Robert Peters: Ludwig of Bavaria
Copyright © 1986 by Robert Peters
Contact address for permission to reprint and distribute.
Cherry Valley Editions
Box 303
Cherry Valley, New York 13320
or contact the author at ptrachrp@aol.com.
For Bill Truesdale, friend and publisher of an earlier version of Ludwig and for Paul Trachtenberg and our rare and special union.
A noxious schmor of entrails,
spotted livers, dung
roiled and bubbled
until a liquor, rare,
was thrown off, distilled
and labelled King.
Contents
Foreword
I: BROTHERS, NUNS, TUTORS, GARDENERS, AND SWANS
Influenza
Lying face down
Ludwig follows
Stones gaze up
King Max whacks Ludwig
No one tells you
Rhymes
It's time
Prussia is as foreign
A muted waterfall
A polarbear, stuffed
Swans glide from bronze hemlock shadows
A swan's magnificent trachea
A swan dies
Two hours after lunch
Dawn's rosy finger
Aunt Alexandra
I would watch the young gardener
I'm a worm in a rose
Father, your coffin
II: DISGUST AND DESIRE: HORSES, AIR, AND WATER
A horse can rarely vomit
Magnificent autumn morning
Loving Elisabeth
Beneath my nail
Up here it doesn't matter
I weary of riding
Lying amid the dissolving bath crystals
If one is sober
German Genre Pictures:
Three peasant babies in the mud
He poises his chisel
Maiden, graceful in the fresh hay
An old woman is beating clothes
III: RICHARD WAGNER
Richard Wagner: Chronology
A brook flows as sweetly
Acrostic Poem for Right and Left Eyes
Schopenhauer declares
Dear Wagner: My ministers
So, at last you are here!
Your fingers on the keyboard
Perpetual motion is immortal
Schopenhauer says that Reason is feminine
IV: WAR AND PEACE
On July 29, 1870
My obligations as king
As for happiness
Ludwig's Positions on War
An agent for Bismark
The Seven Weeks' War Concluded
V: THE BETROTHAL
Dearest Elisabeth, Dove
Paul Taxis, loving body, spirit, friend
We can feign love
Cherries beware
Snake-throats in black shadow
Sophie's gown
Paul, our Bed of Heaven
Sophie, it's been over a month
A gray goose with a dulcimer
Sophie, I'm truly sorry I abandoned you
A damsel with a dulcimer
Paul Taxis oils his body
Sophie, let black
Hohenschwangau is utterly beautiful
VI: RIDING IN CIRCLES
Ludwig assumes
My own Wagner
A Wagnerian Ragout
The Gossips
Once the gossips give out
The state bedroom at Linderhof
To comprehend the human body
Herr Dollman
Our work at Neuschwanstein
If my castles are to bear my stamp
Herr von Heckel
The Minstrels' Hall
Ludwig Complains to His Architect
Horace and Augustus
While walking one morning
Wagner hopes to produce Der Ring
VII: TORSION AND DECAY
It's essential, dear Hornig
A swan flicks ice
A honking crane
We shall spear the boar at midnight
Those red weasels are ravenous
We harness our sleigh
Unpack the wine, Hornig
I've seen the violets
If, Hornig, as you say
In candlelight, Hornig poses
A wall enters a bedroom
Hornig, you choose to sit
My brain buzzes as if it owns the world
Teeth
After the Franco-Prussian War
On returning to bed
Love is a motion in the loins
After Heine's "Morphine"
In battle, Prince Otto
VIII: JOSEF KAINZ
After Heine's "Der Scheidende"
Slashes of red proscenium
The King is in his swanboat
The gilt bed
Photographs
Take these presents
Their disguises are shorn
IX: THE PICNIC IN THE SNOW
Clasping, yet unclasping bronze chains
I have just eaten a dinner
Empty birdnests whirl
Cast a slab of ice on a screen
I have sifted through the ashes
Needle-like crystals interlace
Why can't animals sing?
Groom, why are you late?
Mist soaks the fields
An Elegy in the Romantic mode
Ever since dinner
NOTE
MAD LUDWIG OF BAVARIA: A PLAY
Foreward
i
This is a book about beauty, friendship, art, and disease, centered
around one driven soul who happened to be a king. With considerable flair, Ludwig II cultivated the esthetic experience and the dream world, and immersed them unabashedly in a nineteenth-century
ambience. It is difficult to conceive of him without Novalis, Goethe,
Schopenhauer, Schiller, Nietzsche, Byron, and Shelley in the background. Ludwig's world was a baroque stage where he was the leading actor, as well as director, designer, and producer. One might
even say that at moments he fancied himself as the entire audience as
well. His supporting cast, chosen carefully by him, were led by
Richard Wagner and, in the later years, by Josef Kainz. His only real
female confidante was his cousin the Empress Elisabeth of Austria,
mother of the Crown-Prince who died at Mayerling. Ludwig saw his
own mother as a villainess -- he called her "Prose". All of these
persons were larger than life. Critics agree that without Ludwig's
material support, Wagner would never have written The Ring; and,
stimulated by their turbulent friendship, Kainz became a major
European actor.
Much of his personal behavior he modelled after his namesake
Louis XIV of France, the Sun King. In homage, Ludwig saw himself
as the Moon King, often exchanging his days for nights, and
frequently dressing up as the French monarch. Ludwig's last palace,
Herrenchiemsee, unfinished at his death, was a version of Versailles;
Ludwig's Hall of Mirrors was even more splendid than its prototype
in France.
Ludwig was homosexual, and agonizingly so. I place his sexuality
at the core of his nature, explaining much of his behavior by it. His
agonizing was unrelenting, and assumed the classic pattern of the
guilt-ridden man who succumbs to his predilections, enjoys them
and then loathes and berates himself afterwards, calling upon God,
or whatever forces of strength he can summon to keep from falling
again. Though they exist only in mutilated transcripts, doctored
apparently by the men who dethroned him, his journals are
reportedly filled with evidence of a struggle that would have driven lesser mortals to suicide. I see Ludwig as an eccentric genius whose ideas were ahead of his time. What nineteenth-century monarch so
resisted war and the greed and bloodshed spawned by it? Or what
monarch had the vision and the intelligence to try to realize, via his
fantastic palaces and castles, ideas for a society of the future, ideas he
explored with Wagner?
Poetry as biography and history is a specialty of mine. My first use
of the mode was in two books on the life of Ann Lee, the English
"female Christ" who founded the Shaker religion in America: The
Gift to be Simple: A Garland for Ann Lee (Liveright, 1975) and
Shaker Light, to be published in 1986 by the Unicorn Press. Other
"voice" books include: Hawker (Unicorn, 1984), over a hundred
poems in the voice of the eccentric Cornish vicar Robert Stephen
Hawker, who was obsessed with dredging drowned sailors from the
sea and burying them in his churchyard. He was also a poet, loved
having animals attend his services, and played mermaid for his
parishioners. Kane (Unicorn, 1985), a voice portrait of the American
explorer Elisha Kent Kane who reached the Arctic in 1853. His ship
froze fast in the ice off Greenland and never thawed free. Based on
the explorer's journals, Kane delineates the experiences of that
harrowing year and the return of the survivors down the Greenland
coast. The Blood Countess, published so far as a "Gothic Horror Play
For Single Performer," recreates the life and psyche of the notorious
Hungarian mass murderer Elisabeth Bathory. She killed over 700
virgins and bathed in their blood, as a way, she believed, of maintain-
ing her youth. She was thwarted in her grisly pursuits when she was
walled up in her castle in 1609. Large sections of Countess have
appeared in Sulfur and Bluefish.
Earlier works of mine anticipated these recent efforts: Connections: In
the English Lake District (Anvil Press, London,1967), never published in
America, is made up of collage poems, lyrics, and narrative pieces,
juxtaposing some of Wordsworth's experiences in the Lake District with
my own. Byron Exhumed (included in The Poet as Ice-Skater, Manroot
Books, 1976) employs parody and satire in monologues by persons who
have just heard of Byron's death. The title poem for my Selected Poems
Gauguin's Chair (Crossing Press, 1977) depicts Van Gogh's agony over rupture of his friendship with Gauguin.
As so often happens, serendipity determines our directions, both personal and professional. In 1974, I stayed overnight with George Hitchcock and Marjorie Simon, in Santa Cruz, California. As I was on my way to bed, George handed me a copy of Wilfrid Blunt's The Dream King. Those readers who know this book, published by Penguin, will preciate the superb quality of its numerous plates. Visconti's much mutilated film Ludwig had not yet appeared, nor had the Syberberg film. I had just written my Shaker books and was seeking a new subject, one that would present esthetic challenges different from those occasioned by Ann Lee. I was immediately intrigued by Ludwig, who struck me as an archetypal esthete and pacifist, one connected with other interests of mine. A good part of my early professional life I spent writing on Oscar Wilde, A.C. Swinburne, James McNeill Whistler, John Addington Symonds, and Walter Pater. I have always been interested in the several arts, an interest encouraged by my mentor at the University of Wisconsin, Jerome Buckley.
As the idea for a long work on Ludwig grew, I decided not to worry
about writing the usual poetry book. The subject-matter would determine
the length. Needless to say, Blunt's biography was indispensable; my
debt to it is enormous. Also important were Ernest Newman's The Life
of Richard Wagner and Richard Gutman's Richard Wagner: The Man his
Mind and his Music. The story of Kainz's ring was told to me by Harold
Clurman, one summer at Yaddo. I also owe much to my long-time friend
and fellow-poet Paul Trachtenberg, to whom this work is partially
dedicated, for his continuing presence and affection.
An earlier version of Ludwig, called The Picnic in the Snow: Ludwig
of Bavaria, was published by Bill Truesdale, the New Rivers Press, in
1982, and is now out of print. Bill's enthusiasm and support were crucial
at a difficult time in the book's history. The major events of Ludwig are
based on fact; other events occurred to me as I sought to sense Ludwig
and make him my own person. People in the book all figured in Ludwig's
life, more or less in the roles I assign them. "Bath" is adapted from Ronald
Firbank's The Flower Beneath the Foot, which Ludwig would have loved.
