The Tragedy of Mister Morn
Page 9
ever more finely, ever more blissfully…
The King is a dream… The King has not died
in their souls, merely grown quiet… the dream
folded its wings—a moment—and now extends them…
KLIAN:
My leader, it’s gone eight; the city is awake,
it stirs… The people call you to the square…
TREMENS:
Coming, coming…
[to the FIRST REBEL]
So what are you saying?
FIRST REBEL:
I’m saying that a winged legend flies,
turning in the sun! Mothers whisper
the fairy tale to their children… Beggars
speak of the King over home-brewed beer…
How can you outlaw the wind itself?
You are too angry, too merciless.
It’s a dangerous path! Be more careful,
we ask, there’s nothing stronger than a dream!…
TREMENS:
I’ll break its neck! You dare to teach me? I’ll break it!
Or, perhaps, the dream is dear to you?
SECOND REBEL:
You have misunderstood us, Tremens,
we wanted to warn you…
KLIAN:
The King is nothing but
a straw scarecrow…
TREMENS:
Enough! Leave me, you
woeful cowards! Ganus, well then, have you…
decided?
GANUS:
Tremens, truly, do not torment me…
You know yourself. I want only prayer,
only prayer…
TREMENS:
Leave, and quickly!
I have suffered you too long… Everything
has its limit… Help him, Klian—he can’t
open the door, he’s pulling at it…
KLIAN:
Here,
let me—towards yourself…
GANUS:
…But perhaps
she’s calling for me! Oh!
[Throws himself at a table.]
KLIAN:
Wait… Calm down…
Save yourself, Tremens, he’s…
GANUS:
Let go! Just don’t
touch me, do you understand? There’s no need
to touch me… Where’s the basket? Move away!
The basket!…
TREMENS:
He’s mad…
GANUS:
Here… in pieces…
in my palms… silver… Oh, that impetuous
handwriting!
[reads]
Here… here… “my fan… send me…
He’s worn me out”… Who’s he? Who’s he? The pieces
are all jumbled up… “Forgive me”… That’s not it.
That’s not it either… Some address… strange…
in the south…
KLIAN:
Shall I call the guard?
GANUS:
Tremens!…
Listen… Tremens! It must be I see things
differently from everyone else… Take a look…
After the words “and I’m unhappy”… That name…
See it? That name there… Can you make it out?
TREMENS:
“Mark is with me”—no, not Mark… “Morn,”
is it? Morn… That sounds familiar… Ah,
I’ve remembered! How glorious! That’s fate
for you! So that buffoon tricked you?
Where are you going? Wait…
GANUS:
Morn lives,
God is dead. That’s all… I go to kill Morn.
TREMENS:
Wait… No, no, don’t pull away…
I’ve had enough… You hear? I talked to you
of chasms, of giants—and you… how dare you
bring in here the spirit of masquerade,
the babble of life, the squeak of mousy passion?
Wait… I am tired of you putting your… anguish—
your heart, that ace of hearts pierced by an arrow,—
above my, my thunderous worlds!
Enough of your living in this anguish!
I am jealous! No, lift up your face!
Look, look into my eyes, as into a grave.
So, you wish to assuage your fate? Stop
pulling away! Listen, do you remember
a certain happy evening? The eight of clubs?
Know, then, that it was I—cursed Tremens—
that your fate…
ELLA [in the doorway]:
Father, leave him be!
TREMENS:
…your fate… I pity… Leave. Hey, somebody!
He’s grown faint—take him under the elbows!
GANUS:
Be off, you ravens! The corpse of Morn—is mine!
[Leaves.]
TREMENS:
Close the door behind him, Klian. Tightly.
There’s a draught.
SECOND REBEL [quietly]:
I said there was a lover…
FIRST REBEL:
Quiet, I’m feeling frightened…
THIRD REBEL:
How Tremens frowns.
SECOND REBEL:
Unhappy Ganus…
FOURTH REBEL:
He’s happier than us…
KLIAN [loudly]:
My leader! I shall dare to repeat myself.
The people are gathered in the square. They wait
for you.
TREMENS:
I know… Hey, follow me, you sheep!
Why have you gone so quiet? Look lively!
I will give such a speech, that tomorrow
nothing but ashes will remain of the city.
No, Klian, you aren’t to come with us:
your neck hints too much of the gallows.
[TREMENS and the REBELS leave. ELLA and KLIAN remain onstage.]
KLIAN:
Did you hear that? Your father is a splendid
joker. I like it. It’s funny.
[Pause.]
Ella, you have
a white hat on—are you going somewhere?
