SHUISKY. More wine! Now, my dear guests.(He rises; all rise after him.)The final draught!Read the prayer, boy.Boy. Lord of the heavens, Who artEternally and everywhere, acceptThe prayer of us Thy servants. For our monarch,By Thee appointed, for our pious tsar,Of all good Christians autocrat, we pray.Preserve him in the palace, on the fieldOf battle, on his nightly couch; grant to himVictory o'er his foes; from sea to seaMay he be glorified; may all his houseBlossom with health, and may its precious branchesO'ershadow all the earth; to us, his slaves,May he, as heretofore, be generous.Gracious, long-suffering, and may the fountsOf his unfailing wisdom flow upon us;Raising the royal cup, Lord of the heavens,For this we pray.SHUISKY. (Drinks.) Long live our mighty sovereign!Farewell, dear guests. I thank you that ye scorned notMy bread and salt. Farewell; good-night.(Exeunt Guests: he conducts them to the door.)PUSHKIN. Hardly could they tear themselves away; indeed,Prince Vassily Ivanovitch, I began to think that weshould not succeed in getting any private talk.SHUISKY. (To the Servants.) You there, why do you standGaping? Always eavesdropping on gentlemen! Clearthe table, and then be off.(Exeunt Servants.)What is it, AthanasiusMikailovitch?PUSHKIN. Such a wondrous thing!A message was sent here to me todayFrom Cracow by my nephew Gabriel Pushkin.SHUISKY. Well?PUSHKIN. 'Tis strange news my nephew writes. The sonOf the Terrible—But stay—(Goes to the door and examines it.)The royal boy,Who murdered was by order of Boris—SHUISKY. But these are no new tidings.PUSHKIN. Wait a little;Dimitry lives.SHUISKY. So that's it! News indeed!Dimitry living!—Really marvelous!And is that all?PUSHKIN. Pray listen to the end;Whoe'er he be, whether he be DimitryRescued, or else some spirit in his shape,Some daring rogue, some insolent pretender,In any case Dimitry has appeared.SHUISKY. It cannot be.PUSHKIN. Pushkin himself beheld himWhen first he reached the court, and through the ranksOf Lithuanian gentlemen went straightInto the secret chamber of the king.SHUISKY. What kind of man? Whence comes he?PUSHKIN. No one knows.'Tis known that he was Vishnevetsky's servant;That to a ghostly father on a bedOf sickness he disclosed himself; possessedOf this strange secret, his proud master nursed him,From his sick bed upraised him, and straightwayTook him to Sigismund.SHUISKY. And what say menOf this bold fellow?PUSHKIN. 'Tis said that he is wise,Affable, cunning, popular with all men.He has bewitched the fugitives from Moscow,The Catholic priests see eye to eye with him.The King caresses him, and, it is said,Has promised help.SHUISKY. All this is such a medleyThat my head whirls. Brother, beyond all doubtThis man is a pretender, but the dangerIs, I confess, not slight. This is grave news!And if it reach the people, then there'll beA mighty tempest.PUSHKIN. Such a storm that hardlyWill Tsar Boris contrive to keep the crownUpon his clever head; and losing itWill get but his deserts! He governs usAs did the tsar Ivan of evil memory.What profits it that public executionsHave ceased, that we no longer sing in publicHymns to Christ Jesus on the field of blood;That we no more are burnt in public places,Or that the tsar no longer with his sceptreRakes in the ashes? Is there any safetyIn our poor life? Each day disgrace awaits us;The dungeon or Siberia, cowl or fetters,And then in some deaf nook a starving death,Or else the halter. Where are the most renownedOf all our houses, where the Sitsky princes,Where are the Shestunovs, where the Romanovs,Hope of our fatherland? Imprisoned, tortured,In exile. Do but wait, and a like fateWill soon be thine. Think of it! Here at home,Just as in Lithuania, we're besetBy treacherous slaves—and tongues are ever readyFor base betrayal, thieves bribed by the State.We hang upon the word of the first servantWhom we may please to punish. Then he bethought himTo take from us our privilege of hiringOur serfs at will; we are no longer mastersOf our own lands. Presume not to dismissAn idler. Willy nilly, thou must feed him!Presume not to outbid a man in hiringA labourer, or you will find yourselfIn the Court's clutches.—Was such an evil heard ofEven under tsar Ivan? And are the peopleThe better off? Ask them. Let the pretenderBut promise them the old free right of transfer,Then there'll be sport.SHUISKY. Thou'rt right; but be advised;Of this, of all things, for a time we'll speakNo word.PUSHKIN. Assuredly, keep thine own counsel.Thou art—a person of discretion; alwaysI am glad to commune with thee; and if aughtAt any time disturbs me, I endure notTo keep it from thee; and, truth to tell, thy meadAnd velvet ale today have so untiedMy tongue...Farewell then, prince.SHUISKY. Brother, farewell.Farewell, my brother, till we meet again.(He escorts PUSHKIN out.)
