Vladimir Nabokov - The Tragedy of Mister Morn

MIDIA:

Our city is beautiful…

[ She moves away .]

FOREIGNER:

I find

in it a ghostly resemblance to the distant

city of my birth—that likeness which exists

between truth and high fantasy…

SECOND GUEST:

It is,

believe me, the most beautiful of all cities.

[SERVANTS serve coffee and wine .]

FOREIGNER [ with a cup of coffee in his hand ]:

I am struck by its spaciousness, by its clean,

extraordinary air: in it music sounds

differently; houses, bridges, and stone arches,

all the architectural outlines in it,

are boundless, light, like the passage

from the happiest sigh to sublime silence…

I am also struck by the ever-cheerful gait

of passers-by; the absence of cripples;

the melodious sound of footsteps and of hooves;

the flight of sledges across white squares… And

they say the King alone has done all this…

SECOND GUEST:

Yes, the King alone. Gone are the times

of hardship, never to return. Our King—

a masked giant, in a fiery cloak—

took the throne by force, and that very year

the last wave of revolts died down.

A conspiracy was uncovered: its members

were swept aside—and, by the way,

Midia’s husband too, although one shouldn’t

mention it—and sent to distant mines,

from whence the law will never call them back;

I say the members, for the main rebel,

their nameless leader, was never found…

Since then, the country has been at peace.

Ugliness, boredom, blood—all have evaporated.

The pure sciences reach for lofty heights,

but, recognizing beauty in the past,

the King has protected poetry, the agitation

of bygone ages—horses, and sails, and live

ancient music—although alongside these,

there wander through the air transparent,

electrical birds…

DANDILIO:

In bygone days

flying machines were otherwise constructed:

sometimes they would flap upwards,

to the thunder of the glinting propeller,

to the explosion of petrol, emitting a smell

of tea into the empty sky… Forgive me,

but where is our interlocutor? …

SECOND GUEST:

I didn’t

notice how he disappeared…

MIDIA [ approaching ]:

And now

the dances will begin…

[ Enter ELLA, with GANUS behind .]

MIDIA:

And here’s Ella!…

FIRST GUEST [ to the SECOND GUEST]:

Who is that blackamoor? What a scarecrow!

SECOND GUEST:

And to think he’s wearing a frock-coat!…

MIDIA:

You are so luminous… so ethereal…

How is your father?

ELLA:

Still the same: fever.

Here, do you remember, I told you?—

our tragic hero… I begged him to keep

his make-up on… It is Othello…

MIDIA:

Very good!

Klian, come here… tell the violinists

to begin…

[ The GUESTS move through into the salon .]

MIDIA:

Why does Morn not come?

I do not understand… Dandilio!

DANDILIO:

But one must love even anticipation.

Anticipation is a flight into the dark.

Then all at once there’s light, a fall into

the happy light, but then the flight is over…

Ah, music! Please, allow me to offer you my arm.

[ELLA and KLIAN walk past .]

ELLA:

Is something bothering you?

KLIAN:

Who is your consort? Who is your black-faced

consort?

ELLA:

A harmless actor, Klian. Why,

are you jealous?

KLIAN:

No. No. No.

I know that you are faithful to me, my bride…

O, God! To enter you, oh, to enter,

would be like entering a tight and searing

sheath, to peer into your blood, to break

through your bones, to learn, to grasp, to touch,

to press your being in between my palms!…

Listen, come to me! It is a long time

until spring, until our wedding day!…

ELLA:

Don’t, Klian… you promised me…

KLIAN:

Oh, come to me! Let me break into you!

It is not I who beg, but my starved genius,

tormented by you, writhes in the ashes,

scrunching its wings, it begs… Oh, understand,

it is not I who beg, not I! See—

the muse wrings her hands… there is a wind

in the Olympian gardens… Pegasus’s eyes

are filled with blood and dawn… Ella, will you come?

ELLA:

Don’t ask, don’t ask. It scares me, it delights me…

You know, I am only a white bridge,

I am but a flimsy bridge over the torrent…

KLIAN:

Tomorrow then—at ten sharp—your father

goes to bed early. At ten. Yes?

[GUESTS walk past .]

FOREIGNER:

Who then

do you think is the happiest in this city?

DANDILIO [ taking snuff ]:

It’s me, of course… I have deduced happiness,

determined it, like a scientific theorem…

FIRST GUEST:

I want to make a correction. In our city

each and every one will answer: “It’s me,

of course!”

SECOND GUEST:

No. There is one unhappy man:

that dark conspirator, unknown to us,

the one who wasn’t caught. Somewhere he lives,

even now, and knows that he is guilty…

LADY:

That poor negro there is also unhappy.

He wanted to astonish everyone

with his frightening appearance, but nobody

has taken notice of him. Awkward Othello

sits in the corner, drinking gloomily…

FIRST GUEST:

… and looks out from under his brow.

DANDILIO:

And what

does Midia think?

SECOND GUEST:

Look, our stranger

has disappeared again! It is as though,

passing between us, he slipped behind the curtain…

MIDIA:

I think, happiest of them all is the King…

Ah, Morn!

[MISTER MORN enters, laughing, with EDMIN following .]

MORN [ as he walks ]:

Splendid, blissful people!…

VOICES:

Morn! Morn!

MORN:

Midia! Greetings, Midia,

radiant lady! Give me your hand, Klian,

you thunderous madman, you crimson soul!

Ah, Dandilio, you gay dandelion…

Music, music, I need heavenly music!…

VOICES:

Morn is here, Morn!

MORN:

Splendid, blissful

people! What snow, Midia… what snow!

As cold as the kiss of a ghost, as hot as tears

on your eyelashes… Music! Music! And who

is this? An ambassador from the East?

MIDIA:

An actor, a friend of Ella’s.

FIRST GUEST:

Before you came,

we were trying to decide who is the happiest

in our city; we thought—the King; but then

you entered: first place is yours, I think…

MORN:

What is happiness? The flutter of celestial wings.

What is happiness? A snowflake on one’s lip…

What is happiness? …

MIDIA [ quietly ]:

Listen, why did you

come so late? The guests will be leaving soon:

it looks like my belovèd deliberately

arrived for their departure…

MORN [ quietly ]:

My joy, forgive me:

work… I have been very busy…

VOICES:

Dancing!

Dancing!

MORN:

Ella, may I have this dance…

[ The GUESTS move into the salon. Only DANDILIO and GANUS remain .]

DANDILIO:

I see Othello is missing Desdemona.

Oh, the demon is in that name…

GANUS [ glancing in the direction of MORN]:

What a

passionate gentleman…

DANDILIO:

What can one do, Ganus…

GANUS:

What did you say?

DANDILIO:

I said, has it been long