ELLA:
Nowhere. I’ve changed my mind…
KLIAN:
My wife
is beautiful. I don’t find time to tell you that
you are beautiful. Only from time to time,
in my poems…
ELLA:
I don’t understand them.
[Screams are heard offstage.]
KLIAN:
Hark! The howl of the crowd… That welcoming peal!
CURTAIN
ACT IV.
A drawing room in a southern villa. A glass door onto a terrace, leading out to a fantastical garden. In the middle of the stage is a table set with three places. A foul spring morning. MIDIA stands with her back to the audience, looking out of the window. Somewhere a servant strikes a gong. The noise dies down. MIDIA doesn’t move. EDMIN enters from the left with the newspapers.
EDMIN:
Again there is no sun… How did you sleep?
MIDIA:
On my back, and on my side, and even
in the foetal position…
EDMIN:
Are we taking
coffee in the drawing room?
MIDIA:
Yes,
as you can see. The dining room is gloomy.
EDMIN:
The news is even more terrible than before…
These are not newspapers, but shrouds
drenched with death, with the dankness of the grave…
MIDIA:
They must have got wet in the postman’s bag.
It has rained since morning, the gravel is dark.
And the palm trees have drooped.
EDMIN:
Here, listen:
the suburbs are ablaze… the crowds have looted
the museums… they light bonfires in the squares…
And drink, a
nd dance… Execution follows
execution… And into the drunken city
has come the plague…
MIDIA:
What do you think, will
the rain stop soon? It’s so dull…
EDMIN:
Meanwhile,
their savage leader… You knew his daughter…
MIDIA:
Yes,
I think so… I don’t remember… What’s death
to me, chaos, blood, when I’m so bored
that I don’t know what to do with myself!
Oh, Edmin, he has given up shaving,
he walks around in his dressing gown,
he’s gloomy, and abrupt, and stubborn…
It’s as though we’ve crossed from a fairy tale
to the most banal reality… He is becoming
duller, has started hunching his shoulders,
ever since we came to live here, in this swamp…
The palm trees, you know, always remind me
of the hallways of rich merchants… Edmin,
leave the newspapers… It’s nonsense… You are
always so reserved with me, as though
I were a whore or a queen…
EDMIN:
Not at all…
I only… You do not know, Midia, what
you are doing!… O, God, what is there
for us to talk about?
MIDIA:
I loved his laughter:
he laughs no longer… While once it seemed
to me that this tall, happy, quick-witted man
must be some kind of artist, a wondrous
genius, concealing his visions for the sake
of my jealous love,—and in not knowing
there lay for me a blissful thrill… Now I
have understood that he is dull and empty,
that my dream does not live in him,
that his light has gone out, he has fallen
out of love with me…
EDMIN:
You mustn’t bewail
things so… Who could fall out of love with you?
You are so… well, enough—come on, smile!
Your smile is the movement of an angel…
I beg you!… Today, even your fingers are
motionless… They too do not smile… Ah, there!…
MIDIA:
Has it been long?
EDMIN:
Has what been long, Midia?
MIDIA:
Well. That’s interesting… I’ve never seen you
like this. No, in fact, I did once ask you
what the point was of your standing guard
in the street…
EDMIN:
I remember, remember
only the curtain in your tormenting window!
You swam past in the embraces of another…
In the snowstorm I cried…
MIDIA:
How funny you are…
All dishevelled… Let me smooth your hair!
There. Now do my fingers laugh? Leave me…
oh, leave me… don’t…
EDMIN:
My happiness… allow me to…
just your lips… just touch… like touching fluff,
the wingbeat of a butterfly… allow me… happiness…
MIDIA:
But no… wait… we’re by the window… the gardener…
MIDIA:
My little one… don’t breathe like that… Wait,
show me your eyes. Like that, closer… closer…
My soul would do nothing but bask and swim
in their soft darkness… Wait… more quietly…
later… There now! My hair comb’s slipped…
EDMIN:
My life,
my love…
MIDIA:
You are so little… So, so
little… You are a silly little boy…
What, did you not think I could kiss that way?
Wait, you will have time yet, for you and I
will leave for some enormous, noisy city
and will dine on the rooftop… You know,
below us, in the dark, will be the whole city,
all in lights; coolness, night… The rosy
reflection of a glass on the tablecloth… And
a frenzied fiddler, now all hunched up, now
raising his fiddle to the heavens! Will you
take me away? Will you? Ah… shuffling…
let me go… it’s him… move away…
[MISTER MORN enters, in a dark robe, dishevelled.]
