The Tragedy of Mister Morn (11 page)

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.

TREMENS:

Leave him,—it’s good for him. He’ll learn.

DANDILIO:

Yes,

all grain is grist for the mill of the soul, you’re right …

TREMENS:

I meant something else. Ah, the steps

of my infatuated Ella! I know,

I know where she has been …

[
ELLA
enters
.]

ELLA:

Dandilio!

DANDILIO:

What is it, my dear, what, my lightness? …

ELLA:

Only

splinters remain … splinters! He … Klian …

O, God … Don’t touch me! Leave me … I am sticky …

I am drenched in cold pain. Lies! Lies!

Surely this cannot be what they call bliss.

It’s death, not bliss! My soul has been brushed

by the coffin lid … pinched … it hurts …

TREMENS:

That is my blood. Let her cry.

DANDILIO:

There …

there … Let me brush away that lock …

You have pearls and roses on your cheeks,

a shimmer, your hair is dewy from the snow …

You’re being silly. All is well. While playing,

a child scratches itself—and cries. Life,

its skirts flying up and rustling, will run

through all the rooms, like a young mother,

fall down upon her knees before the child,

and, laughing, will kiss the scratch away …

CURTAIN

Scene I

A huge study. A starry night can be seen through the tall windows, but the stage is in darkness. Two figures
[
MORN
and
EDMIN
]
entercautiously
.

MORN:

And so, it’s over. I’ll spend the night at Caesar’s! …

And so, it’s over, dear friend … For the last time,

like two regicides, have we stolen after midnight by the secret passages, into my palace … Light

a candle. The wax will drip—stand it straighter.

One more … there. Better than a sober lamp!

Now listen. I foresaw the possibility

of death. Here, in this table, in its oak

and malachite depths, sleep my papers—

contracts, plans, the drafts of laws … and

dried flowers … I hand the keys to you.

I also hand over this will, in which it states

that in a fit of sweet and blinding visions,

I decided to yield to death. Let my crown,

—like a taut ball kicked aside,—be caught,

and clasped in the arms of my young nephew;

let the grey-haired owls—the senators, in whose

charge he is—noiselessly govern my country,

whilst on the throne sits but a little boy,

dangling his legs … But the people must not

know. Let my carriage, with its blue lacquer

and coat-of-arms gleaming, rush as before

along the square and over the bridge. I will

become a ghost. And when my heir grows up,

I want him to reveal how it was I died:

he will begin the fairy tale with a fairy tale.

My mantle, embroidered with flames, may fit

him perfectly … You, Edmin, my confidant,

my subtlest counsellor, soften the edges of power

with your light subtlety, encircle its movements

with your serenity … You understand?

EDMIN:

I’ll do it all …

MORN:

One thing more: today,

in a meditative hour, I wrote a childish,

but to me necessary, edict—that anyone

who is successful in escaping exile

will be pardoned for his courage …

EDMIN:

I’ll do it all.

And if you would only hint, with one

movement of your eyelids, that I should

accompany you into unknown eternity …

MORN:

… Light these candles too. Let the mirrors

be filled with visions, with winds … I shall return

shortly. I am going to the chamber where

for four years now my fiery crown has burned

and breathed in its velvet nest; let it squeeze

my head with its diamond pain, let it roll

off my head when I fall backwards …

EDMIN:

My sovereign,

my precious friend …

MORN:

… Not a shot, no, not

a shot! A musical explosion! As though

for a moment a door opens to the heavens …

While here—how the strings will prolong

the sound! What a fairy tale shall I leave

to the people! … You know, in the dark I hit

my knee upon the chair. It hurts.

[
Leaves
.]

EDMIN
[
alone
]:

O, I am like wax! … The chronicles will not

forget this weakness of mine … I am to blame …

Why do I not rush to save him? … Rise up,

rise up, my soul! No, heavy drowsiness …

I could with prayers, persuasions—I know

that such exist—stop him … why not, then?

As a man in his dreams cannot move his arm—

so I have not the strength even to contemplate

what is about to happen … This is—retribution! …

When once, in childhood, I was forbidden to go

to the apiary, I for a moment held

in my mind the thought of my mother’s death, and how,

unsupervised, I would eat the clear honey,—

though I loved my mother to tears, with trembling

heart … This is—retribution. Now, once more

I’m stuck to the sweet honeycombs. One thing

alone I see, one thing burns in the twilight:

come morning I will bear news of his infidelity!

Like some criminal, befogged by wine, I’ll enter,

I’ll speak, Midia will cry … and not hearing

my own words, and trembling, and with tender,

hypocritical consolation, touching her

imperceptibly, I will lie to her, so as

to take the place of someone else. Yes,

lie, tell her—about what?—the supposed

unfaithfulness of him, before whom we two—

are dust! If he had lived I would have kept

silent till the end … But now my god will leave …

I’ll be alone, weak and greedy … Death is better!

O, if only he would order me to die!

Burn, weak-willed wax … Breathe, mirrors,

with a funereal flame …

[
He lights the candles. There are many of them
.
MORN
re-enters
.]

MORN:

Here’s the crown.

My crown. Droplets of waterfalls on spikes …

Edmin, it’s time. Tomorrow you shall call

the senate together … announce … secretly …

Farewell then … it’s time … Before my eyes

pillars of fire surge past … Yes, listen—

one last thing … go to Midia, tell her

that Morn is the King … no, not the King,

not that. You’ll say: Morn is dead … wait …

no … say: he’s left … no, I don’t know!

It’s better you make something up,—but

it shouldn’t be about the King … And say it

very quietly, and very softly, as is your way.

Why are you crying like that? Don’t … Get up

off your knees, get up … your shoulder blades

are shaking like a woman’s … Don’t cry, dear friend …

Go … into the other room: when you hear

the gunshot—come back in … Enough, I die

merrily … Farewell … Go … wait! Do you

remember how once we stole in darkness

from the palace, and a sentry fired at me,

and shot through my collar? … How we laughed

then … Edmin? He’s gone … I am alone,

and all around are flaming candles, mirrors,

and a frosty night … Brightness and terror …

I am alone with my conscience. So, here’s

the pistol … an antique … six rounds … I need

but one … Hey, who is there above the rooftops?

You, God? Forgive me, then, what people

will not forgive! What’s better—standing or sitting?

Sitting is better. Quick. Just don’t think! …

Snap—the cartridge, in! The muzzle to the chest.

Below the rib. Here’s the heart. Like so.

Now the safety catch … goosebumps on my chest.