Read Online The Tragedy of Mister Morn by Vladimir Nabokov, Thomas Karshan, Anastasia Tolstoy - Free Book Online Page A
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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
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
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