The Tragedy of Mister Morn (5 page)

How nice …

ELLA:

Yes, I am very friendly with your wife.

Many a time in your dark drawing room

have we spoken of your bitter fate. In truth,

sometimes it was hard for me: for no one

knows that my father …

GANUS:

I understand …

ELLA:

Often,

in soundless splendour, she cried, as you know

Midia cries—silently and without blinking …

In the summer, we strolled in the city outskirts,

where you had strolled with her … Recently,

she told your fortune by looking at the moon

through a glass of wine … I’ll tell you more:

this very evening I’m going to a party

at her house—there will be dancing, poets …

[
points to
TREMENS
]

Look, he has dozed off …

GANUS:

A party—

but without me …

ELLA:

Without you?

GANUS:

I am

an outlaw: if they catch me, I’m done for …

Listen, I’ll write a note—you can give it

to her, and I’ll wait downstairs for an answer …

ELLA
[
twirling around
]:

I’ve got it! I’ve got it! How splendid!

You see, I study at a theatre school,

I have paints and pomades here in seven

different colours … I’ll smear your face in such

a way that God himself, on Judgement Day,

won’t recognize you! Well, do you want to?

GANUS:

Yes … It’s just that …

ELLA:

I’ll simply say

that you’re an actor, an acquaintance of mine,

and haven’t taken off your make-up—

because it was so good … Perfect! It’s not

up for discussion! Sit down here, closer

to the light. That’s good. You shall be Othello—

the curly-haired, old, dark-skinned Moor.

I’ll also give you my father’s frock-coat

and black gloves …

GANUS:

How amusing: Othello

in a frock-coat! …

ELLA:

Sit still.

TREMENS
[
grimacing, he wakes up
]:

Oh … I think

I fell asleep … Have you both lost your minds?

ELLA:

He cannot see his wife otherwise.

There will be guests there after all.

TREMENS:

Strange:

I dreamt that the King was being strangled

by a colossal negro …

ELLA:

I think our chance

remarks seeped into your dream, got mixed up

with your thoughts …

TREMENS:

Ganus, what do you suppose,

will it be long? … will it be long? …

GANUS:

What? …

ELLA:

Don’t move your lips, talk of the King can

wait a little …

TREMENS:

The King, the King, the King!

Everything is full of him: the people’s souls,

the air, and it is said that in the clouds

at sunrise, it is his coat-of-arms that shines,

and not the dawn. Meanwhile, no one knows

what he looks like. On coins he wears a mask.

They say, he walks amongst the crowds, sharp-sighted

and unrecognized, throughout the city,

in the market places.

ELLA:

I’ve seen him ride

to the senate, accompanied by horsemen.

The carriage gleams all over in blue lacquer.

On the door there is a crown, and in

the window the blind is lowered …

TREMENS:

… and, I think,

inside there’s no one. Our King walks

on foot … And the blue lustre and the black steeds

are for show. He is a fraud, our King!

He should be …

GANUS:

Stop, Ella, you have

put paint in my eye … May I speak …

ELLA:

Yes,

you may. I will look for a wig …

GANUS:

Tell me, Tremens,

I don’t understand: what do you want?

While wandering through the country I have

noticed that in four years of radiant peace—

after wars and revolutions—the country

has grown wonderfully strong. And the King

alone achieved all this. What then do you want?

New upheavals? But why?
The power of the King

is living and harmonious, it moves me now

like music … I too find it strange, but I

have understood that to rebel is criminal.

TREMENS
[
rising slowly
]:

What did you say? Did I mishear? Ganus,

you … repent, regret, and practically

give thanks for your punishment!

GANUS:

No.

For the sorrows of my heart, for the tears

of my Midia, I will never forgive the King.

But, consider: while we were declaiming

grand words—on the oppressed, on poverty

and the suffering of the people—the King

himself was already acting in our stead …

TREMENS
[
walks heavily around the room, drumming his fingers on the furniture as he passes
]:

Hang on, hang on! Did you really think

that I worked with such determination

for the good of an imaginary “people”?