KSENIA. (Kisses a portrait.) My dear bridegroom, comelyson of a king, not to me wast thou given, not to thyaffianced bride, but to a dark sepulchre in a strangeland; never shall I take comfort, ever shall I weep forthee.NURSE. Eh, tsarevna! A maiden weeps as the dew falls;the sun will rise, will dry the dew. Thou wilt haveanother bridegroom—and handsome and affable. Mycharming child, thou wilt learn to love him, thou wiltforget Ivan the king's son.KSENIA. Nay, nurse, I will be true to him even in death.(Boris enters.)TSAR. What, Ksenia? What, my sweet one? In thy girlhoodAlready a woe-stricken widow, everBewailing thy dead bridegroom! Fate forbade meTo be the author of thy bliss. PerchanceI angered Heaven; it was not mine to compassThy happiness. Innocent one, for whatArt thou a sufferer? And thou, my son,With what art thou employed? What's this?FEODOR. A chartOf all the land of Muscovy; our tsardomFrom end to end. Here you see; there is Moscow,There Novgorod, there Astrakhan. Here liesThe sea, here the dense forest tract of Perm,And here Siberia.TSAR. And what is thisWhich makes a winding pattern here?FEODOR. That isThe Volga.TSAR. Very good! Here's the sweet fruitOf learning. One can view as from the cloudsOur whole dominion at a glance; its frontiers,Its towns, its rivers. Learn, my son; 'tis scienceWhich gives to us an abstract of the eventsOf our swift-flowing life. Some day, perchanceSoon, all the lands which thou so cunninglyToday hast drawn on paper, all will comeUnder thy hand. Learn, therefore; and more smoothly,More clearly wilt thou take, my son, upon theeThe cares of state.(SEMYON Godunov enters.)But there comes GodunovBringing reports to me. (To KSENIA.) Go to thy chamberDearest; farewell, my child; God comfort thee.(Exeunt KSENIA and NURSE.)What news hast thou for me, Semyon Nikitich?SEMYON G. Today at dawn the butler of Prince ShuiskyAnd Pushkin's servant brought me information.TSAR. Well?SEMYON G. In the first place Pushkin's man deposedThat yestermorn came to his house from CracowA courier, who within an hour was sentWithout a letter back.TSAR. Arrest the courier.SEMYON G. Some are already sent to overtake him.TSAR. And what of Shuisky?SEMYON G. Last night he entertainedHis friends; the Buturlins, both Miloslavskys,And Saltikov, with Pushkin and some others.They parted late. Pushkin alone remainedCloseted with his host and talked with himA long time more.TSAR. For Shuisky send forthwith.SEMYON G. Sire, he is here already.TSAR. Call him hither.(Exit SEMYON Godunov.)Dealings with Lithuania? What means this?I like not the seditious race of Pushkins,Nor must I trust in Shuisky, obsequious,But bold and wily—(Enter SHUISKY.)Prince, I must speak with thee.But thou thyself, it seems, hast business with me,And I would listen first to thee.SHUISKY. Yea, sire;It is my duty to convey to theeGrave news.TSAR. I listen.SHUISKY. (Sotto voce, pointing to FEODOR.)But, sire—TSAR. The tsarevichMay learn whate'er Prince Shuisky knoweth. Speak.SHUISKY. My liege, from Lithuania there have comeTidings to us—TSAR. Are they not those same tidingsWhich yestereve a courier bore to Pushkin?SHUISKY. Nothing is hidden from him!—Sire, I thoughtThou knew'st not yet this secret.TSAR. Let not thatTrouble thee, prince; I fain would scrutiniseThy information; else we shall not learnThe actual truth.SHUISKY. I know this only, Sire;In Cracow a pretender hath appeared;The king and nobles back him.TSAR. What say they?And who is this pretender?SHUISKY. I know not.TSAR. But wherein is he dangerous?SHUISKY. VerilyThy state, my liege, is firm; by graciousness,Zeal, bounty, thou hast won the filial loveOf all thy slaves; but thou thyself dost knowThe mob is thoughtless, changeable, rebellious,Credulous, lightly given to vain hope,Obedient to each momentary impulse,To truth deaf and indifferent; it feedethOn fables; shameless boldness pleaseth it.So, if this unknown vagabond should crossThe Lithuanian border, Dimitry's nameRaised from the grave will gain him a whole crowdOf fools.TSAR. Dimitry's?—What?—That child's?—Dimitry's?Withdraw, tsarevich.SHUISKY. He flushed; there'll be a storm!FEODOR. Suffer me, Sire—TSAR. Impossible, my son;Go, go!(Exit FEODOR.)Dimitry's name!SHUISKY. Then he knew nothing.TSAR. Listen: take steps this very hour that RussiaBe fenced by barriers from Lithuania;That not a single soul pass o'er the border,That not a hare run o'er to us from Poland,Nor crow fly here from Cracow. Away!SHUISKY. I go.TSAR. Stay!