The Tragedy of Mister Morn (6 page)

KLIAN:

I have never felt like that … I myself

create differently: with persistence, disgust,

tying a wet rag around my head … Perhaps

that’s why I am the genius …

[
Both of them pass on
.]

FOREIGNER:

Who is that—

the one that looks like a horse?

SECOND GUEST:

The poet Klian.

FOREIGNER:

Talented?

SECOND GUEST:

Shh … He’s listening …

FOREIGNER:

And that one,

the silvery one, with the bright eyes—speaking,

at the doorway, to the mistress of the house?

SECOND GUEST:

You don’t know? You sat beside him at dinner—

it is the carefree Dandilio, the grey-haired

lover of antiquity.

MIDIA
[
to
DANDILIO
]:

But why? It is

a sin: Morn, Morn and only Morn,

and the blood sings out …

DANDILIO:

There is no sin on earth.

Loves, sorrows—all are necessary, all

are beautiful … One must snatch the hours of fire,

the hours of love from life, as a slave grasps

at shells underwater—blindly, hungrily:

there is no time to prise them open, to choose

the sick one, with its precious tumour … They

shimmer, suddenly turn up, so grab at them

in handfuls, whatever’s there, however you can—

and at that very moment when your heart

is bursting, you push off with your heel

convulsively, and, stumbling and panting,

empty out the treasure on the sunlit shore

at the feet of the Creator—he’ll sort them out,

he knows … So let the broken shells be empty,

for the whole sea hums with mother of pearl.

And he who seeks only pearls, setting aside

shell after shell, that man shall come to

the Creator, to the Master, with empty hands—

and he will find that he is deaf and dumb

in heaven …

FOREIGNER
[
approaching
]:

I often heard your voice

in my childhood dreams …

DANDILIO:

Really, I never

can remember who has dreamt me. But

your smile I do remember. I meant to ask you,

courteous traveller, where have you come from?

FOREIGNER:

I have come from the Twentieth Century, from

a northern country, called …

[
Whispers
.]

MIDIA:

Which one is it?

I don’t know that one …

DANDILIO:

How can you say that!

Don’t you remember, from children’s fairy tales?

Visions … bombs … churches … golden princes …

revolutionaries in raincoats … blizzards …

MIDIA:

But I thought it didn’t exist?

FOREIGNER:

Perhaps. I

entered a dream, but are you sure that I

have left that dream? … So be it, I’ll believe

in your city. Tomorrow I shall call it

a dream …

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 …