The Tragedy of Mister Morn

Home > Fiction > The Tragedy of Mister Morn > Page 4
The Tragedy of Mister Morn Page 4

by Vladimir Nabokov


  TREMENS:

  So, you

  and I are left alone, my serpent chill?

  They’re gone—my fugitive slave and poor

  twirling Ella… Yes, seized and exhausted

  by the simplest passion, Ganus seems to have

  forgotten his true calling… But somehow

  I sense that hidden within him is that spark,

  that scarlet comma of contamination,

  which will spread the wondrous cold and fire

  of tormenting illness across my country:

  deathly revolts; hollow destruction;

  bliss; emptiness; non-existence.

  CURTAIN

  Scene II

  A party at MIDIA’s house. The drawing room: to the left the entrance to the salon; to the right [at the back] a lighted niche by a tall window. [MIDIA with] several GUESTS [including KLIAN, DANDILIO, and the FOREIGNER].

  FIRST GUEST:

  Morn says—though he himself is not a poet—

  “It should be thus: in the flicker of daily life,

  unexpectedly, in the chance combination

  of light and shadow, you feel within yourself

  the divine happiness of conception:

  it grabs you and is gone; but the muse knows

  that in a quiet hour, in the seclusion

  of the night, the poem will begin to beat

  and fly off the tongue, fiery and babbling…”

  KLIAN:

  I have never felt like that… I myself

  create differently: with persistence, disgust,

  tying a wet rag around my head… Perhaps

  that’s why I am the genius…

  [Both of them pass on.]

  FOREIGNER:

  Who is that—

  the one that looks like a horse?

  SECOND GUEST:

  The poet Klian.

  FOREIGNER:

  Talented?

  SECOND GUEST:

  Shh… He’s listening…

  FOREIGNER:

  And that one,

  the silvery one, with the bright eyes—speaking,

  at the doorway, to the mistress of the house?

  SECOND GUEST:

  You don’t know? You sat beside him at dinner—

  it is the carefree Dandilio, the grey-haired

  lover of antiquity.

  MIDIA [to DANDILIO]:

  But why? It is

  a sin: Morn, Morn and only Morn,

  and the blood sings out…

  DANDILIO:

  There is no sin on earth.

  Loves, sorrows—all are necessary, all

  are beautiful… One must snatch the hours of fire,

  the hours of love from life, as a slave grasps

  at shells underwater—blindly, hungrily:

  there is no time to prise them open, to choose

  the sick one, with its precious tumour… They

  shimmer, suddenly turn up, so grab at them

  in handfuls, whatever’s there, however you can—

  and at that very moment when your heart

  is bursting, you push off with your heel

  convulsively, and, stumbling and panting,

  empty out the treasure on the sunlit shore

  at the feet of the Creator—he’ll sort them out,

  he knows… So let the broken shells be empty,

  for the whole sea hums with mother of pearl.

  And he who seeks only pearls, setting aside

  shell after shell, that man shall come to

  the Creator, to the Master, with empty hands—

  and he will find that he is deaf and dumb

  in heaven…

  FOREIGNER [approaching]:

  I often heard your voice

  in my childhood dreams…

  DANDILIO:

  Really, I never

  can remember who has dreamt me. But

  your smile I do remember. I meant to ask you,

  courteous traveller, where have you come from?

  FOREIGNER:

  I have come from the Twentieth Century, from

  a northern country, called…

  [Whispers.]

  MIDIA:

  Which one is it?

  I don’t know that one…

  DANDILIO:

  How can you say that!

  Don’t you remember, from children’s fairy tales?

  Visions… bombs… churches… golden princes…

  revolutionaries in raincoats… blizzards…

  MIDIA:

  But I thought it didn’t exist?

  FOREIGNER:

  Perhaps. I

  entered a dream, but are you sure that I

  have left that dream?… So be it, I’ll believe

  in your city. Tomorrow I shall call it

  a dream…

  MIDIA:

  Our city is beautiful…

  [She moves away.]

  FOREIGNER:

  I find

  in it a ghostly resemblance to the distant

  city of my birth—that likeness which exists

  between truth and high fantasy…

  SECOND GUEST:

  It is,

  believe me, the most beautiful of all cities.

  [SERVANTS serve coffee and wine.]

  FOREIGNER [with a cup of coffee in his hand]:

  I am struck by its spaciousness, by its clean,

  extraordinary air: in it music sounds

  differently; houses, bridges, and stone arches,

  all the architectural outlines in it,

  are boundless, light, like the passage

  from the happiest sigh to sublime silence…

  I am also struck by the ever-cheerful gait

  of passers-by; the absence of cripples;

  the melodious sound of footsteps and of hooves;

  the flight of sledges across white squares… And

  they say the King alone has done all this…

  SECOND GUEST:

  Yes, the King alone. Gone are the times

  of hardship, never to return. Our King—

  a masked giant, in a fiery cloak—

  took the throne by force, and that very year

  the last wave of revolts died down.