—Is it not a fact that this reportIs artfully concocted? Hast ever heardThat dead men have arisen from their gravesTo question tsars, legitimate tsars, appointed,Chosen by the voice of all the people, crownedBy the great Patriarch? Is't not laughable?Eh? What? Why laugh'st thou not thereat?SHUISKY. I, Sire?TSAR. Hark, Prince Vassily; when first I learned this childHad been—this child had somehow lost its life,'Twas thou I sent to search the matter out.Now by the Cross and God I do adjure thee,Declare to me the truth upon thy conscience;Didst recognise the slaughtered boy; was't notA substitute? Reply.SHUISKY. I swear to thee—TSAR. Nay, Shuisky, swear not, but reply; was itIndeed Dimitry?SHUISKY. He.TSAR. Consider, prince.I promise clemency; I will not punishWith vain disgrace a lie that's past. But ifThou now beguile me, then by my son's headI swear—an evil fate shall overtake thee,Requital such that Tsar Ivan VasilievichShall shudder in his grave with horror of it.SHUISKY. In punishment no terror lies; the terrorDoth lie in thy disfavour; in thy presenceDare I use cunning? Could I deceive myselfSo blindly as not recognise Dimitry?Three days in the cathedral did I visitHis corpse, escorted thither by all Uglich.Around him thirteen bodies lay of thoseSlain by the people, and on them corruptionAlready had set in perceptibly.But lo! The childish face of the tsarevichWas bright and fresh and quiet as if asleep;The deep gash had congealed not, nor the linesOf his face even altered. No, my liege,There is no doubt; Dimitry sleeps in the grave.TSAR. Enough, withdraw.(Exit SHUISKY.)I choke!—let me get my breath!I felt it; all my blood surged to my face,And heavily fell back.—So that is whyFor thirteen years together I have dreamedEver about the murdered child. Yes, yes—'Tis that!—now I perceive. But who is he,My terrible antagonist? Who is itOpposeth me? An empty name, a shadow.Can it be a shade shall tear from me the purple,A sound deprive my children of succession?Fool that I was! Of what was I afraid?Blow on this phantom—and it is no more.So, I am fast resolved; I'll show no signOf fear, but nothing must be held in scorn.Ah! Heavy art thou, crown of Monomakh!
PRETENDER. Nay, father, there will be no trouble. I knowThe spirit of my people; pietyDoes not run wild in them, their tsar's exampleTo them is sacred. Furthermore, the peopleAre always tolerant. I warrant you,Before two years my people all, and allThe Eastern Church, will recognise the powerOf Peter's Vicar.PRIEST. May Saint Ignatius aid theeWhen other times shall come. Meanwhile, tsarevich,Hide in thy soul the seed of heavenly blessing;Religious duty bids us oft dissembleBefore the blabbing world; the people judgeThy words, thy deeds; God only sees thy motives.PRETENDER. Amen. Who's there?(Enter a Servant.)Say that we will receive them.(The doors are opened; a crowd of Russians and Poles enters.)Comrades! Tomorrow we depart from Cracow.Mnishek, with thee for three days in SamborI'll stay. I know thy hospitable castleBoth shines in splendid stateliness, and gloriesIn its young mistress; There I hope to seeCharming Marina. And ye, my friends, ye, RussiaAnd Lithuania, ye who have upraisedFraternal banners against a common foe,Against mine enemy, yon crafty villain.Ye sons of Slavs, speedily will I leadYour dread battalions to the longed-for conflict.But soft! Methinks among you I descryNew faces.GABRIEL P. They have come to beg for swordAnd service with your Grace.PRETENDER. Welcome, my lads.You are friends to me. But tell me, Pushkin, whoIs this fine fellow?PUSHKIN. Prince Kurbsky.PRETENDER. (To KURBSKY.) A famous name!Art kinsman to the hero of Kazan?KURBSKY. His son.PRETENDER. Liveth he still?KURBSKY. Nay, he is dead.PRETENDER. A noble soul! A man of war and counsel.But from the time when he appeared beneathThe ancient town Olgin with the Lithuanians,Hardy avenger of his injuries,Rumour hath held her tongue concerning him.KURBSKY. My father led the remnant of his lifeOn lands bestowed upon him by Batory;There, in Volhynia, solitary and quiet,Sought consolation for himself in studies;But peaceful labour did not comfort him;He ne'er forgot the home of his young days,And to the end pined for it.PRETENDER. Hapless chieftain!How brightly shone the dawn of his resoundingAnd stormy life! Glad am I, noble knight,That now his blood is reconciled in theeTo his fatherland. The faults of fathers must notBe called to mind. Peace to their grave. Approach;Give me thy hand! Is it not strange?—the sonOf Kurbsky to the throne is leading—whom?Whom but Ivan's own son?—All favours me;People and fate alike.—Say, who art thou?A POLE. Sobansky, a free noble.PRETENDER. Praise and honourAttend thee, child of liberty. Give himA third of his full pay beforehand.