So that every manure-filled soul, some

drunken goldsmith or another, some gnarled

stable-boy could polish his dainty nails

up to a mirror sheen, and bend his little

finger back in affectation, when shaking

off his snot? No, you were mistaken! …

ELLA:

Move your head to the right a little … I’ll pull

the astrakhan fur on for you …

Papa,

sit down, I beg you … You are dizzying me

with your movements.

TREMENS:

You were mistaken!

Revolts there may have been, Ganus … Time and again,

in city squares across the ages, have gathered

low-browed criminality, mediocrity,

and baseness … Their words I was repeating,

but I meant something more—and I had thought

that through those blunt words you felt my true fire,

and that your fire answered mine. But now,

your flame has tapered, it has turned to passion

for a woman … I feel great pity for you.

GANUS:

But what is it you want? Ella, don’t get

in the way while I’m talking …

TREMENS:

Did you see,

one windy night, by moonlight, the shadows

of ruins? That is the ultimate beauty—

and towards it I lead the world.

ELLA:

Don’t protest …

Sit still! … Press your lips together. A little

touch of arrogance … There. Some carmine

inside the nostrils—no, don’t sneeze! Passion—

in the nostrils. Now yours are like those

of Arabian horses. There we go.

Please be quiet. After all, my father

is absolutely right.

TREMENS:

You say:

the King is a great sorcerer. Agreed.

The sun has swollen the taut granaries,

the wonders of science are accessible to all,

labour is lightened by the play of hidden forces,

and the air is clean in the warbling workshops—

with all this I agree. But why do we

always want to grow, to climb uphill

from one to a thousand, when the downward path—

from one to zero—is faster and sweeter? Life

itself is the example—it
rushes headlong

into ash, it destroys everything in its way:

first it gnaws through the umbilical cord,

then tears up plants and birds into shreds,

and our heart beats inside us like a greedy hoof,

till it smashes through our chest … And the poet,

who breaks up his thoughts into sounds? Or

the maiden, who prays for the blow of a man’s love?

Everything, Ganus,
is destruction. And

the faster it is, the sweeter, the sweeter …

ELLA:

Now

for the frock-coat, the gloves—and you’re ready!

Really, Othello, I am pleased with you …

[
declaims
]

“But yet I fear you; for you are fatal then

when your eyes roll so: why should I fear I know not,

since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel fear …”

Oh, your boots are shabby—well, never mind …

GANUS:

Thank you, Desdemona …

[
looking at himself in the mirror
]

Well, look at me!

It’s been a while, it’s been a while … Midia …

a masquerade … Lights, perfume … quick, quick!

Hurry, Ella!

ELLA:

We’re going, we’re going …

TREMENS:

So,

you’ve decided to betray me, my friend?

GANUS:

Don’t, Tremens! We’ll talk some other time …

It’s hard for me to argue now … Perhaps

you are right. Farewell, dear friend … You

understand …

ELLA:

I won’t be late …

TREMENS:

Go, go.

Klian has long been cursing you, himself

and everything else. Ganus, don’t forget …

GANUS:

Hurry up, hurry up, Ella …

[
They leave together
.]

TREMENS:

So, you

and I are left alone, my serpent chill?

They’re gone—my fugitive slave and poor

twirling Ella … Yes, seized and exhausted

by the simplest passion, Ganus seems to have

forgotten his true calling … But somehow

I sense that hidden within him is that spark,

that scarlet comma of contamination,

which will spread the wondrous cold and fire

of tormenting illness across my country:

deathly revolts; hollow destruction;

bliss; emptiness; non-existence.

CURTAIN

Scene II

A party at
MIDIA
’s house. The drawing room: to the left the entrance to the salon; to the right
[
at the back
]
a lighted niche by a tall window
. [
MIDIA
with
]
several
GUESTS
[
including
KLIAN, DANDILIO
,
and the
FOREIGNER
].

FIRST GUEST:

Morn says—though he himself is not a poet—

“It should be thus: in the flicker of daily life,

unexpectedly, in the chance combination

of light and shadow, you feel within yourself

the divine happiness of conception:

it grabs you and is gone; but the muse knows

that in a quiet hour, in the seclusion

of the night, the poem will begin to beat

and fly off the tongue, fiery and babbling …”