I have also adapted passages from Plato and Schopenhauer, and have
assembled passages from Ludwig's letters.
ii
The stage version, Mad Ludwig: A Chamber Play For Single
Performer, developed from a series of dramatic readings I gave from
The Picnic in the Snow, during 1982-1983. Encouraged by Paul
Vangelisti, himself a superb poet and one experienced in theater and
radio productions, I tailored the work as a one-man performance
piece, memorized the script, purchased royal garb, studied books on
acting, hired a small theater in Los Angeles, and under Vangelisti's
direction staged the work. Since then I have performed Mad Ludwig
almost a hundred times, at these locations (among others): Yale,
Queens College, Brown, Beloit College, the University of Wisconsin
at Madison, Kent State, Provincetown Town Hall, Lehman College
the University of Southern California, Barnsdall Gallery Theater,
Radcliffe College, St. Mark's Series, Beyond Baroque (Los Angeles),
the Phenix Theater (Concord, New Hampshire), the Works Gallery
(Long Beach), the Carpet Company Arena Stage (Los Angeles), the
Fifth Street Studio Theater (Los Angeles), Natoma Performance
Gallery (San Francisco), and the Universities of California at
Riverside, San Diego, and Irvine. I have also performed in living
rooms, class rooms (complete with demonstration tables and Bunsen
burners), libraries, bookstores, and on outdoor patios.
The play version has undergone many transformations, both in
text and style of acting. In 1984, Robert Cohen, head of the Drama
Department, University of California, Irvine, freshly directed the
work. My current performances bear Cohen's stamp.
I hope that by publishing the script, along with the full text of the
poems, some director or actor may wish to present the work. I have
no propriety interest in retaining Mad Ludwig for myself as actor. I
am open to possibilities for other productions, and will be
cooperative in all ways, including permissions fees.
The stage version, as one might expect, differs in some essentials
from the poems. At the same time, the play is poetry. An immediate
model is August Strindberg and his "Chamber Plays". This work, and
the more recent Blood Countess, are to five-act plays what chamber
music is to symphonies and oratorios. My plays require a small and
intimate space, so that special timbres can be seen and heard to
advantage. In a cavernous hall much would be lost.
In Mad Ludwig Richard Wagner is more of a shaping presence than
in the poems. At the very outset, Ludwig is preoccupied with
Wagner, and the stages of the King's deterioration proceed as
Wagner's death nears. At the very end, by journeying to Mt. Rachel
in the Alps in order to mourn Wagner's death, Ludwig mourns
himself. This journey Ludwig made in real life. In the poems, after
Wagner's demise, disappointed that the shade of Louis XIV has failed
to appear as a dinner guest, Ludwig wanders out and stands in a snow
storm. When Richard Hornig, the groom, finds him, Ludwig has
become a snow statue.
I sincerely hope that my adapting this work for the stage, and then
acting in it, is appreciated by other poets as a fresh alternative to the
normally staid, conventional poetry reading. We all wish to secure as
many readers for our work as we can, and, certainly, the poem on the
page counts the most. Perhaps my performances will generate more
readers for Ludwig and my other published poems than would
otherwise have been true.
I am now performing Mad Ludwig in tandem with The Blood
Countess, the latter a totally different and bizarre work. Bathory,
the Countess, is the antithesis of King Ludwig. She slaughtered
people, and, so far as I know, Ludwig never hurt anyone, except,
perhaps, his Cousin Sophie when he broke off their engagement,
sparing her, actually, what would have been a disastrous marriage.
Another difference is that Bathory's descent into madness is far
more chilling than Ludwig's -- she maintains a cool, scary rationality
even in her desparate final moments, as she is arrested and hurried
off to be walled up in her castle, deprived forever of her furs, jewels,
children, virgins, black rituals, Palestrina, and the mad composer
Gesualdo.
iii
Some of these poems, usually in different versions, appeared in
these magazines: Mouth of the Dragon, The Mid-Atlantic Review,
Bachy, Blue Buildings, Poetry Now, Beyond Baroque, Invisible City,
Cream City Review, Choice, and New Letters, and in the anthologies
A Long Line of Joy and Orgasms of Light. I am deeply grateful to
these editors. I owe a special thanks to Carl Weissner, of Mannheim,
West Germany, who translated a considerable portion of The Picnic
in the Snow: Ludwig of Bavaria, and managed to have it performed
in May, 1980, with actors, lights, and Wagner played electronically,
in a castle outside Frankfurt. I am grateful to the University of
California at Irvine for a travel grant which enabled me to visit
Bavaria where I saw the castles, visited Ludwig's iron coffin in the
Wittelsbach family crypt in Munich, and collected water, complete
with swan droppings, from the lake Ludwig drowned in. My earliest
drafts were written at Yaddo, during August 1976, and I am grateful
to the Foundation for hosting me.
Robert Peters
Huntington Beach, California
November 1985
contents
I. Brother, Nuns, Tutors, Gardeners, and Swans
Influenza, spit in my eye.
Gingivitis, make me cry.
Consumption is greedy.
Smallpox is ready.
Diptheria is speedy.
And Typhus will snatch you
By and by
* * *
Lying face down in a marsh
we are hoptoads, leap-frogs,
newts. We are dandelion silk
snagged on catkin pods.
Then we are locusts
with knobby eyes:
striiik, striiik
Otto, I command you,
enjoy this game!
* * *
Ludwig follows the jouncing rump-lumps
of his obsequious tutor --
who regales Queen Marie
with details of flora and fauna,
of the texture of mists
they are about to enter,
of the properties of a rainbow
arched as a backdrop
over the castle.
Far behind are the servants
portaging food and fresh clothing.
Ludwig is bored.
Marie calls him obstreperous:
"Your kneecaps won't shatter.
Stop tripping Otto!"
His fair-haired brother
never a bother
hikes along sedately...
A swan! A swan! A swan!
* * *
Stones gaze up at Ludwig.
He invents the ribs, groins, and vaultings
of enormous personal cathedrals.
Streams burble "Ludwig."
A marbled toad, its puce throat
throbbing, is a burly hunter
set to ravish Ludwig in a strawberry meadow.
Sputum.
Body stench and swamp spoor.
* * *
King Max whacks Ludwig
for confusing his ablatives
and misconstruing sums.
What's a father to do?
Ludwig rides well, true,
and his swimming's remarkable.
But he's generally blue.
His posterior is dumpish
and his shoulders slope
to a waist that's waspish.
So Max either ignores him
or gives him advice:
"Excess will kill you
and is bad for the State."
"Say what you mean.
Don't procrastinate."
Daily, Ludwig's hair
is crimped and curled
to soothe Max's displeasure
at seeing his treasure,
his schatz, so lumpish and dumm.
He'd much rather have sired
a burly rooster, or a sweaty wrestler,
Maximilian .
* * *
No one tells you
these facts of life:
to draw back my prepuce
rips the skin connection
attaching the foreskin
to the undershaft!
The odor is horrid.
The foreskin is inflamed.
I swab the glans with a tincture.
Oh, why does no one tell me about my body?
* * *
RHYMES
A prince once tried to kiss a goat
as he was putting on his coat.
"Pray, Sir," said he, "do not persist
Or I shall crack your princely wrist."
* *
A monkey dressed up as a cavalier
Poured ink in the hat of a courtier.
When the very proud man put his hat on his head,
The ink drenched his face; so the monkey fled.
The creature caught was deprived of his clothes,
And the Court Executioner chopped off his nose.
* *
Poor Julius jumped over a wall
and stole some wurst that wasn't his at all.
A watchdog grabbed him by the seat
And yanked him to the doghouse and grabbed the meat.
Imprisoned within the dog's domain.
Julius cried. It started to rain.
The rain turned to sleet, and Julius froze.
A gelid mass of legs, eyes, ears, and nose.
* * *
It's time you stopped building block-castles, Prince.
Don't loll under a parasol in the sun.
Stop dressing up as a nun.
It's time you played battle, clubbed frogs to death, for fun.
Music is perverse and dumb.
Drama is tawdry paste and glitter.
It's time you had a mistress.
Don't lust for the groom who curries the horses.
Let the gardener be, trimming the parterre.
It's time you studied politics, tactics, war...
My body has skin! My body has skin!
I'm burning, burning! Let the wind in!
* * *
Prussia is as foreign to me as Persia.
My mother is a stupid Prussian.
Prussia is as foreign to me as Persia.
Mother, Richard Wagner is from Leipzig.
He is not a Prussian.
I must meet Herr Wagner.
I shall bless him. He shall bless me.
Prussia is as foreign to me as Persia.
Count von Bismarck is a stupid Junker.
He is a Prussian.
Why do you seat me near him
at this horrid state dinner?
A Servant with a grand leg grazes my shoulder.
I stare at the thrushes on my plate.
"Be loyal to the Wittelsbachs, Prince.
They've ruled Bavaria for centuries."
That's his advice!
My mother down the table chatters prose.
A Count-from-Somewhere picks his nose.
I hold my glass above my head
for a servant to fill. He obeys
my will.
If I had a flute, I'd play it.
If I knew an obscene jest, I'd say it.
Father! Live long, so I won't be king!
Prussia, Prussia, Prussia
is as foreign to me as Persia.
* * *
A muted waterfall. A lake.
Fluted urns choked with larkspur.
The crackle of hemlock.
Ludwig strikes tinder,
ignites a pile of twigs
on a stone skull. A bell, a clock.
No one will miss him for an hour.
His fantasy: the novice purged,
whipped by the castle gardener
a muscular Father Superior
with an ivory rosary
wound round his brown skin.
Blood-black loam! Offal from a swine-house! Human ordure!
No! Ludwig's wimple is on fire.
He leaps into the lake,
purges with water
his singeing by fire
* * *
A polarbear, stuffed, presents a
stuffed salmon to a stuffed polarbear
mate. A shrike impales a fieldmouse
on a thorn. A moose
lingers among paper trees, fearing
stuffed wolves about to pursue him.
A barn owl guards the fur-debris
of numerous dinners.
Trays filled with eggs.
An ichthyologist's dream -- shellacked
fish forms. Lepidoptera, wasps, and bees
pinned, under light.
So much raging has ended.
They leave by a door
other than the one they entered.
Governess shields Ludwig's eyes
from the "obscenities:"
Junos and Aphrodites!
Apollos and strigil-scrapers!
Ganymedes and Psyches!