—WhoAre these? On them I recognise the dressOf my own country. These are ours.KRUSHCHOV. (Bows low.) Yea, Sire,Our father; we are thralls of thine, devotedAnd persecuted; we have fled from Moscow,Disgraced, to thee our tsar, and for thy sakeAre ready to lay down our lives; our corpsesShall be for thee steps to the royal throne.PRETENDER. Take heart, innocent sufferers. Only let meReach Moscow, and, once there, Boris shall settleSome scores with me and you. What news of Moscow?KRUSHCHOV. As yet all there is quiet. But alreadyThe folk have got to know that the tsarevichWas saved; already everywhere is readThy proclamation. All are waiting for thee.Not long ago Boris sent two boyarsTo execution merely because in secretThey drank thy health.PRETENDER. O hapless, good boyars!But blood for blood! And woe to Godunov!What do they say of him?KRUSHCHOV. He has withdrawnInto his gloomy palace. He is grimAnd sombre. Executions loom ahead.But sickness gnaws him. Hardly hath he strengthTo drag himself along, and—it is thought—His last hour is already not far off.PRETENDER. A speedy death I wish him, as becomesA great-souled foe to wish. If not, then woeTo the miscreant!—And whom doth he intendTo name as his successor?KRUSHCHOV. He shows notHis purposes, but it would seem he destinesFeodor, his young son, to be our tsar.PRETENDER. His reckonings, maybe, will yet prove wrong.Who art thou?KARELA. A Cossack; from the Don I am sentTo thee, from the free troops, from the brave hetmenFrom upper and lower regions of the Cossacks,To look upon thy bright and royal eyes,And tender thee their homage.PRETENDER. Well I knewThe men of Don; I doubted not to seeThe Cossack hetmen in my ranks. We thankOur army of the Don. Today, we know,The Cossacks are unjustly persecuted,Oppressed; but if God grant us to ascendThe throne of our forefathers, then as of yoreWe'll gratify the free and faithful Don.POET. (Approaches, bowing low, and taking Gregory by thehem of his caftan.)Great prince, illustrious offspring of a king!PRETENDER. What wouldst thou?POET. Condescendingly acceptThis poor fruit of my earnest toil.PRETENDER. What see I?Verses in Latin! Blest a hundredfoldThe tie of sword and lyre; the selfsame laurelBinds them in friendship. I was born beneathA northern sky, but yet the Latin museTo me is a familiar voice; I loveThe blossoms of Parnassus, I believeThe prophecies of singers. Not in vainThe ecstasy boils in their flaming breast;Action is hallowed, being glorifiedBeforehand by the poets! Approach, my friend.In memory of me accept this gift.(Gives him a ring.)When fate fulfils for me her covenant,When I assume the crown of my forefathers,I hope again to hear the measured tonesOf thy sweet voice, and thy inspired lay.Musa gloriam Coronat, gloriaque musam.And so, friends, till tomorrow, au revoir.ALL. Forward! Long live Dimitry! Forward, forward!Long live Dimitry, the great prince of Moscow!
Dressing-Room of MarinaMARINA, ROUZYA (dressing her), Serving-WomenMARINA.(Before a mirror.) Now then, is it ready? Cannotyou make haste?ROUZYA. I pray you first to make the difficult choice;Will you the necklace wear of pearls, or elseThe emerald half-moon?MARINA. My diamond crown.ROUZYA. Splendid! Do you remember that you wore itWhen to the palace you were pleased to go?They say that at the ball your gracious highnessShone like the sun; men sighed, fair ladies whispered—'Twas then that for the first time young KhotkevichBeheld you, he who after shot himself.And whosoever looked on you, they sayThat instant fell in love.MARINA. Can't you be quicker?ROUZYA. At once. Today your father counts upon you.'Twas not for naught the young tsarevich saw you;He could not hide his rapture; wounded he isAlready; so it only needs to deal himA resolute blow, and instantly, my lady,He'll be in love with you. 'Tis now a monthSince, quitting Cracow, heedless of the warAnd throne of Moscow, he has feasted here,Your guest, enraging Poles alike and Russians.Heavens! Shall I ever live to see the day?—Say, you will not, when to his capitalDimitry leads the queen of Moscow, sayYou'll not forsake me?MARINA. Dost thou truly thinkI shall be queen?ROUZYA. Who, if not you? Who hereDares to compare in beauty with my mistress?The race of Mnishek never yet has yieldedTo any. In intellect you are beyondAll praise.—Happy the suitor whom your glanceHonours with its regard, who wins your heart—Whoe'er he be, be he our king, the dauphinOf France, or even this our poor tsarevichGod knows who, God knows whence!MARINA. The very sonOf the tsar, and so confessed by the whole world.ROUZYA. And yet last winter he was but a servantIn the house of Vishnevetsky.MARINA. He was hiding.ROUZYA. I do not question it: but still do you knowWhat people say about him? That perhapsHe is a deacon run away from Moscow,In his own district a notorious rogue.MARINA. What nonsense!ROUZYA. O, I do not credit it!I only say he ought to bless his fateThat you have so preferred him to the others.WAITING-WOMAN. (Runs in.) The guests have come already.MARINA. There you see;You're ready to chatter silliness till daybreak.Meanwhile I am not dressed—ROUZYA. Within a moment'Twill be quite ready.(The Waiting-women bustle.)MARINA. (Aside.) I must find out all.
