The Tragedy of Mister Morn

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The Tragedy of Mister Morn Page 7

by Vladimir Nabokov

Now

  I shall show the card! Ganus, stop!

  What a fool he is—

  he’s gone and fainted!

  DANDILIO:

  Hold him—oh, he’s heavy! Hold him, Tremens,—

  my bones are made of glass. Ah, there—

  he’s come to.

  GANUS:

  God, forgive me.

  DANDILIO:

  Let’s go, let’s go…

  lie down.

  [He leads GANUS to the bedroom.]

  MORN:

  He could not bear the repetition

  of his good fortune. So. The eight of clubs.

  Very good.

  [to EDMIN]

  You’ve grown pale, friend? Why?

  To set in contrast still more sharply

  the black silhouette of my fate? Sometimes

  despair is the finest of all artists… I am

  ready. Where is the pistol?

  TREMENS:

  Not here, though,

  please. I don’t like mess in my house.

  MORN:

  Yes,

  you are right. Sleep soundly, worthy Tremens.

  My house is taller. The shot will resound

  more sonorously in it, and tomorrow

  will come a dawn in which I have no part.

  Let’s go, Edmin. I shall spend the night

  at Caesar’s.

  [MORN and EDMIN exit, the former supporting the latter.]

  TREMENS [alone]:

  Thank you… My chill has been

  replaced by a flowing warmth… How pleasing is

  that grin anticipating death and the mortal

  glimmer in his eyes! He keeps his spirits up,

  he plays… I have no interest in the actor

  himself, yet—strange—it still seems to me

  that this is not the first time I have heard

  his voice: as when one remembers the tune

  but not the words; perhaps there are none:

  only a movement of thought—and the tune

  itself melts away… I am content with today’s

  motley scenes, with these images of the unknown.

  Yes! I am pleased—and feel in my veins

  a living languor, a warmth, a thaw… Now!

  Climb out of my sleeve, thou five of diamonds!

  I don’t know how it happened, but, inspired

  by a momentary pity, I substituted

  the card I’d grabbed—the raspberry rhombuses—

  with another, the one I showed. One—two!

  The eight of clubs!—if you please!—and death

  peered out of its funereal clover at Morn!

  While the fools were talking of roses—a slip

  of the palm, a sleight of hand—so swiftly

  is fate made. But never shall my Ganus

  know that I cheated, that it was to him,

  fortunate man, that death fell…

  [DANDILIO returns from the bedroom.]

  DANDILIO:

  They’ve left?

  But they forgot to bid me farewell… This

  snuffbox is an antique… For three centuries

  tobacco wasn’t taken—and now it’s fashionable

  again. Would you like some?

  TREMENS:

  What’s wrong with Ganus?

  A fit?

  DANDILIO:

  It’s nothing. He’s pressed to the bed, muttering

  something and flinging out his hands, as though

  to catch, by their coat-tails, invisible passers-by.

  TREMENS:

  Leave him,—it’s good for him. He’ll learn.

  DANDILIO:

  Yes,

  all grain is grist for the mill of the soul, you’re right…

  TREMENS:

  I meant something else. Ah, the steps

  of my infatuated Ella! I know,

  I know where she has been…

  [ELLA enters.]

  ELLA:

  Dandilio!

  DANDILIO:

  What is it, my dear, what, my lightness? …

  ELLA:

  Only

  splinters remain… splinters! He… Klian…

  O, God… Don’t touch me! Leave me… I am sticky…

  I am drenched in cold pain. Lies! Lies!

  Surely this cannot be what they call bliss.

  It’s death, not bliss! My soul has been brushed

  by the coffin lid… pinched… it hurts…

  TREMENS:

  That is my blood. Let her cry.

  DANDILIO:

  There…

  there… Let me brush away that lock…

  You have pearls and roses on your cheeks,

  a shimmer, your hair is dewy from the snow…

  You’re being silly. All is well. While playing,

  a child scratches itself—and cries. Life,

  its skirts flying up and rustling, will run

  through all the rooms, like a young mother,

  fall down upon her knees before the child,

  and, laughing, will kiss the scratch away…

  CURTAIN

  ACT III.

  Scene I

  A huge study. A starry night can be seen through the tall windows, but the stage is in darkness. Two figures [MORN and EDMIN] entercautiously.

  MORN:

  And so, it’s over. I’ll spend the night at Caesar’s!…

  And so, it’s over, dear friend… For the last time,

  like two regicides, have we stolen after midnight by the secret passages, into my palace… Light

  a candle. The wax will drip—stand it straighter.

  One more… there. Better than a sober lamp!

  Now listen. I foresaw the possibility

  of death. Here, in this table, in its oak

  and malachite depths, sleep my papers—

  contracts, plans, the drafts of laws… and

  dried flowers… I hand the keys to you.