Breasts, buttocks, genitals!
The governess is in a frenzy:
Ludwig darts among the statues.
The King will upbraid Ludwig
then box his ears.
So much raging has ended.
* * *
Swans glide from bronze hemlock shadows.
There's a prince! There's a cavalry officer!
The prince weaves through a flow of willows.
The officer rides directly over. Armfuls
of maize for each, and chunks of Schwarzbrot.
Their wings ruffle the water,
forward and outward.
A silver saber rattles in a sheath.
Death can be graceful, I think.
* * *
A swan's
magnificent trachea
coils within its sternum.
Aroused it sounds a canticle
blown through the twists
and brass turns of a trumpet.
A swan carols when it dies.
Swan-throats carol the deaths of kings
and princes. My own blood's salt
is swan-salt. My palms taste of feathers.
I ruffle the surfaces of lakes.
* * *
A swan dies. Its naked loral space
glows, lulled by waves.
Fishpink that space
between eye and bill.
My gills suck air. I fan water.
A vitrescible wave
wafts the swan into shadow.
Hemlock, spruce, water-lilies.
I leap, shake out light.
My tears wash over small beach stones.
An apple, ripe, plumps
into a sweep of frosty grass.
The water recedes. A leech
adheres to the swan's ear.
My lips are fish lips.
* * *
Two hours after lunch, four hours
to return home. Brisk. Two crags to cross.
Sky shot with clouds. Fatigue. Fatigue.
Epileptic Baron Wuffen chatters to the Queen.
Crumbs in his beard. Glossy trouser-seat.
A thread ripped, a glimmer of
paste-fat buttock. Ludwig craves to lead
the return. But Otto, ahead, clutches
his mother's hand. Oh, she loves Otto!
An oak writhes, drops its roots
down a cliff, writhes again afresh below,
nourishment a matter of suckers,
nodules, seepings, there at their feet.
"Oh, yes, dear Baron, do pluck some edelweiss."
A climb up, well past the oak's blasted top:
the edelweiss, glittering amber among
emeralds. The Baron glances at Ludwig.
"No, no," says the Queen. "Baron, you go."
Look, there's Wuffen's boot! He's far above
the tree now, on a scarp. What luck!
Twenty feet to the flowerpatch, safe
behind a promontory. He'll pick
one flower for the Queen, two for the children.
The baron executes a silly dance,
jiggles, his arms akimbo.
Edelweiss sails from his hand.
He flashes past the oak, to the rock
to the cliff, to the path. An
horrendous boom. Queen Marie
is stunned, Otto hysterical.
The Baron's tongue accentuates
his grin. His teeth swim in foam.
His hands are fists. His eyes
roll upwards, as on a screen.
Old snow. Ludwig presents
his mother with edelweiss.
She tramples it, and slaps his face.
Otto drums his feet,
a partridge in a rage.
* * *
Dawn's rosy finger.
Riplets of water.
Thick stands of plantain
brush my knees.
Mosquitoes whirr.
My posture for fishing
is correct: a half-turn
so as to fling the line
out from the shore,
working the bait in
near the reeds.
There's no life without style.
I'm sixteen.
A strike! Roiled water.
The barb's tangled
in a clump of hazel.
I enter the stream.
I beach the fish.
Oh, magnificent birthday fish!
* * *
Aunt Alexandra has swallowed an entire glass
piano. It happened Sunday, in the forenoon,
after a dismal rehearsal session. Otto says
she'll burp pianissimo. "Irreverence!" screams
the tutor. "You won't be far behind.
Generations of intermarriage, etcetera."
* * *
I would watch the young gardener
through the mullioned window,
waft him kisses, sketch with
the subtlest stroke of 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 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 flutist to play, to divert
us from the horror in the court.
Father forbids me to visit the shed
to view the body.
The slab he lies on, face up, sweats in moonlight.
My legs near his. My arms stroke his.
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.
The mouth, stiffened cartilage, opens.
A wash of suet sweetens my breath.
This stone shed is a living house!
This, my naked body grabs death,
swims with it, reviles it, shafts it!
The roses were his to tend.
* * *
I'm a worm in a rose
inching toward the stem
seeking fecundity, sludge.
I burrow in
beneath hamlets of grass-roots,
pebbles, grubs.
I reach a meadow.
I burrow upward, lift my head.
I'm a king!
Each green blade, each ant, each toad
are loving underlings.
* * *
Father*, your coffin winds through the streets.
Your shroud is stitched with gold, your lips
sewn cold. The people grieve.
I am afraid. I am not a natural man.
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 (rappen)
drawing your catafalque, now are mine.
Plumes of fire! Grief-lyres jangled!
Father, I am not a natural man!
Maximilian II died Mar. 10, 1864. Ludwig succeeded age 18.
contents
II. Disgust and Desire: Horses, Air, and Water
A horse can rarely vomit, or belch gas,
The stomach does not absorb, and the outlet
by the bowels in sone hundred feet long.
This organ is often ruptured, with fatal results.
A horse with acute distension
lowers its head to the ground.
It sweats profusely, lies on the sternum
with the front feet extended and
raises the body. The mucous membranes
of the eyes are scarlet.
Twsited and distorted hooves,
bruises of the sole, ringbones,
ossified cartilage, sprains
of the flexor tendon, diseases
of the fetlock, postern and coffin
joints. Corns, bruises, pricks,
quottors, snadcracks, thrush,
canker, sandbones, laminitis,
navicular disease, contracted hoof,
loose wall, hollow wall and graveling.
During each coitus guard against
dourine, galnders, gneital eczema,
horse pox, mange, and contagious abortion.
Following a twist of the bowel
an onset of colitis is sudden, marked
by continuous pain.
A rotation of the intestine
cuts off all circulation.
There is no cure.
Horses like to run, and men like to pursue them.
* * *
Magnificent autumn morning.
A diocese of light! Waves of trees.
Ludwig's velvet riding-hat floats ribbons.
His steeds are Sting,
Foam, and Exhaustion.
His love dons contraceptual uniforms.
Does the moon have a navel?
Elisabeth eschews riding.
She won't say why.
Miles above Kissingen
the King reins in again. He doffs his hat
gives it a pat
and flings it far out
over a waterfall.
"Float!" he commands. "Don't"
stop till you're beached
at her silken-shod feet
where she pouts
on the dock at Kissingen."
* * *
Lohengrin, as a swan, sails past,
turns to the young King
who prepares for anything.
The Hunter has a fiery grace.
His head is erect, his tail
flashes. Rubied throat-light,
froth on his mouth. The stroked,
wet forelock electric.
Nothing cracks open.
Naked, Ludwig in the stirrups
is gigantic. His buttocks are marble.
He's a taut drawn muscle.
His ribs ache. His bones breathe
marrow -- he hears them breathe.
Between the stallion's ears
Ludwig's face is wet. White froth
on his lips. His skin rubs back,
pulls forward. The stallion's coulter
is the ridge of his own muscle cantering:
an elixir -- the silky hair, the creamy hide!
Rider and Hunter, they are one!
* * *
Loving Elisabeth,
You've chosen this meadow
of daisies and clover.
Your Grauschimmel is tethered,
his coat drenched from the journey.
I nestle near your throat
where your hair falls damply.
I am dreaming, Elisabeth.
Are you dreaming, my dove,
my brilliant rider, of
asphodels and lilies?
* * *
Beneath my nail
soil is distressing.
Muddy boots disgust me. I insist
on my own commode, and a separate
soil pipe connecting a cesspool.
When I touch the seat
atomizers waft scent
throughout the cabinet.
I love swimming.
I am a creature of air and water.
* * *
Up here it doesn't matter
if my hands are yellow,
my boots boast mange, or
my teeth snag gobs of meat.
I despise courtier-apes
wearing leotards sagging at the knees,
and bewigged women who wipe
their ugly faces with flour...
Up the stream:
fir trees ascending.
An occasional branch gleaming,
thrust up, a shorn top.
Birches, cedar, a dead pine.
Rock-walls gapped and piled,
slabs archly placed, with
vacant spaces. Tufts
of broad-leaves, forest grass, bracken.
A scintillant web.
My thoughts disperse among riotous stems,
clustering branches, leaves
as fragile as dragonfly wings.
A path untravelled.
Climbing. Climbing.
Precipitous walls. Water drops thirty feet
into a pool. An outcrop.
Earth temblors.
I soar and twist
foreshorten.
I'm a swan,
equilibrium,
the wind's lover.
* * *
I weary of riding
from Karls-Platz to Linderhof.
I rein in abruptly
and turn very smartly
as a brown-torsoed young farmer
stands stiffly before me.
My body swims sleekly
through lakes of silver
I thrill to a shiver
imagining my fingers
sifting through
schillings
and his glorious black hair.
I rip off a chain
from around my throat,
of filigreed gold
set with sapphires and amethysts.
"Take this," I say. "Take it.
For your beauty revives and astounds me
on this tedious journey."
* * *
Lying amid the dissolving bath crystals
while my man-servant deftly bathes me,
I fall into a sort of coma
as sweet as a religious trance.
Beneath the rhythmic sponge,
perfumed with Kiki, I am St. Sebastian.
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 my bath grows gradually cold.
* * *
If one is sober
the world is unsteady.
Behind every man
a woman crouches in the bushes.
Her eyes glitter
like mouse-eyes.
She begs to go home with you.
Shove her away.
You are stupid.
The street is stage-scenery.
Creep to your bed.
Taste your sweat.
Suck up a mouthful.
Insert your erection
in hot kirsch.
Stammer a prayer.
Jam a splinter into
Your calf-muscle.
Lick the blood from your hands.
* * *
German Genre Pictures
Three peasant babies in the mud.
Gute Nacht, Grüss Gott.
Three peasant babies drinking blood.
Totenblässe. Totenblä:sse.
Where is their mother? Where is she?
Den Geist aufgeben! Den Geist aufgeben!
She's coughed up her lungs in a purple flood.
Gute Nacht, Grüss Got.
* *
He poises his chisel.
In the rock-split there are flowers:
orchids, fuchsias, carnations.
He grabs the marble.
His hand is a willow on a tomb.
* *
Maiden, graceful in the fresh hay,
how is your maidenhead today?
Has it quivered and torn?
Here's a ring-necked pheasant for your dinner.