MNISHEK. With none but my Marina doth he speak,With no one else consorteth—and that businessLooks dreadfully like marriage. Now confess,Didst ever think my daughter would be a queen?VISHNEVETSKY. 'Tis wonderful.—And, Mnishek, didst thou thinkMy servant would ascend the throne of Moscow?MNISHEK. And what a girl, look you, is my Marina.I merely hinted to her: "Now, be careful!Let not Dimitry slip"—and lo! AlreadyHe is completely tangled in her toils.(The band plays a Polonaise. The PRETENDER andMARINA advance as the first couple.)MARINA. (Sotto voce to Dimitry.) Tomorrow evening at eleven, besideThe fountain in the avenue of lime-trees.(They walk off. A second couple.)CAVALIER. What can Dimitry see in her?DAME. How say you?She is a beauty.CAVALIER. Yes, a marble nymph;Eyes, lips, devoid of life, without a smile.(A fresh couple.)DAME. He is not handsome, but his eyes are pleasing,And one can see he is of royal birth.(A fresh couple.)DAME. When will the army march?CAVALIER. When the tsarevichOrders it; we are ready; but 'tis clearThe lady Mnishek and Dimitry meanTo keep us prisoners here.DAME. A pleasant durance.CAVALIER. Truly, if you...(They walk off; the rooms become empty.)MNISHEK. We old ones dance no longer;The sound of music lures us not; we press notNor kiss the hands of charmers—ah! My friend,I've not forgotten the old pranks! Things nowAre not what once they were, what once they were!Youth, I'll be sworn, is not so bold, nor beautySo lively; everything—confess, my friend—Has somehow become dull. So let us leave them;My comrade, let us go and find a flaskOf old Hungarian overgrown with mould;Let's bid my butler open an old bottle,And in a quiet corner, tete-a-tete,Let's drain a draught, a stream as thick as fat;And while we're so engaged, let's think things over.Let us go, brother.VISHNEVETSKY. Yes, my friend, let's go.
PRETENDER. (Enters.) Here is the fountain; hither will she come.I was not born a coward; I have seenDeath near at hand, and face to face with deathMy spirit hath not blenched. A life-long dungeonHath threatened me, I have been close pursued,And yet my spirit quailed not, and by boldnessI have escaped captivity. But whatIs this which now constricts my breath? What meansThis overpowering tremor, or this quiveringOf tense desire? No, this is fear. All dayI have waited for this secret meeting, ponderedOn all that I should say to her, how bestI might enmesh Marina's haughty mind,Calling her queen of Moscow. But the hourHas come—and I remember naught, I cannotRecall the speeches I have learned by rote;Love puts imagination to confusion—But something there gleamed suddenly—a rustling;Hush—no, it was the moon's deceitful light,It was the rustling of the breeze.MARINA. (Enters.) Tsarevich!PRETENDER. 'Tis she. Now all the blood in me stands still.MARINA. Dimitry! Is it thou?PRETENDER. Bewitching voice!(Goes to her.)Is it thou, at last? Is it thou I see, aloneWith me, beneath the roof of quiet night?How slowly passed the tedious day! How slowlyThe glow of evening died away! How longI have waited in the gloom of night!MARINA. The hoursAre flitting fast, and time is precious to me.I did not grant a meeting here to theeTo listen to a lover's tender speeches.No need of words. I well believe thou lovest;But listen; with thy stormy, doubtful fateI have resolved to join my own; but one thing,Dimitry, I require; I claim that thouDisclose to me thy secret hopes, thy plans,Even thy fears, that hand in hand with theeI may confront life boldly—not in blindnessOf childlike ignorance, not as the slaveAnd plaything of my husband's light desires,Thy speechless concubine, but as thy spouse,And worthy helpmate of the tsar of Moscow.PRETENDER. O, if it be only for one short hour,Forget the cares and troubles of my fate!Forget 'tis the tsarevich whom thou seestBefore thee. O, behold in me, Marina,A lover, by thee chosen, happy onlyIn thy regard. O, listen to the prayersOf love! Grant me to utter all wherewithMy heart is full.MARINA. Prince, this is not the time;Thou loiterest, and meanwhile the devotionOf thine