Oh, no one would have been unfaithful
to the King… But—to Mister Morn…
You should go. I have understood—this
is retribution. I’m not angry. But leave.
It is hard for me to talk with you. Only
a moment, and it is as though one has
shaken the coloured glass inside a tube,
glanced through it—and life has changed…
Farewell. Be happy.
EDMIN:
I will come back to you,
if you but call…
MORN:
I will meet you only
in heaven. No earlier. There, in the shade
of an olive tree, I’ll introduce you to Brutus.
Go…
[EDMIN leaves.]
MORN [alone]:
Well. It’s over.
[Pause. A SERVANT enters.]
MORN:
The table needs
to be cleared. Hurry up… Is the carriage
ordered?
SERVANT:
Yes, sir.
MORN:
Tomorrow morning,
have the barber come from the town—
the moustached, silent one. That is all.
[The SERVANT leaves. Pause. MORN looks out of the window.]
MORN:
The sky
is murky. The flowers tremble in the garden…
The artificial grotto blackens: the rain
stretches out in strings against the black…
Only one thing is left now: to await
Ganus. My soul is almost ready. How
the wet greenery shines… The rain quivers
as though in senile drowsiness… The house
meanwhile has awoken… The servants bustle…
The trunks clatter… And here she is…
[Enter MIDIA with an open suitcase.]
MORN:
Midia,
are you happy?
MIDIA:
Yes. Move. I need
to pack these…
MORN:
A familiar suitcase:
I carried it once at dawn. The snow crunched.
And the three of us were hurrying.
MIDIA:
These things go in it—books, portraits…
MORN:
That’s fine… Midia, are you happy?
MIDIA:
There’s a train at midday exactly: I shall
fly away to a marvellous foreign city…
I wish I had some paper—this might break…
And whose is this? Yours? Mine? I don’t
recall, I don’t recall…
MORN:
Only don’t cry,
I beg you…
MIDIA:
Yes, yes… you are right.
It has passed… I won’t… I didn’t know
that you would let me go so easily,
so willingly… I jerked the door open…
I thought you held the handle tightly on
the other side… I jerked it open with all
my might,—you were not holding it, the door
opened easily, and I fell back… You
understand, I am falling… In my eyes
there is rippled darkness, and I think
I will perish—I cannot find a foothold!…
MORN:
Edmin is with you. He is happiness…
MIDIA:
I don’t
know anything!… Only it’s strange: we loved—
and it has all gone somewhere. We loved…
MORN:
These two engravings here are yours, aren’t they?
And this porcelain dog?
MIDIA:
… It’s strange…
MORN:
No, Midia.
In harmony there is nothing strange. And life
is a vast harmony. I’ve understood this.
But, you see—the moulded whimsy of a frieze
on a portico keeps us from recognizing,
sometimes, the symmetry of the whole…
You will leave; we’ll forget one another;
but now and then the name of a street,
or a street organ weeping in the twilight,
will remind us in a more vivid and more
truthful way than thought could resurrect
or words convey, of that main thing
which was between us, the main thing which
we do not know… And in that hour, the soul
will miraculously sense the charm
of past trifles, and we will understand
that in eternity all is eternal—
the genius’s thought and the neighbour’s
joke, the bewitched suffering of Tristan
and the most fleeting love… Let us part
without bitterness, Midia: some day, perhaps,
you will discover the unspoken reason
for my deep sorrow, my cold anguish…
MIDIA:
I dreamt, at the beginning, that beneath
the laughter you were hiding a secret… So,
there is a secret?
MORN:
Shall I reveal it to you?
Will you believe it?
MIDIA:
I shall.
MORN:
So listen then:
when we saw one another in the city,
I was—how shall I say?—an enchanter,
a hypnotist… I read thoughts… I
predicted fate, twirling my crystal;
beneath my fingers the oak table rocked
like the deck of a ship, and the dead sighed,
spoke through my larynx, and the kings
of bygone ages inhabited me…
Now I have lost my gift…
MIDIA:
And that is all?
MORN:
That is all. Are you taking these music scores
with you? Let me squeeze them in—no,
they don’t fit. And this book? Hurry, Midia,
there is less than an hour till the train…
MIDIA:
Well…
I am ready…
MORN:
Here they come with your trunk.
One more. Coffins…
[Pause.]
Well then, farewell, Midia,
be happy…
MIDIA:
I keep thinking I have forgotten
something… Tell me—were you joking about
the spinning tables?