Let me insert my finger.
I'm Hans the poacher tried and true.
And you'll be a woman when I'm through.
* *
An old woman is beating clothes
on a rock with a stick.
Mice-heads 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.
Gute Nacht. Grüss Got.
contents
III. Richard Wagner
Richard Wagner Chronology
February 1858: Ludwig's governess describes the Munich production of Lohengrin. Ludwig is twelve.
December 1858: Ludwig's tutor presents him with Wagner's theoretical work Opera and Drama.
February 1861: Ludwig attends a production of Lohengrin in Munich, starring Moritz Grill.
June 186l: Lohengrin performed in Munich, at Ludwig's insistence.
December 1861: Ludwig hears Tannhäuser.
February 1863: Lohengrin, starring Albert Niemann.
March 10, 1864: Ludwig is King. He is already steeped in Wagner's operas and Wagner's Art-Work of the Future and The Music of the Future.
April 14, 1864: The new King orders his Cabinet Secretary, Franz von Pfistermeister to locate Wagner, in hiding from creditors, and bring him to Court.
May 4, 1864: Ludwig and Wagner meet for the first time, in Munich.
A brook flows as sweetly over a prince
as over a peasant. If I mistake my penis
for a rope, or a strip of bacon, I am
Illusion's victim. As I hear the Overture
I am ravished again.
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!
Lohengrin laves me all over with incredible sound!
* * *
Acrostic Poem, for Right and Left Eyes (Richard Wagner)
Raging, let my blood rage or
In its misery boil -- I
Can't remove the barbed point you've set -- the Taroc
Howls for the hanged man, his breath
Asked for (and given) to the victim of a
Rack of ten swords. I wish, friend, your
Daimon had never loosed this pack, these dead
Wastes. For I burn without you, noz
Always, and am a swan whose throat can't emit a
Groan, whose soul is riven by beetles. Bring
News yourself, or by swift messenger, that you love me noon
Evening, or morn-I love you. Please, Richard, come
Remove the black wreath from my door.
* * *
Schopenhauer declares:
the skin of sound
contains the ground
and the violet's root,
the leopard's foot, the whale's marrow,
the horny toe of the sparrow
and peace, and surcease
and brilliance and dalliance.
An engineer is an artist of water,
the architect of stone, the poet of fire.
A composer encompasses these,
welding magnificent syntheses.
a.
If music eschews phenomena entirely,
then music, unlike the other arts is a carbon of the Will itself.
Thus, while the other arts are shadows,
music is the Thing itself.
b.
The painter has his meadows
the poet his scenes, the sculptor
his marble, the composer
his dreams.
c.
Bass tones
are the lowest grades
of the Will's objectification.
That certain high notes always sound faintly
accompanied by the bass
is analogous to the slow
evolution of life.
There is a depth below
which no sound can go. Pitch
is always inseparable from a note,
as is that portion of Will
veined in matter.
d.
Moving upward from the bass
we transcend those Ideas
where the Will objectifies itself.
The exact intervals
parallel the gradations of the Will.
Obviously, from the crystal
to the nightingale (or to men)
everything exists always, pristine,
according to its kind, determined.
e.
Do not though
neglect the adagio.
Via the adagio, via
moonlight, we shovel
death into its grave.
* * *
Dear Wagner:
My ministers inquire of you
at many inns and hostels.
"Wagner?" they ask, with
harrumphs and sneers.
"It's common, Messenger.
Wagners live all over these slopes."
"Numerous Wagners?"
They might as well declare numerous suns!
Or that Apollo has many guises.
What rot! I order the Ministers
to find you -- they'll know they are near
by a rare effluvium in the air,
a purple haze, an odor of plums and raspberries.
* * *
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.
We have been here over six hours --
the velvet drapes, the peacock,
the ferns, the fire,
the rosewood of the piano 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.
I am vexed though, Wagner, Seele,
that as you create and I observe -- yes, yes,
inspiring you. I can't see
your splendid 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 can't hear your sounds as you do!
I have banished all trumpets from the Court!
* * *
Wagner: Perpetual motion is immortal.
Whatever fails to move
fails to live. Whatever never quits,
itself never ceases moving.
"Whatever is uncreate is indestructible:
nothing is created from it, or can be.
There is thus no beginning. Self-motion
alone begins motions. Motion is the Soul."
Ludwig: "The Soul perfect and fully plumed
soars through the upper air, regulating
the lives of men. The Soul imperfect
drops its feathers, and settles to earth
until a new body requires it,
its self-motion (birth)
signaling for a new Soul."
Wagner: "The natural efficacy of a wing
is to lift heavier matter.
A freshly-formed Soul loves
the physical body, wasting
its ugliness, vice, contraries.
Yes, Zeus drives a winged car.
And you, as King and mortal,
must maintain Soul-motion.
To falter is disharmony,
a betrayal of nature.
Ludwig: "My passion matches the Alps!
In splendor, creative, I am
Vesuvius! I am equal
to the most magnificent spruce
in the Schwarzwald!
I am Byron. I am Werther.
I am Louis Fourteen. I am
Friedrich Schiller.
My incredible double is
Richard Wagner!"
* * *
Schopenhauer says that Reason is feminine. How refreshing! I'd
assumed that Intuition was feminine, not that Reason was. But, 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'm pondering this because of something Wagner said, or, rather,
implied, that my lingering so much in the music room while he
composes is very feminine. I am attending, it is true, in the sense that
I am at a birth, his creation of a masterpiece.
Wagner is Schopenhauer's creative male, the divine incarnation of
Apollo. And I, as I wait, I am, I admit, like Reason smoothing her
skirts, wondering if her placket is moist.
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 am praying that he come over, thrust back my lace, and kiss my
wrist, nay, bite it out of his passion.
Oh, isolated deserts of Diana, Artemis, Hecate, Selene!
I am the moon's child, I am the Moon King engendered of swans!
The languorous start, exalted leitmotifs. Tristan and Isolde
drink the potion. The blood-pact, slashed wrist to slashed
wrist. The candles in their wrought holders snuffed.
Tristan, your flesh slides into mine!
Mine slides into yours!
I am twisted, and twisted back again!
I am Isolde!
You are Isolde!
A crescendo, as the lovers approach King Mark's Castle in
Cornwall.
contents
IV. War and Peace
On July 29, 1870, France declares war on Prussia. Bavaria and other
German principalities and kingdoms support Prussia. The French are
defeated at Sedan on September 1; and after a l31-day siege of Paris
all hostilities end on January 18, 1871. Despite an early talent for
politics, by 1870 Ludwig loses all interest in politics and war,
devoting his energies to the arts and his private pursuits. His
councillors are ordered not to confront him with political matters of
any nature, "unless His Majesty asks a question."
My obligations as King
do not include my presenting myself
to crowds, no matter how adoring
or starved for celebrities.
I am no Sevres statue, to be propped up
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 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,
invite my horse to dinner, or chew
calf hearts raw -- that's my affair!
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.
Ludwig
* * *
As for happiness, it doesn't matter what each of us wants -- the important
thing is to achieve some things we want. Thus, the spirit flourishes.
I think of lemons billowing in a sea, or of a stork guarding a chimney-nest
full of tangerines. Every road leads to a goal -- if we don't spend too
much time thinking it over. The targets we strike are set up short
distances from us -- but so, alas, life is short.
It is very clear, I think, that a sum of reduced individuals may very
well form a totality of genius. You have vague roles to play. You think
you are flying past a door, but you aren't. You are tumbling, actually,
past your grave. So, don't get stuck.
Only in Imperial Bavaria can you step from one train to another and
find that you've been on an ordinary train all the while. Your country
is the navel of Europe, and there is considerable fuzz. Do, please, reform
yourselves. I shall be available hencefore only in emergencies. I shall
be building castles, and will not be disturbed, even for wars.
* * *
Ludwig's Positions on War
1. 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 toward a great past. To fight wars in the
modern manner is barbarous and disgusting. I command that a new
Leonardo da Vinci invent weapons capable of mowing down whole
regiments in a few moments, shortening the agony.
2. Though I ride my white charger as well as any soldier, I am out of
place among these generals. Their opinion of me is that I should cut
my hair. My opinion of them would char your ears.
3. Wherever I am obliged to wear my military uniform during rain-
storms, I shall insist on carrying my helmet in one hand, an umbrella
in the other: I've 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?
4. If we are to wage battles by machinery, let us proceed to
slaughter one another until thoroughly sick of the carnage we are
willing to return to settling our differences by individual combat. I
am ready, anytime, anywhere, 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.
5. 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. I sometimes award the youth a
special ring to commemorate the occasion.
6. The Parisians, I hear, are impressed with me as a pacifist. One of
their newpapers says that I am not "wicked" King Ludwig, that the
only thing I've ever accompanied my troops on is the piano. I am
proud of this reputation.
7. A war? I won't have a war! Tell the generals I am off to Schloss Berg,
or to the Roseninsel, or to some other spot where they shall never find me!
* * *
An agent for Bismarck, Herr von der Pfordten
marched to Linderhof and waited in the garden.
The King, from Nowhere, sent word he'd see No One.
Boom, Boom. Saltpeter and tinsel.
Fireworks over the Roseninsel.
In apricot tights and silver mail
Ludwig was Barbarossa.
His lover Paul Taxis was Lohengrin.
"There is no war! I won't allow it!"
Complete with tiller, drawn by swans, the wooden boat
turns round. "Now!"
Floodlights graze the water.
Flecks of silver strike Paul's hauberk.
An embossed shield of plated osier.
Scintillations of gold, blue, and silver.
Concealed in a grove of lindens
an orchestra plays Lohengrin.
* * *
The Seven Weeks' Was Concluded
Wherever I go out, I get an impression of raised hats. I enjoy my
appearance of success with crowds, and since the ministers, and my
aged uncle, have become scapegoats for our defeat by Prussia, and I
have brilliantly, I believe, positioned myself, attired and arrayed to
advantage, as the peacemaker who has managed splendid terms with
Crown Prince Frederic Wilhelm of Prussia, also my uncle, the victor
-- to whom I declared, forcefully, that I will never become a Schattenkönig
ohne Macht -- an impotent Shadow King. Obviously, civilized life yearns
for more than a little brutality.
