Vladimir Nabokov - The Tragedy of Mister Morn

He is dead. Only his cold bones remain.

Something is crucified on them—rags, a soul…

Oh, I really don’t know why I keep

these paintings. Leave them, you mustn’t

look at them!

GANUS:

Ah! A knock at the door! No,

it’s someone with a tray. Tremens, Tremens,

do not laugh at me!…

TREMENS [ to the SERVANT]:

Put it here.

Here, drink this, Ganus.

GANUS:

I don’t want it.

TREMENS:

As you wish. My dear sirs, I pray do not

refuse.

MORN:

Thank you. But tell us, Tremens, when

was it that you stopped painting?

TREMENS:

When I became

a widower.

MORN:

And are you now not tempted

to put your thumb through the palette once more?

TREMENS:

Listen, we’ve gathered to decide on death,—

a question of high importance; this is no place

for small talk. Let us talk of death. You laugh?

So much the better; but let us talk of death.

What is the ecstasy of death? It is a pain,

like lightning. The soul is like a tooth, God

wrenches out the soul—crunch!—and it is over…

What comes next? Unthinkable nausea and then—

the void, spirals of madness—and the feeling of being

a swirling spermatozoid—and then darkness,

darkness—the velvety abyss of the grave,

and in that abyss…

EDMIN:

Enough! This is worse

than talking about a bad painting! Here.

Finally.

[ The SERVANT shows in DANDILIO.]

DANDILIO:

Good evening! Ooph, how hot it is

in here! It’s been a while, Tremens, since

we’ve seen each other—you live like a hermit.

I was astounded by your invitation:

but the wise man, they say, invites the moth.

For Ella—here—a box of glossy sugar plums—

she loves them. Greetings, Morn! Edmin,

you must be sleeping badly. You are as pale

as a lily of the valley… Ah—can it really

be Ganus? We once were well acquainted. It

is a secret, is it not, that you have returned

to us? When last night you and I… how did

I know? Well, by the brand, by the blue number—

here—above your wrist: you wrung your hands

and the number was revealed. I noticed it,

and, as I recall, I said that in Desdemona…

TREMENS:

Here, have some wine, biscuits. Soon Ella

will be back… You see, I live quietly,

but happily. Pour some for me. By the way,

there’s been a disagreement here: these

gentlemen here want to decide which

of them shall pay for a dinner… in honour

of some fashionable dancer. If you could

just…

DANDILIO:

Of course! I’ll pay with pleasure!

TREMENS:

No, no,

not that… clasp the handkerchief and let out

two ends—one with a knot.

MORN:

Which can’t be seen,

of course. Really, he’s a child—one must explain

everything! Do you recall, you carefree dandelion,

how one night I planted you atop a street lamp:

the light shone through your grey tufts,

and you were trying to pull a shaggy top hat

over the moon and smacked your lips so happily…

DANDILIO:

And after that, the top hat smelled of milk.

You prankster, I forgive you!

GANUS:

Hurry… We asked you…

This must be resolved…

DANDILIO:

Come, come, my friend—

patience… Here is my handkerchief. Not

a handkerchief but a multicoloured flag.

Forgive me. I’ll turn my back to you… Ready!

TREMENS:

He who pulls out the knot shall pay. Ganus,

pull.

GANUS:

No knot!

MORN:

You are lucky, as always…

GANUS:

I can’t… what have I done! I shouldn’t have…

TREMENS:

He clutches his head, mutters—but it’s not you—

he’s the one who’s lost.

DANDILIO:

Forgive me, what’s this…

I have made a mistake… There is no knot,

I didn’t tie one, look—what a miracle!

EDMIN:

Fate, fate, fate decided thus! Listen

to fate. That’s the outcome! I beseech

you—beseech you—to be reconciled!

All is well!

DANDILIO [ taking snuff ]:

And I shall pay for the dinner…

TREMENS:

The art connoisseur looks worried… Enough

jesting with fate: give me that handkerchief!

DANDILIO:

What do you mean—give it to you? I need it—

I sneeze,—it’s covered in tobacco, it’s damp;

and what is more—I have a cold.

TREMENS:

We’ll make it

simpler, then! Here, with cards…

GANUS [ mumbling ]:

I can’t.

TREMENS:

Quick, which suit?

MORN:

Well, I love the colour

red—life, and roses, and sunrises…

TREMENS:

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.