MORN:
I don’t remember… I don’t
remember… it doesn’t matter… Farewell. Go.
He is waiting for you. Don’t cry.
[They both go out onto the terrace.]
MIDIA:
Forgive me…
We loved—and it has all gone, somewhere…
We loved—and now our love is frozen,
and now it lies, one wing spread out, raising
its little feet—a dead sparrow on the damp
gravel… But we loved… we flew…
MORN:
Look,
the sun is coming out… Watch your step—
it’s slippery here, be careful… Farewell…
farewell… Remember… Remember only
the shimmer on the tree trunk, the rain, the sun…
only that…
[Pause. MORN is on the terrace alone. We see him slowly turn his face from left to right, as he follows with his gaze those departing. Then he returns to the drawing room.]
MORN:
Well. It is over…
[He wipes his head with a handkerchief.]
The flying rain has settled in my hair.
[Pause.]
I fell in love with her at the very moment,
when, at a street corner, her hat flashed past,
the wet wing of a carriage—and disappeared
into an avenue of cypresses… Now I’m
alone. The end. And so, having deceived
destiny, thrown my crown to the Devil
for his sport, and yielded my belovèd
to a friend…
[Pause.]
How quietly she went down
those steps, putting the same foot forward
every time—like a child… Be still,
my heart! A hot, hot shriek, a howl,
rises, grows in my chest… No! No!
There is a way: to stare at the mirror,
to hold back the sobs that turn my face
into a toad’s… Oh! I cannot…
In an empty house and eye to eye
with the cold angel of my sleepless conscience…
How do I live? What do I do? My God…
[Cries.]
Well… well… I feel better. That was Morn
crying; the King is absolutely calm.
I feel better… Those tears removed the speck
caught in my eye—the point of pain. I will
not wait for Ganus, after all… My soul
is growing, my soul gains in strength—preparing
for death is like preparing for a holiday…
But let the preparations go on in secret.
Soon it will be day—I will not wait
for Ganus after all—day will break,
and lightly I will kill myself. One cannot
summon death with a strained thought; death
shall come itself, and I will pull the trigger
as if by accident… Yes, I feel better—
perhaps it is the sun, shining through
the slanted rain… or tenderness—younger
sister of death—that mute, radiant tenderness
that rises up when a woman leaves forever…
She’s forgotten to push in these drawers…
[walks around, tidying things]
…The books have fallen over on their sides,
as thoughts do, when sadness pulls one out
and carries it off: the one about God…
The piano is open on a barcarole:
she loved elegant sounds… The little table,
like a meadow mowed: here there was
a portrait of her family, of someone else,
cards, some kind of jewellery box…
She took everything… And, as in the song—
I have been left with only these roses here:
their crumpled edges slightly touched with
tender mildew, and in the tall vase the water
smells of rot, of death, as it does
under ancient bridges. I am stirred, roses,
by your honeyed decay… You need fresh water.
[Goes out by the door on the right. The stage is empty for some time. Then—quick, pale, in tattered clothes—GANUS enters from the terrace.]
GANUS:
Morn… Morn… where’s Morn? By a stony path,
through bushes… some kind of garden… and now—
I’m in his drawing room… This is a dream,
but before I wake up… It’s quiet here…
Can he have left? What should I do? Wait?
Lord, Lord, Lord, allow me to meet
with him alone!… I will take aim and fire…
And it will be over!… Who is that?… Oh,
only the reflection of a ragged fellow…
I am afraid of mirrors… What shall I do
next? My hand trembles,—it was unwise
to drink wine there, in that tavern,
beneath the hill… And there’s a din in my ears.
But, perhaps? Yes, definitely! The rustle
of footsteps… Now quick… Where should I…
[And he hides to the left, behind the corner of a cupboard, having pulled out his pistol. MORN returns. He fusses over the flowers on the table, with his back to GANUS. GANUS, stepping forward, aims with a trembling hand.]
MORN:
Oh, you poor things… breathe, flame up…
You resemble love. You were made
for similes; it is not for nothing that from
the first days of the universe there has flowed
through your petals the blood of Apollo… An ant…
Funny: he runs, like a man amidst a fire…
[GANUS takes aim.]
CURTAIN
ACT V.
Scene I
Old DANDILIO’s room. A cage with a parrot, books, porcelain. Through the windows—a sunny summer’s day. KLIAN charges around the room. In the distance gunshots can be heard.
