Vladimir Nabokov - The Tragedy of Mister Morn

[ Pause. A SERVANT enters .]

MORN:

The table needs

to be cleared. Hurry up… Is the carriage

ordered?

SERVANT:

Yes, sir.

MORN:

Tomorrow morning,

have the barber come from the town—

the moustached, silent one. That is all.

[ The SERVANT leaves. Pause . MORN looks out of the window .]

MORN:

The sky

is murky. The flowers tremble in the garden…

The artificial grotto blackens: the rain

stretches out in strings against the black…

Only one thing is left now: to await

Ganus. My soul is almost ready. How

the wet greenery shines… The rain quivers

as though in senile drowsiness… The house

meanwhile has awoken… The servants bustle…

The trunks clatter… And here she is…

[ Enter MIDIA with an open suitcase .]

MORN:

Midia,

are you happy?

MIDIA:

Yes. Move. I need

to pack these…

MORN:

A familiar suitcase:

I carried it once at dawn. The snow crunched.

And the three of us were hurrying.

MIDIA:

These things go in it—books, portraits…

MORN:

That’s fine… Midia, are you happy?

MIDIA:

There’s a train at midday exactly: I shall

fly away to a marvellous foreign city…

I wish I had some paper—this might break…

And whose is this? Yours? Mine? I don’t

recall, I don’t recall…

MORN:

Only don’t cry,

I beg you…

MIDIA:

Yes, yes… you are right.

It has passed… I won’t… I didn’t know

that you would let me go so easily,

so willingly… I jerked the door open…

I thought you held the handle tightly on

the other side… I jerked it open with all

my might,—you were not holding it, the door

opened easily, and I fell back… You

understand, I am falling… In my eyes

there is rippled darkness, and I think

I will perish—I cannot find a foothold!…

MORN:

Edmin is with you. He is happiness…

MIDIA:

I don’t

know anything!… Only it’s strange: we loved—

and it has all gone somewhere. We loved…

MORN:

These two engravings here are yours, aren’t they?

And this porcelain dog?

MIDIA:

… It’s strange…

MORN:

No, Midia.

In harmony there is nothing strange. And life

is a vast harmony. I’ve understood this.

But, you see—the moulded whimsy of a frieze

on a portico keeps us from recognizing,

sometimes, the symmetry of the whole…

You will leave; we’ll forget one another;

but now and then the name of a street,

or a street organ weeping in the twilight,

will remind us in a more vivid and more

truthful way than thought could resurrect

or words convey, of that main thing

which was between us, the main thing which

we do not know… And in that hour, the soul

will miraculously sense the charm

of past trifles, and we will understand

that in eternity all is eternal—

the genius’s thought and the neighbour’s

joke, the bewitched suffering of Tristan

and the most fleeting love… Let us part

without bitterness, Midia: some day, perhaps,

you will discover the unspoken reason

for my deep sorrow, my cold anguish…

MIDIA:

I dreamt, at the beginning, that beneath

the laughter you were hiding a secret… So,

there is a secret?

MORN:

Shall I reveal it to you?

Will you believe it?

MIDIA:

I shall.

MORN:

So listen then:

when we saw one another in the city,

I was—how shall I say?—an enchanter,

a hypnotist… I read thoughts… I

predicted fate, twirling my crystal;

beneath my fingers the oak table rocked

like the deck of a ship, and the dead sighed,

spoke through my larynx, and the kings

of bygone ages inhabited me…

Now I have lost my gift…

MIDIA:

And that is all?

MORN:

That is all. Are you taking these music scores

with you? Let me squeeze them in—no,

they don’t fit. And this book? Hurry, Midia,

there is less than an hour till the train…

MIDIA:

Well…

I am ready…

MORN:

Here they come with your trunk.

One more. Coffins…

[ Pause .]

Well then, farewell, Midia,

be happy…

MIDIA:

I keep thinking I have forgotten

something… Tell me—were you joking about

the spinning tables?

MORN:

I don’t remember… I don’t

remember… it doesn’t matter… Farewell. Go.

He is waiting for you. Don’t cry.

[ They both go out onto the terrace .]

MIDIA:

Forgive me…

We loved—and it has all gone, somewhere…

We loved—and now our love is frozen,

and now it lies, one wing spread out, raising

its little feet—a dead sparrow on the damp

gravel… But we loved… we flew…

MORN:

Look,

the sun is coming out… Watch your step—

it’s slippery here, be careful… Farewell…

farewell… Remember… Remember only

the shimmer on the tree trunk, the rain, the sun…

only that…

[ Pause . MORN is on the terrace alone. We see him slowly turn his face from left to right, as he follows with his gaze those departing. Then he returns to the drawing room .]

MORN:

Well. It is over…

[ He wipes his head with a handkerchief .]

The flying rain has settled in my hair.

[ Pause .]

I fell in love with her at the very moment,

when, at a street corner, her hat flashed past,

the wet wing of a carriage—and disappeared

into an avenue of cypresses… Now I’m

alone. The end. And so, having deceived

destiny, thrown my crown to the Devil

for his sport, and yielded my belovèd

to a friend…

[ Pause .]

How quietly she went down

those steps, putting the same foot forward

every time—like a child… Be still,

my heart! A hot, hot shriek, a howl,

rises, grows in my chest… No! No!

There is a way: to stare at the mirror,

to hold back the sobs that turn my face

into a toad’s… Oh! I cannot…

In an empty house and eye to eye

with the cold angel of my sleepless conscience…

How do I live? What do I do? My God…

[ Cries .]

Well… well… I feel better. That was Morn

crying; the King is absolutely calm.

I feel better… Those tears removed the speck

caught in my eye—the point of pain. I will

not wait for Ganus, after all… My soul

is growing, my soul gains in strength—preparing

for death is like preparing for a holiday…

But let the preparations go on in secret.

Soon it will be day—I will not wait

for Ganus after all—day will break,

and lightly I will kill myself. One cannot

summon death with a strained thought; death

shall come itself, and I will pull the trigger

as if by accident… Yes, I feel better—

perhaps it is the sun, shining through

the slanted rain… or tenderness—younger

sister of death—that mute, radiant tenderness

that rises up when a woman leaves forever…

She’s forgotten to push in these drawers…

[ walks around, tidying things ]

…The books have fallen over on their sides,

as thoughts do, when sadness pulls one out

and carries it off: the one about God…

The piano is open on a barcarole:

she loved elegant sounds… The little table,

like a meadow mowed: here there was