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…”
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…
MORN [quietly]:
My joy, forgive me:
work… I have been very busy…
VOICES:
Dancing!
Dancing!
MORN:
Ella, may I have this dance…
[The GUESTS move into the salon. Only DANDILIO and GANUS remain.]
DANDILIO:
I see Othello is missing Desdemona.
Oh, the demon is in that name…
GANUS [glancing in the direction of MORN]:
What a
passionate gentleman…
DANDILIO:
What can one do, Ganus…
GANUS:
What did you say?
DANDILIO:
I said, has it been long
since you left Venice?
GANUS:
Leave me, I beg you…
[DANDILIO moves into the salon. GANUS is left hunched at a table.]
ELLA [enters briskly]:
Is there anyone here?
GANUS:
Ella, this is
hard on me…
What is wrong, my dear?
GANUS:
There is something I don’t understand.
This suffocating make-up feels like
it’s straining my heart…
ELLA:
My poor Moor…
GANUS:
Before, you said… I felt so happy…
You were telling the truth, weren’t you?
ELLA:
Come on,
smile… Listen, the violin bows are
sparkling from the hall!
GANUS:
Will it end soon?
This heavy, mottled dream…
ELLA:
Yes, soon, soon…
[GANUS moves into the salon.]
ELLA [alone]:
How strange… my heart suddenly sang out:
I would give my whole life for this man
to be happy… a kind of light breeze
has passed by, and now I feel capable
of the most humble feat. My poor Moor!
I’m such a fool, why did I bring him with me?
I never noticed before—only just now,
in feeling jealousy on his behalf,
did I at long last see that some secret
reverberating sound connects Midia
to swift Morn… All this is strange…
DANDILIO [comes out, looking for someone]:
Did
; you see? Did that Foreigner come past here?
ELLA:
I didn’t see him…
DANDILIO:
What a curious fellow!
He slipped away like a shadow… We were
just having a conversation with him…
[ELLA and DANDILIO pass on.]
EDMIN [leads MIDIA to a chair]:
You do not dance tonight, Midia?
MIDIA:
While you,
as always, are mysteriously silent—
perhaps you would like to tell me what
Morn does all day?
EDMIN:
What does it matter?
Whether he’s a businessman, a scholar,
an artist, a warrior, or just an impassioned man—
isn’t it all the same to you?
MIDIA:
And what
is it you do yourself? Stop it—stop shrugging
your shoulders! Conversation with you
is such a bore, Edmin…
EDMIN:
I know…
MIDIA:
Tell me, when Morn is here, you guard, alone
beneath the window, and after leave with him.
Friendship is friendship, but this…
EDMIN:
I like it this way.
MIDIA:
Is there not a woman—unknown to us—
with whom you would more pleasantly spend
the nights, while Morn is here, than with the spectre
of someone else’s happiness?… How foolish—
you’ve grown pale…
[MORN enters, wiping his brow.]
MORN:
What is happiness?
Klian ran past me and, like the wind,
took Ella from me…
[to EDMIN]
Friend, brighten up!
Your face is painfully contorted, as though
you were about to sneeze… Go dance…
[EDMIN exits.]
… Oh, my Midia, how you do resemble
happiness! No, do not move, do not spoil
your splendour… I am cold from happiness.
We are on the crest of a wave of music… Wait,
don’t speak. This very moment is the peak of two eternities…
MIDIA:
A mere two moons
have rolled by since that vivid day, when
mysterious Edmin brought you to me. That day
you conquered me with the piercing glance
of your deep eyes. In them, an intense force
sparkles around the pupils with a yellow light…
Sometimes it seems to me that, walking
down the street, you could, with the even breath
of your eyes alone, inspire in passers-by
whatever you wanted: happiness, wisdom,
the heat of passion… I’ll put it this way—
but don’t laugh: my soul has fixed itself
to your eyes, as when in childhood
one’s tongue sticks to cloudy metal if,
for a lark, you lick it in the flaring frost…
Now tell me, what do you do all day?
MORN:
And your eyes—no, show me—are