  I also hand over this will, in which it states

  that in a fit of sweet and blinding visions,

  I decided to yield to death. Let my crown,

  —like a taut ball kicked aside,—be caught,

  and clasped in the arms of my young nephew;

  let the grey-haired owls—the senators, in whose

  charge he is—noiselessly govern my country,

  whilst on the throne sits but a little boy,

  dangling his legs… But the people must not

  know. Let my carriage, with its blue lacquer

  and coat-of-arms gleaming, rush as before

  along the square and over the bridge. I will

  become a ghost. And when my heir grows up,

  I want him to reveal how it was I died:

  he will begin the fairy tale with a fairy tale.

  My mantle, embroidered with flames, may fit

  him perfectly… You, Edmin, my confidant,

  my subtlest counsellor, soften the edges of power

  with your light subtlety, encircle its movements

  with your serenity… You understand?

  EDMIN:

  I’ll do it all…

  MORN:

  One thing more: today,

  in a meditative hour, I wrote a childish,

  but to me necessary, edict—that anyone

  who is successful in escaping exile

  will be pardoned for his courage…

  EDMIN:

  I’ll do it all.

  And if you would only hint, with one

  movement of your eyelids, that I should

  accompany you into unknown eternity…

  MORN:

  … Light these candles too. Let the mirrors

  be filled with visions, with winds… I shall return

  shortly. I am going to the chamber where

  for four years now my fiery crown has burned

  and breathed in its velvet nest; let it squeeze

  my head with its diamond pain, let it rol
l

  off my head when I fall backwards…

  EDMIN:

  My sovereign,

  my precious friend…

  MORN:

  … Not a shot, no, not

  a shot! A musical explosion! As though

  for a moment a door opens to the heavens…

  While here—how the strings will prolong

  the sound! What a fairy tale shall I leave

  to the people!… You know, in the dark I hit

  my knee upon the chair. It hurts.

  [Leaves.]

  EDMIN [alone]:

  O, I am like wax!… The chronicles will not

  forget this weakness of mine… I am to blame…

  Why do I not rush to save him?… Rise up,

  rise up, my soul! No, heavy drowsiness…

  I could with prayers, persuasions—I know

  that such exist—stop him… why not, then?

  As a man in his dreams cannot move his arm—

  so I have not the strength even to contemplate

  what is about to happen… This is—retribution!…

  When once, in childhood, I was forbidden to go

  to the apiary, I for a moment held

  in my mind the thought of my mother’s death, and how,

  unsupervised, I would eat the clear honey,—

  though I loved my mother to tears, with trembling

  heart… This is—retribution. Now, once more

  I’m stuck to the sweet honeycombs. One thing

  alone I see, one thing burns in the twilight:

  come morning I will bear news of his infidelity!

  Like some criminal, befogged by wine, I’ll enter,

  I’ll speak, Midia will cry… and not hearing

  my own words, and trembling, and with tender,

  hypocritical consolation, touching her

  imperceptibly, I will lie to her, so as

  to take the place of someone else. Yes,

  lie, tell her—about what?—the supposed

  unfaithfulness of him, before whom we two—

  are dust! If he had lived I would have kept

  silent till the end… But now my god will leave…

  I’ll be alone, weak and greedy… Death is better!

  O, if only he would order me to die!

  Burn, weak-willed wax… Breathe, mirrors,

  with a funereal flame…

  [He lights the candles. There are many of them. MORN re-enters.]

  MORN:

  Here’s the crown.

  My crown. Droplets of waterfalls on spikes…

  Edmin, it’s time. Tomorrow you shall call

  the senate together… announce… secretly…

  Farewell then… it’s time… Before my eyes

  pillars of fire surge past… Yes, listen—

  one last thing… go to Midia, tell her

  that Morn is the King… no, not the King,

  not that. You’ll say: Morn is dead… wait…

  no… say: he’s left… no, I don’t know!

  It’s better you make something up,—but

  it shouldn’t be about the King… And say it

  very quietly, and very softly, as is your way.

  Why are you crying like that? Don’t… Get up

  off your knees, get up… your shoulder blades

  are shaking like a woman’s… Don’t cry, dear friend…

  Go… into the other room: when you hear

  the gunshot—come back in… Enough, I die

  merrily… Farewell… Go… wait! Do you

  remember how once we stole in darkness

  from the palace, and a sentry fired at me,

  and shot through my collar?… How we laughed

  then… Edmin? He’s gone… I am alone,

  and all around are flaming candles, mirrors,

  and a frosty night… Brightness and terror…

  I am alone with my conscience. So, here’s

  the pistol… an antique… six rounds… I need

  but one… Hey, who is there above the rooftops?

  You, God? Forgive me, then, what people

  will not forgive! What’s better—standing or sitting?

  Sitting is better. Quick. Just don’t think!…

  Snap—the cartridge, in! The muzzle to the chest.

  Below the rib. Here’s the heart. Like so.

  Now the safety catch… goosebumps on my chest.

  The muzzle’s cold, like the lacquer tube

  applied by a doctor: he breathes in, he listens…

  and his bald pate and the tube rise up

  in rhythm with my chest…

  No, wait!

