Vladimir Nabokov - The Tragedy of Mister Morn

the sleepless nights of exile…

FIRST REBEL:

He is mad!

He ordered that the flying machines be burned

so as to entertain the drunkards! But some

nameless heroes came along, and grabbed

the controls just in time…

FOURTH REBEL:

This order here,

that I am copying out, is terrifying

in its tigerish playfulness…

SECOND REBEL:

Quiet…

Here comes his son-in-law…

[KLIAN enters hurriedly .]

KLIAN:

Splendid news!

In the suburbs the merry crowd’s blown up

a school; satchels and rulers are scattered across

the square; about three hundred little mites

perished. Tremens is very pleased.

THIRD REBEL:

He’s…

pleased! Brothers, brothers, do you hear?

He’s pleased!… 30

KLIAN:

Well, then, I’ll inform the leader

that my news did not much please you…

Everything, I shall report everything!

SECOND REBEL:

We say

that Tremens is wiser than us: he knows his goal.

As it says in your last ode, he is a genius.

KLIAN:

Yes. He is worthy of entering the thunders

of my melodies. Nonetheless… the sun…

dazzles my eyes.

[ Looks out of the window .]

Ah—there’s that traitor,

Ganus! There, between the soldiers, standing

at the barriers: they’re laughing. They have

let him through. There he goes across

the melting snow.

FIRST REBEL [ watching ]:

How pale he is!

Our former friend is unrecognizable!

Everything about him—his gaze, his pursed lips—

reminds one of the saints in stained glass…

They say his wife has fled…

SECOND REBEL:

Was there a lover?

FIRST REBEL:

I don’t think so.

FOURTH REBEL:

Rumour has it that one day

he came to his wife, and on the table there was

a note, that come what may she had decided

to go, alone, back to her family… Klian,

what’s so funny about that?

KLIAN:

I shall report

everything! Here you are, spinning rumours,

like old women, whilst Tremens thinks that

you are working… There are fires out there,

they need to be fanned, whilst you… I’ll report

everything, everything…

[GANUS stops in the doorway .]

Ah! Noble Ganus…

Most welcome Ganus… We were waiting for you…

We’re glad to see you… Please…

FIRST REBEL:

Our Ganus…

SECOND REBEL:

Greetings, Ganus…

THIRD REBEL:

Do you not recognize us?

Your friends? Four years… together… in exile…

GANUS:

Away, you hirelings of a liar!… Where’s Tremens?

He summoned me.

KLIAN:

He’s interrogating.

He’ll be here soon…

GANUS:

Well, I don’t need him.

He invited me himself, and if… he’s not here…

KLIAN:

Wait, I’ll call him…

[ Goes towards the door .]

FIRST REBEL:

And we will go too…

Is that not so, brothers? Why stay here…

SECOND REBEL:

Yes,

so much to do…

THIRD REBEL:

Klian, we’re coming with you!

[ quietly ]

Brothers, I’m scared…

FOURTH REBEL:

I’ll finish copying later…

I’ll go…

THIRD REBEL:

Brother, brother, what are we doing…

[KLIAN and the REBELS leave . GANUS is alone .]

GANUS [ looks around in all directions ]:

… A hero lived here…

[ Pause .]

TREMENS [ enters ]:

Thank you for coming,

my Ganus! I know that you’ve been clouded

by the sorrows of life. You’ve scarcely noticed

that for a month—a month today exactly—

I have ruled over an intoxicated country.

I called for you, so you could tell me directly,

could explain… but first let a fortunate man

talk of his happiness! You know yourself—

better than anyone, Ganus—that I waited

for my day, in a delirium, in a chill…

My day has come—unexpectedly, like love!

Rumour spread like a flame that the country

had no king… When and how he disappeared,

who strangled him, on what night, and how long

a dead man ruled the land, nobody now knows.

But the people do not forgive deceit:

the burial vaults, the senate, were filled

with angry trampling. How splendidly,

how austerely, the old men died, and how

he screamed—O, sweeter than an ardent violin—

the little boy, their ward. The people took revenge

for the deception,—I seized the opportunity

to blaze up, and realized that I had waited so long

in vain: there was no king at all—only

a legend, potent and magical! Awakening,

the mob stormed in here, and nothing but echoes

resounded through the dead palace!…

GANUS:

You called

for me.

TREMENS:

You are right, let’s turn to business:

in you, Ganus, I divined a kindred fire;

to you alone I entrusted my thoughts.

But you were tormented by a woman;

now she is gone; I’m going to ask you,

Ganus, for the last time: will you help me?

GANUS:

You summoned me in vain…

TREMENS:

Think it over,

don’t rush, I will give you a little time…

[ Hurriedly KLIAN enters .]

KLIAN:

My leader, those people, the ones who recently

were singing in the streets, are being tortured…

There is no one to interrogate them…

Your assistants—how can I put it—are feeling

nauseous…

TREMENS:

All right, I’m coming, I’m coming… You,

my Klian, are a fine fellow!… I’ve long known…

By the way, one of these days I will

surprise you: I’ll order that you be hanged.

KLIAN:

Tremens… My leader…

TREMENS:

As for you, Ganus,

think it over, I ask you, think it over…

[TREMENS and KLIAN leave .]

GANUS [ alone ]:

A single thought torments me: here lived a hero…

these mirrors here are sacred: they looked on him…

He sat here, in this mighty chair. His footsteps

linger in the palace, like the step of a hexameter

dwindling in one’s memory… Where did he die?

Where did his shot ring out? Who heard it?

Perhaps it was out there, outside the city,

in a mournful oak forest, in the snows of night…

and his pale friend buried the hot corpse

in a drift of snow… Sin, inconceivable sin,

how can I expiate you? All of my blood

is grateful for the death of my rival and yet

all of my soul curses the death of the King…

We are duplicitous, we’re blind—and it is hard

to live, trusting only in life: earthly life

is a murky translation from the divine original;

the general thought is clear but the primordial

music is missing in its words… What are passions?

Mistakes in the translation. What is love?

A rhyme lost in transmission to our discordant

language… It’s time for me to take up the original!…

My dictionary? One simple little book with a cross

on its cover… I’ll seek out the stony arches, there,

where the respite of prayer and the full breath

of the soul will teach me the pronunciation

of life…

There in the doorway, Ella has stopped,

and does not see me, deep in thought,

fingering the fringes of her sluggish shawl… What

can I say to her? She needs warmth… Dear one…

She doesn’t see me…