KLIAN:
It seems to be getting quieter… All the same,
I’m doomed! The lead will strike into my brain
like a stone into glistening mud—an instant—
and my thoughts will splatter out! If only
it were possible to juicily belch up the life
one’s lived, chew it anew and gulp it down,
and then once more to roll it with a fat,
ox-like tongue, to squeeze from its eternal
dregs the former sweetness of crisp grass,
drunk with the morning dew and the bitterness
of lilac leaves! O, God, if only one could
always feel deathly terror! That, God,
would be bliss! Every terror signifies
“I am,” and there’s no higher bliss! Terror—
but not the stillness of the grave! The groans
of suffering—but not the silence of the corpse!
This is wisdom, there can be no other!
I am prepared, having strummed my lyre,
to break it, to give up my melodious gift,
to become a leper, to weaken, to grow deaf,—
if only to remember some little thing, be it
the rustle of nails scratching a sore,—to me
that is sweeter than the songs of the otherworld!
I’m frightened, death nears… My taut heart
lurches heavily, like a sack in a cart, clattering
downhill, towards a cliff, towards an abyss!
It can’t be stopped! Death!
[DANDILIO enters from a door on the right.]
DANDILIO:
Hush, hush, hush…
Ella has only just fallen asleep in there;
the poor thing lost a lot of blood; the child
is dead and the mother has lost her second
soul—the dearer one. But she seems better…
Only, you know, I am no doctor—I used
KLIAN:
Dandilio!
My dear Dandilio! My wonderful, my radiant
Dandilio!… I cannot, I cannot…
for they will catch me here! I am doomed!
DANDILIO:
I must confess, I was not expecting such
guests; you could have warned me yesterday:
I would have decorated the parrot’s cage—
he’s very gloomy for some reason. Tell me,
Klian—I was busy with Ella, I didn’t fully
understand—how was it that you escaped
with her?
KLIAN:
I am doomed! How awful…
What a night! They forced their way… Ella
kept asking where the child was… The crowds
broke into the palace… We were overcome:
for five terrifying days we fought against
the hurricane that was the people’s dream;
last night all fell to ruins: they hunted us
through the palace—myself and Tremens,
others too… I ran, with Ella in my arms,
from hall to hall, through inner galleries,
and back again, and up and down, and heard
the howls, the shots, and once or twice Tremens’s
cold laugh… How Ella moaned, how she moaned!
Suddenly—a scrap of curtain, a chink behind it,—
I tugged: a passage! You understa
nd—a secret
passage…
DANDILIO:
Of course I understand… It was,
I should think, needed by the King,
so he could fly away unnoticed—and,
then, after his winged adventures, return
to his labours…
KLIAN:
…and so I stumbled
in the sepulchral darkness, and walked and walked…
Suddenly—a wall: I pushed—and found myself
miraculously in an empty alley!
Only a gunshot sounded from time to time
and tore the air at its seam… I remembered
you live nearby—and so… we came to you…
But what shall we do next? To stay with you
would be madness! They will find me! Indeed,
the whole city knows you were once friendly
with mad Tremens, and christened his daughter!…
DANDILIO:
She is weak: she won’t survive another
such excursion. But where is Tremens?
KLIAN:
He fights…
I don’t know where… He himself advised me,
the day before, that I bring my sick Ella
to you… but it is dangerous here, I
am doomed! Understand,—I don’t know how,
I don’t know how to die, and it’s too late—
I won’t learn now, there is no time! They’re
coming for me now!…
DANDILIO:
Flee alone.
You still have time. I’ll give you a false
beard and glasses and you’ll be on your way.
KLIAN:
You think so?
DANDILIO:
Or if you want, I have the masks
that people used to wear on Shrovetide
in bygone days…
KLIAN:
…Yes, you may mock!
You know yourself that I will never abandon
my weak Ella… That’s where the horror lies—
not in death, no,—but in the fact that some
sort of whimpering feeling has inhabited
my blood, a mixture of untold jealousy
and shunned desire, and such tenderness
that all sunsets are but puddles of paint
beside it—such is my tenderness!
No one knew! I am a coward, a viper,
a flatterer, but here, in this…
DANDILIO:
Enough, friend…
Calm down…
KLIAN:
Love has squeezed my heart
in its palms… holds it… won’t let it go…
If I pull it—it contracts… But death
is near… yet how can I tear myself
from my own heart? I’m not a lizard, I can’t
grow it back…
DANDILIO:
You’re rambling, calm down:
it’s safe here… The street is sunny and deserted…
Where is death to be seen? On the spines
of my sleepy books there is a smile.