Man From the USSR & Other Plays (28 page)

 

WIFE

Oh, I'd be screaming, lunging—my entreaties
for mercy would be heard, and I'd ... But then—
then how did you escape?

 

PASSERBY

                             A miracle....
So—I was standing on the scaffold. They
had not yet bound my hands. My shoulders felt
the frigid wind. The executioner was
unraveling some kind of rope. Just then—
a cry of “fire!” and instantly flames shot
up from behind the rail; I and the headsman
were swaying, struggling on the platform's edge....
A crackling—and the heat breathed on my face,
the hand that had been clutching me relaxed,
I fell somewhere, knocked someone down, I dove,
I slid, amid torrents of smoke, into
a storm of rearing steeds and running people—
“Fire! Fire!” the cry vibrated over and over,
choking with sobs of joy, with boundless bliss!
But I was far away by then! Just once
I looked back, on the run, and saw the crimson
smoke billowing into a vault of black,
the uprights bursting into flames themselves,
the blade come crashing down, set free by fire!

 

WIFE

How dreadful!...

 

HUSBAND

            Yes, when you've seen death you don't
forget....One time some thieves got in the garden.
The night, the darkness, fright....I got my gun off
its hook—

 

PASSERBY

(interrupting, lost in thought)
          —Thus I escaped, and suddenly
it seemed my eyes were opened: I'd been awkward,
unfeeling, absent-minded, had not fully
appreciated life, the colored specks of
our precious life—but, having seen so close
that pair of upright posts, that narrow gate
to nonexistence, and those gleams, that gloom....
Amid the whistle of sea winds I fled
from France, and kept avoiding France so long
as over her the icy Robespierre
loomed like a greenish incubus, so long
as dusty armies marched into the gunfire
spurred by the Corsican's gray gaze and forelock.
But life was hard for me in foreign countries.
In dank and melancholy London I
gave lessons in the science of duelling. I
sojourned in Russia, playing the fiddle at
an opulent barbarian's abode....
In Turkey and in Greece I wandered then,
and in enchanting Italy I starved.
The sights I saw were many; I became
a deckhand, then a chef, a barber, a tailor,
then just a simple tramp. Yet, to this day
I thank the Lord with every passing hour
for all the hardships that I came to know—
and for the rustle of the roadside corn,
the rustle and the warming breath of all
the human souls that have passed close to me.

 

HUSBAND

Of all, sir, all of them? But you forget
the soul belonging to that flashy craftsman
whom you encountered that day on the scaffold.

 

PASSERBY

Oh, no—through him the world revealed itself
to me. He was, unwittingly, the key.

 

 

HUSBAND

No, I don't get it....
(rising)
Before supper, I
have chores to do....Our meal is unpretentious...
but maybe you'll—

 

PASSERBY

               Why not, why not....

 

HUSBAND

                  Agreed, then!
(going out)

 

PASSERBY

Forgive my talkativeness....I'm afraid
my tale was boring....

 

WIFE
                         Goodness, not at all....

 

PASSERBY

Is that a baby's bonnet you are sewing?

 

WIFE

(laughs)

That's right. I think I'll need it around Christmas....

 

PASSERBY

How wonderful....

 

WIFE

               And that's another baby,
there, in the garden....

 

PASSERBY

(looks out the window)

            Oh—your “grand-dad.” Splendid
old man....The sun gives him a silvery sheen.
Splendid ... and there's a certain dreamy air
about his movements, as his fingers slide
along a lily stem, and he is bent
over the flower bed, not picking, just
caressing, all aglow with such a tender
and timid smile....

 

WIFE

              That's true, he loves the lilies—
he fondles them, has conversations with them.
He even has invented names for them—
all names of duchesses, of marquesses....

 

PASSERBY

How nice for him.... Now
he
is one, I'm certain,
who's lived his life in peace—yes, in some village,
away from civil and from other tumults....

 

WIFE

He's good at doctoring.... Knows all about
medicinal herbs. Once, for our daughter—
(Juliette bursts in, laughing boisterously.)

 

JULIETTE

                            Mother!
Oh, Mother! You'll die laughing!

 

WIFE

                What's the matter?

 

JULIETTE

Grand-dad ... out there ... the basket....Oh!
(laughs)

 

WIFE

                              Come on,
let's hear it properly....

 

JULIETTE

            You'll die.... See, Mother,
I was just going—I was going through
the garden to pick cherries.... Grand-dad sees me,
gets in a crouch, then snatches at my basket—
the new one, the one with the oilcloth lining,
already stained with juice—he snatches it,
and heaves it all the way into the stream....
By now the current's carried it away.

 

PASSERBY

How very odd. God only knows in what
directions, in his brain, the thoughts make bridges....
Could be that ... no.
(laughs)
Sometimes I tend myself
to strange associations....Like that basket,
its oilcloth lining with the cherries' juice
incarnadined—it brings to mind....Good God,
what chilling nonsense! You'll permit me not
to finish....

 

WIFE

(not listening)

            What's got into him? Your father
will be angry. Twenty sous, that basket,
(leaves with her daughter)

 

PASSERBY

(looking out the window)

They're bringing him....It's funny how he sulks,
the old man.... Just like an offended child....

 

WIFE

(They return with Grand-dad.)

Here, Grand-dad, we've a guest....Just look at him....

 

GRAND-DAD

I do not want that basket here. There must
not be such baskets....