I have ordered the streets of Bayreuth brilliantly lighted, and as I
approach the spot where I am to be seen at best advantages, there will
explode two (or four -- I forget which) columns of smoke, ingeniously contrived to inundate the crowd with the aroma of baked
apples and pinetwigs strewn with fire. They shall never forget me.
At Bamberg, I shall allow the wounded soldiers in hospital to touch
my hand, and, perhaps, if I find any sufficiently attractive men I shall
plant the kiss-of-state firmly on their finely-coultered lips. I may
even change a bandage or two, and swab a wounded thigh clear of
infection. I shall dispense phials of camphor to every soldier. At Bad
Kissingen, in a snowstorm, I shall visit the field where my armies
fought so bravely the last great battle of this hopeless war. Wearing
my coral vest and puce morning-coat, I shall listen patiently as some
smug general explains exactly the positioning of our troops (and
those of the Prussian enemy) at the point of greatest slaughter, and
he shall say where I might have stood (and I shall stand there) with
my sword raised, intimidating the enemy by my courage.
More raised hats. I see naked heads. Paul Taxis, where are you? Yes,
to celebrate our defeat, and my brilliant peace arrangements with my
dear uncle Crown Prince Frederic, we shall move to Wurzburg where
my visit to the war cemetery will so overwhelm me that I shall have
to order a theater performance cancelled that evening. Yes, civilized man indeed yearns for a little brutality.
contents
V. The Betrothal
Ludwig, to Elisabeth, his Cousin, Empress of Austria
Dearest Elisabeth, Dove,
I have proposed to Sophie, as you once urged me to do. Though she is
your younger sister, you should know that she never shall 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 in plaits. I
should like her to appear a bit older than she is. Also, 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 if they've just risen from the tomb. She may take these
suggestions quite amiss. You must come here soon, Dove, and we shall
spend impossible days alone riding over the mountains.
Your ever-loving cousin,
Ludwig
* * *
Paul Taxis*, loving body, spirit, friend.
To the Greeks sex was augury.
I see this now, for they have blessed me
with mania,
and I see it as a blessing.
With Wagner, conceptualizing, I am poet,
composer, architect.
I create Valhallas of sound, toppling
white sound-castles,
Wagner's incredible pinnacles!
Paul, when I stroke your thigh
and move upwards, silken, I define my Soul.
Your body-heat translates
into winged stallions
of blues, orchids, and wines.
But for now, let this suffice:
My brain shatters with sound.
I run screaming your name.
* * *
We can feign love
but when we love truly
we are so bridled
that our teeth, throat, and tongue
wallow in blood.
I have gathered much blood
in alabaster beakers
and will present a selection
to you, with swollen roses,
when you arrive.
* * *
Cherries beware,
she's coming here
wearing quinceblossoms
in her hair. You pheasants
make way for her. Quail,
scatter your young. Today
is her birthday, Sophie's,
my betrothed one's.
* * *
Snake-throats in black shadow.
Webbed frog-toes shake the willow.
White arbutus are sleeping.
Peonies are dropping.
I am a deer's thighbone
whitened, in ivy.
Why do you dally? Violets
can't tell you
of the misery I'm feeling.
* * *
Sophie's gown forms little voile puffs.
Her bosom is draped. A ribbon traversing her bodice
snags her ankle, and is secured by a pink
rosette. Her riding coat, dark blue,
open at the throat, displays organdy ruffles.
The pleated tail falls rearward. Her riding crop
is so stiff she can't wield it.
Wear a veil, Sophie,
so I won't have to kiss you!
* * *
Paul, our Bed of Heaven!
There's a curled brown hair -- yours,
and silver stones for hurling
into velvet chasms
when meteors blast the moon.
The Secretary-General
talks politics and finance --
small hairy things. Ugh!
I sign papers, Paul,
seeing you nude, laughing,
lasciviously disported --
loin-energy replenished.
There's no end to it!
Your body smothered in wolf-skin!
* * *
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 chevauxlegers uniform. I felt that we were
actors in a dramatic tableau. Did you?
But, when I turned to take your arm -- you were standing by that pot
of palms, remember? Your eyes were frightened. Pearls frozen on a
silver cruet.
Do not think me nasty, ever. I should like to give you a photograph of
me, towards my forthcoming visit. I hope to find your servants
unprepared, and you ensconced in your nightshift either reading or
dreaming of me. Until then,
Your Ludwig
* * *
A gray goose with a dulcimer, playing
for its dinner, hoping to find its liver
which it dropped in a meadow. A poacher
came upon it, dazzled by the aroma
and the deepening shade of purple.
The flies, too, rampant, nibbled off
choice pieces, until frightened by a chicken
who squawked and dropped her liver
in that same spot by the river.
So the poacher decided that livers are generic
and while reaching for the goose's
his own thick organ loosened
and fell out on the ground.
* * *
"Les ardeurs matrimoniales de Sa Majesté semblent fort tempérés."
- Franz Liszt
1.
Sophie, I'm truly sorry I abandoned you at the reception. I wanted
desperately to see the last act of Schiller's play. Forgive my
impetuous departure. Gossips should have their tongues ripped out
of their mouths!
2.
You must understand that at the Opera, for me to sit near anyone
who chatters is a gross violation of my sensibilities. That I do not,
therefore, invite you (or anyone else) to my box is no sign of my
lessening affection for you.
3.
Sophie, I have been much preoccupied with my cousin Paul Taxis, 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. We are hoping that by pushing water up a large trough
it will tumble realistically as a falls near my bed. Wires attached to a
metal drum revolving will imitate the exact calls of day and night
birds.
There is a decor for dreams. And 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.
4.
I shall visit you shortly and bring my Mother's crown to fit on you.
Just this once, order your Lady-in-Waiting to leave us alone and not,
as usual, sit concealed behind a screen or pot of palms spying on us.
You have already seen the crown, and will further enhance its
already delicate facets. Yes, another thing: we must postpone the
wedding for at least a month, until October 12, an appropriate day
since both my father and grandfather were married then. I am sorry
for this postponement. PS: I have been thinking much about my
French namesakes, the three Louis of such splendor and such tragic
conclusions, and am endeavoring to acquire a little of their style.
Toward that end, I would not think less of you if you were to read a
life of Marie Antoinette and try to model yourself after her qualities.
I do not, of course, anticipate that by so imitating these personages
we invite ends similar to theirs.
Ludwig
* * *
A damsel with 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 weddings
* * *
Paul Taxis oils his body.
Behind him, candles in a row.
Am I thinking of Sophie now?
Can I smell her perfume?
* * *
Sophie, let black
stand for everything you don't know
and white for all that you do know.
Swarms of blue birds flutter past,
followed by swarms of black.
Run my finger down your throat.
The same thing happens: you move.
Earth, sky, castle -- spin away.
Steady, steady, I say, stripping veils.
I loosen your breasts.
How many poems have you read?
Have you dabbled in washes, ever
etched a rose? Written a tune?
(There's a blemish on your nose).
Tinsel and jagged planes, steel
and cut-glass. I see you,
trussed up by your ankles
hairless, sliced from genitals to
(I almost said snout).
I'll admit: its the woman I fear,
a fishnet clotted with snails, baleen,
half-digested meat-slippery, noxious, green.
There's a sallow light tonight.
A stoat sucks its mother's throat.
A frothing penis floats in gravy.
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, we are maddened by the moon!
* * *
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. To my left is a cosy box-window, before me blueish lamplight.
A great swan's wing soothes me. I feel so intimate with ice!
I am rid of people, clamor, the ugly faces of suffering, the balls,
audiences, and reviews. My mother who was such a misery to me last
summer is far off....So too is Sophie! Married to her I should have
been utterly 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...l 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
P.S.: I am having considerable trouble with my teeth. Almost always
they pain. I have dreams where they fall out in clusters, as if they are
made of bad plaster.
To Paul von Thurn und Taxis, his young aide-de-camp
contents
VI. Riding in Circles
Ludwig assumes he is riding to a village miles from
Hohenschwangau. He calculates the distance according to the
circumference of his riding school, and then, on successive nights,
rides round and round from eight o'clock until two or three in the
morning, followed by a groom. They change horses frequently.
After several hours, Ludwig dismounts and eats a picnic supper, in
the snow, after which he remounts and rides until he covers the
exact distance of his calculations. The groom who rides with him
receives gifts. The groom who completed the ride "from Munich to
Innsbruck" received a gold watch and chain. Others received His
Majesty's picture framed in velvet, with a lock of royal hair.
* * *
My own Wagner,
I stand with you, exalted,
as moonlight floods the gorge,
leaps from scarp to scarp,
slivers the enormous firs,
brightening bones, as the mists surge,
as I weep...
Loving you is that exquisite.
There is no death, Wagner.
Lechery winds a shroud.
The pleasured note,
the jewelled hand encircling a swan's throat...
Oh, do deny me, storms! Withhold,
delay longer, tease me with never!
Linger, linger before you surrender.
I grasp your shoulder.
Loving you is that exquisite.
* * *
A Wagnerian Ragout
1.
Herr Pfistermeister:
I don't care if Wagner bankrupts
the treasury. I order you to
send him a draft at once, in any amount
whatsoever he should require.
Without him I am nothing.
With him I breathe immeasurable bliss.
Hence, Bavaria is well-served.
If the treasury is empty, Herr
von Pfistermeister, go to Switzerland
and rob banks!
2.
Wagner receives Pfistermeister,
the Cabinet Secretary, in a violet mood,
seated before a window. Dressed in violet
Wagner sits in a violet armchair
and wears a violet cap --
which cap he deigns to lift
as Pfistermeister enters.
* * *
The Gossips
Psst:
Wagner orders sybaritic draperies,
settees, and other fripperies from Vienna.
Thus we Munichers won't know
how many of our guilders
he's spending on his mansion.
They say he can't create
without live peacocks on his estate.
His Grail Room is of satin.
Curtains in his bedroom
are blazing red and silken.
He eats pink tulle, as a rule,
and orders roses
from Mediterranean Monaco
to throw at Madame von Bulow's
naked breasts and elbows.
Wagner is a foreigner.
Wagner is a Protestant.
Ja, ja, ja, ja, ja, ja.
Wagner's an adulterer.
He has babies by Cosima.
His music is unplayable.
He is a stinking Lola.
