Boris Godunov Part 10

PRETENDER. Bewitching voice!

(Goes to her.)

Is it thou, at last? Is it thou I see, alone With me, beneath the roof of quiet night?

How slowly pa.s.sed the tedious day! How slowly The glow of evening died away! How long I have waited in the gloom of night!

MARINA. The hours Are flitting fast, and time is precious to me.

I did not grant a meeting here to thee To listen to a lover's tender speeches.

No need of words. I well believe thou lovest; But listen; with thy stormy, doubtful fate I have resolved to join my own; but one thing, Dimitry, I require; I claim that thou Disclose to me thy secret hopes, thy plans, Even thy fears, that hand in hand with thee I may confront life boldly--not in blindness Of childlike ignorance, not as the slave And 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 seest Before thee. O, behold in me, Marina, A lover, by thee chosen, happy only In thy regard. O, listen to the prayers Of love! Grant me to utter all wherewith My heart is full.

MARINA. Prince, this is not the time; Thou loiterest, and meanwhile the devotion Of thine adherents cooleth. Hour by hour Danger becomes more dangerous, difficulties More difficult; already dubious rumours Are current, novelty already takes The place of novelty; and G.o.dunov Adopts his measures.

PRETENDER. What is G.o.dunov?

Is thy sweet love, my only blessedness, Swayed by Boris? Nay, nay. Indifferently I 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 high And sacred destiny; thy dignity Should be to thee more dear than all the joys Of life and its allurements. It thou canst not With anything compare. Not to a boy, Insanely boiling, captured by my beauty-- But to the heir of Moscow's throne give I My hand in solemn wise, to the tsarevich Rescued by destiny.

PRETENDER. Torture me not, Charming Marina; say not that 'twas my rank And not myself that thou didst choose. Marina!

Thou knowest not how sorely thou dost wound My heart thereby. What if--O fearful doubt!-- Say, if blind destiny had not a.s.signed me A kingly birth; if I were not indeed Son of Ivan, were not this boy, so long Forgotten by the world--say, then wouldst thou Have loved me?

MARINA. Thou art Dimitry, and aught else Thou canst not be; it is not possible For me to love another.

PRETENDER. Nay! Enough-- I have no wish to share with a dead body A mistress who belongs to him; I have done With counterfeiting, and will tell the truth.

Know, then, that thy Dimitry long ago Perished, 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 handle Both steeds and swords; I showed myself to you.

I called myself Dimitry, and deceived The brainless Poles. What say'st thou, proud Marina?

Art thou content with my confession? Why Dost 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 labour I have, perchance, destroyed for ever. Idiot, What have I done? (Aloud.) I see thou art ashamed Of love not princely; so p.r.o.nounce on me The fatal word; my fate is in thy hands.

Decide; I wait.

(Falls on his knees.)

MARINA. Rise, poor pretender! Think'st thou To please with genuflex on my vain heart, As if I were a weak, confiding girl?

You err, my friend; p.r.o.ne at my feet I've seen Knights and counts n.o.bly born; but not for this Did I reject their prayers, that a poor monk--

PRETENDER. (Rises.) Scorn not the young pretender; n.o.ble virtues May lie perchance in him, virtues well worthy Of Moscow's throne, even of thy priceless hand--

MARINA. Say of a shameful noose, insolent wretch!

PRETENDER. I am to blame; carried away by pride I have deceived G.o.d and the kings--have lied To 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 me Wast the one sacred being, before thee I dared not to dissemble; love alone, Love, jealous, blind, constrained me to tell all.

MARINA. What's that to boast of, idiot? Who demanded Confession of thee? If thou, a nameless vagrant Couldst wonderfully blind two nations, then At least thou shouldst have merited success, And thy bold fraud secured, by constant, deep, And lasting secrecy. Say, can I yield Myself to thee, can I, forgetting rank And maiden modesty, unite my fate With thine, when thou thyself impetuously Dost thus with such simplicity reveal Thy shame? It was from Love he blabbed to me!

I marvel wherefore thou hast not from friendship Disclosed thyself ere now before my father, Or else before our king from joy, or else Before Prince Vishnevetsky from the zeal Of a devoted servant.

PRETENDER. I swear to thee That thou alone wast able to extort My heart's confession; I swear to thee that never, Nowhere, not in the feast, not in the cup Of 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 G.o.d, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y war, The wide cares of my destiny, will smother, I hope, the pangs Of love. O, when the heat Of shameful pa.s.sion 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 n.o.bles 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, G.o.d 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 G.o.dunov.

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.