The Tragedy of Mister Morn

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by Vladimir Nabokov


  creaking now with the urgent longing of toads

  on ponds, now with the convulsion of oily leaves…

  Had I not been King, I would have been a poet

  with a lyre hot in this night, saturated

  in blueness, in this vivid night, which quivers

  along its length under a swarm of stars,

  like the sensitive back of black Pegasus…

  But we shall not—shall we?—talk of death,

  —but with a bright conversation about

  the kingdom, about power, and about

  my happiness, you shall refresh my soul,

  chase from the light the long, soft butterflies—

  and gulp of wine will follow gulp, so that

  the words of the soul may sound more sweetly

  and sincerely… I’m happy.

  LADY:

  Sovereign, will there

  be dancing?…

  MORN:

  Dancing? There is no room to, Ella.

  LADY:

  My name is not Ella…

  MORN:

  I am mistaken…

  so… I’ve remembered… I was saying there is

  no room to dance here. But in the palace,

  perhaps I will host a ball—an enormous one,

  by candlelight, yes, by candlelight,

  to the magnificent hum of an organ…

  LADY:

  The King… the King is laughing at me.

  MORN:

  I am happy!… And if I’m pale, it is from happiness!…

  The bandage… it is too tight… Edmin, tell…

  no, do it yourself… fix it… like that…

  good…

  GREY-HAIRED GUEST:

  Perhaps the King is tired? Perhaps

  the guests should…

  MORN:

  Oh, how alike he is!…

  Look, Edmin—how alike!… No, I am not tired.

  Have you been away from the city long?

  GREY-HAIRED GUEST:

  My sovereign, I was driven out by a storm:

  the mob, having shied away from you,

  accidentally pushed into me, almost crushing

  my soul. I fled. Since then I have thought

  and wandered. Now I will return, blessing

  my sorrowful exile for the sweetness of return…

  But in wine there are bees’ wings; and in joy,

  for me, there is a grief translucent: my old

  house, where since childhood I have lived,

  my house is burned…

  EDMIN:

  But the nation has been saved!

  GREY-HAIRED GUEST:

  How can I explain? A nation is a bodiless divinity,

  whilst our favourite corner of our homeland—

  that is the visible image of the bodiless.

  We only know God by his parted beard;

  we recognize our nation by the traits

  of our dear home. No one can take God

  or our homeland from us. But it’s still sad

  to lose the warm little image. My house

  has perished. I weep.

  MORN:

  I swear, I will build

  that very same house in the very same spot

  for you. And not an architect, but your love

  will check the blueprints; your memories, not carpenters,

  will aid me; not painters, but the alert eyes

  of your childhood: in childhood we see the souls

  of colours…

  GREY-HAIRED GUEST:

  Sovereign, I thank you: I know

  that you are a magician, I’m happy that

  you’ve understood me, but I do not need

  a home…

  MORN:

  I made a vow… What’s in a vow?

  The babble of pride. And when you look, death

  is always there. What’s in a vow? Even

  the star deceives the stargazer, by sometimes

  not returning at the expected time.

  Wait… Tell me… did you know that old man—

  Dandilio?

  GREY-HAIRED GUEST:

  Dandilio? No, sovereign, I don’t recall…

  SECOND VISITOR [quietly]:

  Look at the King, he’s displeased with something…

  THIRD VISITOR [quietly]:

  As though a shadow—the shadow of a bird—

  flew across his bright, pale face… Who’s that?

  [There is movement to the left, by the door.]

  VOICE:

  Excuse me… What is your name? You cannot

  come in here!

  FOREIGNER:

  I am a Foreigner…

  VOICE:

  Wait!

  FOREIGNER:

  No… I shall come in… I’m just… I’m nothing.

  I’m simply asleep…

  VOICE:

  He’s drunk, don’t let him in!…

  MORN:

  Ah, a new guest! Come in, come in, quickly!