Ja, ja, ja, ja, ja, ja.
Von Bulow calls us Schweine-
hunde, and he is Wagner's
cuckold. Wagner must leave
our Munich, and so must all
his foreigners. Our King must
dismiss him. Our King must
dismiss him.
Ja, ja, ja, ja, ja, ja.
* * *
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 the message by rote
and decide to rescue Bavaria.
If the king's "gone astray"
(that'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
(excluding, of course, the minora and the dentata)
was Lila 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."
But, 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 walked for hours in a soaked meadow.
She decided that I was a miserable schmeer
and resumed her career playing Meyerbeer.
Another contender was the wife of a cousin
(come, there were scarcely more than a dozen)
the beautiful Infanta Maria de la Paz
who decided to elicit the King's applause,
and regaled herself at Ludwig's fabulous Winter Garden:
On the roof of the Residenz
a Venetian garden with palms, lakes, bridges, pavilions,
and a parrot who talked, esoteric blooms on a stalk,
a tent of blue silk all covered with roses,
a room from Baghdad, a fountain of nosegays,
a mechanical moon shedding mechanical light-rays,
a rainbow, false clouds, and an Indian bower.
But the Infanta, however, was lately from Spain,
and Ludwig chose never to see her again.
There were others we might name (both creaking
and virginal) who sought to spare Ludwig
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?
* * *
The state bedroom at Linderhof
is of dazzling glass, silk, and ormolu:
How can a man love his own likeness,
unless he's hopelessly complacent?
My teeth are crumbling.
I grow fat.
My headaches, contrary to popular belief,
are real.
The monarchial bed, suitable for
six Ludwigs at once
is protected by a gilt railing
knee-high, ovalling before the bed.
An immense glass and gold
candelabrum drops from the ceiling.
Lesser candelabra, on gold stands,
grace the bed.
I create Paradise,
poetical sanctuaries
in an age obscene beyond belief!
The grand canopy, wild with gold
is supported by angels, complex scallops,
and twists of plaster. One angel
blows a trumpet, another shafts an arrow.
* * *
To comprehend the human body
no matter how deteriorative,
you must imagine an envelope
consisting of mucous membrane,
epithelium, etcetera....
and the corium as well, with its
oil and sweat-glands, blood-
vessels, tubercles; and, again,
below that, adipose tissue, fat,
the substance of charm...
but not of mine!
I refuse ever to display my bauch
before the lackeys and soldiers I fondle.
Art dissipates lust?
I mock that notion!
Yards of blue silk billowing
drawn back by silver tassels.
Surmounting a golden sunburst
to the west, the Bavarian crest.
Lapis, porcelain, and malachite.
* * *
Herr Dollman, the cupid over the window
in the dining room was to have adorned
the chimney-piece. Instead, you have
substituted a Bacchus and a Venus!
And the arms of those chairs were to curve more,
as the style demands. Further, the deities
over the doors and on the ceiling,
as well as the Bavaria in the study,
are to be gilt, not white. However,
the three peacocks forming
the Kiosk throne are magnificent.
Herrenchiemsee must be built,
and Neuschwanstein completed.
And then, my Chinese pavilion
and Falkenstein!
To complete Linderhof reguired nine years (1869-1878).
Tourists now visit it, their interest directed mainly
to the extensive gardens, the Moorish kiosk, and the
Blue Grotto -- a subterranean lake illuminated with
electric light, set to amuse Ludwig by reflecting
his moods artificially. Also here one finds the
famous table in the floor, which ascended from the
lower regions, laden with food, to Ludwig above.
* * *
Neuschwanstein, his Wagnerian Castle,
boasts views of the Alpsee, Hohenschwangau,
and of the gorge of the Pöllat with its waterfall.
The castle of white marble, except for
the red entrance gate, is magnificent
against a backdrop of deep firs.
A mass of red boulders tumbles down
where the foundation was levelled.
* * *
Our work at Neuschwanstein
will proceed as if there were no war.
Obviously, such a tedious slaughter
won't long persist. Invaded by Prussia,
France will crumble.
Fetch me all books written about Wartburg
Castle! No. No. I won't see Bismarsk's
emissary....
Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps Tuesday.
Yes, Yes. Wartburg!
And, of course, Wagner's Tannhäuser
as a source for the Sängerkrieg.
Quick! Hurry!
Neuschwanstein has four stories. The second remains
uncompleted. In the third, are Ludwig's apartments.
Ninety-six steps ascend to the third story. At the
top, frescoes illustrate the life of Tannhäuser;
A pulchritudinous Venus with cascades of wheat-gold hair, wearing
a crown adorned with large wedding-cake red roses, seated on a rock,
extends a rather liquid arm (her fingers are sinuous) behind, and
slightly above, the Knight. The lovers, needless to say, never touch
one another.
The knight, fully-clothed, half kneels, half sits, staring, perhaps
reflecting, on his deeds. His colors are red (cape), gold (sleeves),
tan (body stocking), and blue (tunic). His eyes are dark. His coiffure,
which tumbles to his shoulders, is more auburn than gold. His beard
and mustache (amidst which a pair of ruby lips appear) are modelled
after Christ's in sentimental religious pictures. The Knight's left
arm, extended, supports an old-fashioned harp, strummed by an
adorable angel (female, with busts) wearing a narcissus in her hair.
Above, contemplating the ubiquitous three graces, on the opposite
side of the lovers, are three more adorable putti, all marcelled.
One wears a flowing red ribbon about its middle. Add two wedding-
cake doves suspended in the foreground, and two more angels, one of
them extending a pink flower towards Venus -- he does not look at
her but rather at her stage manager. Yes, this angel boasts a tiny
scrotum and penis -- Eros, one assumes. For negative symbolism,
regard the bearskin squashed flat in the foreground, facing you.
Perhaps it's a self-portrait of the painter Aigner, complete with
splayed teeth, indignant over the King's slow payment of his fee. In
the background is a grotto with amethystine waters.
* * *
If my castles are to bear my stamp
I must contract with painters and artisans
of the second rank rather than the first.
I am after certain illusions,
not isolated chunks of greatness
which, say, prevent the Vatican
from being a whole.
Moreover, art of the second rank,
less profound than work of the first rank,
is more conducive to dreams and reveries.
Also, lesser artisans will do as I say,
and not as they wish --
for if they lose my patronage
no other monarch will engage them.
No flights to the French court,
or to the Pope, to soothe
their petulancies, to punish me.
I am never the world's fool!
My castle is an equivalent
for Wagner's music.
While the pile is medieval,
the whole is the concept
of a King's brain, a King alive
in this vilest of centuries.
* * *
The bedroom occupies woodcarvers for nearly five years.
A veritable forest of spires. Despite his avowed
intentions, Ludwig does employ first-rate carvers.
The paintings and tapestries depict scenes
of Walter von der Vogelweide, Hans Sachs, Tristan,
Gudrun, and Louis IX of France.
* * *
Herr von Heckel:
In your painting of Lohengrin
the ship comes too far forward,
and the Knight's neck should be
less tilted -- he looks as if he were
beseeching his Lord for a drink of water.
Also, it's absurd (and I'm shocked
you don't see this) to fashion the chain
leading from the ship to the swan
of roses rather than gold.
If a storm should arise, Herr von Heckel,
where would your chain of filthy roses be?
* * *
The Minstrels' Hall, or Sängersaal, or Festsaal, is religious and seems
intended for celebrants of the Grail rather than for gatherings of
jongleurs and poets reciting their works amidst rowdiness and jubilation. Again, lavish spreads of gold, jewelled candelabra, exotic
arabesques. In one design a huge lizard clasps the trunk of a fantasy-
tree, on his way to the upper branches.
The Throne Room extends through two floors and is modelled on a
Byzantine basilica. It has arcaded walls, the upper story flanked by
royal blue columns, the lower in maroon rose. A central floor mosaic
of stylized animal, bird, and tree forms. An incredible ceiling of gold
stars, a golden burst, more like an anemone than a sun, from which
suspends a two-tiered candelabrum. Marble stairs, rather modest in
effect, lead to a dais where the throne, never supplied, belonged. The
nave of the basilica is a riot of gold. The eye is drawn upwards,
returning finally to the ravishing candelabrum.
* * *
Ludwig Complains to His Architect
I cannot abide your failures
to carry out my express wishes
concerning all details of my castle. I hold
you entirely responsible for any lapses
of taste, errors in measurement, positioning,
coloring, etc. Be assured, moreover --
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 is this benighted state
is there a single person other than myself
whom I can trust. I expect also, Mein Herr,
that you keep abreast of any changes I desire,
no matter how minuscule, in the total scheme
of the castle. If I decide that a foot-high
column beneath a stair be Byzantine
rather than Gothic, so must it be.
Or, 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.
But, I am in fact your King.
And I am to be obeyed
down to the final flagstone, rivet and pin!
* * *
Horace and Augushus
Ludwig's gifts to Wagner for liquidating his debts and towards buying his Munich residence: 64,000 florins.
Ludwig's payment to Wagner for rights to the Ring cycle: 30,000 florins .
Ludwig's contribution towards Wagner's house at Triebschen (1867-1872): 18,000 florins.
From May 1864 to the end of 1867, Ludwig spent 130,000 florins on Wagner's behalf. Eventually, there were other financial arrangements, all costly, with the composer. A florin was worth about sixty-five cents.
The building of the theater at Bayreuth resulted from Ludwig's largesse .
* * *
While walking one morning from Garmisch to Partenkirchen I glimpsed this odd figure, grotesque, gargantuan standing in the roadway. Despite the heat, he wore heavy furs. When he doffed his
hat, I leaped into the shrubbery: it was our glorious King!
He stode like Siegfried in a coronation pageant, tossing his head about, first right, then left, grandly carrying his hat with its blazing diamond before him.
He entered a carriage, upholstered in blue embossed with gold, drawn by four grays wearing plumes and spangles. That was my encounter (I'll never forget it) walking one morning from Garmisch to Partenkirchen.
* * *
Wagner hopes to produce Der Ring, but laments to the King that he is wretchedly poor, lives on treacle. Yes, he knows that building Herrenchiemsee has cost the King considerably. ("You can't build a Versailles with scroungings from your eye," writes Wagner, in dubitable taste.) Help me see Ring to its completion, Wagner implores. Send me 10,000 guilders more.