  A conspiracy was uncovered: its members

  were swept aside—and, by the way,

  Midia’s husband too, although one shouldn’t

  mention it—and sent to distant mines,

  from whence the law will never call them back;

  I say the members, for the main rebel,

  their nameless leader, was never found…

  Since then, the country has been at peace.

  Ugliness, boredom, blood—all have evaporated.

  The pure sciences reach for lofty heights,

  but, recognizing beauty in the past,

  the King has protected poetry, the agitation

  of bygone ages—horses, and sails, and live

  ancient music—although alongside these,

  there wander through the air transparent,

  electrical birds…

  DANDILIO:

  In bygone days

  flying machines were otherwise constructed:

  sometimes they would flap upwards,

  to the thunder of the glinting propeller,

  to the explosion of petrol, emitting a smell

  of tea into the empty sky… Forgive me,

  but where is our interlocutor? …

  SECOND GUEST:

  I didn’t

  notice how he disappeared…

  MIDIA [approaching]:

  And now

  the dances will begin…

  [Enter ELLA, with GANUS behind.]

  MIDIA:

  And here’s Ella!…

  FIRST GUEST [to the SECOND GUEST]:

  Who is that blackamoor? What a scarecrow!

  SECOND GUEST:

  And to think he’s wearing a frock-coat!…

  MIDIA:
<
br />   You are so luminous… so ethereal…

  How is your father?

  ELLA:

  Still the same: fever.

  Here, do you remember, I told you?—

  our tragic hero… I begged him to keep

  his make-up on… It is Othello…

  MIDIA:

  Very good!

  Klian, come here… tell the violinists

  to begin…

  [The GUESTS move through into the salon.]

  MIDIA:

  Why does Morn not come?

  I do not understand… Dandilio!

  DANDILIO:

  But one must love even anticipation.

  Anticipation is a flight into the dark.

  Then all at once there’s light, a fall into

  the happy light, but then the flight is over…

  Ah, music! Please, allow me to offer you my arm.

  [ELLA and KLIAN walk past.]

  ELLA:

  Is something bothering you?

  KLIAN:

  Who is your consort? Who is your black-faced

  consort?

  ELLA:

  A harmless actor, Klian. Why,

  are you jealous?

  KLIAN:

  No. No. No.

  I know that you are faithful to me, my bride…

  O, God! To enter you, oh, to enter,

  would be like entering a tight and searing

  sheath, to peer into your blood, to break

  through your bones, to learn, to grasp, to touch,

  to press your being in between my palms!…

  Listen, come to me! It is a long time

  until spring, until our wedding day!…

  ELLA:

  Don’t, Klian… you promised me…

  KLIAN:

  Oh, come to me! Let me break into you!

  It is not I who beg, but my starved genius,

  tormented by you, writhes in the ashes,

  scrunching its wings, it begs… Oh, understand,

  it is not I who beg, not I! See—

  the muse wrings her hands… there is a wind

  in the Olympian gardens… Pegasus’s eyes

  are filled with blood and dawn… Ella, will you come?

  ELLA:

  Don’t ask, don’t ask. It scares me, it delights me…

  You know, I am only a white bridge,

  I am but a flimsy bridge over the torrent…

  KLIAN:

  Tomorrow then—at ten sharp—your father

  goes to bed early. At ten. Yes?

  [GUESTS walk past.]

  FOREIGNER:

  Who then

  do you think is the happiest in this city?

  DANDILIO [taking snuff]:

  It’s me, of course… I have deduced happiness,

  determined it, like a scientific theorem…

  FIRST GUEST:

  I want to make a correction. In our city

  each and every one will answer: “It’s me,

  of course!”

  SECOND GUEST:

  No. There is one unhappy man:

  that dark conspirator, unknown to us,

  the one who wasn’t caught. Somewhere he lives,

  even now, and knows that he is guilty…

  LADY:

  That poor negro there is also unhappy.

  He wanted to astonish everyone

  with his frightening appearance, but nobody

  has taken notice of him. Awkward Othello

  sits in the corner, drinking gloomily…

  FIRST GUEST:

  … and looks out from under his brow.

  DANDILIO:

  And what

  does Midia think?

  SECOND GUEST:

  Look, our stranger

  has disappeared again! It is as though,

  passing between us, he slipped behind the curtain…

  MIDIA:

  I think, happiest of them all is the King…

  Ah, Morn!

  [MISTER MORN enters, laughing, with EDMIN following.]

  MORN [as he walks]:

  Splendid, blissful people!…

  VOICES:

  Morn! Morn!

  MORN:

  Midia! Greetings, Midia,

  radiant lady! Give me your hand, Klian,

  you thunderous madman, you crimson soul!

  Ah, Dandilio, you gay dandelion…

  Music, music, I need heavenly music!…

  VOICES:

  Morn is here, Morn!

  MORN:

  Splendid, blissful

  people! What snow, Midia… what snow!

  As cold as the kiss of a ghost, as hot as tears

  on your eyelashes… Music! Music! And who

  is this? An ambassador from the East?

