Vladimir Nabokov - The Tragedy of Mister Morn

[MORN]:

[…]* [2]

Those killed by a bullet to the heart ought not

to be beaten by gossip’s petty pellets…

This evening will be blue, like three hundred

July days, condensed and thickened into darkness,

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 earthly 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?