I intend to forgive him his petty deceits,
and will honor his bills and receipts.
The rumor is he's turned to Prussia,
and to pique me further thinks thinks of going to Russia.
As a compote floats beetles and an aborigine has yaws,
so Genius is often riddled with flaws.
I'll order my Minister to float him a loan.
The irony is it may cost me my throne.
But "The Ring" shall be heard.
Once again, Richard's the termite, I am the wood.
* * *
The premier of Der Ring occurred in August 1876, at Bayreuth, with Ludwig in attendence. He returned to hear the final performance. Publically, Wagner hailed Ludwig as "co-creator." They met for the last time in 1879, with Wagner ill and Ludwig severely afflicted in mouth, heart, and head.
contents
VII. Torsion and Decay
It's essential, dear Hornig, protocol,
that you dismount bare-headed,
approach my sleigh, adjust my robe,
brush the flakes from my face,
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,
moist musical:
lovers are never chilly.
Feel greasy Death
beneath your thumbnail.
Pass me a goblet of wine.
* * *
A swan flicks ice from its webs
The midnight fox slits a gander's throat.
In my gilt cherub sleigh, drawn by six plumed grays
I sail from Neuschwanstein to Linderhof.
My attendants wear blue, their hats trimmed with ermine.
And Hornig, resplendent, rides alone ahead.
Such speed on the ice! The Alps glisten in moonlight.
The sleighbells chime.
We pass snowy hovels and startle the peasants.
Our horses are creatures, white
Swans for our journey. It's a dream
Dear Hornig, leading us hither.
As we traverse a mountain the moon is blazing.
The forests are crystal and sparkle and glare.
My blue velvet cloak whips the cold air around me.
In another hour we shall be there.
* * *
A honking crane shafts a jangle of arrows.
No horses are struck.
The crane zooms again.
I grab a cuirass of plaited bark
and entangle the creature's beak.
I crush its skull, draw forth an eye
which I swallow. I calm my horses,
reshape their plumes.
A trembling and horrible crackling!
* * *
We shall spear the boar at midnight.
He is the moon's creature.
His carcass sinks through the frozen lake.
His hide enwraps the bones of human victims.
* * *
Those red weasels are ravenous.
Nothing I throw to them --
Veal, fowl, or venison --
diverts them from my jugular.
* * *
We harness our sleigh,
then speed away
over the floe, over the fire-pink
screaming ice-pack.
The Alps boom.
Skunks, stoats, wolves, chamois and men
panic and run.
The shimmering ice creaks,
flows into snow-smoke,
chipping the mountain's incisors,
shearing pines, suffocating tarns.
We dash past snarling wolves and lynxes.
A gar-eagle screams.
Ice-blood spews geysers everywhere.
* * *
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 tablecloth, among the roses.
They aren't cold, why are you?
Observe the clouds, below the peak,
that roiling, vicious purple.
Stop shivering! I command you!
Scoop out a snowdrift for your
velvet cushion. Pretend we're
sheik and loyal retainer
picnicking on the sand at Sarnarkand.
* * *
After Theodor Storm
I've seen the violets
suddenly in bloom
near my lime tree.
I've picked every one.
Lime tree, when will your buds burst?
The ground shivers.
this is a cold season.
* * *
If, Hornig, as you say,
your body craves mine,
I shall believe you, though
you fantasize. Cakes and wine --
I reject them now. Bread and cheese.
The robust feast. Partake, Richard.
Henceforth, you shall own a house,
a drayhorse, and a carriage.
You shall sail along (at my speed)
behind me.
My lips tremble at the fusion:
the torsion of my ugliness,
your pulchritude.
You are a creature foaled
in the moon's house.
You are the scrotum of God
made flesh!
* * *
In candlelight, Hornig poses,
first against blue silk, then against red.
I am wearing my robe embroidered with peacocks.
"I love you," I whisper.
Richard's back is half-turned, one leg is raised.
His foot rests on a stool near a Meissen
candelabrum. His buttocks are blue.
His hairy thighs are magnificently turned.
"Now," I say, as he faces me.
He smiles as I kneel.
* * *
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. "I break
a jug over your head. I beat you
with your broom. I trample your breasts
into sausage."
"Father," says the wall. "I pull you
from your coffin. I box your ears
until you're deaf. Then I disembowel you."
"Brother," says the wall. "I plunge
into your body until I am bleeding.
I ejaculate chunks of marble!"
* * *
Hornig, you choose to sit
on that shabby chair so noxious
with mildew. Why do you tell me now
of your betrothal?
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.
Drink wine with me.
The wine will emblazon your breath
and excite you.
You are afraid!
I am not afraid!
Depart! Depart!
* * *
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 ballbone of my hip
grinds glass.
My gender's wrong!
If I could find that wretched vesicle
I'd rip it forth and cast it to the weasels!
* * *
Teeth
1.
Among primitive cultures
abrasives, hard seeds, and seashells
injure the teeth.
Ludwig, however, is cultured.
He eats: Kuchen Schokoladen.
Korinthen-Kuchen, Guss-Kuchen,
Kummel-Kuchen, Torten mit Schlagsahne,
Gefrorenes und Haselnüssen, Feinbrot
mit Apfel, Pflaumen, Stachelbeer,
Himbeer, and Erdbeer Kompotten und
Marmeladen, Süssigkeiten, Kandiszucher:
Mann kann nicht zu bleicher Zeit
Vorteil aus Dingen ziehen,
Die sich nicht vereinigen lassen.
2.
Ludwig ransacked the ancients for cures,
mistreated his doctors, those Fleischern.
He read of these remedies, trying them:
Concoct dentifrice from hartshorn,
meershaum, salt, burnt snail and oyster shells,
burnt gypsum.
Rub a mixture of powdered rose leaves,
gall nuts, and myrrh on the enamel.
Shove up well into the gums.
Drink a potion of ass milk, bear's gall. Another
of crayfish eyes, saltpeter and sugar in lemon
juice. A wash of goat's dung and goose droppings.
The brain of a hare cooked in wine.
Try powder made of a dog's tooth, or touch your
own sore tooth with a dead man's. Insert salt
tightly wound in a spider's web.
Purpy well-chewed lightens teeth.
Raven's dung pressed into a cavity
cures.
* * *
After the Franco-Prussian War,
before German unification had proceeded far,
von Bismarck knew that Ludwig's mouth
might impede Prussia's dream of annexing the south.
Ludwig, infected, remained in his castle
and would not appear at the Galerie des Glaces
where Wilhelm was crowned the Kaiser.
Needing Ludwig's assent for his coronation,
and, hence, for shaping a militant nation,
Bismarck sent Count Holnstein as his double --
neither General nor Count expected trouble.
For over five hours the Count struck his heels
sending to Ludwig's bedroom various appeals.
Eventually, Ludwig descended the Bed of Heaven
thinking it noon instead of seven.
He unwound the bandages swathing his head
and overpowered by chloroform grabbed for his bed.
Count Holnstein was waiting in the room.
"I'm so weak," said Ludwig. "Send for my groom."
In pain, he scribbled the famous Kaiserbrief
and said to Hornig: "Now, let me go to sleep."
* * *
On returning to bed
Ludwig glanced in a mirror
and found to his horror
that his teeth had turned black.
His thumbs when he probed were
covered with plaque. His days
of smiling in public were over --
except at night,
by dim candlelight
when encircling a lover, or
when hugging himself -- a grotesque delight.
* * *
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.
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
and served with mint sauce on Christmas Day.
* * *
After Heine's
"Morphine"
Two youths, one much paler,
more austere than the other.
The tanned youth takes me in his arms:
his happy glance! his laugh!
His garland of poppies touches my
forehead. The scent smothers my pain.
I need the other brother,
the serious one who lowers his torch:
sleep is good, but death is better.
Of course, the ideal is
never to have been born at all.
* * *
In battle, Prince Otto
seeing a limbless soldier,
flung the man's saber
over his shoulder,
cursing the weapon.
Raving, Otto is sent to a hospital.
He sings of bodily functions
and the lispings of whores.
He runs on all fours,
exposes his bum
enticing his brother to mount him.
There's a faint whiff of ambergris
and the gaminess of a corpse ripening.
contents
VIII. Josef Kainz
Josef Kainz (1858-1910), born in Austria, was renowned as the most famous of living German-speaking actors. A diamond and sapphire ring, probably the one presented to him by Ludwig, became his hallmark, and after his death was passed on to the actor regarded as his successor. The last actor to receive it, Albert Basserman, in rebellion against the Nazis, flung it into the Wahnsee, near Munich. Kainz eventually toured America, his most popular roles being Romeo, Hamlet, Oswald in Ghosts, and the heroes of Grillparzer.
after Heine's
"Der Scheidende"
The play's over. The dear German audience
goes home, yawning, to dinner, beer, and bed.
The meanest Philistine alive in Stuttgart,
on the Neckar, is far happier than I, the
son of Peleus, the dead champion,
prince of actor/shades.
Craving is dead. My hatred of evil
is dead, as is the sympathy I feel
for my own and other people's distresses.
In me, the only thing still living is death.
* * *
Slashes of red proscenium.
Hugo's king is a puppet!
Hawks shred his liver.
He rolls from his dais.
Didier casts human bones to Paradise.
His voice reverberates as a crystal
struck in a chapel of ice.
Didier bites his words. Each syllable
is mystic delirium, a shattered ice-bell.
Herr Kainz,
for the empyreans you have whirled me towards,
I, Ludwig, King send you this ring
from my own finger.
We are sealed.
This diamond is wretched paste.
I stammer.
* * *
The King is in his swanboat
sailing through his grotto, dreamily afloat.
He's waited for Kainz for over ten hours.
He fears the actor is a wilted flower.
Has he missed his train? Has he missed his carriage?
Is he frightened of a possible royal marriage?
Ludwig gives the signal to disembark.
He's tired of paddling round his little pink park.
He clambers out of the Venus-shell boat,
has the swans released and set afloat.
He stands on a rock, wishing he were shorter
throwing bread to the swans drifting on the water.
Kainz was to be the One True Friend,
one, unlike Wagner, with him to the end.
If he fails to appear
his act will be brief, his act will be dim.
