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Thank you… My chill has been
replaced by a flowing warmth… How pleasing is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
ACT III.
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 rol
l
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.
The muzzle’s cold, like the lacquer tube
applied by a doctor: he breathes in, he listens…
and his bald pate and the tube rise up
in rhythm with my chest…
No, wait!
That is not how people shoot themselves…
This needs to be thought through… One. Two.
Three. Four. Five. Six. Six steps from the chair
to the window. The snow shines. How starry
is the sky! God, give me strength,
give me strength, I beg you—give me strength…
There sleeps my city, all in hoar-frost,
all in a blue shroud. O, my dear!… Farewell,
forgive me… I ruled for four years… created
an age of happiness, an age of harmony… God,
give me strength… Playfully, lightly I ruled;
I appeared in a black mask in the ringing hall,
before my cold, decrepit senators… masterfully
I revived them—and left again, laughing…
laughing… And sometimes, in patched-up clothes,
I sat in a tavern and grunted with the ruddy
drunken coachmen; a dog would wag its tail
under the table, and a girl would tug me
by the sleeve, though I looked like a pauper…
Four years passed, and now, in the radiant noon
of my life, I must abandon my kingdom, must
jump from the throne to death—O, God,—all
because I kissed a shallow woman and struck
a foolish adversary! I could have had him…
O conscience, conscience—the cold angel
at the back of thought: thought turns—there’s
no one there; but behind, it rises up again.
Enough! I must, must die! O, if only
it could not be so, not so, but in sight
of the world, in the hot storm of battle,
to the thunder of hooves, atop a sweaty steed,
so as to greet death with an immortal cry
and gallop headlong through the sky into
heaven’s yard, where the splash of water
can be heard, and a seraph scrubs the horse
of St. George! Yes, death would be rapture then!…
But here I am—alone… only candle flame—
a thousand-eyed spy—watches from under
the suspicious mirrors… But I must die!
There is no glory—there is eternity
and man… What’s this crown for? It digs
into my temples, damned thing! Off with it!
Like so… like so… roll across the dark carpet,
like a wheel of fire… Now quickly! Don’t think!
Plunge reason in icy water! One movement:
press the curved trigger… One movement…
How many times have I pressed door handles,
the buttons of doorbells… And now… And now…
I don’t know how! My finger on the trigger
is weaker than a worm… What’s a kingdom to me?
What’s valour? To live, only to live… O, God!
Edmin!
[approaches the door; calls out like a child]
Edmin!
[EDMIN enters. MORN stands with his back to him.]
I can’t…
[Pause.]
Why do you
stand there, why do you look at me? Or,
perhaps, you think that I’m a… Listen, here,
I’ll explain… Edmin, you understand… I l
ove her…
I love Midia! My kingdom and my soul
I am prepared to yield, if only not
to part from her! My friend, listen, do not
blame me… do not blame me…
EDMIN:
My sovereign, I’m happy…
You are my hero… I’m not even worthy…
MORN:
Really?
Really?… Well then… I’m pleased… Earthly love
is higher, stronger, than heavenly valour… Though you,
Edmin, don’t love… you cannot understand
that a man is capable of burning worlds
for a woman… So then—it is decided.
I’ll flee from here… there is no other way.
For in truth—I ruled without a care.
Such carelessness is power. That has gone.
Oh, how can I rule, when the Devil himself
has melted the crown on my poor head?
I’ll disappear… You understand, I’ll disappear,
I’ll quietly live out the rest of my strange life
to the secret tune of my royal memories.
Midia will be with me… Why do you keep silent?
Am I not right? Midia will die without me…
You know that.
EDMIN:
My sovereign, I ask but
one thing: an agonizing request, a crime
against my native land… though it be!
I beseech you: take me with you…
MORN:
O, how you love me, how you love, dear friend!…
I have not the power to refuse you… I am
a criminal myself. Listen, do you remember
how I came to power? I came out in a mask
and mantle on the golden balcony,—it was
windy, it smelled, for some reason, of the sea,
and the mantle kept slipping off, and from behind
you righted it… But, why do I… Quickly
time is running on… there is this will here…
How to change it?… What shall we do? How
to act? In it, I write that… Burn it! Burn it!
Thankfully the candles are lit. Quick! Meanwhile,
I’ll compose a different one… But how? My mind
is empty. I move my quill as if on water…
Edmin, I don’t know. Advise me—we must hurry,
to finish by sunrise… What’s wrong?
EDMIN:
Footsteps… They’re
coming here… Along the gallery…
MORN:
Quick!
Put out the lights! We’ll have to go through
the window—oh, hurry! I can’t meet with anyone…
Come what may… What shall I take? Yes,
the pistol… put them out… put them out… the
papers…
the diamonds… right. Fling it open! Hurry…
My trenchcoat has caught—wait. Ready! Jump!…
[They leave. Darkness onstage. An OLD MAN in livery, stooping, comes in with a candle in his hand.]
The Tragedy of Mister Morn Page 7
