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

head?
    I’ll disappear … You understand, I’ll disappear,
    I’ll quietly live out the rest of my strange life
    to the secret tune of my royal memories.
    Midia will be with me … Why do you keep silent?
    Am I not right? Midia will die without me …
    You know that.
    EDMIN:
My sovereign, I ask but
    one thing: an agonizing request, a crime
    against my native land … though it be!
    I beseech you: take me with you …
    MORN:
    O, how you love me, how you love, dear friend! …
    I have not the power to refuse you … I am
    a criminal myself. Listen, do you remember
    how I came to power? I came out in a mask
    and mantle on the golden balcony,—it was
    windy, it smelled, for some reason, of the sea,
    and the mantle kept slipping off, and from behind
    you righted it … But, why do I … Quickly
    time is running on … there is this will here …
    How to change it? … What shall we do? How
    to act? In it, I write that … Burn it! Burn it!
    Thankfully the candles are lit. Quick! Meanwhile,
    I’ll compose a different one … But how? My mind
    is empty. I move my quill as if on water …
    Edmin, I don’t know. Advise me—we must hurry,
    to finish by sunrise … What’s wrong?
    EDMIN:
Footsteps … They’re
    coming here … Along the gallery …
    MORN:
Quick!
    Put out the lights! We’ll have to go through
    the window—oh, hurry! I can’t meet with anyone …
    Come what may … What shall I take? Yes,
    the pistol … put them out … put them out … the
    papers …
    the diamonds … right. Fling it open! Hurry …
    My trenchcoat has caught—wait. Ready! Jump! …
[ They leave. Darkness onstage. An OLD MAN in livery, stooping, comes in with a candle in his hand .]
    OLD MAN:
    Looks like somebody’s been messing about in here …
    A burning smell. Table’s out of place … Hark you now—
    Look where they’ve thrown the crown. Ptfu … Ptfu …
    Shine …
    I’ll rub you … And there—that casement’s wide open.
    That won’t do … Let’s have a listen at the door.
[ Sleepily he crosses the stage and listens .]
    The rascal’s asleep … the master sleeps. For
    it’s gone four, I dare say … O, Lord Jesus!
    Oh, how my bones ache, how they ache! Cook
    shoved some ointment at me,—says, try it,
    rub some on … Try arguing … That’s all I need …
    Old age isn’t some ugly mug daubed on
    a fence, you can’t just paint over it …
[ And, muttering, he exits .]
CURTAIN

Scene II
    The same stage set as in the previous scene: the King’s study. Only now the carpet is torn in places and one of the mirrors is broken. Four of the REBELS , seated. Early morning. In the window the sun is visible, and there is a bright thaw .
    FIRST REBEL:
    The firing at the western gate still opens
    wide its swift embraces, so as to catch—
    now a soul, now a melody, now the ringing
    of glass … smoke rises from the houses still,
    from the hunched ruins of the senate, the museum
    of coins, the museum of banners, the museum
    of old statues … We are tired … All night long—
    work, tumult … It must be past seven already …
    What a morning! The senate blazed, like a torch …
    We’re tired, confused … Where’s Tremens rushing us?
    SECOND REBEL:
    The draughty skeleton has clothed itself in flesh
    and fire. It’s come to life. It rubs its hands.
    The mob gleefully tears open the cellars, marvels
    at the fires … I don’t know, don’t know, brothers,
    what he’s planning …
    THIRD REBEL:
Not so, not so, did we
    once think to make our homeland happy … I regret
    the sleepless nights of exile …
    FIRST REBEL:
He is mad!
    He ordered that the flying machines be burned
    so as to entertain the drunkards! But some
    nameless heroes came along, and grabbed
    the controls just in time …
    FOURTH REBEL:
This order here,
    that I am copying out, is terrifying
    in its tigerish playfulness …

    SECOND REBEL:
Quiet …
    Here comes his son-in-law …
[ KLIAN enters hurriedly