
(MOVES BACK TO CENTER STAGE, APRON: SIEGFRIED'S FUNERAL MUSIC CONTINUES WITH VARYING VOLUME. BY END OF PLAY THE CRESCENDO SHOULD BE POWERFUL ENOUGH SO THAT THE ACTOR MUST SHOUT HIS PAIN AGAINST IT.)
Rondures of pain twirl through you, magnificent spruce.
Many a star has grazed your woe-laden branches,
has burst into mystic light, and recombined,
restoring itself to blaze for another 500 years.
I have kissed the lips of the dead, splendid tree,
have stroked cold breasts in the wood where souls wander.
I come here now, to you, in the Spiegelau, to mourn
my dead friend, Richard Wagner.
Shreds of grief hang at intervals
from your bowed ribs weighting them. Black angels trim the
Weihnachtsbaum of death with velvet crape.
(SEES WAGNER LYING ON THE BENCH.)
Smother orchids on his catafalque!
Fashion his coffin of Venetian glass!
A gigantic tree has crashed, shaking the greasy bear in his whiffling sleep. Spice-gums ooze from the slashed trunk. Ants and grubs fatten.
If his features are composed in a smirk
I'll imprison the undertaker!
If his throat is bruised, if the pUtti
under his eyes trickles,
I'll invade Italy! I'll level the Alps!
(KNEELS AT APRON.)
Tree, your branches hide skulls.
Maggots with amber heads and mandibles
squirm through the eyeholes, through the
ragged nostril holes, and drop to the jaws.
They slither, aware that the feast is over,
exotic delights spent, haunches and bowels
once creamy, brains turned to mush . . .
(PROSTRATE ON BENCH, OR KEENING ON FLOOR, FACING AUDIENCE. HE MIMES HAVING A TORTURED MOUTH AND TONGUE.) I spit, my
tongue a swollen toad gagging my throat.
I can't weep.
Flames sear my knuckles.
I seize you, tree, and bellow.
Dunkelheit! Darkness! Dunkelheit!
(AS HE SHOUTS THESE FINAL WORDS HE BRINGS HIS HEAD SLOWLY FORWARDS UNTIL IT TOUCHES THE FLOOR. THE MUSIC CONTINUES AT FULL VOLUME, FOR A GOOD MINUTE OR MORE, BEFORE THE ACTOR LEAVES THE STAGE.)
Layout by Pam Plymell
Cover Design by John Pilcher
Arrangements to produce the stage version of Ludwig may be made through Cherry Valley Editions, Box 303, Cherry Valley, NY 13320.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Peters, Robert, 1924-
Ludwig of Bavaria.
1. Ludwig II, King of Bavaria, 1845 1886-Literary collections. I. Title.
PS3566.E756L8 1986 811'.54 86 20779
ISBN 0-916156-82-6
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