adherents cooleth. Hour by hourDanger becomes more dangerous, difficultiesMore difficult; already dubious rumoursAre current, novelty already takesThe place of novelty; and GodunovAdopts his measures.PRETENDER. What is Godunov?Is thy sweet love, my only blessedness,Swayed by Boris? Nay, nay. IndifferentlyI now regard his throne, his kingly power.Thy love—without it what to me is life,And glory's glitter, and the state of Russia?On the dull steppe, in a poor mud hut, thou—Thou wilt requite me for the kingly crown;Thy love—MARINA. For shame! Forget not, prince, thy highAnd sacred destiny; thy dignityShould be to thee more dear than all the joysOf life and its allurements. It thou canst notWith anything compare. Not to a boy,Insanely boiling, captured by my beauty—But to the heir of Moscow's throne give IMy hand in solemn wise, to the tsarevichRescued by destiny.PRETENDER. Torture me not,Charming Marina; say not that 'twas my rankAnd not myself that thou didst choose. Marina!Thou knowest not how sorely thou dost woundMy heart thereby. What if—O fearful doubt!—Say, if blind destiny had not assigned meA kingly birth; if I were not indeedSon of Ivan, were not this boy, so longForgotten by the world—say, then wouldst thouHave loved me?MARINA. Thou art Dimitry, and aught elseThou canst not be; it is not possibleFor me to love another.PRETENDER. Nay! Enough—I have no wish to share with a dead bodyA mistress who belongs to him; I have doneWith counterfeiting, and will tell the truth.Know, then, that thy Dimitry long agoPerished, was buried—and will not rise again;And dost thou wish to know what man I am?Well, I will tell thee. I am—a poor monk.Grown weary of monastic servitude,I pondered 'neath the cowl my bold design,Made ready for the world a miracle—And from my cell at last fled to the Cossacks,To their wild hovels; there I learned to handleBoth steeds and swords; I showed myself to you.I called myself Dimitry, and deceivedThe brainless Poles. What say'st thou, proud Marina?Art thou content with my confession? WhyDost thou keep silence?MARINA. O shame! O woe is me!(Silence.)PRETENDER. (Sotto voce.) O whither hath a fit of anger led me?The happiness devised with so much labourI have, perchance, destroyed for ever. Idiot,What have I done? (Aloud.) I see thou art ashamedOf love not princely; so pronounce on meThe fatal word; my fate is in thy hands.Decide; I wait.(Falls on his knees.)MARINA. Rise, poor pretender! Think'st thouTo please with genuflex on my vain heart,As if I were a weak, confiding girl?You err, my friend; prone at my feet I've seenKnights and counts nobly born; but not for thisDid I reject their prayers, that a poor monk—PRETENDER. (Rises.) Scorn not the young pretender; noble virtuesMay lie perchance in him, virtues well worthyOf Moscow's throne, even of thy priceless hand—MARINA. Say of a shameful noose, insolent wretch!PRETENDER. I am to blame; carried away by prideI have deceived God and the kings—have liedTo the world; but it is not for thee, Marina,To judge me; I am guiltless before thee.No, I could not deceive thee. Thou to meWast the one sacred being, before theeI dared not to dissemble; love alone,Love, jealous, blind, constrained me to tell all.MARINA. What's that to boast of, idiot? Who demandedConfession of thee? If thou, a nameless vagrantCouldst wonderfully blind two nations, thenAt least thou shouldst have merited success,And thy bold fraud secured, by constant, deep,And lasting secrecy. Say, can I yieldMyself to thee, can I, forgetting rankAnd maiden modesty, unite my fateWith thine, when thou thyself impetuouslyDost thus with such simplicity revealThy shame? It was from Love he blabbed to me!I marvel wherefore thou hast not from friendshipDisclosed thyself ere now before my father,Or else before our king from joy, or elseBefore Prince Vishnevetsky from the zealOf a devoted servant.PRETENDER. I swear to theeThat thou alone wast able to extortMy heart's confession; I swear to thee that never,Nowhere, not in the feast, not in the cupOf folly, not in friendly confidence,Not 'neath the knife nor tortures of the rack,Shall my tongue give away these weighty secrets.MARINA. Thou swearest! Then I must believe. Believe,Of course! But may I learn by what thou swearest?Is it not by the name of God, as suitsThe Jesuits' devout adopted son?Or by thy honour as a high-born knight?Or, maybe, by thy royal word aloneAs a king's son? Is it not so? Declare.PRETENDER. (Proudly.) The phantom of the Terrible hath made meHis son; from out the sepulchre hath named meDimitry, hath stirred up the people round me,And hath consigned Boris to be my victim.I am tsarevich. Enough! 