He climbs up the staircase reflectively, stalking Cinderella above in a maid’s dress, carrying the Fairy Tale’s gifts in her arms.

Cinderella:

Could you still be here yet, my Prince?

Prince:

I am still here, my charming child,

only to behold you once more.

What have you there?

Cinderella:

See, it’s a beautiful dress! Look

greedily at this majesty.

Such would bring joy to a king’s eye.

Prince:

Who gave you that?

Cinderella:

O that wouldn’t interest you much.

I don’t even know exactly.

It’s enough this sweet thing is mine

and that I can put it on now

if I wanted to. But—

Prince:

But—

Cinderella:

I no more do.

Prince:

What has made you so strangely cold?

Who clouded the lake of your soul

with silt, so that it looks so dark?

Cinderella:

I myself, and so just be still,

please put aside your noble wrath.

There will be no more hurting here.

Only—

Prince:

What? Tell me, love!

Cinderella:

Only that something still pains me:

among all these lovely things here

something is still missing. I must be

missing the left shoe—ah, that’s it,

that’s it, of course.

Prince:

Well, of course—and is this one yours?

Cinderella:

How can you ask? It is just like

its brother here on the table.

So then I have this splendid gift

in full, and so I can go forth.

Prince:

Wearing that around your body,

right, that around your fair body?

Cinderella:

No, don’t!

Prince:

What’s gotten into you suddenly?

Cinderella:

So suddenly—what is it then?

Prince:

That you don’t love me anymore?

Cinderella:

I don’t know whether I love you.

Yet again it’s clear I love you,

for what kind of girl would not love

the high station and manliness,

the nobility, the fine cast?

I love your majesty that is

so patient and awaits my own.

I am touched that you, you alone

have shown such compassion for me.

Something touches me to the quick.

I’m nervous all of a sudden.

I stand utterly, miserably

exposed here. The least little breeze

will blow my heart into a storm,

to be so still soon afterward,

the same way it lies outspread now,

just like a peaceful, sunlit lake.

Prince:

Does your heart really feel like this?

Cinderella:

Like this and different. What one word

might express. Our language sounds

far too crude for expressing this.

Music is required to better

say this over and over. It,

it is playing.

Music.

Prince:

Listen, what lovely dance music.

Desire rises, swells inside me,

and I can no longer bear it,

that we stand here ever longer,

dithering. Come, let me lead you

in dance. Our ball begins here now,

with our own magic power. Drop

that silver-heavy burden, come.

Cinderella:

In this dress, my lord, full of filth

and covered with stains? So you want

to dance with a kitchen apron,