  That is not how people shoot themselves…

  This needs to be thought through… One. Two.

  Three. Four. Five. Six. Six steps from the chair

  to the window. The snow shines. How starry

  is the sky! God, give me strength,

  give me strength, I beg you—give me strength…

  There sleeps my city, all in hoar-frost,

  all in a blue shroud. O, my dear!… Farewell,

  forgive me… I ruled for four years… created

  an age of happiness, an age of harmony… God,

  give me strength… Playfully, lightly I ruled;

  I appeared in a black mask in the ringing hall,

  before my cold, decrepit senators… masterfully

  I revived them—and left again, laughing…

  laughing… And sometimes, in patched-up clothes,

  I sat in a tavern and grunted with the ruddy

  drunken coachmen; a dog would wag its tail

  under the table, and a girl would tug me

  by the sleeve, though I looked like a pauper…

  Four years passed, and now, in the radiant noon

  of my life, I must abandon my kingdom, must

  jump from the throne to death—O, God,—all

  because I kissed a shallow woman and struck

  a foolish adversary! I could have had him…

  O conscience, conscience—the cold angel

  at the back of thought: thought turns—there’s

  no one there; but behind, it rises up again.

  Enough! I must, must die! O, if only

  it could not be so, not so, but in sight

  of the world, in the hot storm of battle,

  to the thunder of hooves, atop a sweaty steed,

  so as to greet death with an immortal cry

  and gallop headlong through the sky into

  heaven’s yard, where the splash of water

  can be heard, and a seraph scrubs the horse

  of St. George! Yes, death would be rapture then!…

  But here I am—alone… only candle flame—

  a thousand-eyed spy—watches from under

  the suspicious mirrors… But I must die!

  There is no glory—there is eternity

  and man… What’s this crown for? It digs

  into my temples, damned thing! Off with it!

  Like so… like so… roll across the dark carpet,

  like a wheel of fire… Now quickly! Don’t think!

  Plunge reason in icy water! One movement:

  press the curved trigger… One movement…

  How many times have I pressed door handles,

  the buttons of doorbells… And now… And now…

  I don’t know how! My finger on the trigger

  is weaker than a worm… What’s a kingdom to me?

  What’s valour? To live, only to live… O, God!

  Edmin!

  [approaches the door; calls out like a child]

  Edmin!

  [EDMIN enters. MORN stands with his back to him.]

  I can’t…

  [Pause.]

  Why do you

  stand there, why do you look at me? Or,

  perhaps, you think that I’m a… Listen, here,

  I’ll explain… Edmin, you understand… I l
ove her…

  I love Midia! My kingdom and my soul

  I am prepared to yield, if only not

  to part from her! My friend, listen, do not

  blame me… do not blame me…

  EDMIN:

  My sovereign, I’m happy…

  You are my hero… I’m not even worthy…

  MORN:

  Really?

  Really?… Well then… I’m pleased… Earthly love

  is higher, stronger, than heavenly valour… Though you,

  Edmin, don’t love… you cannot understand

  that a man is capable of burning worlds

  for a woman… So then—it is decided.

  I’ll flee from here… there is no other way.

  For in truth—I ruled without a care.

  Such carelessness is power. That has gone.

  Oh, how can I rule, when the Devil himself

  has melted the crown on my poor head?

  I’ll disappear… You understand, I’ll disappear,

  I’ll quietly live out the rest of my strange life

  to the secret tune of my royal memories.

  Midia will be with me… Why do you keep silent?

  Am I not right? Midia will die without me…

  You know that.

  EDMIN:

  My sovereign, I ask but

  one thing: an agonizing request, a crime

  against my native land… though it be!

  I beseech you: take me with you…

  MORN:

  O, how you love me, how you love, dear friend!…

  I have not the power to refuse you… I am

  a criminal myself. Listen, do you remember

  how I came to power? I came out in a mask

  and mantle on the golden balcony,—it was

  windy, it smelled, for some reason, of the sea,

  and the mantle kept slipping off, and from behind

  you righted it… But, why do I… Quickly

  time is running on… there is this will here…

  How to change it?… What shall we do? How

  to act? In it, I write that… Burn it! Burn it!

  Thankfully the candles are lit. Quick! Meanwhile,

  I’ll compose a different one… But how? My mind

  is empty. I move my quill as if on water…

  Edmin, I don’t know. Advise me—we must hurry,

  to finish by sunrise… What’s wrong?

  EDMIN:

  Footsteps… They’re

  coming here… Along the gallery…

  MORN:

  Quick!

  Put out the lights! We’ll have to go through

  the window—oh, hurry! I can’t meet with anyone…

  Come what may… What shall I take? Yes,

  the pistol… put them out… put them out… the

  papers…

  the diamonds… right. Fling it open! Hurry…

  My trenchcoat has caught—wait. Ready! Jump!…

  [They leave. Darkness onstage. An OLD MAN in livery, stooping, comes in with a candle in his hand.]

 

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