'Twere shame for meTo stoop before a haughty Polish dame.Farewell for ever; the game of bloody war,The wide cares of my destiny, will smother,I hope, the pangs Of love. O, when the heatOf shameful passion is o'erspent, how thenShall I detest thee! Now I leave thee—ruin,Or else a crown, awaits my head in Russia;Whether I meet with death as fits a soldierIn honourable fight, or as a miscreantUpon the public scaffold, thou shalt notBe my companion, nor shalt share with meMy fate; but it may be thou shalt regretThe destiny thou hast refused.MARINA. But whatIf I expose beforehand thy bold fraudTo all men?PRETENDER. Dost thou think I fear thee? Think'st thouThey will believe a Polish maiden moreThan Russia's own tsarevich? Know, proud lady,That neither king, nor pope, nor nobles troubleWhether my words be true, whether I beDimitry or another. What care they?But I provide a pretext for revoltAnd war; and this is all they need; and thee,Rebellious one, believe me, they will forceTo hold thy peace. Farewell.MARINA. Tsarevich, stay!At last I hear the speech not of a boy,But of a man. It reconciles me to thee.Prince, I forget thy senseless outburst, seeAgain Dimitry. Listen; now is the time!Hasten; delay no more, lead on thy troopsQuickly to Moscow, purge the Kremlin, takeThy seat upon the throne of Moscow; thenSend me the nuptial envoy; but, God hears me,Until thy foot be planted on its steps,Until by thee Boris be overthrown,I am not one to listen to love-speeches.PRETENDER. No—easier far to strive with Godunov.Or play false with the Jesuits of the Court,Than with a woman. Deuce take them; they're beyondMy power. She twists, and coils, and crawls, slips outOf hand, she hisses, threatens, bites. Ah, serpent!Serpent! 'Twas not for nothing that I trembled.She well-nigh ruined me; but I'm resolved;At daybreak I will put my troops in motion.
PRINCE KURBSKY and PRETENDER, both on horseback. Troops approach the Frontier
KURBSKY. (Galloping at their head.)There, there it is; there is the Russian frontier!Fatherland! Holy Russia! I am thine!With scorn from off my clothing now I shakeThe foreign dust, and greedily I drinkNew air; it is my native air. O father,Thy soul hath now been solaced; in the graveThy bones, disgraced, thrill with a sudden joy!Again doth flash our old ancestral sword,This glorious sword—the dread of dark Kazan!This good sword—servant of the tsars of Moscow!Now will it revel in its feast of slaughter,Serving the master of its hopes.PRETENDER. (Moves quietly with bowed head.) How happyIs he, how flushed with gladness and with gloryHis stainless soul! Brave knight, I envy thee!The son of Kurbsky, nurtured in exile,Forgetting all the wrongs borne by thy father,Redeeming his transgression in the grave,Ready art thou for the son of great IvanTo shed thy blood, to give the fatherlandIts lawful tsar. Righteous art thou; thy soulShould flame with joy.KURBSKY. And dost not thou likewiseRejoice in spirit? There lies our Russia; sheIs thine, tsarevich! There thy people's heartsAre waiting for thee, there thy Moscow waits,Thy Kremlin, thy dominion.PRETENDER. Russian blood,O Kurbsky, first must flow! Thou for the tsarHast drawn the sword, thou art stainless; but I lead youAgainst your brothers; I am summoningLithuania against Russia; I am showingTo foes the longed-for way to beauteous Moscow!But let my sin fall not on me, but thee,Boris, the regicide! Forward! Set on!KURBSKY. Forward! Advance! And woe to Godunov.(They gallop. The troops cross the frontier.)
