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
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
[ 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
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
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