 

WIFE

            It's all right, my dear....
It isn't there. It's gone. It's gone for good.
Come on, calm down....Good sir, perhaps you could
distract him for a while....I have to go
and start preparing supper....

 

GRAND-DAD

                      Who is this?
No, I don't want...

 

WIFE

(in the doorway)

            But that's our guest. He's kind.
Sit down, sit down. What stories he has told us!
About the executioner in Lyon,
the guillotine, the fire! It's fascinating.
Tell it again, sir.
(leaves with her daughter)

 

GRAND-DAD

            What? What was that she
just said? That's strange....The executioner,
the fire...

 

PASSERBY

(aside)

          There, now he's frightened. Silly woman—
why did she ever have to tell him that?
(full voice)

It was a joke, Grand-dad....Tell me instead,
what do you chat about out there with flowers,
with trees?...Why do you look at me like that?

 

GRAND-DAD

(staring at him intently)

Where are you from?

 

PASSERBY

            Oh ... simply passing by...

 

GRAND-DAD

                              Wait,
just wait, don't go away, I'll be right back.
(goes out)

 

PASSERBY

(pacing the room)

Odd character! Either he's had a fright
or he's remembered something.... I've an eerie,
a troubled feeling—I don't understand....
The wine they have here must be strong. Tra-ram,
tra-ra....
(sings)
What's wrong with me? I seem to feel
some kind of vague oppression....Ugh! How stupid....

 

GRAND-DAD

(enters)

And here I am....I'm back....

 

PASSERBY

              Hello, hello....
(aside)
Look how he's grown all nice and cheery now.

 

GRAND-DAD

(shifting from foot to foot, hands behind his back)
Here's where I live. Right in this house. I like
it here. For instance, over there, look at
that wardrobe....

 

PASSERBY

              Beautiful....

 

GRAND-DAD

                You know, that's an
enchanted wardrobe....Oh, the things, the things that
go on inside! You see that chink, that keyhole?
Peek through it ... Eh?

 

PASSERBY

              Enchanted? I believe you....
It's beautiful.... You didn't tell me, though,
about the lilies, and your talks with them.

 

GRAND-DAD

Peek through the chink....

 

PASSERBY

              I can see fine from here....

 

GRAND-DAD

No, take a closer look.

 

PASSERBY

              I can't—that table
is in the way....

 

GRAND-DAD

          Lie on the table—lie
on it, face down....

 

PASSERBY

              Oh, come, it isn't worth it.

 

GRAND-DAD

Don't want to do it?

 

PASSERBY

              ...Look, look at that sunshine!
And your whole garden sparkling....

 

GRAND-DAD

                  You don't want to?
A shame....A real shame. It would be much
more comfortable.

 

PASSERBY

              More comfortable? For what?

 

GRAND-DAD

For what?
(swings with thet axe he has been holding behind his back)

 

PASSERBY

        Hold on there! Stop!
(They struggle.)

 

GRAND-DAD

                No.... Wait....You must
not interfere.... It is decreed.... My duty....

 

PASSERBY
(knocks him down)
Enough!

          There—there, that's it—that madness.... God!...
I didn't expect it.... He was mumbling, purring—
then suddenly...

              What
is
this? I think it
already happened once....Or did I dream it?
The same way, just the same, I struggled.... Up!
Enough, get up! Reply!...Look how he stares,
and stares....Look at those fingers, naked, blunt....
I've seen them once before, I know! You'll answer,
you will!...That stare....
(bends over the prostrate figure)
                No, he will tell me nothing.

 

JULIETTE
(in the doorway)
What have you done to Grand-dad?...

 

PASSERBY

                  Juliette...
You'd ... better go.

 

JULIETTE

              What have you done....

The lectures “The Tragedy of Tragedy” and “Playwriting” were composed for a course on drama that Nabokov gave at Stanford during the summer of 1941. We had arrived in America in May of 1940; except for some brief guest appearances, this was Father's first lecturing engagement at an American university. The Stanford course also included a discussion of some American plays, a survey of Soviet theatre, and an analysis of commentary on drama by several American critics.

The two lectures presented here have been selected to accompany Nabokov's plays because they embody, in concentrated form, many of his principal guidelines for writing, reading, and performing plays. The reader is urged to bear in mind, however, that, later in life, Father might have expressed certain thoughts differently.

The lectures were partly in typescript and partly in manuscript, replete with Nabokov's corrections, additions, deletions, occasional slips of the pen, and references to previous and subsequent installments of the course. I have limited myself to what editing seemed necessary for the presentation of the lectures in essay form. If Nabokov had been alive, he might perhaps have performed more radical surgery. He might also have added that the gruesome throes of realistic suicide he finds unacceptable onstage (in “The Tragedy of Tragedy”) are now everyday fare on kiddies' TV, while “adult” entertainment has long since outdone all the goriness of the Grand Guignol. He might have observed that the aberrations of theatrical method wherein the illusion of a barrier between stage and audience is shattered—a phenomenon he considered “freakish”—are now commonplace: actors wander and mix; the audience is invited to participate; it is then applauded by the players in a curious reversal of roles made chic by Soviet performers ordered to emulate the mise-en-scène of party congresses; and the term “happening” has already managed to grow obsolescent. He might have commented that the quest for originality for its own sake has led to ludicrous excesses and things have taken their helter-skelter course in random theatre as they have in random music and in random painting.