TSAR. Is it possible? An unfrocked monk against usLeads rascal troops, a truant friar dares writeThreats to us! Then 'tis time to tame the madman!Trubetskoy, set thou forth, and thou Basmanov;My zealous governors need help. ChernigovAlready by the rebel is besieged;Rescue the city and citizens.BASMANOV. Three monthsShall not pass, Sire, ere even rumour's tongueShall cease to speak of the pretender; cagedIn iron, like a wild beast from oversea,We'll hale him into Moscow, I swear by God.(Exit with TRUBETSKOY.)TSAR. The Lord of Sweden hath by envoys tenderedAlliance to me. But we have no needTo lean on foreign aid; we have enoughOf our own warlike people to repelTraitors and Poles. I have refused.—Shchelkalov!In every district to the governorsSend edicts, that they mount their steeds, and sendThe people as of old on service; likewiseRide to the monasteries, and there enlistThe servants of the churchmen. In days of old,When danger faced our country, hermits freelyWent into battle; it is not now our wishTo trouble them; no, let them pray for us;Such is the tsar's decree, such the resolveOf his boyars. And now a weighty questionWe shall determine; ye know how everywhereThe insolent pretender hath spread abroadHis artful rumours; letters everywhere,By him distributed, have sowed alarmAnd doubt; seditious whispers to and froPass in the market-places; minds are seething.We needs must cool them; gladly would I refrainFrom executions, but by what means and how?That we will now determine. Holy father,Thou first declare thy thought.PATRIARCH. The Blessed One,The All-Highest, hath instilled into thy soul,Great lord, the spirit of kindness and meek patience;Thou wishest not perdition for the sinner,Thou wilt wait quietly, until delusionShall pass away; for pass away it will,And truth's eternal sun will dawn on all.Thy faithful bedesman, one in worldly mattersNo prudent judge, ventures today to offerHis voice to thee. This offspring of the devil,This unfrocked monk, has known how to appearDimitry to the people. ShamelesslyHe clothed himself with the name of the tsarevichAs with a stolen vestment. It only needsTo tear it off—and he'll be put to shameBy his own nakedness. The means theretoGod hath Himself supplied. Know, sire, six yearsSince then have fled; 'twas in that very yearWhen to the seat of sovereignty the LordAnointed thee—there came to me one eveningA simple shepherd, a venerable old man,Who told me a strange secret. "In my young days,"He said, "I lost my sight, and thenceforth knew notNor day, nor night, till my old age; in vainI plied myself with herbs and secret spells;In vain did I resort in adorationTo the great wonder-workers in the cloister;Bathed my dark eyes in vain with healing waterFrom out the holy wells. The Lord vouchsafed notHealing to me. Then lost I hope at last,And grew accustomed to my darkness. EvenSlumber showed not to me things visible,Only of sounds I dreamed. Once in deep sleepI hear a childish voice; it speaks to me:`Arise, grandfather, go to Uglich town,To the Cathedral of Transfiguration;There pray over my grave. The Lord is gracious—And I shall pardon thee.' `But who art thou?'I asked the childish voice. `I am the tsarevichDimitry, whom the Heavenly Tsar hath takenInto His angel band, and I am nowA mighty wonder-worker. Go, old man.'I woke, and pondered. What is this? MaybeGod will in very deed vouchsafe to meBelated healing. I will go. I bentMy footsteps to the distant road. I reachedUglich, repair unto the holy minster,Hear mass, and, glowing with zealous soul, I weepSweetly, as if the blindness from mine eyesWere flowing out in tears. And when the peopleBegan to leave, to my grandson I said:`Lead me, Ivan, to the grave of the tsarevichDimitry.' The boy led me—and I scarceHad shaped before the grave a silent prayer,When sight illumed my eyeballs; I beheldThe light of God, my grandson, and the tomb."That is the tale, Sire, which the old man told.(General agitation. In the course of this speech Borisseveral times wipes his face with his handkerchief.)To Uglich then I sent, where it was learnedThat many sufferers had found likewiseDeliverance at the grave of the tsarevich.This is my counsel; to the Kremlin sendThe sacred relics, place them in the CathedralOf the Archangel; clearly will the peopleSee then the godless villain's fraud; the mightOf the fiends will vanish as a cloud of dust.(Silence.)PRINCE SHUISKY. What mortal, holy father, knoweth the waysOf the All-Highest? 'Tis not for me to judge Him.Untainted sleep and power of wonder-workingHe may upon the child's remains bestow;But vulgar rumour must dispassionatelyAnd diligently be tested; is it for us,In stormy times of insurrection,To weigh so great a matter? Will men not sayThat insolently we made of sacred thingsA worldly instrument? Even now the peopleSway senselessly this way and that, even nowThere are enough already of loud rumours;This is no time to vex the people's mindsWith aught so unexpected, grave, and strange.I myself see 'tis needful to demolishThe rumour spread abroad by the unfrocked monk;But for this end other and simpler meansWill serve. Therefore, when it shall please thee, Sire,I will myself appear in public places,I will persuade, exhort away this madness,And will expose the vagabond's vile fraud.TSAR. So be it! My lord Patriarch, I pray theeGo with us to the palace, where todayI must converse with thee.(Exeunt; all the boyars follow them.)1ST BOYAR. (Sotto voce to another.) Didst mark how paleOur sovereign turned, how from his face there pouredA mighty sweat?2ND BOYAR. I durst not, I confess,Uplift mine eyes, nor breathe, nor even stir.1ST BOYAR. Prince Shuisky has pulled it through. Asplendid fellow!