  MIDIA:

  An actor, a friend of Ella’s.

  FIRST GUEST:

  Before you came,

  we were trying to decide who is the happiest

  in our city; we thought—the King; but then

  you entered: first place is yours, I think…

  MORN:

  What is happiness? The flutter of celestial wings.

  What is happiness? A snowflake on one’s lip…

  What is happiness? …

  MIDIA [quietly]:

  Listen, why did you

  come so late? The guests will be leaving soon:

  it looks like my belovèd deliberately

  arrived for their departure…

  MORN [quietly]:

  My joy, forgive me:

  work… I have been very busy…

  VOICES:

  Dancing!

  Dancing!

  MORN:

  Ella, may I have this dance…

  [The GUESTS move into the salon. Only DANDILIO and GANUS remain.]

  DANDILIO:

  I see Othello is missing Desdemona.

  Oh, the demon is in that name…

  GANUS [glancing in the direction of MORN]:

  What a

  passionate gentleman…

  DANDILIO:

  What can one do, Ganus…

  GANUS:

  What did you say?

  DANDILIO:

  I said, has it been long

  since you left Venice?

  GANUS:

  Leave me, I beg you…

  [DANDILIO moves into the salon. GANUS is left hunched at a table.]

  ELLA [enters briskly]:

  Is there anyone here?

  GANUS:

  Ella, this is

  hard on me…

  ELLA:

  What is wrong, my dear?

  GANUS:

  There is something I don’t understand.

  This suffocating make-up feels like

  it’s straining my heart…

  ELLA:

  My poor Moor…

  GANUS:

  Before, you said… I felt so happy…

  You were telling the truth, weren’t you?

  ELLA:

  Come on,

  smile… Listen, the violin bows are

  sparkling from the hall!

  GANUS:

  Will it end soon?

  This heavy, mottled dream…

  ELLA:

  Yes, soon, soon…

  [GANUS moves into the salon.]

  ELLA [alone]:

  How strange… my heart suddenly sang out:

  I would give my whole life for this man

  to be happy… a kind of light breeze

  has passed by, and now I feel capable

  of the most humble feat. My poor Moor!

  I’m such a fool, why did I bring him with me?

  I never noticed before—only just now,

  in feeling jealousy on his behalf,

  did I at long last see that some secret

  reverberating sound connects Midia

  to swift Morn… All this is strange…

  DANDILIO [comes out, looking for someone]:

  Did

 
; you see? Did that Foreigner come past here?

  ELLA:

  I didn’t see him…

  DANDILIO:

  What a curious fellow!

  He slipped away like a shadow… We were

  just having a conversation with him…

  [ELLA and DANDILIO pass on.]

  EDMIN [leads MIDIA to a chair]:

  You do not dance tonight, Midia?

  MIDIA:

  While you,

  as always, are mysteriously silent—

  perhaps you would like to tell me what

  Morn does all day?

  EDMIN:

  What does it matter?

  Whether he’s a businessman, a scholar,

  an artist, a warrior, or just an impassioned man—

  isn’t it all the same to you?

  MIDIA:

  And what

  is it you do yourself? Stop it—stop shrugging

  your shoulders! Conversation with you

  is such a bore, Edmin…

  EDMIN:

  I know…

  MIDIA:

  Tell me, when Morn is here, you guard, alone

  beneath the window, and after leave with him.

  Friendship is friendship, but this…

  EDMIN:

  I like it this way.

  MIDIA:

  Is there not a woman—unknown to us—

  with whom you would more pleasantly spend

  the nights, while Morn is here, than with the spectre

  of someone else’s happiness?… How foolish—

  you’ve grown pale…

  [MORN enters, wiping his brow.]

  MORN:

  What is happiness?

  Klian ran past me and, like the wind,

  took Ella from me…

  [to EDMIN]

  Friend, brighten up!

  Your face is painfully contorted, as though

  you were about to sneeze… Go dance…

  [EDMIN exits.]

  … Oh, my Midia, how you do resemble

  happiness! No, do not move, do not spoil

  your splendour… I am cold from happiness.

  We are on the crest of a wave of music… Wait,

  don’t speak. This very moment is the peak of two eternities…

  MIDIA:

  A mere two moons

  have rolled by since that vivid day, when

  mysterious Edmin brought you to me. That day

  you conquered me with the piercing glance

  of your deep eyes. In them, an intense force

  sparkles around the pupils with a yellow light…

  Sometimes it seems to me that, walking

  down the street, you could, with the even breath

  of your eyes alone, inspire in passers-by

  whatever you wanted: happiness, wisdom,

  the heat of passion… I’ll put it this way—

  but don’t laugh: my soul has fixed itself

  to your eyes, as when in childhood

  one’s tongue sticks to cloudy metal if,

  for a lark, you lick it in the flaring frost…

  Now tell me, what do you do all day?

  MORN:

  And your eyes—no, show me—are

 

‹ Prev