  I am so happy that I’d welcome with a smile

  even an angel mournfully dragging himself

  beneath the funereal hump of his folded wings;

  or a beggar with some brilliant trick;

  or an executioner with his tidy frock-coat

  tightly fastened… Well then, my dear guest,

  approach!

  FOREIGNER:

  They say you are the King?

  EDMIN:

  How dare you!…

  MORN:

  Leave him. He’s foreign. Yes, I am the King…

  FOREIGNER:

  So, then… I’m pleased: I dreamt you up well…

  MORN:

  Keep silent, Edmin—it’s amusing. Have you

  come from afar, my nebulous guest?

  FOREIGNER:

  From

  commonplace reality, from the dull real world…

  I am asleep… All this is a dream… the dream

  of a drunken poet… A recurring dream…

  I dreamt of you once: some ball… some city…

  frosty and merry… Only you had a different

  name…

  MORN:

  Morn?

  FOREIGNER:

  Morn. That’s it…

  An elaborate dream… But you know,

  I was glad to wake up… I remember something

  wasn’t right there. But what I don’t recall…

  MORN:

  Does everyone in your country speak so…

  dreamily?

  FOREIGNER:

  Oh, no! In our country all is not well,

  not well… When I wake up, I will tell them

  what a magnificent king I dreamt of…

  MORN:

  Curious fellow!

  FOREIGNER:

  But what makes me uneasy?

  I don’t know… Just like last time… I’m frightened…

  My bedroom must be stuffy. Something fills me

  with fear… an illusion… I’ll try to wake up…

  MORN:

  Wait!… Where did my ghost slip off to?… Wait,

  come back…

  VOICE [from the left]:

  Hold him!

  SECOND VOICE:

  I can’t see him…

  THIRD VOICE:

  Night…

  EDMIN:

  My sovereign, how can you bear to listen to that?

  MORN:

  Past kings had fools: they spoke the truth darkly,

  cunningly—and the kings loved their fools…

  While I have this spurious somnambulist…

  Why have you grown quiet, dear guests?

  Drink to my happiness! And you, Edmin.

  Eh, brighten up! All drink! The heart of Bacchus

  is like cut glass: in it is blood and sunshine…

  GUESTS:

  Long live the King!

  MORN:

  The King… the King…

  Heavenly thunder rumbles in that earth
ly word.

  So! We’ve drunk! Now I will hearten my subjects:

  I intend to return tomorrow!

  EDMIN:

  Sovereign…

  GUESTS:

  Long live the King!

  EDMIN:

  … I beg you… the doctors…

  MORN:

  Enough! I said—tomorrow! Go back, back—

  in a flying coffin! Yes, in a steel coffin,

  on fabricated wings! And what is more:

  you said “fairy tale”… It makes me laugh…

  and God laughs with me! The stupefied mob

  does not know that the knight’s body is dark

  and sweaty, locked in its fairy-tale armour…

  VOICE [quietly]:

  What is it that the King is saying? …

  MORN:

  … they do not know that the poor Eastern bride

  is barely alive beneath her tasselled weight,

  but across the sea the wandering troubadours

  will sing of a fairy-tale love, will tell lies

  to the ages, their fingers barely touching

  the sheep sinews—and dirt becomes a dream!

  [Drinks.]

  VOICE:

  What is the King saying?

  SECOND VOICE:

  He’s inebriated!…

  THIRD VOICE:

  His eyes shine with madness!…

  MORN:

  Edmin, pour me

  some more…

  LADY [to the gentleman]:

  Let’s go. I am frightened…

  […]*

  [KING]:

  A dream once interrupted cannot be resumed,

  and the kingdom which sailed before me in a dream

  is suddenly revealed as merely standing

  on the earth. Reality has suddenly intruded.

  That, which is flesh and blood, once seemed to glide

  like translucent ether; now, suddenly,

  stomping like a rough giant, it has entered

  into my solid but fragile dream. I see

  around me the ruins of towers which soared up

  to the clouds. Yes, a dream is always

  an illusion, all is a lie, a lie.

  EDMIN:

  She lied

  to me too, my sovereign.