For by the King's curled beard
and his Lohengrin greaves
and the silk of his sleeves
we'll have seen the end of him.
* * *
The gilt bed.
A star kisses the royal window
eats flesh and craves sleep.
"Once more, just once more,"
Ludwig pleads.
"Recite Melchthal's speech for his father
blinded by the Viceroy."
"Your Majesty, I'm sorry.
Even Schiller rested."
Ludwig uncovers Kainz,
observes his hard nude body
in the moonlight.
"Now," Ludwig commands.
"Melchthal! Melchthal!"
* * *
Photographs
One: in his velvet jacket and bowtie
Kainz is dapper. One hand graces
a lean stomach. His other is thrust
in his pocket, sexual. His hat rests
beside him, its crown round, in Ludwig's
manner. And his hair is crimped.
His complexion is marbly, his small mouth
in a Giaconda smile.
Two: Kainz stands beside a seated King,
half-turned body, eyes forward,
his felt hat in his hand, the crown
dented, baggy trousers wrinkled,
substantial scrotum. A white shirt,
a vest with a golden watch-chain
looped over it. Scuffed shoes.
Brown hair parted almost in the middle,
delicate neck. Eyes belying the illusion
of a bronzed peasant.
Ludwig sports a wool coat
with a velvet collar, a black crossed tie,
a white shirtfront. The coat is open.
Ludwig leans forward, the ubiquitous
round-brimmed hat on his knee.
His hair is marcelled. He gazes,
as he's been told, slightly above
the camera.
Three: Ludwig stands, with Kainz seated.
Odd, considering that one never sits
while a monarch stands, though one be
his lover.
Despite the greatcoat (as in #2)
now closed but unbuttoned,
Ludwig's shoulders slope to an expansive
middle, and a bulging pocket (is it fat
or a pistol?). His body drips, collecting
round his mud-spattered coat, at the ankles.
His face looks pasted to his body.
Kainz is bedraggled. His suit crumpled,
drying after the rainstorm. His hat
has been crushed. His hair
is a sweat-matted farmer's.
* * *
Take these presents
(Recite! Recite!) a clock
of lapis lazuli, a meerschaum
coach driven by six horses
(be Romeo finding Juliet
asleep!) a goblet of beaten
gold (be Tell stirring his
people), pieces of jewelry
fashioned as fleurs-de-lys
(Hamlet with Yorick's skull)
a painted Nuremberg egg
of fantastic delicacy
(Wallenstein, Wallenstein),
jewelled buttons for your shirts,
pastels and oils,
diamond stick-pins
(be Didier, be both brothers
in The Robbers) a gold watch
with my picture, a birthstone ring,
the works of Goethe bound
in Moroccan leather, jewelled.
Recite! Recite!
Kainz, on his back, prone,
breathes deep, rounds the
sonorous expletives,
relishes the flamboyant fricatives,
and soothes the King
who sighs and with a flair
turns and cuddles up
against his teddy-bear.
* * *
Their disguises are shorn:
at the Wilhelm Tell chapel, on the way to Fluelen,
Ludwig craves to pay homage, but fearing a crowd
sends Kainz on alone. Later, near Fohnhaven
where the carriage collapses, a mob shouts "Ludwig"
where he sulks at an inn. He vows to go home.
Then magnificent alphorns!
He orders the crags surrounding Lake Uri
graced with hornists. Bellows and roars,
in concert and in solo, enrich the blackness
with trumpetings and snarlings. Rare are the souls
able to sleep within miles of Lake Uri.
Next, with a German persistence, Ludwig and Kainz
visit each locale mentioned by Schiller
comparing real nature with the poet's rendition:
they don't seem to care
that Schiller wrote Tell
without having been there.
Kainz spouts florid speeches
while Ludwig enraptured, his appetite gargantuan,
listens and raves. Kainz must traverse Surenen!
Hadn't Melchthal? And, once on the Rütli,
that Alpine meadow, the King waits frenzied
for Kainz to declaim. The moon is full, and it's 2 a.m.
Kainz says he's tired...perhaps when he's slept.
"Rest, then!" snaps Ludwig.
So there on the Rütli, with the deer and the quail,
lies Kainz aslumber, his lips sweetly washed,
his brows softly misting, with silvery dew.
Ludwig, distressed, sails off in his steamer, alone.
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IX. The Picnic in the Snow
Clasping, yet unclasping
bronze chains, thinking
they are gold, I am bored:
life is a catenary, a cable
strung between the Zugspitze
of my passions and the
contrary peak of my public
obligations: a bullet
would take longer
to travel between my ears
than between most men's.
As of now the cable
swings firm over the chasm.
You may send messages over it
if you wish. They shall sizzle
like lightning the full-length of my body.
* * *
I have just eaten a dinner
of veal and pheasant, 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!
I beat a postillion until he bleeds.
I choke him until he seems dead
and fling him to the floor.
A torchlight down a corridor!
Panicked, I revive the youth,
bathe him, and guide him scented
to the Bed of Heaven.
* * *
Empty birdnests whirl through the air.
I see a plaster angel with one arm missing,
the other raised aloft.
I won't bow and smile at those people!
I won't be stared at!
I won't come out of my shell, as you say it!
I will not attend the festivities
for my family -- the seven hundredth
anniversary of the Wittelsbachs!
And if I don't attend
what can possibly happen? Revolution?
I think not, Herr Secretary. I am staying
where you will not find me.
I wish I were a dahlia, or a white marguerite
plucked on an amazing night of gauze and tulle.
I wish I were an obscene mushroom, phallus
of the mountain, burgeoned through the mulch
after hours of tempest, then grazed and shattered
by a stag's hoof.
But, Herr Secretary, 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.
I think of a pleasure dome,
of oranges, quince, satins and brocades, of
the jeweled navels of soldiers.
I think of my father crumbling,
of Wittelsbach bones in quicklime . . .
his eyes scissored by worms,
his toes clipped by rats . . .
* * *
Cast a slab of ice on a screen.
(The lantern is powerful.)
Heatrays produce internal melting,
by design, since
internal crystalline structures,
radiating phosphorescent tints,
are six-sided stars, snow-crystals.
As the electric beam destroys
(kills, in a sense) this fan-
tastic molecular architecture
the ice is reduced to a liquid state.
If this upsets you, have a biologist
remove one of your glands.
Freeze tissue.
Examine all bacteria trapped in the ice.
Instead of screaming
recall that liquid covered with oil
may be cooled to ten degrees
without ever hardening.
Do be careful, though:
if the vessel containing your tissue
is shaken or jarred,
instant freezing occurs.
* * *
I have sifted through the ashes of my kingdom.
Not a single ember 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.
* * *
Needle-like crystals interlace
freezing my face.
Diseases ravage my body:
a nip here, a nip there.
They escape detection, ignore
the dynamics of freezing:
the exact course descends
until the mass uniformly freezes.
It should reach my trachea shortly.
* * *
Why can't animals sing?
What shall I bring
to the picnic in the snow?
I AM KING OF THE NIGHT!
I AM KING OF ICE!
* * *
Groom, why are you late?
Welcome, Cosa Rara, steed, friend.
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, groom.
That's fine.
Now, depart, depart.
Cosa Rara, your gilt tray,
my priceless china.
If only Herr Wagner were here to dine with us.
At this very moment his Götterdämmerung
is being performed in Venice.
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....
Cosa Rara, eat, eat.
Your oats were steeped in cognac and toasted.
Heaps of Alpine clover dried and powdered, even candied
with sugar. Wheat kernels plumped in Moselle.
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.
Let the politicians, the generals, and the painted dowagers
waffle and bob until they sink!
Send them off to the stable without their wigs and dinners!
Cosa Rara, stay the night. Stay the night!
* * *
Mist soaks the fields.
On the horizon a king booms
clouds of sound. Cloud-bastions
rent with 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 Grail.
A globe is in my hands.
I thrust it, choked in blood,
beneath my ribs.
I stagger to rise. Wagner! Wagner! Wagner!
* * *
An Elegy in the Romantic Mode
Ludwig meditates on a black spruce near Spiegelau, towards the summit of Mt. Rachel, 4765' high, in the Alps.
1.
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 five hundred years
2.
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 crepe.
Smother orchids on his catafalque!
Fashion his coffin of Venetian glass!
A mighty 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 putty
under his eyes trickles, I'll invade Italy!
I'll level the Alps!
Tree, your branches hide skulls.
Maggots with amber heads and mandibles
squirm through the eyes, 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...
I spit, my tongue a swollen toad
gagging my throat. I can't weep.
Flames sear my knuckles.
I grab this tree and bellow:
Dunkelheit! Darkness! Dunkelheit!
* * *
Ever since dinner, voices have driven him.
He invites Louis XIV, the French king, as he has
on other evenings. But Louis fails to appear.
A brilliant feast -- it should have been!
Louis promised to explain
his contempt for the Dauphin. Also,
he said he'd don his robes and
scarlet shoes, and pose, and dance.
Ludwig wears pasha garb, complete with
turban, sash, and embroidered shoes.
And the meal! A menu from Versailles!
At the appointed time, servants lift
the elegant table through the floor.
The voices...the wedding cake...
The cake melts. A throne carved of ice.
Mounds of chocolate smother the Alps.
The table careens to the kitchen below.
Ludwig throws his greatcoat on, grabs his hat
and exits the castle. He shuffles past the
courtyard flares. "I am King of the Night,"
he exclaims. "King of the Night."
Snowflakes fill his hand. He gasps,
wallows in drifts over his knees.
A delirious rush, like fire.
He roars laughing: "I am King of the Night.
I am King of Ice."
Snow inundates his hat and cape.
Drifts cover his knees, his waist.
His eyes are a raven's in a storm.
Inside his brain a prismatic ice-shield
inches forward, its splintering
like violins. Green waters crash through
the crevasses. There's a dream-castle,
one he will never build: Falkenstein.
As the avalanche crumbles the gates,
trumpeting swans lift off and preserve
glorious Falkenstein! An image of
Richard Wagner, wearing a beret, drifts past.
A gilt sun-burst hardens into ice.
Richard Hornig gathers Ludwig in his arms,
shreds ermine from his bones,
carries him into the castle, bathes his feet
in hot wine, dries him, and closes his eyes.
Note
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.
contents
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.)
contents
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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