MORN:
Night? Day? I do not notice the shift.
Morning is a continuation of sleeplessness.
My temples ache. As though someone has pressed,
screwed into my head a cast-iron cube.
Today I shall take coffee without milk…
[Pause.]
Again, the newspapers are scattered all over
the place! Why… you are cheerless, Edmin!…
How astonishing: I need only enter
and immediately there are long faces—
like shadows in the evening sun… Strange…
MIDIA:
It is a foul spring…
MORN:
I am to blame.
MIDIA:
… And the news is dreadful…
MORN:
And I am to blame
for that too, is that not so?
MIDIA:
The city burns.
Everything has gone mad. I don’t know
how it will end… Yet they say the King’s
not dead, but is walled up underground
by the rebels…
MORN:
Eh, Midia, that will do!
You know, I will forbid the newspapers
to be brought. I have no peace from these
conjectures; rumours, news of bloodshed
and idle gossip. I’ve had enough! Trust me,
Midia, you need not try to be clever
in front of me… Be bored, anguished, change
your hairstyle, your dresses, lengthen your eyes
with a blue line, look in the mirror—but don’t
try to be clever… What’s wrong with you, Edmin?
EDMIN [rises from the table]:
I can’t…
MORN:
What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with him?
Where are you going? It’s damp on the terrace…
MIDIA:
Leave him. I shall tell you everything. Listen,
I too can take no more. I am in love
with him. I am leaving with him. You will
get used to it. Really, you don’t need me.
We would torment each other. Life calls…
I need happiness…
MORN:
I understand—where
is the sugar bowl?… Ah, here it is.
Under the napkin.
MIDIA:
So then, you do not wish
to listen? …
MORN:
No, on the contrary—
I am listening… grasping, comprehending,
what more can I do? Do you wish to leave
today?
MIDIA:
Yes.
MORN:
I think it’s about time
you started packing.
MIDIA:
Yes. Don’t hurry me.
MORN:
According to the rules of separation,
you must still throw over your shoulder the phrase:
“I curse the day…”
MIDIA:
You never loved… You never
loved!… Yes, I have the right to curse
that faithless day, when your laugh entered
my quiet house… Why did you…
MORN:
By the way,
tell me, Midia, did you write to your husband
from here?
MIDIA:
I… I thought—it was not worth
reporting… Yes, I wrote to my husband.
MORN:
What exactly? Look me in the eyes.
MIDIA:
Nothing,
really… That I ask forgiveness, that you are
here with me, that I won’t go back to him…
that it rains here…
MORN:
And you sent your address?
MIDIA:
Yes, I think… Asked him to send my fan…
I forgot it there, at home…
MORN:
And when
did you send it?
MIDIA:
About two weeks ago.
MORN:
Wonderful…
MIDIA:
I’ll go… I need to… my things…
[Leaves to the right. MORN is alone. Through the glass door, on the terrace, the motionless back of EDMIN can be seen.]
MORN:
Wonderful… Ganus, having received the letter,
will remind me of my debt. He’ll force his way
out of the haze of the maddened city, out
of the mangled fairy tale, here, to the grey
south, into my hollow, humdrum existence.
Not long to wait. He must be on his way.
We shall meet once more, and, handing me
the pistol, he, clenched and pale, will demand
that I should kill myself, and I shall, perhaps,
be ready: death ripens in solitude…
I am
amazed… Life has forsaken me so abruptly.
But I mustn’t think of my homeland,—
or I’ll end up rushing around a dungeon
with padded mattresses instead of walls and
with the number of madness above the door…
I don’t believe it… How else to live? Edmin!
Come here!… Edmin, do you hear? Your hand,
give me your hand… My faithful friend, thank you.
EDMIN:
What can I say? Not blood but a cold shame
flows through my veins. I feel that you must now
look into my eyes as one looks at those
dirty pictures, that for a tuppence you can
gawp at through a peep-hole… My heart is full
of shame…
MORN:
No, it’s nothing… I am only astonished…
Death is an astonishment. In life, too,
we are sometimes astonished: the ocean, the colour
of a cloud, the twist of fate… It is
as though I am standing on my head. I see
everything the way, they say, that babies see it:
the candle flame, tip pointing downwards…
EDMIN:
My sovereign, what can I say to you? You
betrayed a kingdom for a woman, I
betrayed a friendship for a woman—the very
same one… Forgive me. I am only human,
my sovereign…
MORN:
And I, I am Mister Morn—
that is all; an empty space, an unstressed
syllable in a poem without rhyme.