  KING:

  Who lied, Edmin?

  [suddenly remembers]

  Oh, you talk of her?… No, my kingdom

  was an illusion… The dream was a lie.

  […]*

  [MORN]:[3]

  Edmin, give it to me!… What else should I do?

  Fall to my knees? Would you like that? Ah, Edmin,

  I must die! I am guilty, not before Ganus,

  but before God, before you, before myself,

  before my people! I was a bad king:

  unseen, without courtiers, I ruled by deception…

  All my power lay in my mysteriousness…

  The wisdom of my laws? The creativity

  and joy of power? The love of the people?

  Yes. But empty and deceiving, like the pale jester

  in his moon-like smock, was the soul of the ruler!

  I appeared now in a mask upon the throne,

  now in the drawing room of a vain lover…

  Deception! And my flight was the lie, the trick—

  do you hear?—of a coward! And this glory

  is but the kiss of a blind man… Am I

  really a king? A king who killed a girl?

  No, no, enough, I will fall—to death—

  to fiery death! I am but a torch,

  thrown into a well, flaming, whirling, flying,

  flying downwards to meet its reflection,

  that grows in the darkness like the dawn…

  I beg you! I beg you! Give me my black pistol!

  You do not speak?

  [Pause.]

  Well then, don’t… There are

  other deaths in this world: precipices

  and maelstroms, poisons and blades, and the knot.

  No! You can no more stop a sinner killing

  himself, than a genius from being born!

  [Pause.]

  But then, I am demeaning myself in vain

  by these requests… A complicated game

  with such a simple denouement is boring.

  [Pause.]

  Edmin, I am your king. Give it to me.

  You understand?

  [EDMIN, without looking, extends the pistol to him.]

  MORN:

  Thank you. I will go out

  onto the terrace. Only the stars will see me.

  I am happy and lucid; I could not speak

  more truthfully… Edmin, I’ll lightly kiss

  your light brow… Silence, silence… Your

  silence is sweeter than any known songs.

  So. Thank you.

  [walks towards the glass door]

  The blue night takes me away!

  [He goes out onto the terrace. His figure, illuminated by the night rays, can be seen through the glass door.]

  EDMIN:

  …No one must see how

  my King presents to the heavens,

  the death of Mister Morn.

  CURTAIN

  Further Reading

  The Tragedy of Mister Morn was first published in 1997 in Zvezda, a Russian literary journal, as “Tragediia Gospodina Morna” (“The Tragedy of Mister Morn”), edited by Serena Vitale and Ellendea Proffer and with an introduction by Vadim Stark (Zvezda, no. 4 [1997], pp. 6–98). This translation is based on the play as it subsequently appeared in book form: Tragediia Gospodina Morna (St. Petersburg: Azbuka Press, 2008), edited by Andrei Babikov and containing the Russian text of Nabokov’s other plays.

  Many if not all of Nabokov’s other writings cast light on Morn. Of especial interest, however, are the early Russian writings, included in the volumes of his collected works in Russian: Sobranie sochinenii russkogo perioda v piati tomakh (Collected Works of the Russian Period in Five Volumes), with various editors and an introduction to each volume by Alexander Dolinin (St. Petersburg: Symposium, 1999–2000). For readers without Russian, many of Nabokov’s other early plays are translated by Dmitri Nabokov in The Man from the USSR & Other Plays (San Diego: Bruccoli Clark/Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1985), which also contains his important essay on drama, “The Tragedy of Tragedy.” Early poems which offer comparisons with Morn are translated in Nabokov, Selected Poems, edited by Thomas Karshan (New York: Knopf, 2012). Early short stories, many of which bear on Morn, are translated in The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov (New York: Knopf, 1995). This last volume contains two short stories, “Ultima Thule” and “Solus Rex,” which Nabokov wrote in 1939–40 and which are the only surviving remnants of a novel that would clearly have re-developed the themes of Morn. Traces of that project are also to be found in Nabokov’s novel Bend Sinister, and still more so in the Pale Fire, the work in which Nabokov most directly re-addressed the images, themes, and ideas of Morn.

