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 suits The Jesuits’ devout adopted son? Or by thy honour as a high-born knight? Or, maybe, by thy royal word alone As a king’s son? Is it not so? Declare.
PRETENDER. (Proudly.) The phantom of the Terrible hath made me His son; from out the sepulchre hath named me Dimitry, hath stirred up the people round me, And hath consigned Boris to be my victim. I am tsarevich. Enough! ‘Twere shame for me To 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 heat Of shameful passion is o’erspent, how then Shall 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 soldier In honourable fight, or as a miscreant Upon the public scaffold, thou shalt not Be my companion, nor shalt share with me My fate; but it may be thou shalt regret The destiny thou hast refused.
MARINA. But what If I expose beforehand thy bold fraud To all men?
PRETENDER. Dost thou think I fear thee? Think’st thou They will believe a Polish maiden more Than Russia’s own tsarevich? Know, proud lady, That neither king, nor pope, nor nobles trouble Whether my words be true, whether I be Dimitry or another. What care they? But I provide a pretext for revolt And war; and this is all they need; and thee, Rebellious one, believe me, they will force To 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, see Again Dimitry. Listen; now is the time! Hasten; delay no more, lead on thy troops Quickly to Moscow, purge the Kremlin, take Thy seat upon the throne of Moscow; then Send 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 beyond My power. She twists, and coils, and crawls, slips out Of 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.
THE LITHUANIAN FRONTIER
(OCTOBER 16TH, 1604)
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 shake The foreign dust, and greedily I drink New air; it is my native air. O father, Thy soul hath now been solaced; in the grave Thy 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 happy Is he, how flushed with gladness and with glory His 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 Ivan To shed thy blood, to give the fatherland Its lawful tsar. Righteous art thou; thy soul Should flame with joy.
KURBSKY. And dost not thou likewise Rejoice in spirit? There lies our Russia; she Is thine, tsarevich! There thy people’s hearts Are waiting for thee, there thy Moscow waits, Thy Kremlin, thy dominion.
PRETENDER. Russian blood, O Kurbsky, first must flow! Thou for the tsar Hast drawn the sword, thou art stainless; but I lead you Against your brothers; I am summoning Lithuania against Russia; I am showing To 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.)
THE COUNCIL OF THE TSAR
The TSAR, the PATRIARCH and Boyars
TSAR. Is it possible? An unfrocked monk against us Leads rascal troops, a truant friar dares write Threats to us! Then ‘tis time to tame the madman! Trubetskoy, set thou forth, and thou Basmanov; My zealous governors need help. Chernigov Already by the rebel is besieged; Rescue the city and citizens.
BASMANOV. Three months Shall not pass, Sire, ere even rumour’s tongue Shall cease to speak of the pretender; caged In 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 tendered Alliance to me. But we have no need To lean on foreign aid; we have enough Of our own warlike people to repel Traitors and Poles. I have refused.—Shchelkalov! In every district to the governors Send edicts, that they mount their steeds, and send The people as of old on service; likewise Ride to the monasteries, and there enlist The servants of the churchmen. In days of old, When danger faced our country, hermits freely Went into battle; it is not now our wish To trouble them; no, let them pray for us; Such is the tsar’s decree, such the resolve Of his boyars. And now a weighty question We shall determine; ye know how everywhere The insolent pretender hath spread abroad His artful rumours; letters everywhere, By him distributed, have sowed alarm And doubt; seditious whispers to and fro Pass in the market-places; minds are seething. We needs must cool them; gladly would I refrain From 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 delusion Shall pass away; for pass away it will, And truth’s eternal sun will dawn on all. Thy faithful bedesman, one in worldly matters No prudent judge, ventures today to offer His voice to thee. This offspring of the devil, This unfrocked monk, has known how to appear Dimitry to the people. Shamelessly He clothed himself with the name of the tsarevich As with a stolen vestment. It only needs To tear it off—and he’ll be put to shame By his own nakedness. The means thereto God hath Himself supplied. Know, sire, six years Since then have fled; ‘twas in that very year When to the seat of sovereignty the Lord Anointed thee—there came to me one evening A 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 not Nor day, nor night, till my old age; in vain I plied myself with herbs and secret spells; In vain did I resort in adoration To the great wonder-workers in the cloister; Bathed my dark eyes in vain with healing water From out the holy wells. The Lord vouchsafed not Healing to me. Then lost I hope at last, And grew accustomed to my darkness. Even Slumber showed not to me things visible, Only of sounds I dreamed. Once in deep sleep I 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 tsarevich Dimitry, whom the Heavenly Tsar hath taken Into His angel band, and I am now A mighty wonder-worker. Go, old man.’ I woke, and pondered. What is this? Maybe God will in very deed vouchsafe to me Belated healing. I will go. I bent My footsteps to the distant road. I reached Uglich, repair unto the holy minster, Hear mass, and, glowing with zealous soul, I weep Sweetly, as if the blindness from mine eyes Were flowing out in tears. And when the people Began to leave, to my grandson I said: `Lead me, Ivan, to the grave of the tsarevich Dimitry .’ The boy led me—and I scarce Had shaped before the grave a silent prayer, When sight illumed my eyeballs; I beheld The light of God, my grandson, and the tomb.” That is the tale, Sire, which the old man told.