The PRETENDER and a CATHOLIC PRIEST

PRETENDER. Nay, father, there will be no trouble. I know The spirit of my people; piety Does not run wild in them, their tsar's example To them is sacred. Furthermore, the people Are always tolerant. I warrant you, Before two years my people all, and all The Eastern Church, will recognise the power Of Peter's Vicar. PRIEST. May Saint Ignatius aid thee When other times shall come. Meanwhile, tsarevich, Hide in thy soul the seed of heavenly blessing; Religious duty bids us oft dissemble Before the blabbing world; the people judge Thy 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 Sambor I'll stay. I know thy hospitable castle Both shines in splendid stateliness, and glories In its young mistress; There I hope to see Charming Marina. And ye, my friends, ye, Russia And Lithuania, ye who have upraised Fraternal banners against a common foe, Against mine enemy, yon crafty villain. Ye sons of Slavs, speedily will I lead Your dread battalions to the longed-for conflict. But soft! Methinks among you I descry New faces. GABRIEL P. They have come to beg for sword And service with your Grace. PRETENDER. Welcome, my lads. You are friends to me. But tell me, Pushkin, who Is 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 beneath The 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 life On 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 resounding And stormy life! Glad am I, noble knight, That now his blood is reconciled in thee To his fatherland. The faults of fathers must not Be called to mind. Peace to their grave. Approach; Give me thy hand! Is it not strange?—the son Of 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 honour Attend thee, child of liberty. Give him A third of his full pay beforehand.—Who Are these? On them I recognise the dress Of my own country. These are ours. KRUSHCHOV. (Bows low.) Yea, Sire, Our father; we are thralls of thine, devoted And persecuted; we have fled from Moscow, Disgraced, to thee our tsar, and for thy sake Are ready to lay down our lives; our corpses Shall be for thee steps to the royal throne. PRETENDER. Take heart, innocent sufferers. Only let me Reach Moscow, and, once there, Boris shall settle Some scores with me and you. What news of Moscow? KRUSHCHOV. As yet all there is quiet. But already The folk have got to know that the tsarevich Was saved; already everywhere is read Thy proclamation. All are waiting for thee. Not long ago Boris sent two boyars To execution merely because in secret They 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 withdrawn Into his gloomy palace. He is grim And sombre. Executions loom ahead. But sickness gnaws him. Hardly hath he strength To drag himself along, and—it is thought— His last hour is already not far off. PRETENDER. A speedy death I wish him, as becomes A great-souled foe to wish. If not, then woe To the miscreant!—And whom doth he intend To name as his successor? KRUSHCHOV. He shows not His purposes, but it would seem he destines Feodor, 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 sent To thee, from the free troops, from the brave hetmen From upper and lower regions of the Cossacks, To look upon thy bright and royal eyes, And tender thee their homage. PRETENDER. Well I knew The men of Don; I doubted not to see The Cossack hetmen in my ranks. We thank Our army of the Don. Today, we know, The Cossacks are unjustly persecuted, Oppressed; but if God grant us to ascend The throne of our forefathers, then as of yore We'll gratify the free and faithful Don. POET. (Approaches, bowing low, and taking Gregory by the hem of his caftan.) Great prince, illustrious offspring of a king! PRETENDER. What wouldst thou? POET. Condescendingly accept This poor fruit of my earnest toil. PRETENDER. What see I? Verses in Latin! Blest a hundredfold The tie of sword and lyre; the selfsame laurel Binds them in friendship. I was born beneath A northern sky, but yet the Latin muse To me is a familiar voice; I love The blossoms of Parnassus, I believe The prophecies of singers. Not in vain The ecstasy boils in their flaming breast; Action is hallowed, being glorified Beforehand 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 tones Of 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!

CASTLE OF THE GOVERNOR

MNISHEK IN SAMBOR

Dressing-Room of Marina MARINA, ROUZYA (dressing her), Serving-Women MARINA. (Before a mirror.) Now then, is it ready? Cannot you make haste? ROUZYA. I pray you first to make the difficult choice; Will you the necklace wear of pearls, or else The emerald half-moon? MARINA. My diamond crown. ROUZYA. Splendid! Do you remember that you wore it When to the palace you were pleased to go? They say that at the ball your gracious highness Shone like the sun; men sighed, fair ladies whispered— 'Twas then that for the first time young Khotkevich Beheld you, he who after shot himself. And whosoever looked on you, they say That 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 is Already; so it only needs to deal him A resolute blow, and instantly, my lady, He'll be in love with you. 'Tis now a month Since, quitting Cracow, heedless of the war And 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 capital Dimitry leads the queen of Moscow, say You'll not forsake me? MARINA. Dost thou truly think I shall be queen? ROUZYA. Who, if not you? Who here Dares to compare in beauty with my mistress? The race of Mnishek never yet has yielded To any. In intellect you are beyond All praise.—Happy the suitor whom your glance Honours with its regard, who wins your heart— Whoe'er he be, be he our king, the dauphin Of France, or even this our poor tsarevich God knows who, God knows whence! MARINA. The very son Of the tsar, and so confessed by the whole world. ROUZYA. And yet last winter he was but a servant In the house of Vishnevetsky. MARINA. He was hiding. ROUZYA. I do not question it: but still do you know What people say about him? That perhaps He 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 fate That 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.

A SUITE OF LIGHTED ROOMS.

VISHNEVETSKY, MNISHEK

MNISHEK. With none but my Marina doth he speak, With no one else consorteth—and that business Looks dreadfully like marriage. Now confess, Didst ever think my daughter would be a queen? VISHNEVETSKY. 'Tis wonderful.—And, Mnishek, didst thou think My 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! Already He is completely tangled in her toils. (The band plays a Polonaise. The PRETENDER and MARINA advance as the first couple.) MARINA. (Sotto voce to Dimitry.) Tomorrow evening at eleven, beside The 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 tsarevich Orders it; we are ready; but 'tis clear The lady Mnishek and Dimitry mean To 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 not Nor kiss the hands of charmers—ah! My friend, I've not forgotten the old pranks! Things now Are not what once they were, what once they were! Youth, I'll be sworn, is not so bold, nor beauty So lively; everything—confess, my friend— Has somehow become dull. So let us leave them; My comrade, let us go and find a flask Of 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.

NIGHT

THE GARDEN. THE FOUNTAIN

PRETENDER. (Enters.) Here is the fountain; hither will she come. I was not born a coward; I have seen Death near at hand, and face to face with death My spirit hath not blenched. A life-long dungeon Hath threatened me, I have been close pursued, And yet my spirit quailed not, and by boldness I have escaped captivity. But what Is this which now constricts my breath? What means This overpowering tremor, or this quivering Of tense desire? No, this is fear. All day I have waited for this secret meeting, pondered On all that I should say to her, how best I might enmesh Marina's haughty mind, Calling her queen of Moscow. But the hour Has come—and I remember naught, I cannot Recall 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, alone With me, beneath the roof of quiet night? How slowly passed 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 Godunov Adopts his measures. PRETENDER. What is Godunov? 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 assigned 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 pronounce 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; prone at my feet I've seen Knights and counts nobly born; but not for this Did I reject their prayers, that a poor monk— PRETENDER. (Rises.) Scorn not the young pretender; noble 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 God 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 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