  The definitive biography of Nabokov is the two-volume work by Brian Boyd, whose first volume deals with the period in which Nabokov was writing Morn and contains a critical analysis of the play: Vladimir Nabokov: The Russian Years (London: Chatto & Windus, 1990). Critical analysis is also offered, for those who read Russian, in Andrei Babikov and Vadim Stark’s introductions to their respective editions of Morn. Apart from these, there has been little critical analysis of Morn to date. Exceptions are: Gennady Barabtarlo, “Nabokov’s Trinity: On the Movement of Nabokov’s Themes,” in Nabokov and His Fiction: New Perspectives, edited by Julian Connolly (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 109–38; Siggy Frank, “Exile in Theatre/Theatre in Exile: Nabokov’s Early Plays, Tragediia Gospodina Morna and Chelovek iz SSSR,” in the Slavonic and East European Review, vol., no. (October 2007), pp. 629–57; A. Iu. Meshchanskii, “‘Tragediia Gospodina Morna’ kak predtecha russkoiazychnoi prozy V. V. Nabokova,” in Voprosy filologii, no. 11 (2002), pp. 100–108; an
d R. V. Novikov, “‘Tragediia Gospodina Morna’ V. Nabokova: k poetike ‘p’esy-snovideniia,’” in Maloizvestnye stranitsy i novye kontseptsii istorii russkoi literatury XX v.: Materialy mezhdunarodnoi nauchnoi konferentsii, Moskva, edited by L. F. Alekseeva and V. A. Skripkina (Moscow: Moscow State Open University, 2003), pp. 181–87.

  Much has been written about Nabokov more generally. Excellent starting points are The Cambridge Companion to Nabokov, edited by Julian Connolly (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005) and the encyclopaedic Garland Companion to Vladimir Nabokov, edited by Vladimir Alexandrov (New York: Routledge, 1995). Other recent critical studies include: Vladimir Alexandrov, Nabokov’s Otherworld (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1991); Julian Connolly, Nabokov’s Early Fiction: Patterns of Self and Other (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992); Leland de la Durantaye, Style Is Matter: The Moral Art of Vladimir Nabokov (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2007); Alexander Dolinin, Istinnaia zhizn’ pisatelia Sirina (St. Petersburg: Academic Project, 2004); Thomas Karshan, Vladimir Nabokov and the Art of Play (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011); Leona Toker, Nabokov: The Mystery of Literary Structures (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1989); and Michael Wood, The Magician’s Doubts: Nabokov and the Risks of Fiction (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995).

  A Note About the Author and the Translators

  VLADIMIR NABOKOV studied French and Russian literature at Trinity College, Cambridge, then lived in Berlin and Paris, writing prolifically in Russian under the pseudonym Sirin. In 1940, he left France for America, where he wrote some of his greatest works—Bend Sinister (1947), Lolita (1955), Pnin (1957), and Pale Fire (1962)—and translated his earlier Russian novels into English. He taught at Wellesley, Harvard, and Cornell. He died in Montreux, Switzerland, in 1977.

  THOMAS KARSHAN is the author of Vladimir Nabokov and the Art of Play and editor of Nabokov’s Selected Poems. Previously a research fellow at Christ Church, Oxford, and Queen Mary, University of London, he is now a lecturer in literature at the University of East Anglia.

  ANASTASIA TOLSTOY is a Ph.D. candidate at the University of Oxford, where she is writing a thesis on Nabokov. She is the great-great-great-granddaughter of Leo Tolstoy.

  Other titles by Vladimir Nabokov available in eBook format

  Ada, or Ardor • 978-0-307-78801-6

  The Annotated Lolita • 978-0-307-78808-5

  Bend Sinister • 978-0-307-78788-0

  Despair • 978-0-307-78766-8

  The Enchanter • 978-0-307-78730-9

  The Eye • 978-0-307-78756-9

  The Gift • 978-0-307-78777-4

  Glory • 978-0-307-78757-6

 

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