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

Ganus, I divined a kindred fire;
    to you alone I entrusted my thoughts.
    But you were tormented by a woman;
    now she is gone; I’m going to ask you,
    Ganus, for the last time: will you help me?
    GANUS:
    You summoned me in vain …
    TREMENS:
Think it over,
    don’t rush, I will give you a little time …
[ Hurriedly KLIAN enters .]
    KLIAN:
    My leader, those people, the ones who recently
    were singing in the streets, are being tortured …
    There is no one to interrogate them …
    Your assistants—how can I put it—are feeling
    nauseous …
    TREMENS:
All right, I’m coming, I’m coming … You,
    my Klian, are a fine fellow! … I’ve long known …
    By the way, one of these days I will
    surprise you: I’ll order that you be hanged.
    KLIAN:
    Tremens … My leader …
    TREMENS:
As for you, Ganus,
    think it over, I ask you, think it over …
[ TREMENS and KLIAN leave .]
    GANUS [ alone ]:
    A single thought torments me: here lived a hero …
    these mirrors here are sacred: they looked on him …
    He sat here, in this mighty chair.His footsteps
    linger in the palace, like the step of a hexameter
    dwindling in one’s memory … Where did he die?
    Where did his shot ring out? Who heard it?
    Perhaps it was out there, outside the city,
    in a mournful oak forest, in the snows of night …
    and his pale friend buried the hot corpse
    in a drift of snow … Sin, inconceivable sin,
    how can I expiate you? All of my blood
    is grateful for the death of my rival and yet
    all of my soul curses the death of the King …
    We are duplicitous, we’re blind—and it is hard
    to live, trusting only in life: earthly life
    is a murky translation from the divine original;
    the general thought is clear but the primordial
    music is missing in its words … What are passions?
    Mistakes in the translation. What is love?
    A rhyme lost in transmission to our discordant
    language … It’s time for me to take up the original! …
    My dictionary? One simple little book with a cross
    on its cover … I’ll seek out the stony arches, there,
    where the respite of prayer and the full breath
    of the soul will teach me the pronunciation
    of life …
There in the doorway, Ella has stopped,
    and does not see me, deep in thought,
    fingering the fringes of her sluggish shawl … What
    can I say to her? She needs warmth … Dear one …
    She doesn’t see me …
    ELLA [ aside ]:
How amusing! … I opened
    and read someone else’s letter … Handwriting
    like the wind, and the smell of the south … I
    resealed it, just as father once showed me
    in jest … Morn and Midia are together!
    How can I give it to him? He thinks that she
    is living in that old-fashioned backwater
    that she comes from … How to give it to him? …
    GANUS [ approaching ]:
    You’re up early. Me too … We seldom meet
    now, Ella: another festivity coincided
    with your wedding …
    ELLA:
Morning—an azure
    miracle—and not a morning … it trickles … whispers …
    Has Klian gone?
    GANUS:
He’s gone … Tell me, Ella,
    are you happy?
    ELLA:
What is happiness? The flutter
    of wings, or perhaps a snowflake on one’s lip—
    that is happiness … Who said that? I don’t recall …
    No, Ganus, I was wrong, you know … But
    how bright it is today, it’s practically spring!
    Everything trickles …
    GANUS:
Ella, Ella, did you ever
    think that the daughter of a powerless rebel
    would live in a palace?
    ELLA:
Oh, Ganus, I miss
    our little old rooms, our peace, the fireplace,
    the paintings … Listen: lately I’ve come to realize
    that my father is mad! We have fallen out
    with one another; now we’re not speaking …
    I believed in it at first … What for! Rebellion
    for the sake of rebellion is both boring
    and horrifying—like night-time embraces
    without love …
    GANUS:
Yes, Ella, you have truly
    understood …
    ELLA:
The other day all the squares
    gazed at the sky … Laughter, screams, howls
    of fury … Saving themselves from the